My brother has always been a lonely man, first by nature, then by choice. As a child, he was unpopular for his observations. Other children thought him strange, not understanding his deductive reasoning. He was very lonely, even more so when I left home at seventeen. He felt I had abandoned him, and never quite forgave me.
As an adult, he was still unpopular for his observations. As much as I argued with him, he would never see the wisdom of keeping some things to himself. Even the many injuries he gained were no deterrent.
I felt nothing but pity when I heard Sherlock had found a flatmate. Any man that tried to live with Sherlock would undoubtedly be driven out before the week had passed. It was, therefore, very much to my surprise that Sherlock's flatmate, a Dr Watson, had actually lasted an entire week. My surprise increased with every subsequent day. I even dared to hope that my brother had found himself a friend.
Impossible as it may have seemed, it appeared to be true. The man still lived with Sherlock an entire year later. Even after his wedding, Dr Watson continued to stay in touch with my brother. It seemed my brother had found the one man in London who would put up with him and his brilliance.
