Chapter summary: John's first days living with Sherlock Holmes lead him to have deliberate, spontaneous and some unwanted and good memories.

Author's Note: Yay, today's my first day off uni. And what did I tell you? That I was going to update regularly? Here you have a new chapter. Apologies in advance for my mistakes. Thanks for reading and please, review!

Italics are for John's memories.

John was sitting on which was now his armchair, in front of the fireplace, holding a warm cup of tea. On his lap was his own laptop and again a new entry he was meant to write for his blog was nothing but a flat, white box where he was meant to write his thoughts. There were no words to say, or at least, John didn't know what to write about.

He had written about that strange, indeed, very strange meeting he had had with Sherlock, but he didn't write about 'How I found my brother'. John wrote about a strange man - a mad man.

John had moved in to 221 B Baker Street three days ago and since then Sherlock had not left his room. It was true then: there were days in which Sherlock wouldn't talk at all, wouldn't appear at all, wouldn't eat at all and would do nothing but play the violin at three in the morning. However, far from being annoyed by that last fact, John was happy to be awaken by Sherlock and his sweet melodies produced on that violin. It reminded him of the days in which they used to play together in Mummy's blue room. Mummy played the piano, John played the clarinet and Sherlock played the violin. Mycroft and father only listened to them from afar and sometimes they would be their audience: some rainy and therefore dull, boring Sunday afternoons Sherlock, John and their mummy would play and Mycroft and their father would sit there and admire how the three of them produced such lovely, sweet tones.

"Well done, John, Sherlock," said Mr Holmes while clapping his hands softly. "You're brilliant!"

Their father embraced both children and each boy stood there under the warm touch of his father's arms.

What could he write about? Then, John remembered: pink clothes, pink shoes, pink case, pink phone - 'A Study in Pink'...'And after all that? Well, me and my flatmate went for a Chinese. Like I say, he really does know some great restaurants.' When John finished tipping, he looked up at the mantelpiece and his blue eyes focused on the human skull.

That was that human skull Sherlock had asked for for many years until their parents got him one.

"What do you want for Christmas?"

Sherlock looked at John and the blue eyed boy just shrugged. "Nothing, really."

"Don't be dull. You should tell mummy you want a 'Cluedo' game."

Mrs Holmes smiled. "That's all?"

John nodded. "I don't really want anything. I've got all I need."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I want a skull. A human skull," he said, firmly. "A real human skull."

"No. I'm not getting you a human skull. Let alone a real one."

"But -"

"You have been a very naughty boy this year, Sherlock: you cut my roses, set fire to the sheets of your bed and ruined Mycroft's clothes. And let's not mention the fact you put laxative on his birthday cake."

Sherlock folded his arms over his chest and pouted. He looked away to make the little tears, threatening to go out, to vanish from his eyes. "It was for an experiment..." whispered he.

John smiled at their mummy. But Mrs Holmes knew she had to make those kind of things stop. And this time John was not going to fix it with an 'apology smile'.

"He didn't meant it, mummy..."

"No, John. You're not going to save him this time. He needs to learn his actions have consequences. And this year there will not be a human skull under the tree."

Sherlock turned furious. "Stop talking as if I'm not here!"

"I was really considering your gift, Sherlock," said Mrs Holmes, firmly. "But you must learn from your mistakes."

"Mummy, please..."

"No."

John smiled bitterly. Mummy had made Sherlock wait for almost two more years until she got him a real human skull for Christmas. Mummy had always been a very determined woman. When she said 'no', it was a 'no'. And she meant it. Sherlock had to learn his lesson and stopped doing things that did upset their mother only to do more experiments.

"Talking to the skull?"

John turned suddenly and looked at his brother - his flatmate now - sitting across him on his own black armchair.

"Where... where did you get it? I was a med student myself and it was hard to get one."

Sherlock eyed John for a few seconds and the doctor feared Sherlock could have deduced he was faking. That he was lying.

"It was a present from my mother."

"Your mother gave it to you?"

"Yes. Took me long years until I could convince her to get me one," explained Sherlock. "The woman wouldn't understand."

John didn't know if he should continue the conversation. He closed his laptop and finished drinking his tea. "Mother always want the best for their children."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm thirsty."

"I'll put the kettle on, shall I?"

"No milk, two sugars."

They drank tea in silence. John continued looking for job offers on the internet and Sherlock lay flat on his back on the large sofa staring at the ceiling and pressing a single nicotine patch to his forearm. The silence was comfortable and it made John feel secure. He had to act - John had to pretend he was John Watson, that he had always been John Watson, a common, boring man who happened to be a doctor and a wounded soldier.

