They had been flatmates for little more than two months, yet still John Watson had the distinct impression that he was missing something important.

Sherlock Holmes, scientist, self-proclaimed Consulting Detective and self-confessed sociopath was an enigma. Like a will o' the wisp he would flit around crime scenes, seeing far more than anyone else, his abrasive tones as he spewed forth his deductions creating an almost physical barrier between himself and all others. But surprisingly, he had let John into his life.

Originally, he had been looking for someone to share the cost of the rooms in Baker Street, and John had needed cheap accommodation, mainly due to the fact that the run down block of flats he was currently staying in were due to be demolished, they had been cheap because they had been in an appalling condition, but they were fast becoming dangerously unstable.

John smiled a little at that – dangerously unstable could easily describe his new friend, only the blond ex-army doctor didn't find him so. Instead he relished the excitement and adventure as they chased through London, from its brightly exotic heart to its depressingly dark and fetid underbelly, no area was off limits.

The object of his musings was currently stalking the corridors of St Bart's hospital, trying to prove his latest theory on some poor unsuspecting dead body, while flattering pathologist Molly Hooper into letting him use the mortuary equipment and laboratories. He would be gone for some time, giving John the perfect opportunity to try to solve this puzzle.

Taking a deep breath and straightening his shoulders as if preparing to face a firing squad, John approached Sherlock's bedroom door. This was the one room in the flat that he had never entered – in truth he'd not even so much as poked his head round the door.

Now, with his fingers curled around the door handle, he hesitated, good manners warring with curiosity. Part of him wanted him to outright ask his flatmate if there was anything else he should know, but part of him acknowledged that if he did, and Sherlock lied, then he would have given him a beacon-clear warning to be on his guard. No, this was the only way.

The room itself was surprisingly tidy, considering Sherlock's habit of dropping things wherever he happened to be standing when he finished with them and leaving them there. Here one could forgive the higgledy piggledy pile of books on a chair beside the bed – mostly scientific tomes, but there were a few theological texts, which surprised John, but only because the detective was so firmly grounded in logic and had more than once denied any kind of religious belief.

With a mental shrug he moved on to the half open wardrobe. He could see rows of designer suits and shirts; peering around the closed half of the door he found shelves with cashmere jumpers and racks with highly polished shoes. None of this was unexpected, and John was beginning to feel a little foolish. Maybe there was nothing more to know, nothing hidden, but as he turned to leave a box, tumbled beside the bedside table as if knocked off when turning out the lamp, caught his eye.

It was incongruous, and as he squatted down to take a close look John realised it was quite the last thing he would have expected to find in any room in this house, but most especially this one. It was a box of intense black hair dye.

xXx

Closing the bedroom door behind him softly, John stood in the hallway thinking. In every way his friend's room was exactly what he expected it to be, if only he hadn't found that dye. Slowly his feet carried him towards the kitchen, and out of rapidly developing habit he filled the kettle and switched it on.

It was as he reached up into the cupboard for a clean cup that he heard the door open, and the soft steady tread of his flatmate's brother

"Don't you ever knock, Mycroft?" He asked, not turning around but grabbing another cup, and making his unwanted visitor a cup of tea.

"Until you moved in there was never a need"

The cultured tones grated on John's nerves, and he handed Mycroft his cup with a grudging nod towards Sherlock's vacant chair.

"I beg to differ. Your brother's a grown man, not a child that you need to keep checking up on." He lowered himself carefully into his own chair. "So what have I done to warrant your visit?"

"Oh, I just want to see how you are settling in, make sure everything is… okay?"

"Okay? Hardly a word I expect you to use Mycroft, too pedestrian for someone who moves in such exalted circles as you do."

"Sarcasm ill becomes you, Doctor."

"Lying ill becomes you, Mycroft." John replied softly, but there was steel in his voice.

For a long moment the two men stared at each other, Mycroft calculating, John calm and unreadable.

"My brother has tried and failed to co-exist with others since he was sent to Harrow at the age of thirteen, and apart from the boys he had no option but to share a dormitory with, he has succeeded in driving everyone away within days." The elder Holmes studied his nails dispassionately before adding "The record is a fortnight, and that was only because for the first few days the new flatmate was actually abroad at a conference."

"And your point is?"

"What's in it for you, Doctor Watson?" Cold pale blue eyes glared, trying to intimidate and supress.

John smiled.

"Honestly? A roof over my head, a landlady that fusses over us, and…" he paused and stood up, looking coolly down at the older man. "It winds you up which makes Sherlock happy, and a happy Sherlock is less likely to blow the kitchen up. You've outstayed your welcome Mycroft, see yourself out, and I'll thank you to remember your manners and knock next time you want to come in."

With that he moved back to the kitchen and started preparing food. The slamming of the door made him chuckle to himself, Mycroft baiting could be fun, although he wasn't foolish enough to believe that the British Government would leave it at that – he expected retribution.

