Part One: A New Neighbor

We rarely saw the man who lived in two-two-one A for almost two months, the apartment just under two-two-one B. He was highly convinced that whomever it was who lived there was some secret agent sent in by His brother in order to keep track of their comings and goings. For all that I ignored and even fought Sherlock's' accusations, I had never met the man apart from a disembodied voice on the stairs as he came in and out of the building, or as a stunning introduction through gossip and idle conversation. If it hadn't been for the mysterious case of the Crossroads Code, we never may have met him. Or rather Harry, as he preferred to be called when he was off duty as a Special Forces operative.

It was raining, as usual, when there was a casual knock on the front door. Mrs. Hudson was out and Sherlock was refusing to get out of bed, also a regular occurrence. I had been regulated to door duty, whether it is for Mrs. Hudson's friends, or any Case that may present itself. I had been hoping for a case, personally, on that particular morning. It wasn't a case, but it did get Sherlock out of bed and into the living room, dressed, at least.

The young gentleman was well dressed, a casual suit with no tie or any other adornments that would raise the little red flags. Sherlock had been teaching me something at least.

"Er… hello? Can I help you?" I asked. The young man looked a bit confused at first, but then broke out into a delighted smile.

"John Watson?" He breathed, like he was taking a wild guess,

"And who are you?" He, almost impossibly, grinned wider.

"I am actually looking for the dear Mrs. Hudson about the apartment she was offering me yesterday. But I seem to have missed her." We examined each other a while longer, him sizing me up and I doing the same.

"Well, tell her I popped by then?" He grinned and then vanished. I lost him in the crowd before I could even register that he had gone. Sherlock would like him, I remember thinking wryly. I regret even thinking about introducing them. I have enough of Sherlock to deal with on my own; I didn't need two of him.

I never saw him again, until that incident that we are yet to discuss. But heard plenty. He moved in underneath us. It was quick, surprisingly. One day we were taking cases, and next Mrs. Hudson was knocking on our door going on about how lovely it was that dearest Hadrian had moved in. I distinctly remember that conversation because Sherlock spat his coffee all over my chair, before refusing to speak with her for the remainder of the day.

"Hadrian? He's never mentioned a Hadrian before. What do we need a Hadrian for?" He asked himself, well he was talking to me but it is always better to let Sherlock pout it out on his own before giving him answers he already deducted, if only to make him feel better.

Sherlock complained frequently about him for the weeks to follow. Sometimes it was a confused question in the middle of a case, other times it was at two in the morning and a raging tirade of self-righteous fury.

"Calm down Sherlock. Its not like he's doing anything except moving in." I had tried to calm him on several occasions, but this particular time I was tired and not amused at being woken up at four a.m, just to be his sounding board for possible reasons why Hadrian had moved in.

"Maybe that's what he wants us to think. Why else would he be sent here?" There was a long pause, "He just can't stand not being in control! That's why Hadrian's here! Of course, how stupid of me. Almost thinking like you. Or even Anderson. Good lord, how could I have missed Him poking around in this."

"Hadrian has never even been upstairs Sherlock. He probably has better things to do. Like sleep." I added, just in case Sherlock was reading in between the lines tonight, or this morning.

"Not Hadrian, the other one." He was flippant, brushing off my weak comment like batting away a fly, and continuing to crouch on my bed, in his shoes I might add, like he was in his chair.

"Who is it we are talking about?" I was confused now. There was nobody else that we had discussed being connected to Hadrian.

"Him!" Now he was just being annoying on purpose. With a roll of him eyes he flopped face first on top of me, his eyes wide like he had made some brilliant deduction and was waiting for my awe filled compliments to inflate his head further.

"Mycroft!" He exclaimed, before adding; "Do keep up." In that sophisticated, calm tone of his. I was silent for a moment, watching him with bleary eyes and slightly unfocused sight. My mind was always a step or two behind him at the height of a crime scene, now, at five a.m, I was closer to a week behind. But I managed to get my words out without slurring them too badly.

