A/N: I really don't know how I came up with this story. Meh, too much school I guess. Features a lot of sad gay baby Sherlock and protective/jealous/a bit dickish John.


There was a skull in the room, along with John's Biology professor and three boys. "Um," he said, cringing when four pairs of eyes looked his way. "This is my room."

Professor Holmes smiled at him. It was a nice smile, the kind of smile that said 'I know I'm your professor and smarter and older than you, but I'm also a fun guy'. In a classroom, seeing that smile calmed John down. It meant no exams and that his Santa-like teacher would probably just show them a chemistry trick. But seeing it now was just weird. Maybe he was dreaming, he thought. Maybe it was that kind of dream where he went to school with just his pants on.

He looked down. Nope. Not that kind of dream.

"I'm afraid Michael's failed to inform you that you have a new housemate," Professor Holmes said. "Your quarters have been moved to the upper floor. Hans graduated last year, I think?"

"Uh yeah." Hans was older and had always gotten the larger room while Mike, John, and Neil crammed their things in the second floor's smaller rooms. It wasn't a bad arrangement. It just didn't explain why his friends never told him. Nor did it explain why his Biology professor was here, the same Biology professor who'd told John to maybe lessen the drinking and gambling because they weren't helping his grades. John still couldn't directly look him in the eye after that talk.

There was a bit of silence and John's arms were beginning to ache from the box he was holding when one of the boys let out a dry cough that had John wincing in sympathy. "Sorry," he said with an apologetic smile in John's direction. "Room's a bit dusty."

He was tall and slender and paper-white and had a face that looked like someone had thrown an atomic bomb full of freckles on it. His hair was the same auburn as the guy beside him, and when he smiled at John, it was like looking at his professor, thirty years younger. "Oh," John said. The room was full of baby Siger Holmeses. One was a freckly version, another was a stouter version, and the last had black hair and eyes so pale it was like locking eyes with a snake.

"My youngest Sherlock," Professor Holmes said. He gestured to the dark-haired boy. "It's his first year here. I trust that you'll help him settle."

It wasn't a question and when John accidentally looked at one of the older brothers, he saw the subtle 'or else' in the sentence. The dark-haired boy scowled but said nothing. "Um, yeah, sure, I'll just…" He gestured at the box in his hands.

"Do you need help?" Freckles took the box before John could say anything. "It's this way right? Wow, those stairs are rather narrow. And dark. They should put a light there."

John blinked.

He said goodbye then followed Freckles up the stairs. "John? John Watson?" Freckles looked like he was rolling John's name in his mouth, testing how it sounded in his voice. It was deep, his voice. It reminded John too much of Biology class so he just nodded. "I'm Sherrinford."

"That's an odd name."

"My father's name is Siger, John." He was already taking John's things out of the box, and John's eyes widened when he saw that Sherrinford was putting them in all the right places. "It goes back. I was named after my grandfather, Mycroft was named after an uncle, and don't tell Sherlock but he was named after an aunt."

"Is that a joke?"

"Yes. It means 'bright hair'. His hair isn't bright." He paused to look at John as if waiting for him to confirm that it wasn't.

"It isn't."

"Thought he'd be born with red hair but Sherlock's full of surprises—Hey! This is a nice book. Have you read Catch-22 yet?"

It was like talking to a hurricane, John decided as Sherrinford moved his things and talked. John sat on his bed and waited for him to stop. He wouldn't. He talked about all sorts of things but the one-sided conversation kept coming back to Sherlock. Sherlock this, Sherlock that. Sherrinford looked like he was thirty and Sherlock looked to be somewhere between twelve and eighteen, but the way Sherrinford talked about him was like Sherlock was his own kid. It was almost endearing.

Almost.

There was a knock on the door and the stockier version of John's Biology professor came in. Mycroft, the one who'd glared at John threateningly. "Father wants us to eat before we leave. Convince Sherlock to come with us." He glanced at John then back to his brother again. "You're bothering him."

"He really isn't," John said but it was like neither of them heard him. Sherrinford set down a framed picture of John and his sister then straightened. He flashed another one of his happy-go-lucky smiles at John. "Well, I'm off," he said. "Be nice to my baby brother."

"And be patient with him," Mycroft muttered. "Try not punch him on the first day."


"You forgot?"

Mike shrugged. He and Neil had just come in, dripping water everywhere they went. It was raining outside and John couldn't help but think of stick-thin Sherlock walking out there. Nonsense, John thought. He had his family with him.

"I only just remembered that Sherlock was moving in with us," Mike explained. "He's okay. A bit strange and a bit of a dick but he won't bite. My dad's his brother's physician. The brother's got really bad asthma. Sherlock comes with him sometimes."

