Disclaimer - I don't own any of this, I'm just playing with it all.

Summary - This chapter will be a series of shorts that encompass the time in between the opening scene and the beginning scene of the movie.

His closet was impeccable, if he did say so himself. For being limited to scratchy, singular material and a very specific style, he had a vast wardrobe. Granted, about half of it belonged to Watson. He deliberately picked a shirt that he'd taken from John the week before to wear out to dinner with the man.

Just as he was discarding his day clothes, none other than Mrs. Hudson came in the room carrying a rag and various cleaning supplies.

"Nanny!" He exclaimed. "Get out, everything is in it's proper place. Your services will not be needed here today."

Appalled that she had walked in on one of her tenants only half-dressed, she only partly heard what the man had said as she stormed back out of the room. One thing she refused to allow her mind to register was that Sherlock had kept undressing as if nothing was amiss.

...

"What are you doing?" John asked, somewhat exasperated. He had begun to pack more of his belongings, when Holmes had grabbed his head and stared intently at him. He'd been at it for a full thirty seconds before John came to his senses. "You can't postpone this any longer, Sherlock," He paused and the man moved away abruptly, mumbling to himself. "I AM moving out."

He was studying a pair of spectacles now, his continuous mumble becoming more excited. John, took a deep breath, "I want you to know, Sherlock. I do still love you. You have become my best friend, even though you're ... so ... different," He smirked.

Sherlock had by this time gathered so many different chemicals and minerals around him, he'd lost sight of the spectacles. However, he picked them up again as John called his name. "Have you been listening to a word I've said?" Holmes then proceeded to remove the lenses from the wire frame. Glancing up he did a double-take, as if just noticing John's presence.

"Ah, Watson!" He went back to working, "Did you just say something?" John just sighed again and went back to packing his things. As he walked away, Sherlock looked up at his retreating form, an illegible look on his face. After a moment, he looked back to his work and began to boil the lenses in a mixture.

...

John had been gone for hours now and Sherlock couldn't sleep. Just as they had gotten home, a messenger had called for Watson to assist with a birth. Apparently there were complications and the midwife didn't know what else to do. Medicine these days felt like the Dark Ages, if it weren't for John these people would die out within a generation. He'd just given up with his violin when the door opened, slowly.

John walked into the room and sat in his chair, no feeling in his eyes and no emotion in his stance. "John," Sherlock spoke, softly.

Watson flinched as if he'd been struck. Staring at Holmes now, like he'd seen a ghost. "I've seen many good men and women die. Too many."

"Yes."

"But it doesn't actually bother me anymore," He mused out loud, his voice regaining his emotion.

"Indeed."

"But-" His voice cracked and he made eye contact, a tear fell down his cheek. "This was a baby. She'd been alive not minutes, Holmes. And there was nothing I could do to save her." The tears fell freely now and all he could do was stare at Sherlock, begging him with his eyes. "Why does that small life lost hurt so much?"

Holmes got up from his chair, pulled the man to his feet and embraced him tightly, "Because you're human." Was the simple answer. "And that is such a wonderful, marvelous, brilliant thing to be." They stayed like that until John was once again collected. Being a doctor he saw death every day, and brushed it off easily-he had to. But the fact that he was still effected every now and then, reminded him of how precious life and love and friendship and just LIVING was. And he was Human. And that was precious too.

...

"Damn!" The curse was loud enough to wake Watson up. But it was the repeated, if muffled, curses that caused him to stumble down the stairs to where Holmes was attempting to put out a fire with one hand. The other was wrapped crudely in a dish towel and cradled close to his body.

"What have you done now?" He rushed to help him put the fire out, by dumping the contents of the teapot onto the desk. He then took the towel from Holmes to attempt to clean up that mess when he realized that it was covered in blood. "Damn indeed," he sighed and went to grab Holmes's hand but it was snatched away. "I need to see what you've done to yourself."

"It's nothing," He said abruptly and walked swiftly to the kitchen. He grabbed another towel and proceeded to wrap his hand once again. "I'll be right as rain in no time, you'll see." He wavered a little bit, and grabbed on to the table top to help him remain standing. "Perhaps I should sit down for a bit."

Watson reached him before he fell over and guided him to his favorite chair. Unwrapping his hand again, he wiped the remaining blood off and examined the large cut across the palm. He had sliced the base part of his thumb up, as if he had grabbed the wrong end of a knife. "You need stitches. Stay here." Pointing at the chair to further impress his point, he wrapped the man's hand in the towel again and went to grab his kit.

"I'm not giving you anything for the pain," He said upon returning. "Because you've probably got enough of that in your system right now."

"It helps me think," was the sluggish reply.

"You know what would help more?" He responded sharply. "Sleep! You're going to kill yourself if you carry on like this."

"I don't need sleep."

"Maybe not AS MUCH sleep, granted," He conceded. "But you do need SOME sleep." He began stitching the skin together with his swift and practiced hand. "I don't care who or what you say you are, you need sleep."

He finished the stitches and looked up to reprimand the man again to find that he had indeed fallen asleep. With an exasperated sigh, he cleaned up his kit, finished cleaning up the remains of the fire and the teapot, draped a blanked over his friend and returned to bed. He had plans to scold him in the morning but for now, John would let him sleep.

...

Holmes searched through Watson's medicine box. Most of the things in it he couldn't use but one in particular induced a rather euphoric affect, akin to what it would be if he could get drunk. He had just solved a major case in which a young woman was murdered quite gruesomely. The killer had been her own sister. The truth was, he probably wouldn't have caught her if Watson hadn't been there. The man had anticipated that she would jump from the roof rather than be arrested and had grabbed her just in time. Sherlock had realized too late.

He didn't want John to leave, thus he raided the man's medicine box.

...

"What is this?" John held up what appeared to be a dress. He had been raiding Sherlock's closet in order to recover as much of his stolen clothing that he could while the man was out. As if he'd known that John would attempt such a thing, he arrived home before the man could really begin his investigation.

"I do believe, it's a dress," Sherlock answered sarcastically. "And it's mine." He snatched the article away and hung it in it's proper place, closing the wardrobe before Watson could do anything further.

"I can see that," John replied. "What I don't understand is why it's in your wardrobe. Have you been stealing from Mrs. Hudson's closets now, as well?"

"Hardly," He scoffed. "Why would I wear clothes that smell so ..." He cringed, "flowery? Not much of an outfit if you can't stand the smell. Your clothing, now that's a different story." He smirked at the man and John raised the single piece of clothing that he'd been able to rescue to his face, sniffing it. Did Sherlock just say that he liked to smell like him?

"Besides," He continued. "Why should I limit my wardrobe to that of just one sex? Really, Watson." He shook his head as if John were a fool, going on about all the styles of dress in 19th century London. John simply ignored him.

...

"Mr. Holmes, I am your landlady, not your nanny."

"No?" He answered sarcastically. "Why, I was under the impression that you were. Always attempting to clean things, insisting I go to bed at 'decent' hours, and fixing tea that can only be taken as poison." He paused significantly. "Wouldn't you agree, Nanny?"

A/N - I'm not particularly happy with this chapter. Partly because I can't figure out if I want John to know that Holmes is an alien and if so how to write it.