He was a sorry sight. When I had first met Sherlock Holmes, I had been given the image of a truly well-kept genius. A description that is utterly ridiculous when used for my roommate that morning. He looked a state. His hair was not smarmed back, and his clothes looked as if they had been dragged through a bush, and then run over by a van more than once.

"You could have at least put something better on than that. You never know, you may have a client any moment." I said in a vain attempt to get him to realize himself.

"Illusions! There hasn't been a case of the right calibre since our little lecture in crimson."

I would watch him as his moved his hands back and forth against each other, attempting to remove an imaginary itch. From room to room he trailed, closing no door behind him. At last, he jolted in a sudden manner and when he returned, he went about revealing a small bottle, and a hypodermic needle.

"Sherlock…" I looked away from the news to pay closer attention to him.

I learnt the truth nature of the marks across his arm that morning. I had assumed them to be part of his experiments. Accidental slips of the knife and blood samples were all I'd considered them to be. I had been very wrong.

"What the hell are you doing!?" I shouted.

The volume of my voice did not deter him, nor did my presence. The contents of the bottle lowered, and I held my hand over my mouth. He sank into his armchair, leaving the evidence of his actions on the table by the window. I was lost for words, and was sure that any I could muster would be for nought. Had desperation brought him to reveal his habit to me? Or, perhaps he didn't care.

His sparks of movement were gone and all that remained was his usual collective nature. Now it was more aggravating than ever, and I couldn't stay silent.

"What was that?" I whispered.

"A seven percent solution… care to try?" He asked without bothering to look at me.

I let out a gust of breath between my lips.

"No, I don't, and neither should you!"

His eyes remained shut, even to my objections.

"You're not even listening!" I stood up and threw down the morning paper. "This is insane. If you get caught, you'll be arrested! And I thought you were meant to be a genius detective!"

His finger tapped against the armchair.

"I know what I am taking. I expect nothing less from you, given your desired field of study, but you have no understanding of how clarifying it is."

"You are something else, you are…" I sat back down, knowing my opinion to be beaten.

"You are aware of my methods. These moments between cases, I do not live for them. Give me the most convoluted riddle ever written, or a mystery so elusive in nature that only the furthest reaches of the human mind could consider braving its grim corridors, and I will be content. I can't… I cannot breath, Watson. I look for all around me and deduce it's meaning, but with none of this to put to purpose, I suffocate. I scream, and this concoction you hate is all that silences it for a time."

It was stupid of him, and the cost was far too great for me to think it sensible in the slightest. On the other hand, he was right. I didn't know how it felt to have a mind like his, and being in a state of isolation from a case may well have been more painful than I could imagine.

"You shouldn't take it… think of the cost." I said, almost begging.

"I do. You are right, but until a solution is found, I am stuck."

I felt pity for his words. He revealed so little beyond his abilities. I thought on what Stamford had once said to me about not knowing him enough. Maybe no one did know him, and all of us only assumed to understand the shell he showed us. Cold, automatic and methodical Sherlock Holmes, with nothing underneath. Surely it couldn't be real?

"You know… I still can't get over the Drebber case," I spoke in an attempt to engage him. "What you did… I'd never been so amazed by anything before," Sherlock gave me no answer. Only a sly smile revealed what he was thinking. "I… started my blog. It's actually quite popular at the university, and even beyond."

He opened his eyes but did not move from the armchair.

"I know. I glanced over it." His voice was monotone.

"You did? What did you think?" I awaited his response anxiously.

"I didn't care for it."

My anticipation deflated. I should have expected such an opinion from him, but the disheartening feeling of having my work criticized still hit me.

"Well… others like it."

"That they may," He answered with his eyes now closed again. "I however, cannot congratulate you. Deduction is an exact science. Each case must be held with clarity, void of emotion. Your blog romanticizes that, as if I were some sort of superhero."

"I just described what happened. I told you, I wanted the world to know what you did."

His eyebrow raised as a single eye looked back at me.

"Some facts should be suppressed. Let them know of how I deduced the case from point A to B. What you have written… it's too fantastical."

"I've read your work Sherlock. Focusing on 'point A to B' is what you do, but not me." I was insistent that he was wrong.

"You have? Was it inspiring?" He asked with the same whimsy I had asked him.

"It's boring." I said abruptly.

"Oh, Watson… not everything has to be dramatized to appeal. The very nature of the text should be what sparks the soul. I can't get on with Hollywood because it forgets the subject and goes for what sells. Books suffer the same fate these days. I'd hoped I had taught you a thing or two in my last case."

I was annoyed with his view. He demanded no praise for his deeds and would have gone on merrily with the case of Jefferson Hope remaining concealed from the minds of the public, but the praise that was given to him, he wanted it to be just as he desired and no different. If he had his way, the entire blog would be focused on each step of his deductions and would mention anyone else sparingly. He hid it well, but his vanity occasionally seeped through the cracks. Maybe it was the concoction of poisons he had taken that morning, I wonder.