The brother. Sherrinford most likely, John thought, remembering the way Sherrinford had coughed and wheezed while he arranged John's things. "Sherrinford asked me help keep an eye on him. Something to do with rehab."

"Rehab?"

"He got in a stint with drugs." Mike said it casually. It happened. It was uni after all. People had sex, people did drugs, and every now and then, someone would overdose and get shipped to the nearby hospital where the med students practiced. Maybe it happened in boarding school as well. The glimpse he'd gotten of Sherlock Holmes had given John the idea that he was one of those posh kids who'd gone to a very posh boarding school. Maybe somewhere outside the country, possibly in Switzerland. Professor Holmes was loaded, after all.

"Hey, if the kid's pretty, I'm okay with it." Neil laughed when Mike threw a pillow at him.

"You're a slut, Neil. You beat Three Continents over here."

"Of course I can beat him. Johnny here has a girlfriend now."

"He's a skinny brunette who looks about twelve," John said. "You like tan, overly-muscled guys who look like they should be in Baywatch."

"True," Neil said. John was glad Sherlock wasn't a Baywatch candidate. It would make things awkward. Like Neil-and-Hans awkward. John couldn't remember all the details, or maybe Neil never did tell them. He was just glad Hans had already graduated because John doubted he could stand another day with Neil and Hans shouting at each other.

Neil liked to flirt. A lot. Too much. The first time John met him, he'd flirted incessantly while John had just stood there and wondered when he could say that he didn't swing that way. "Oh, I know you don't," Neil said once John was able to tell him. "I just wanted to get under your skin." And then he'd grabbed John by the shoulders and steered him to where the rest of the rugby team were.

"Coffee, John?" Mike asked. John nodded absent-mindedly. He fished his phone out of his pocket and sent a text to Mary. 'Got a new housemate. My professor's kid. Weird, huh?'

She didn't reply. Mary didn't like using phones much. She preferred talking in person. "We're in uni, that's impossible!" John said and Mary had just sighed and told him, "We go to the same university, John."

But still.

Mary was his best friend first. They grew up in the same town, went to the same secondary school together, and Mary had been the one to help him talk Harry into talking to a counsellor about her growing alcoholism. They got drunk, hooked up, and now John had a girlfriend because he couldn't treat Mary like some random girl. She was his best friend, after all.

Mike and Neil found it weird. To be honest, John found it a bit weird as well and Mary did, too. But it wasn't like they had a bad relationship. They were just adjusting, working around it. His mother had predicted that he'd get married to Mary and maybe she was right. John could see himself as Mary's husband.

Well, sort of.

"You have to be nice to him all the time," Neil said as he dumped himself on the sofa. He propped his feet on a box with the word FRAGILE written on one side in black marker. "Is Holmes still going to teach you?"

"Biochemistry," John muttered. Siger Holmes was brilliant if last year's class was anything to go by, but he wasn't the kind of person John would willingly do favours for. It was the 'too brilliant' part. Intelligence was intimidating. "I don't want us to have to babysit."

"Sherlock's pretty independent," Mike said. "Just keep him out of cocaine hot spots for a month and you'll be fine."

"That counts as babysitting."

Mike shrugged.

John shrugged back. Great, he thought. His first day of One Year of No Alcoholic Family Members and he had to spend it looking after some kid.

"Aw come on, John. He's not bad." Mike smiled in what John thought was an attempt at a reassuring grin. Only it didn't have much effect. Probably because Mike didn't believe himself. "The worst thing he can do is leave some dirty dishes in the sink."


"I don't like mushrooms. You know I don't like mushrooms."

"Stop acting like a brat," Mycroft snapped at the same time Sherrinford offered to eat them. Well, offered was the wrong word. Sherrinford was already piling mushroom after mushroom on his own plate. He ate a lot. It was a Sherrinford thing.

They didn't eat with their father. Siger had bid them goodbye outside the restaurant which was fine by Sherlock. It was bad enough that they were making him attend a university where his father worked. They shouldn't have to force him to constantly be in his father's presence.

It was a nice restaurant, expensive enough so that not a lot of uni students were here, but not so much that there weren't any because it was still in campus. There were mostly professors, some of whom recognized Sherrinford and Mycroft. A professor in Legal Management, a professor in Biology, another one who taught Greek. His brothers talked to a lot of people.

Sherlock didn't.

Sherlock's connections were mostly homeless people who helped him with cases, DI Lestrade from New Scotland Yard, and drug dealers. But Mycroft had made sure to get rid of that last one. Sherlock scratched at the inside of his arm. It was something he did a lot. He accidentally scratched at a nicotine patch.

