Authors Note: HEYO! XD Please tell me what you think; I would love to know XD I own nothing and no one, apart from the following: Fredrik Jones, Theodore Wells.

JUST SO YOU KNOW: This is my FIRST attempt at Sherlock and Johnlock, so please be kind!

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ALSO: I made up middle names and first names for certain characters, just so I had something to work with ^_^

Chapter 3

John

I didn't know quite what to make of Sherlock. He was amazing, that was for sure... I didn't know how he guessed everything, I didn't know how he couldn't have friends – everyone had friends...

I didn't know what to think about him.

Mum and Dad seemed to like him... Harry was a bit reserved, considering what Sherlock had said to her. Mrs Hudson obviously was very fond of him, but considering she explained that she knew him when he was very young – and, apparently very different to what he was like now – that was to be expected.

I spent most of the night trying to figure Sherlock out. I didn't know why it was bothering me so much, or what for that matter, but I ended up being awake for most of the night... That's why, when I did wake up, I ended up going into Harry's room – after knocking; I don't have a death wish.

Harry and I had been getting along a lot better now she had been getting help for her alcohol problem. She had turned back to the sister I loved. This meant I could talk to her a lot more, about everything. I couldn't do that when she was slowly killing herself, but now she was back.

Anyway – I was sitting at the end of Harry's bed, both of us still in our pyjamas, discussing Sherlock. We talked about the obvious rift between him and his parents. We talked about the fact that he was definitely different, just like we heard people say, but not in a bad way, like others insisted – he was his own brand of unique. We talked about a lot of things to do with Sherlock.

"How are you feeling after what he said yesterday?" I asked, hesitantly, knowing the alcohol issue was still a touchy subject, keeping my eyes on her duvet.

"I'm not sure." Harry sighed. "But I can't be mad at him, I mean, I did ask him to 'deduce' me. Should have seen it coming, you know?"

"I'm surprised he knew."

"Well, his brother – Mycroft – is the same. The guy's in my English class. Seems to have a lot more social skills than Sherlock, but they both seem to know things they shouldn't. It's scary awesome."

I just nodded, relaxing a little – at least she didn't want to kill him. I mean, that would just make things bloody awkward!

"How do you feel about dating him?" Harry asked, bluntly, flopping onto her back.

"I'm not." I replied.

"What? Yes you are. Or don't you remember the whole medieval-arranged-marriage thing?"

Rolling my eyes, I lay down next to my sister, the pair of us staring up at the glow in the dark stars she had had on her ceiling since she was three. She had arranged them to spell out her and Clara's names – literally writing their names in the stars... It was all very romantic and sickly, but it made my sister happy.

"We talked – we're just friends." I told her.

"Wonder how long that'll last." Harry mussed.

"Shut up, Harry."

Harry and I trudged downstairs, neither of us being able to stay in our rooms longer than necessary, even when we were talking. It was easier to just go downstairs and just watch some telly – something that required no effort. Of course, when we got to the living room, neither of us expected to find Sherlock lying on the floor, his hands steepled in front of his face, staring at the ceiling. If I couldn't see the faint rise and fall of his chest – or the fact his eyes were open – I would have thought that he had passed out and wasn't breathing.

As Harry shrugged and went off to the kitchen to make some tea, I hobbled, with my cane, over to the prone, seemingly-lifeless sixteen year old lying on the living room floor. Carefully, I lowered myself into one of the armchairs – the one nearest Sherlock – leaning my cane against the side of it. I watched him for a moment, noting the small crease between his eyes and the rapid side-to-side movements of his eyes as he lay completely still. I didn't know a person could lie as still as he was now. It was strange...yet fascinating, a lot like Sherlock himself.

Of course, it was quite disconcerting. That was why I decided to try and bring him back to the present. All I did was barely touch he shoulder and Sherlock launched himself upwards into a sitting position. He seemed alarmed at first but, as soon as he spotted me, his whole demeanour changed, his irritation palpable.

"Was I not clear in my explanation yesterday?" he seethed. "I specifically said to not disturb me when in my Mind Palace. What part of that did you fail to understand?"

It was at this point that Harry poked her head around the kitchen door, keeping a hold of the door frame – the sound of the kettle boiling drifting through.

"You should know to never wake a sleeping dragon, Johnny." Harry grinned, winking slightly. "How do you like your tea, Sherlock?"

"Never you mind, Harry, dear." Mrs Hudson's voice drifted in from the kitchen. "You go sit down, love; I'll bring it in when it's done."

Even though you didn't see her, you could tell that Mrs Hudson shuffled Harry out of the kitchen – a common occurrence.

As my sister walked towards the couch near me, I heard Sherlock growl before pushing himself up from the floor, walking over to one of the other armchairs, lifting something up from beside it.

I don't know how I missed the violin that had been resting against the side of the armchair, but I didn't pay it much thought as Sherlock fitted the instrument under his chin, raising the bow in the opposite hand an dragging it over the strings, the fingers of his other hand creating the shape of chords I couldn't put a name to.

I did, however, know that Sherlock was playing Sivan's transcription of the Liszt B minor sonata for solo violin – mine and Harry's Gran, our dad's mum, liked classical music...I could name a few pieces.

Harry always hated the classical side of music, leaning more towards the upbeat – something with a beat that she could dance to. Me? Well, as long as I liked the sound of it, I didn't care what genre. This particular piece just happened to be one of the ones that I liked. Of course, Harry couldn't deny that a live performance was far better than some crappy old record.