For now though, he wasn't going to let it bother him, for now he had other things to think about.

xXx

Sherlock's sharp eyes scanned the room as he hung his coat on the back of the living room door.

"What did he want?"

John looked up from stoking the fire; by now quite used to the way his flatmate knew whenever his interfering brother had been in the flat.

"He wanted to see how I'm settling in." Standing up he dusted his hands off, resting them on his hips and looking meditatively into the fire. "He doesn't seem happy that I'm here Sherlock, told me all about my predecessors, and how quickly they moved on."

"And?"

"And what?" John spun round to see Sherlock's bright gaze fixed unwaveringly on his face. "You think I'm bothered by that? I was a soldier Sherlock, takes more than a few well-chosen snide comments to deter me from doing what I want to do."

"You sent him away with a flea in his ear!" The younger man announced with a grin.

"Yeah, and with a recommendation to allow you the courtesy of knocking before strolling in." His grin wasn't as bright as Sherlock's. "I doubt he enjoyed the encounter, and I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't find some way to retaliate."

"And he calls me childish."

"Hungry?"

"No."

"Good, I've made vegetable biryani." John walked through to the kitchen. "And I've removed the mess your last experiment made on this table so we can sit out here and eat."

"But I said…." Sherlock took a step towards the kitchen and immediately his senses were assaulted by the heavenly smell of baked spiced rice and vegetable. His mouth started to water and his stomach grumbled.

John laughed, and dished out two generous platefuls.

xXx

Sherlock had retreated to his room after dinner, claiming a need for quiet while he filed the results of today's experiments into their respective places in his mind palace. John heard the key turn in the lock – well, that was nothing unusual, his flatmate often took the precaution of ensuring he was undisturbed while he thought.

After a quite check of the papers he noted there was a half decent film due to start soon, and the idea of getting in some beers to have while he watched it appealed. Pulling on his jacket he wandered down towards Sherlock's door.

"I'm popping out to the offy – do you want anything?" he asked through the closed door, but there was no response from inside the room, so he turned away and headed out of the door.

Baker Street was dark and almost deserted, unsurprising in the harsh winter winds. John turned his collar up and hunched his shoulders, stepping up his pace as he turned into the side street.

Passing a narrow alleyway between two houses a hand suddenly shot out and dragged him in, unbalancing him and flinging against a wall.

Even as the air whooshed out of his lungs his took in the situation he now found himself in – in a dark unlit alley with, judging by the shadows, at least three assailants. Army training and natural; self-preservation skills kicked in, and he launched himself at the nearest thug, taking him down with the force of his surprise attack.

The second shadow was larger, and better placed than his colleague, grasping John by the back of his jacket and heaving him off the other man, grabbing him in a bear hug and pounding his ribs with a meaty fist.

Behind John the third man withdrew a sharp blade from his pocket, holding it aloft as he approached the ex-soldier's unprotected back.

From above them came a hoarse throaty cry, and a large dark bird flew down, swooping round and clawing with large talons at the attackers face. The attacker waved his hands, slicing upwards with the knife, John's exposed back momentarily forgotten as the bird attacked time and again, pushing him further into the darkness.

Tuning out the shrieks behind him John pulled on every ounce of his training, trading blow for blow with his opponent until landing the larger man a swift left upper-cut, knocking him senseless.

Not wasting time to draw breath he turned around to confront the third man before his adrenaline crashed. Moving towards him John was just in time to see an unlucky slash of the knife catch the bird's leg, momentarily destabilising its flight. With another hoarse screech it flew upwards, blood dripping down on the dark shadowed alley.

His first mistake was to watch the flight of the injured bird. His second was to underestimate Captain John H Watson.

Making use of the man's momentary distraction John closed the distance between them, grabbing the man's wrist and with a single vicious twist breaking it, the clatter of the knife hitting the ground drowned out by the howl of pain, then two hard and fast punches to the solar plexus put the man down and out.

Bending down to retrieve the knife, John abandoned all thoughts of beer and films – he just wanted to get home and shower off the filth from the alleyway.

Backtracking the way he came, it took less than ten minutes to get back to the flat. Cold and tired, he slowly climbed the stairs, letting himself quietly into the flat.

Following the sound of running water, he made his way to the bathroom, intent on asking if Sherlock was likely to be in there long, but his flatmate had left the door open, and was standing in just his underpants and shirt, the flannel in his hand turning an ominous red as he bathed a ragged cut on his leg.

And all the while he was muttering.

"If only he didn't make me eat, it makes me sluggish…"

John pushed the door fully open, and it banged against the side of the bath making Sherlock drop the cloth and spin around.

"You?" John gasped numbly as realisation hit. "You were the raven?"

A/N: An offy is slang for an Off-License (Liquor store)