"Have you… have you been smoking, again?" He had to be; this wasn't some kind of thing he would come up with when clean of drugs. Unless he was losing his mind. He gave me the look for that and stalked out of the room, dragging his feet the entire way back to his bedroom, where I could hear him flop down on the bed like a sulking child. I am happy to report that that was the last time he interrupted my sleep.

Unfortunately, while my nights were safe my mornings, afternoons and evenings weren't. They were filled with his constant stream of theories and forced deductions. For almost a month he was unbearable to everyone he met. Greg had asked if he could film us a couple of times. He didn't ask most of the time. Then, finally, he met Hadrian. I had missed their first face-to-face interaction that day because I had been called in to take a shift at the clinic, but when I got home, Sherlock was sitting up like a human being again and wearing his usual work suit.

"I met him today." Was all he said. How like him, all work no pleasantries. "You were right about Mycroft." The Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf and was out of the door.

Going to the lab

SH

Was all I got five minutes later.

It was another week before I met him again. He had come into the clinic to make an appointment with a new doctor, since he had moved to London only recently. I had seen him in my office. He looked well and was smiling brightly when I opened the door to greet my new patient.

"Doctor Watson. Nice to see you again." He greeted me, "How are you? How's Sherlock?" I smiled gently in return and informed him of how quiet Sherlock had become after their meeting and how grateful I was for the break.

"That's good to hear." We proceeded with the check-up and I got my first glimpse of his many scars. He didn't speak of them or even explain how he got them, so I, in turn, ignored the few peeks I got of them. He blushed a little when I mention them in passing observation, but didn't comment.

I asked Sherlock about them later, after returning to the flat. He was still sitting exactly as I had left him, the only difference being the tea set that had been obviously used within the past couple of hours. My only reasoning for that being that the tea pot was still steaming.

"He's a victim of abuse. An orphan. The people he was sent to live with were both simultaneously neglectful and surprisingly attentive to him. He hasn't eaten properly, as he is severely underweight, obvious by his collarbone and sort stature. The scars on his wrists suggest that he is either very clumsy with a knife or has thought of ending his life multiple times, the second being far more likely. Though none of the scars are less than two years old, he's not tried recently. The ones on the back of his neck suggest he has been whipped at some point, and more than once. The way he watches every exit in a room suggests that he has either been in military service or been forced to examine his options for escape when things turn sour. It's highly possible that both are true. The one on his forehead gives the impression that someone decided his face was too boring and wanted to give him a permanent tattoo and reminder. The way it is still enflamed suggests that it has healed improperly and has been opened recently. Was that close?"

I have never gotten used to Sherlock's rapid-fire deductions. The way you can ask a simple question and then suddenly have a monologue of observations that you neither needed to know, like how he deduced that Sally Donovan was frequently having casual sex with many of the officers she worked with, or even thought possible, his deductions on Harry Potter from one ten minute meeting.

"Where did you get all that?" I was surprised to learn that this had not in fact been one ten minute meeting,

"Yesterday afternoon, while you were on a date." But three, all taking place when I was either working or away from the flat.

"Don't worry John. I'm the one who goes down to observe him. He hasn't stepped foot in our flat since asking for a tea bag a week ago. Which was one I observed that he moves almost silently. A side effect of abuse and military training. I say almost because he tripped over my leg."

"You mean you tripped him?"

"No. One of the legs I borrowed from the morgue had fallen off the table. He tripped over it. Rather silly of him don't you think?"

"Yes, ridiculous that he might trip over a disembodied leg while carefully observing the floor as he goes to get a bag of tea." I get the look again, this time he is telling me that 'I am being ridiculous and that of course it wasn't a bag of tea he was going to get'. I don't ask as a matter of personal security.

We continue on as always, business as usual. Sherlock takes on a case or two a week before burying himself into his bed and refusing to do anything towards interacting with people. Its almost as if he can only tolerate a human interaction for so long before he breaks down and is forced to retreat behind his doors to ignore the real world. I am content during these days, because then I work and try to make some money for our rent. Mrs. Hudson seems to be the only thing that keeps us afloat when Sherlock feels that he is being too restless and needs a murder to stimulate him. Business as usual.

TBC