"Still…" he said suddenly. "…I must admit, I chuckled at your description of our dear friends Gregson and Lestrade. Often they are out of their depths. I say often; rather it seems to be their default state. Only a higher court can put them on the right path."

"And I suppose that's you?" I asked with a hint of mocking.

"What else can be said from the world's first consulting detective?" He answered with a grin.

There was no tone of self-flattery in his voice, only a matter of fact. It was hard to argue with him.

"You told me once that a person leaves their mark on the things they interact with on a daily basis. Here's a test."

I twisted my watch and removed it from my wrist. I held it out and he cocked his head questionably before return an impressed smile.

"A test would surely be better than a second dose of cocaine. Very well."

I couldn't get used to him saying such a thing so casually, but the task I set him to would at least take his mind off the plight of emptiness. I watched him as he set about taking in every tiny detail. The watch was flipped over and over again in his hand as every shred of data was collated in his brain. Eventually he went about opening up the inner workings. I dare say even the scratches on the metal work did no evade his attention.

Sherlock opened his mouth and leaned his head back, looking as if some great mystery had been answered.

"So… who was the previous owner?" I asked him, convinced that this was a problem impossible to solve.

"I confess there is little data to go on. It has been cleaned recently, robbing me of any obvious clues."

It sounded like an excuse to cover up his failure. At last I had stumbled him, I thought.

He didn't give in.

He returned the watch to me and leaned his head back when he had returned to the armchair. With his eyes closed, he gave no answer.

"You don't know, do you?" I announced triumphant.

"Why Watson… I had no idea you had a brother."

A stone cold silence drowned the room as my twitching eyes locked onto him. I shouldn't have expected anything else, but I was still in shock over how he had deduced it.

"You… no… you can't know that from just a watch!"

"On the contrary. On the back are the initials, H.W. The last initial being Watson of course. Its condition however does not suggest that its last owner was your father. He being an army doctor, and a clean cut and well-kept man from what you have told me and from the condition of his cane, would never let such an expensive watch suffer such disrespect. Scratches and marks of that kind come only from someone who was careless, untidy, or indeed, a drunk…"

I listened to him without a word to utter.

"…his watch is yours. No mention has been made of him, causing me to presume that his actions have left a mark on the family name. The last thing to deduce is that he is no longer with us. Given that the watch is in your possession, and that there has been no prior mention of his existence, He was your older brother, and you knew very little of him before he died."

I sprang from the chair and tried to gather the words to say. What answer is there to that? He said no more in that moment. He didn't look pleased with his deduction. He simply awaited any reply that came his way, whatever that may be.

There was none.

I slumped back in my chair and stared blankly at the screen. My life went further down the hole of unreality with every passing moment living at Baker Street. He was supernatural at times, as far as I was concerned. I still suspected him of dodgy dealings with the data he had. A secret search into my past perhaps? Maybe a secret call to one of my relatives, maybe? It was ludicrous thinking back, but only logical in the moment. The ordeal with Jefferson Hope had proven to me that he was capable beyond that, so I could only go along with his theories of deduction.

"If I have offended you, please no I meant-"

"You're right," I cut him off. "I didn't know him. I don't know how I feel about it."

My expression stayed blank. To think of my father brought grief. Thinking of my brother, there was only emptiness.

"It must be hard," Sherlock spoke. "For your mother. Losing him, and now…"

"I've left her. She only has me, and now she has to survive through it alone." I said, attempting to stay composed.

I heard Sherlock's finger tapping, a constant thump like the clicking of a cog in motion.

"You will do her proud. I will make sure of that."

His words echoed in my head. When I looked up to see him, he had trailed off into the kitchen. The rising whistle of the kettle replaced the new silence. At least he was taking something legal now, I hoped. Sure enough, he came back with a cup of tea. Already he was looking like his old self. If only his clothes did too.

My mind wandered to thoughts of the past, but not my own. I found it hard to imagine a younger Sherlock Holmes passing year by year through school. What on earth the other students must have thought of him I'd never know. I had no idea of his past friends, or family.

"Sherlock… do you have a brother?" I asked in my curiosity.

He almost choked on his drink.

Sherlock brought his hand to wipe his chin. He cleared his throat and made it obvious that no answer was to come from him as he strode quickly into the kitchen. He stood there for a while, his hand by the bred bin. He opened it loudly in a sudden flash of frustration.

"God blast it all! What else is there to live for? I need brain work, yet I am forced to waste away."

There was a light knock at the door, and almost immediately Sherlock was rushing past me. I'd guessed already that it was our landlady by the nature of the knock.

"There is a young lady for you at the door. Good heavens Sherlock, please put something decent on before meeting her! You look a right state!" Mrs Hudson scolded him.

He turned in a flash and clapped his hands together.

"Watson, could you be a lamb and welcome our guest while I make myself presentable? At last!"

He darted off into his room and closed the door behind him. Mrs Hudson shook her head and rolled her eyes before leaving. I followed on behind her and made my way to the front door. I was about to welcome our guest to Baker Street when I was paralyzed and unable to speak at the sight.

I knew her.