John looked out the window of his small apartment room. The radio was a quiet sound in the background of his thoughts. He could see the grey wall of the building next door. It was always being covered in graffiti, repainted, only to be vandalized yet again. John liked the routine of it all. It was one of the only dependable things in his life. His college wasn't going too smoothly, and he constantly relied on Molly to help him. He couldn't stay awake in class. His sleep depression was horrible, and he had to take more sleeping pills than most doctors would recommend. But it didn't work all that well.

Coldplay was on the radio, and john barely bounced his foot, making his old spring bed creak ever so slightly. He went into his kitchen, if you could call it such a thing. More of a fridge and a stove than anything. Only three months moved out from his parent's house, and already too poor to afford a bigger apartment. He chuckled and shook his head ever so slightly.

"How am I gonna get out of this one?" he said to himself.

The next day was dull, and fairly similar to the last few. Molly trying desperately to keep john awake without getting in trouble. Molly nagging him about how he "Should get a flatmate. Helps pay the rent. I do it." And so on.

Although the day wasn't, different, the night was. John decided to take molly's advice finally and as soon as he was home, he put an ad up on craigslist London. He would have to wait now.

Two weeks and 4 potential but unflattering flatmates later, john received a somewhat odd response. It read, 'meet me at 221b Baker street, Sunday, 6:00. –SH'

"might as well," thought John.

It was Sunday, 5:52, as John approached the suggested living situation. A tall boy with dark, curly hair and eyes just as dark stood outside. Maybe 18 or 19, around the same age as John.

"Hello" said John, offering his hand. "Are you here about the ad?" The boy looked at his hand and seemed to hide slight vanity. He did not take it. Instead, he spoke, taking his eyes off John's hand.

"John Watson I assume." John began to reply, but was cut off. "Of course you are. Who else would you be? " His eyes were still fixed on Johns, expressionless and somewhat arrogant. "I know the landlady, Mrs. Hudson. She owes me a debt. Can I use your phone?" John was puzzled, but complied and handed him the phone. He tried to speak again, only to be cut off again by the opening door. A small middle aged woman stood in the doorway. The dark boy smiled at the woman, and she hugged him.

"Hello dear, is this the young man you were talking about? The one you'll be looking at a flat with?"

John waited no longer. "Yes, I'm Jo-" cut off.

"John Watson, Mrs Hudson. You'll get along fine, now let's have a look at the flat."

John stopped trying.

It was a nice flat. It was fairly messy, boxes everywhere, full of books, science materials, and a strange skull sat above the fireplace. John and the boy talked at

the same time, so it sounded like, "Yeah it'll be nice-I've just-if we just clear-got everything moved in-out everything-already"

"Oh, sorry." Said john, embarrassed.

"No, no it's uh, it's okay, I can just, um," the boy started to shuffle things around and stack them as if it made the room look nicer. "It'll be more sorted tomorrow." He said.

"but-"

"Been lovely. Gotta dash. I'm late, and Mycroft will be wondering. We'll take it Mrs. HJudson." He started down the stairs.

"Wait!" shouted John, making him pause and come back into the doorway. "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't even know your name." The boy smiled as if he was about to do something extremely clever. And then he did.

"I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him—possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. I know you've gone to a boarding school with military-like precautions and teachers. You walk with a limp that your therapist thinks is from trauma, most likely one of the teachers at your school gave out beatings as punishment, possibly all of them. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think? The name's Sherlock Holmes. Afternoon." Sherlock winked at John, smiled and was gone before he could say anything.

Mrs. Hudson spoke up. "Just you wait. He's always like that."

Maybe John didn't mind if he was always like that.