(A/N: This is written in John's point of view. Thought a little change would be nice. I wanted to try my hand at it!)

When the final bell rang, John took off running for the commons. He felt awfully nervous, to say the least. The Sherlock Holmes, coming to visit. He ought to give his mum a warning. Mum, this guy's a little crazy, but don't worry.

Upon reaching the commons, John saw through the masses a very tall, very lanky boy leaning casually up against a wall. Ah, of course. Sherlock had somehow managed to make it there before him.

"Was the run really necessary, John?" Sherlock drawled. He already had a deep voice, but John suspected it would eventually be even deeper.

"Come along, git," John muttered, leading the way. The flat was within moderate walking distance.

Sherlock made John nervous. It wasn't just his imposing figure–tall, lanky, dark hair, and, by God, those eyes-but everything about him was intimidating. He had this habit of scoping things out with those crystalline eyes, and he could tell you what you're thinking, where you're from, and what you plan on doing. Of course, his behaviour was unpredictable. So John cleared his throat.

"Sherlock, listen to me."

Sherlock was silent. His strides were long and John had a hard time keeping up.

"Are you listening?"

Sherlock glanced at him. "Go on."

"Okay, mate, you're going to have to be, erm, how shall I put this…not a dick. Mum's kind of sensitive, and…we don't need you wrecking things and all…"

Sherlock chuckled. "Me? Wreck things? Surely there isn't that much damning evidence in your home…" He trailed off into a murmur.

John's throat tightened. Actually… He thought about sending Sherlock home but he realized they were just a matter of yards away. John heaved a sigh. "Come on, then. Hurry along."

(..)

Mrs. Watson was seated at the desk, working on something. Over the last few months, she had been swamped with letters, bills, and contracts. She spent most nights cramped at the desk, pen going wildly, through the wee hours of morning.

John kissed his mother on the cheek. "Hullo, Mum," he murmured. "I've brought a guest."

Violet Watson turned to face her son and his friend. Her greying blonde hair was pulled back into a tight bun. The lines etched on her face were documentation of both past worries and past joys. She was admittedly not as pretty as Mrs. Holmes was, but she was John's own mum and therefore the loveliest woman in the world, as far as he was concerned.

Before Mrs. Watson could take Sherlock in, Sherlock had stuck his hand out. "Sherlock Renatus Holmes, ma'am."

Mrs. Holmes chuckled amiably. "Violet Watson, my dear boy." She shook his hand.

Renatus? Well, then.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Watson. You have a lovely home." Oh, no. It was starting. John could see Sherlock taking in his surroundings, probably processing them to death like he always did. John could only imagine the horrors Sherlock had deduced from the old trinkets on display.

Mrs. Watson looked taken aback. "Well, thank you, Mr. Holmes."

John restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "Here, Sherlock, come take a seat." He led Sherlock into the kitchen where there was a slightly cluttered table. "I'll be right back." He gave Sherlock a look of warning, akin to the stink-eye.

Sherlock's lips curled into a grin. "Do hurry."

John left the smug bastard to his deductions and rejoined his mother. "Hey, Mum, just a warning," John muttered to her. "Sherlock has this…tendency to be very honest. He doesn't really have a filter. I apologise for him in advance." He then returned to the kitchen, preparing himself for impact. "Alright, prick, where are you gonna start?"

"Your father's dead," Sherlock answered simply.

A shiver ran up John's spine. "Indeed. May I ask how you knew?"

"The decoration is rather neutral. A divorced woman would not decorate like that. I assume that he did not die very long ago. A year at most, perhaps. Also, I took a glance at the papers on the desk."

"Sherlock! You're not supposed to look at personal papers like that!" John quickly flew down into a chair and hid his face in his hands.

"He was a military man."

John nodded, too afraid to look up into that smug face. "A great, honourable man. Wonderful father." He choked back tears.

"Car accident."

"Drunk driver," John clarified. He wouldn't tell the story just yet. It could wait.

"I'm…very sorry."

Hold on…did Sherlock just apologise? Sherlock Renatus Holmes?

"I could only imagine what it would feel like to lose a parent," he continued. "My father works a lot, but that doesn't mean I feel any different about him. Many of us stand in our fathers' shadows in awe, only wishing we could be the men they are." He paused. "If that made any sense."

John stopped listening as Sherlock talked about his own father. It had only been about six months. He felt as if the wound in his heart would never heal. He was still in disbelief. His father couldn't be dead. Roger fucking Watson was not supposed to die. He was supposed to live forever, right? The greatest man the world had ever seen. It was all so unfair. Why did he have to leave?...

"John?" His mother's voice. "John, can you help with dinner?" Sherlock was looking at him curiously.

John sighed. "Yes, Mum." He got up and removed his school jacket, which he then threw carelessly over the back of his chair. Lately he did dinner on his own as his mum dealt with the papers and things.

"You cook?" Sherlock asked, seemingly surprised.

John simply grunted, although secretly pleased that he had surprised the otherwise un-surprise-able Sherlock. He absent-mindedly unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up, and proceeded to wash his hands.

"John…" Sherlock said, sounded frustrated. "Your arms…"

John froze. Oh shit. Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no oh no. He quickly pulled his sleeves down.

"John, why? Why would you do that to yourself?" It sounded like he was asking himself.

John stared him down with what was hopefully a stony glare. "We are not discussing this."

(A/N: Worst chapter yet. Oh goodness.)