Sherlock

Anger, irritation, frustration, cold, uncaring... It was my default setting.

Bad things happened if people got close to me – they always left, they always changed. Pushing people away was the only option. I hadn't wanted to snap at John, honestly, I hadn't. He had been nothing but nice to me so far – he wanted to be my friend – and I was being... Well, there were many things I was being at that moment, too many to name.

Playing my violin helped me think. Sometimes, if I was lucky, it helped me clear my head for a moment, give me that small amount of silence that came to everyone else so easily. People took the silence for granted. People took their normalness for granted. Sometimes, it would just be so much easier if I were...normal and not some freak.

I hadn't been able to sleep the night before and there was nothing I could do with my experiments to keep me busy. I suppose that I should have stayed in the room, but it was too confining – so I had gone to the living room with my violin. I had turned on a small lamp, casting a warm glow around the room so I could see more than what the moon allowed me to, carefully placing my violin next to the armchair that was never used – obvious by the lack of an imprint. It was fairly easy to determine who sat where based on the size of the imprint left on the seat – John's being the easiest, considering the amount of shifting he did because of how uncomfortable his psychosomatic limp made it for him to sit. Sitting had proven fairly uncomfortable to get me in the right place for my Mind Palace and lying down had always helped – the sofa was out of the question, considering it was used from the moment people entered the living space, so the floor it was! I had been sorting around the 'rooms' in my Mind Palace, opening four new doors with the names of the four Watsons on them. I was going to be living with them for quite some time, so it seemed necessary that they all had their own 'rooms' in my Minds Palace.

As I played, I – mentally – walked into John's 'room', adding a few more things to the slow growing space. I had a feeling that I would learn a lot about John Watson over the course of my staying at the house.

"That sounds lovely, Sherlock." Mrs Hudson gushed as she came in with the tea. "I've missed your playing, dear."

"Anytime you would like a small performance, I'd be happy to play for you, Mrs Hudson." I smiled, softly, ending the piece as I did, instead moving on to the composition I had started on the day before. "You should know that by now."

"I'll keep that in mind – now, sit down and have your tea, Sherlock."

Huffing a sort of laugh, I placed my violin down carefully and taking the cup she held out, slowly sipping the hot liquid.

Thank God for Mrs Hudson.

That afternoon, I took a walk around the grounds. I always enjoyed the peacefulness of walking outside, especially when there was barely anybody around – Mr and Mrs Watson were occupied with work, Mrs Hudson was on the phone to a friend of hers, Harriet was talking to her girlfriend and John was watching some mindless programme or another.

It was surprisingly warm and sunny for England that Friday, the sky clear of any clouds – a lovely day to be outside. That's something people wouldn't expect from me – liking being outside. But I always had, ever since I was young. I could spend hours outside at a time, no matter the weather and, no matter how hot or sunny it was, I just wouldn't tan or burn. I stayed as pale as a china doll – well, that's how Mrs Hudson described my complexion.

It was as I neared the back of the house that I found a, mostly, empty spot. Lying down, I closed my eyes, taking in the sounds and the smells around me. It was peaceful, nice. And I didn't have to worry about 'Mummy and Daddy' finding me – didn't have to worry about them getting angry.

Now that was something I liked.

Mother and Father both had a horrible temper. Mycroft never faced it as much as me; he didn't have it so bad. But then, he was far better at playing normal. Far better at handling social situations where you had to interact with people.

I wasn't so lucky.

Some people classed me as anti-social. They would be wrong. I was a socially awkward teenager who was battling both anxiety and slight depression – mild enough not to be put on medication, but still there nonetheless – whilst facing, what felt like, a whole world that was against him. Now, try dealing with that whilst being in an unloving and abusive home, where your parents have openly admitted that you were in fact: a mistake, unwanted, a disappointment, a freak – as well as many others. Plus the fact that they wish they had the abortion after all instead of hoping for a 'normal' child.

Many would think it spectacularly 'dick-ish' of me to hate having a 'perfect' life, but that was because they didn't know. They just saw the money and the things and immediately connected that to happier and better. But, truth to the matter was, I would have rather been poor with parents that wanted and loved me, than be rich with parents that wished I was dead.

Mycroft and I were the only ones that knew of our parents attitudes towards us. No one besides us knew how they could get. We hadn't had the courage to tell anyone, in fear of what would happen if our parents ever found out. Of course, Mycroft never had to worry about that once he turned eleven. The Mycroft I knew and loved vanished, leaving behind the brat he was today – someone just like Mother and Father, only without the physical harm to others.

I was alone.

Sighing, I opened my eyes to star up at the clear sky, looking at it in all its perfection. Sometimes I wished that some of those programmes on TV were true – that maybe there was a mad man who travelled through time and space in a box called a TARDIS... At least then I would be able to get away.

Get away from the misery.

Get away from the loneliness.

Get away from the people that hated me.

Get away and be with the other 'freaks'.

Though I doubted that there were any freaks like me out there. Mycroft was the only one I could consider being anywhere close to that – not that anyone considered him a freak. Oh no, Mycroft was the perfect child, the one that could do absolutely no wrong. The one who had the troubled brother and tried to do everything within his power to keep him in the right direction.

Sometimes I wished that people would just observe!

Sometimes I wished...

"What's the point in wishing?" I sighed to myself.

It never worked before, so why would it work now?

Ok, so that took a slightly sour turn :S Whoops...

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