"She's dead."

"Hmm?"

Sherlock's gaze was still on the ceiling above. "My mother. She died years ago."

John knew their mother was dead. He had been there - they had been there when she last inhaled and exhaled her last breath.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," snapped Sherlock. "A bad flu turned to a pneumonia and the stupid woman insisted on doing the gardening herself. In winter."

John closed his eyes and sighed inwardly, taking advantage Sherlock was not looking at him.

It hurt.

Their mother wasn't a stupid woman. She had never been. Mummy was brilliant.

Maybe her only mistake - her only sin was loving her roses far too much.

"Maybe -"

"Oh, I can even predict what you are going to say," said Sherlock, exasperatedly. "'Maybe she liked gardening'. She knew she was ill and she exposed herself to the cold weather. It only made it worst. It was a stupid, senseless thing to do."

John didn't say anything.

Sherlock sat on the sofa, facing his new flatmate. "I hate it."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Sherlock... are you eating healthy food? Are you -"

Sherlock nodded, rolling his eyes. "Yes. Should you have a doubt, ask John."

"Yes, mummy. He's eating well," confirmed John while checking his mummy's temperature.

Their mother coughed. "But you're far too slim, son. And you John," said she, turning to John who was sitting next to her and listening to her lungs with his stethoscope. "You've put on some weight."

Sherlock chuckled. "That's because his stupid girlfriends cooks rubbish."

"We broke up."

"Did you?" asked Sherlock with a frown.

John nodded bitterly.

"She was boring - wait. You didn't leave her. She left you."

"Yes, Sherlock, thanks for pointing that out."

Mummy patted Sherlock's hand. "Hush, Sherlock. Leave John alone."

"I don't understand why you were putting on weight if you two shagged like rabbits -"

"SHERLOCK!"

"Interesting."

John raised his gaze. "What?"

"You."

"Me?"

Sherlock continued reading the newspapers. Mrs Hudson poured more coffee into Sherlock's mug and then placed some eggs and bread on the table. Sherlock didn't say anything and Mrs Hudson placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're welcome, you young man."

John noticed Sherlock was very rude. Extremely. He had always been after all, it was no surprise for John, but at least years ago Sherlock would thanks the maids and most of the personnel working at their house. He was not the best person to deal with but at least he was far more polite before.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

The landlady smiled fondly to John. "It's okay, John. But just this one, I'm not your housekeeper!"

When Mrs Hudson left their flat, Sherlock lowered his newspaper. "You've been living with me for a week and you're still here."

John frowned. "And?"

"Must you do that?"

"What?"

"You don't use your brain," answered Sherlock. "It was quite obvious what I was meant to say."

"Not obvious to me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John noticed it was something he did quite a lot. "Despite my manners, my experiments, my lack of communication and your obvious boredom you're still here."

John didn't know what to say. He was still there, despite anything, because of Sherlock.

Because being 'flatmates' was the only way they could be together - the only way John could be next to his brother.

"You're right. You're rude to Mrs Hudson, you call me 'idiot' every time you get the chance to, your experiments are all over the kitchen and you don't talk to days on end," John paused to sip more coffee. "But you're wrong."

"Am I wrong?" asked Sherlock, sarcastically faking a curious tone.

"I'm not bored."

This made Sherlock want to smile.

But he didn't.

"You're not bored?"

"Why would I be bored?"

Sherlock twisted his lips. "The previous ones left after a day or two."

"So I'm the first one to last at least more than two days?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Well, you'll have to put up with me then because I'm planning to stay."

Sherlock chuckled. "You will leave."

"I won't."

"Let's see how long you last living with a highly functioning sociopath, shall we?"

"John? Do you think I'm mentally ill?"

John looked up at his brother. Both eight year old boys were inside, reading books and doing their homework when Sherlock asked the question.

"Are you in pain?"

"No, don't be silly."

"Then how come you say you're ill?" asked John worriedly.

Sherlock looked if anyone was close. Mycroft was at school, their father was at the office and their mummy was on the kitchen giving instructions to the maids for dinner.

"I heard mummy and father talking last night," whispered Sherlock. "They think I'm mentally ill."

"And what does it mean?"

Sherlock shrugged. "They think I'm crazy."

"Why they think that? You don't look crazy to me."

"Father said I'm weird and mummy said I'm just different."

John bit his lip and then smiled. "You're not crazy."

"You think?"

"Of course," John smiled widely to his brother. "You're just very clever."

Next chapter: John learns things about his and Sherlock's childhood - things that he never thought could have happened. And Sherlock realises John Watson is different from anyone else. He's definitely different.