To describe Sherlock Holmes was like describing a colour. You might say "dark" or "subdued" or "dull." You would not say "nice" or "caring" or "happy." Colours can't be like that. Neither could Sherlock Holmes. You might here tell from Mycroft Holmes that when he was a young boy, Sherlock was these things. He loved. He cared. He loved a dog named Redbeard, his parents, his brother. But when Redbeard died, Sherlock snapped. His big brother Mycroft's past advice to "never let sentiment hinder you" paid off and Sherlock Holmes forgot how to feel. They say that's why he never goes outside. Some say that he can't even feel the warmth of the sun.
John had heard the whisperings as he passed by the infamous Holmes house. About a boy named Sherlock. The horrid self-identified sociopath that hated everything and everyone. He was also said to be an addict. Maybe it was that fact that made John interested. It was why he wanted to be a doctor, right? So he could fix people. He had to. Nobody had ever fixed him. He just wanted to make sure nobody else had to feel like he had all his life. That was what took him to the yard of the creepy old Holmes House. That was what carried him to the door. It was likely just impulse that made him knock, though.
The knock came suddenly. It was a hesitant knock. Sherlock counted four, one slightly delayed. Five knocks was confident, three was polite. Four was nervous. Nervous meant not missionaries or door-to-door people. They hadn't used the knocker, but Sherlock could tell that the sound was coming from the top of the door. Not a child. He sighed. Non-business, not expected. That usually meant a bet. He set down his beaker carefully and covered his microscope. He was still wearing his lab coat when he answered the door.
For a minute John was sure that nobody was home. He was about to turn around when the doorknob clicked and the black door swung open to reveal a tall young man. The Holmes boy. He had a shock of dark hair and a pale, thin face. He was wearing a black laboratory coat, black trousers, and a plum colored shirt. He obviously didn't eat much. He frowned slightly and scanned John up and down, giving the impression that he knew everything about him. Then he spoke. His voice was much deeper that John expected it would be. "You're in university. Undergraduate medical program. You use your phone a lot. You text with your thumbs, but prefer to call." He paused and scanned the street. "Not a bet, but I can see you've heard talk about me. You have a fish, but no other pets. You're family is in a tough financial situation and you don't like coffee, and prefer copious amounts of caffeinated tea. Non-smoker. Drink occasionally. I would say 18 or 19. Oh! You have an older sister! And you've recently become single. Her choice." He broke off and looked at John hopefully. John was floored. This was impossible. He couldn't decide whether to be angry at this breach of privacy or awed because there was no way he could've gotten all that information. So he just stood there for a second and stared. Sherlock laughed to himself before adding as an after thought. "Why are you here though?" John managed to form a word somewhere in his brain. "How?"
"How?" How? Really, it seemed obvious to Sherlock. Then again, people and their stupidity never ceased to amaze him. He rolled his eyes. At least the stranger seemed impressed. There were so few who did. So he told him. "University is obvious. you're sleep deprived and you have graphite and ink stains all over your hands. You also quite obviously are relieved about something, going by your posture and the fading lines on your forehead. Exams just ended. Huge stress reliever. Medical because you have a hospital visitor student card in your pocket. Also says uni. Studying with surgeons today? Your phone is on your person, but it's in your coat pocket instead of your jeans. Jeans is easily accessible, which means texter. Coat is ready but not right there, which means frequent usage, but probably favouring calls. Your hair is also rumpled about your ears, meaning you have been on the phone a bit recently. Thumb texting is obvious from the shape your hands are curved into and the shape of your phone." He paused, waiting for the anger. But the boy was now leaning against the rail. Encouraging. Sherlock continued. "You got those shoes from your sibling, who stands differently than you. Also they're girls shoes. So, she's your sister. A girl just broke up with you. Not a long relationship, but she gave you those gloves you're wearing. It's obvious because they are different from your style. More feminine influenced than the way you dress, save your shoes of course. You're petting them a bit regretfully, but not sadly or angrily, which tells me who broke it off and how serious you were. You have fish food on your jumper sleeves. No fur. You're jumper is also cheap and old. Tea stains, but no coffee stains. You need some form of caffein, or you wouldn't be able to make it through the day. This isn't a bet because there are no snickering friends hiding around and you have nothing to verify that this happened. Maybe you just want to tell people you met the freak. You don't know the inside of the house so you aren't a friend of Mum and Dad, and Mycroft doesn't live here anymore." Sherlock cut himself off. the stranger was just standing there with his jaw moving silently. There was a long moment before he said it.
"Brilliant!" John whispered quietly. He stared at the mysterious Sherlock Holmes. "That's bloody brilliant." Sherlock stared down at John like he had never seen a human being before. "That's not what people normally say." He said quietly. John was puzzled. It was amazing. Really amazing. He'd known everything just by looking. It almost made John feel self-conscious, like this man knew everything about him. More than he did. Fortunately, however, there wasn't much to know. "What do they usually say?" John asked. Sherlock scowled. "Piss off freak. Or some variation thereupon." John was startled. Maybe he had a soft spot for those unconventional people. He would never call Sherlock a freak. Genius was closer to the truth. "Well," John told the tall man, pulling out his phone to check the time, "I think you're brilliant. My name's John Watson." Sherlock nodded. His face was back to default again. "Well John, nice to meet you. Say hello to your sister's girlfriend for me. I think they're having a tough time, am I right?" How did he do that? John nodded and then a thought occured to him. "Wait! I want your number!"
It was so sudden that Sherlock found himself shocked.
"What?" John smiled. "You're too interesting to not talk to again. You still owe me an explanation of how you know about Harriet and Clara."
Sherlock shook his head and handed his homemade business card to the boy on the steps. The young man smiled and turned to go, waving. "My name's John, by the way. John Watson." Sherlock nodded brusquely. "Sherlock Holmes."