Chapter 1

John Watson knew he was an adrenalin junkie. One week living with Holmes hadn't sent him running and that in and of itself had many at Scotland Yard eyeing him with a cross between horror and awe. Still there was more than the fix of a chase or fear for his life that made him eager to maintain his new address. He knew in his heart he loved the mystery of it all. He would sit typing on his blog in the living room with his near comatose flatmate waiting for the spark to alight in his eyes and for him to spring from his chair and fling himself out of the flat off to solve a case no one knew was a case from deducing the way an hanky was folded from some mother he'd seen on the street that afternoon. The way the lanky man would pick apart every tiny detail sent thrills down Watson's back and he craved those moments. He never retired to his room until the last moment, or when his wound really did incapacitate him, sometimes not even then, he hated to miss the action.

So often were the two off solving crimes, and sometimes just tiny mysteries that seemed to crop up, things Sherlock would never have taken interest in before but now happily demonstrated his brilliance to see the rapt attention in John's eyes, that it took some time for John to realize that there was a giant mystery right at home at 221B. He'd been quite happily cohabitating with the skinny genius for months and often witnessed the clues but it was one afternoon when his leg was playing havoc that he finally noticed.

He had thought it a good idea to stretch his legs and hoped some crisp air would help him relax as his shoulder ached terribly. He had been wrong. The "crisp air" quickly became bitter and provoked the ache deep in his bones, but he'd made it further than he'd thought. He would have called a cab but was disappointed to find he had managed to leave without his wallet. Gritting his teeth he soldiered on back to the home front and thought longingly about a cup of tea. Dismay rocked him as he remembered they yet again had no milk. How they went through the stuff so fast he'd never know; he suspected Sherlock poured it down the drain just to irritate him, especially since he couldn't prove it. He'd made it to the welcome door with its numbers gleaming and tried to ignore the fact that his damned leg was acting up to, protesting in a way it hadn't in weeks and only really did when he was feeling helpless and sorry for himself. He hated his leg.

He took the four steps up to the door and was quickly inside. The warmth was an immediate relief. He stood for a moment and just let it wrap around him and chase away some of the chills he'd let affect him.

"Is that you Mr. Watson, dear?" Came the motherly tones of Mrs. Hudson, her door opening and the scent of sweet baked goods assailed him.

"Yes Mrs. Hudson, and please it's John." He called back feet already ascending the steps. He would have liked to speak with her properly and his mother would be appalled at his lack of manners but he just wanted his armchair and in a fit of mental petulance decided to blame Sherlock for his antisocial behavior. "I'm just heading up, do you need anything from the store later?" Well, he reasoned with his guilty conscience, I wasn't entirely rude now was I?

"No thank you dear, I've just finished baking would you like a biscuit? Just this once mind you, I'm your landlady not your housekeeper." She appeared at the bottom step a plate of ginger snaps in hand. They smelt heavenly and John found himself turning towards the wonderful aroma.

And that was when his leg failed him. It buckled suddenly and he hadn't his stick to balance, he was turned sideways and his arms flung out to catch himself, but too late, he was going to fall and crash into Mrs. Hudson with her bad hip. He was shocked how quickly his mind panic turned to guilt about what was about to happen, when he suddenly realized it hadn't happened.

He opened his eyes to find Mrs. Hudson halfway up the stairs inserted under his shoulder and taking a good deal of his weight along with handing him a biscuit.

"There now dear, you've gone and injured yourself." She tutted.

"How did you" He started.

"Now, now none of that let's get you upstairs. My you weigh more than that scoundrel Sherlock. Do tell him I said so, he needs to eat more you know. Poor Angelo tries so hard to feed him up, doesn't know what's good for him does he?" She prattled on. "Still now with his own doctor I'm certain he'll start to shape up. You'll see to that won't you Mr. Watson?"

Somehow the woman had managed to get him up the stairs, into his flat, sat in his chair with a blanket tucked around his shoulders, and she was looking at him imploringly and he found himself nodding despite himself.

"Good. Good. You are a dear, John." She deposited the plate of gingersnaps in his lap and disappeared into the kitchen to make him a cuppa 'just this once.'

Nibbling on the still warm baked goods and taking a sip of his piping hot tea he realized she had gone, and she had finally called him John. Suddenly he wasn't certain that was a good thing. He never heard her call anyone by their first names, well except Sherlock. Think of the Devil and all that; the man burst through the door with his normal dramatic flair coat swirling dramatically as he flung himself into his chair picking up his violin halfway down and plucked a chord the moment he hit the cushions.

"BORED" He intoned with the violated strings and let out a regal sigh closing his eyes.

John couldn't help snorting a chuckle into his tea which made him cough. Really the man was a child and it shouldn't amuse him so much.

It wasn't until late that night when he'd managed to make himself climb the stairs to his room that he realized there was one other person he'd heard Mrs. Hudson call by their first name, and just that day too. Angelo. Satisfied for the moment he slept quite peacefully.