Sherlock Holmes told everyone he was a sociopath.
He wasn't.
It was just easier that way, it allowed him to hide his faults.
It worked well for him until the day he walked into the morgue.
He'd mentioned to Stamford that he thought he should find a flatmate.
"Someone to check you're alive," Mycroft had texted.
He'd ignored Mycroft, of course.
"Someone responsible with money." Mrs. Hudson had tutted as the light switch failed, again, to work.
That was sensible. He listened.
It wasn't that he needed a flat mate. Mrs. Hudson gave him a very agreeable rate, he paid the same as anyone else but she didn't complain about the mess, noise or smell. But he did think they might have a point. It would be nice for someone to think about things like milk, bread, bills.
The next problem was one he clearly stated.
"Who'd have me for a flatmate?"
The surprising thing wasn't that Mike found someone, this was London after all, but that he found someone Sherlock didn't annoy within a second.
Doctor Watson. Not tall but certainly not short, blond and handsome in a disgruntled kind of way. Military bearing, kind eyes and a psychosomatic limp.
One brief conversation and a gunshot later he had his first friend.
No one had ever killed for him before.
