All the wind was knocked from john as he stared, open mouthed, at what was obviously Sherlock's youngest brother. He had skin like snow and eyes like ice; his hair was thick and black, and dangled, long and wavy, over his face. He scowled at Mycroft, but other than that made no indication he had seen any of them. The boy stalked right past them and over to the grand bookshelf, running a finger over the worn volumes.
The former rolled his eyes, "That is Atticus. Our youngest brother."
"Son," said the bald man in the arm chair, "Introduce yourself to this man your mother invited over."
"Why should i? Mycroft seems to have it under control, as he usually does. Besides, what's the point? I already know all I need to know about him." and, as if to prove himself, he stepped in front of John, scanned him for a moment, and said, "You're a doctor, you've lived in London for about a year and a half now, you enjoy sweaters and tea and you've given up on yourself; perhaps because you're distressed over the death of your friend but more likely because you were deeply in love with him, which is your reason in being here, am I correct, Doctor Watson?"
John, who hadn't heard a word of what younger Sherlock had said, suddenly felt light headed and entirely overwhelmed. He blinked stupidly, "I'm sorry?"
He laughed, a throaty noise, and extended his hand. Watson gripped it solidly and tried to smile.
"You can call me John." Atticus' brash and assumptive manner was familiar and comforting to him, and, as strange as it was, he appreciated it greatly.
"Come here, I want to show you something, John."
He led John up the long winding stairs and through a surprisingly long corridor. It was brightly lit, and adorned with decorative paintings that felt strangely out of place, even in a house like this. When they reached the end of the main hall, Atticus took a sharp turn to the left, and led him to a narrow and surprisingly longer passage than the one before it. This one was dark and windowless, and more than a little foreboding. John tried masking his uneasiness, "Where are you taking me?"
"Sherlock's room. No one ever came down here, which is why he liked it. It's just down here." They reached a dead end marked with it door. On it hung a white piece of printer paper that read, 'DO NOT DISTURB.'
John smiled, a real, genuine smile, for the first time in ages, "This is definitely Sherlock."
"You can have a look inside. If you want."
This time John didn't pause to think, he reached for the door and pulled it open.