Well oh dear. If you're reading this it looks like you've happened upon my poor little fic. God help you. Though it doesn't show it on this
account...I've written a bit before this so you know...try to enjoy!
This is just the sort of...introductory chapter. Please do review!
Thank you again for reading and enjoy the show.

Life in the flat of 221B Baker Street was often full of strange and wonderful adventures both big and small for Doctor John Watson. It seemed like, with each passing day, he would evade death at least four times before tea. Criminals set a bounty over his head (along with, of course, his brilliant flatmate's) and surprises with no longer unexpected yet Sherlock still found small ways to shock the poor army doctor; good or bad, well, that's hard to say.

Much to John's distaste, he had grown rather fond of that brilliant, brilliant man yet he scarcely dared to show it. He and Sarah were in a rather idyllic relationship as it was based more on companionship and emotional satisfaction as opposed to attraction and physical acts. He was determined not to let himself fall for Sherlock because, much to his chagrin, he knew Sherlock was physically incapableof reciprocating any such feeling towards him. It seemed as though that was all going to crumble before his eyes in the pool, facing the dastardly Moriarty but, alas, he kept his composure (like always) and sometimes, though he kept this to himself, he longed for a small glimmer of hope in the case that Sherlock was, somehow, a normal human being.

One tender June morning, John awoke to the sound of songbirds atwitter in the trees and the rustling of Sherlock's morning activities in the rooms below. Just as any other morning, he got himself out of bed and washed up, made himself up for the day and, still very tired, walked down the stairs with a stretch and a yawn. It was just after nine on a Saturday morning, a time many would consider sleeping in. This, however, was not the case if you managed to find your way back to your bed only four hours prior after a long night of chasing around a notorious criminal. Sherlock had something sizzling in a frying pan and nodded to John, implying his good morning.

"I'm going to assume you have a few eyeballs in that pan," John said, getting a jar of jam from the cupboard. "Just make sure to keep it away from the pans we, excuse me, I actually cook with." No response. "Sherlock." Still nothing. "SHERLOCK."

In one smooth turn the handsome consulting detective flaunted a pan filled not with human body parts but fluffy scrambled eggs. To many, this wouldn't be shocking but, if you couldn't already tell, the norm of the masses didn't operate along the same parameters as the goings on in that flat. "Look. Eggs. From a chicken, I assure you. You just mightwant to close your jaw. You don't want any flies nesting in there." Sherlock smirked with a hint of pride in his eye and then began to plate the eggs (John now realized they smelled absolutely divine) onto a large dinner plate. He garnished the dish with two triangles of buttered toast and sat down opposite of John.

"Sherlock…" John began, taking a deep breath. "You never eat. I've lived with you for seven months and not once have I seen you eat a normal meal." He gulped down a swig of tea and made an even more startling revelation. "Bloody hell. Sherlock," Sherlock arched his eyebrow made a 'Hrm?' noise in his throat, waiting for his friend to finish. "The table. It's clean. We're eating at the breakfast table."

"Indeed we are." Sherlock responded flatly, the corner of his mouth still upturned as he bit into a forkful of egg. "You do realize that you normally eat at tables and, well, at a dinner table you eat dinner so it would only be logical for breakfast to be eaten at…"

"Sherlock." John's steely eyes tried, apparently unsuccessfully, to pierce the man opposite of him. "Are you alright? Did you go to sleep last night? Are you sick? Do you want something from me? Is this just a bribe?"

"Nonsense!" Sherlock said, laughing to himself. "If I wanted something from you there are much easier ways to get it…shall I list them?" John stared blankly at him and bit into his toast, not breaking eye contact. "Well…I guess not." Sherlock had cleaned the plate in a matter of minutes and placed it into the sink where he proceeded (much to the horror of his beloved friend) to thoroughly clean and put away what he used to prepare his breakfast. He was still slightly smiling and it was worrying John (probably less than it should have).

"Sherlock. I want an answer. Right now." The small man tried to reach eye level but, alas, Sherlock had a good six inches on him vertically and, without the aid of a stepping stool, would remain that way. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped away. John blocked his path. In a stern and motherly tone, he demanded. "Now."

Sherlock sighed, long and heavy. "I can't, per say, tell you but I can show you, John." Sherlock grabbed one of the several laptop computers and sat cross-legged in his favorite chair. He was soon to his email account and opened up one, still saved as newin the folder. Sherlock turned the computer's screen away from him and placed it in John's lap. Then, he began to narrate, word for word, the message up on the screen

"Dearest Sherlock,

I'm afraid the time between our last visit and now is growing alarmingly long. How I long for the buzz of London once again. America is simply dreadful compared to there. I wanted to know if you'd ever consider me popping by for a visit in the near future. I do miss seeing your face. After all that we've been through together I can't help but feel as if something inside me is gone when you're not around. (Mister don't you

dare take that the wrong way like I know you will)
I'm sad to say a few months ago dad passed away. The chapter of this book of my life is closed and the work I left my beloved home is now done. Though it has been stressful for the past few years I've thought of you often and cherish the letters and gifts you've sent my way. Though what I am afraid the one thing that doesn't travel by mail or over the web is the wonderful feel of your arms around me.