"Do you have three there?" Mycroft glared at him and before Sherlock could protest, he'd already ripped off two. "You'll poison yourself."

"That can be the highlight of my day," Sherlock countered.

"Don't be difficult, Sherlock," Sherrinford sighed.

Sherlock didn't argue. He wanted to yell, make a scene, possibly throw his plate at Mycroft's face, but he couldn't. Not after what happened.

You'll kill me.

Sherlock didn't want that.

It was his fault. The drugs, nearly overdosing, his first and last attempt to escape rehab. Sherrinford had gotten stressed because of him. He'd nearly died because of Sherlock. Sherlock could still remember seeing his brother's face slowly turn blue from asphyxiation, the way he'd scratched at his throat uselessly, and stupid Sherlock had just stood there, frozen, until Mycroft ran inside and found them.

Sherlock looked at his brother's neck.

They were still there.

In the hospital, when Sherrinford had woken up, that was what he said. You'll kill me. Please stop.

He wasn't a murderer, no matter what Sally Donovan said. So he did his best to stop.

"You can get your own place next year," Mycroft told him. He fixed his eyes on Sherlock. There was a bit of doubt in his voice as if he doubted Sherlock would even make it through the year. Sherlock didn't bother arguing with him. He probably wouldn't.

"You can stay with Father," Sherrinford teased.

"I'm already majoring in Chemistry," Sherlock muttered. "I'll see him often enough."

"He won't be your professor, Sherls. He's not that cruel. I mean, would you rather stay with Mummy?"

Sherlock shuddered at the idea. Their mother taught Mathematics in Oxford. Sherrinford had gone there and he'd come home, groaning about how Mummy wouldn't leave him alone. She was just like Sherlock—highly-intelligent, intimidating when they wanted to be, and absolutely tactless. "You don't want to go there, trust me," Sherrinford said, laughing. "Mummy will keep calling you about your eating habits."

"I like John," Sherrinford said once he'd calmed down enough to resume talking. Sherrinford tended to do that, which was laugh at something then bring a new topic to the conversation. Sherlock didn't know how he could do that. Small talk was neither his nor Mycroft's strong point. "John is nice."

"You like everyone," Mycroft pointed out.

"True. I'm the Nice Holmes."

"The Overly-Friendly One."

"The Annoying Overly-Attached One."

Sherrinford just smiled.

"Which makes Mycroft the Fat One," Sherlock said. Because it needed to be said. Daily.

"Very mature, Sherlock."

It almost felt normal, like it was the holidays and Sherlock had just come from boarding school while Sherrinford and Mycroft had come from whatever country they'd been shipped off to. But it wasn't normal because his brothers would leave and he would be stuck here, in a strange new place with strange people. Normal people. But strange to him because Sherlock wasn't. Normal, that was.

It had started to rain while they were in the restaurant and when the three of them went outside, it was already pouring hard. Sherlock saw kids either running for shelter or walking through the rain at a normal pace. "Looks like fun," Sherrinford remarked as he looked at a couple walking in the field, hand-in-hand.

"Do you want to catch pneumonia again?" Mycroft snorted.

"Well...it looks fun enough to risk it." He grinned at Sherlock who merely glared at him. "That was one time."

"You make nearly dying sound like a hobby."

"It's a Holmes thing, isn't it?"

Anthea was there which prevented Sherrinford from doing anything idiotic. Mycroft's shiny new assistant, sitting inside a shiny new car. She greeted them cordially as they climbed in. Sherlock looked out the window. People were staring at the car, practically drooling at the sight of it. Pathetic.

"Be good, alright?" Sherrinford had one arm around his shoulders. Sherlock hated it when he did that but he didn't pull away. His brother smelled of aftershave and Italian dressing and a hint of perfume. A new girlfriend maybe. It was hard to keep track of Sherrinford's girlfriends. He changed partners as fast as he changed clothes. "If anything goes wrong, call me."

"When have I ever been good?"

"You can start now," Sherrinford said playfully. "You can start by taking care of yourself."

It meant no drugs. It meant no smoking. Sherlock scratched at his arm. He could try. Again.

The lights were on when they got back to the house. Sherrinford ruffled his hair fondly while Mycroft gave him another warning look. Stay clean. Don't embarrass Father. And then the car was gone and Sherlock was alone in the porch.

He could hear people inside. Laughing. Socialising.

He didn't want that. Couldn't even if he wanted.

He opened the door, moved past his new housemates, and climbed up the stairs without a single look back.