I hope since I've last saw you you've managed to keep yourself out of trouble without me. I know how you get when you have no one there for you to depend on. Write back as soon as you can. My affection knows no bounds…butmy patience does.

Tell Mycie I say hello and I hope to see you soon.

Forever yours,
Charlotte Waters"

John looked up from the screen into the elated face of Sherlock Holmes. "Sherlock," He said, trying to find any way to put all of this together. "Is she your sister or something? Like an adopted sister? A sister in law? Is Mycroft married? Is Mycroft married to her? Is she in love with you? And most importantly," He hesitated, seeing the look of apprehension in his friend's eyes, much like a child looks to their parents in sharing a television show which they love with them. "Why the helldo you care so much about her visiting that you cleaned the bloody apartment and started to eat again? I'm…I'm truly at a loss, Sherlock."

Without uttering another word, Sherlock typed in a name into the computer's search bar and brought up a file. He clicked on a picture and what seemed to be a warm smile crept upon his face. He placed the computer back into the lap of the army doctor he had grown so fond of and waited for his reaction. When none came, he sighed and looked over, not to John, but to gaze upon the picture.

"This, John" Sherlock said carefully. "This is Charlotte Waters." On screen was a picture of a much younger Sherlock, staring up to a camera, with a young woman nuzzled up against him. They seemed to be close in age and veryhappy to be with one another. "That, of course, is I, seven years ago when I had just turned twenty. She was nearly the same age then. Only a month older than her I am." John continued to stare at the woman looking fondly at Sherlock on the computer screen. Sherlock's voice was warm and reflective and he was simply unable to control his smile. "Lovely, isn't she?"

John barely heard what Sherlock was saying while he focused on the woman in the picture. She had rich milk chocolate brown hair with golden swirls dancing in the breeze. Her eyes were an alarming shade of deep blue; the opposite of the spectrum of Sherlock's steel grey eyes. Her skin was creamy and a very pale white though the apples of her cheeks were rosy as they sat atop a shining smile. All in all, the woman was absolutely stunning and John would not be surprised if she was stopped daily for someone must have thought, at least once in her life, that she was a model in some glamorous magazine. Despite his strong feelings for Sherlock, physically, the woman on screen made his heart go all atwitter and, somehow, he thought he recognized her.

"She's…um…she's…beautiful." Sherlock bit his lower lip in a smile and looked over to John who had only then noticed Sherlock himself was in the picture. Besides his apparent youth in the picture he seemed...different. He was smiling and his eyes were filled with such a joy he could scarcely believe he was the same stoic man who sat beside him. He never once had seen him look like that before, not for anyone or not for anything. John, as what has been the norm of the day thus far, was confused. "But…"

"She's coming in a week, John." Sherlock said, still trying to repress a smile. "She hates to see me so thin so, for her, I'll eat and I had the strangest feeling that a woman like her wouldn't appreciate cow stomachs in the crisper drawer in our fridge." Sherlock paused and hesitated for a moment. "I…I hope you don't mind…"

"No, no, not at all." John had uttered the words before he suddenly gasped. "Sherlock.Did you honestly just ask if…but…"

"John." Sherlock said, his voice condescending and flat once again. "I don't know if you've managed to find this in the past few months of you knowing me but I have a rather…what do you people call them, a bad habit of being what most call 'impolite'. I…I figured if I want to seem normal to Charlotte I may as well start practicing with you." John's heart sunk.

"Oh…" He trailed off. "Well…I'll get started in the kitchen." Sherlock nodded and grinned a bit. As he got up, he turned to Sherlock, dreading the next answer.

"Wait one more thing." He said with slight apprehension. "Where is Charlotte going to be sleeping? I suppose I could give up my bed for a bit if it made you and her happy." Sherlock looked confusedly at his flatmate.

"I can assure you that won't be necessary."
It felt like someone had just ripped out John's heart and ate it in front of him, promptly spitting it out and mashing it into the floorboards with a steel toed boot. "Oh." He said, disappearing into the kitchen.

"John." He said, strained as his flatmate had ever heard him. "Thank…you…"

The feigned emotion in Sherlock's voice caused rage to swell within John and was about to let leash the wrath of hell upon that man but, thankfully, he caught himself just in time. He figured that if Sherlock was doing this for her, a few things were bound to stick after she was gone and (though he hoped yet would never say) long forgotten. This was the moment he started to grudge against Charlotte who was, by no means, a threatening person from what he had seen. She was beautiful and full of joy and seemed to have a positive effect on the most emotionally dumb man John had ever encountered. He tried to rationalize it as the fact that she seemed a better care taker for his dearest friend but he could not for deep in the pit of his blackening heart, he knew it was the simple fact that, no matter how hard he may try, John Watson would never amount to whatever Charlotte Waters seemed to be.