I was up early the next day. I'd like to say that it was because I was punctual, but the truth was I had barely slept that night. The mattress in my hotel room was soft enough, and no outside noises prevented my rest. It was the noises in my head that were the matter. Thoughts encircled my concentration, thoughts of where my life was heading, and thoughts of my peculiar roommate. I had reached out for my father's cane, only to have my memory hit me like a truck. I had thought it lost for just a moment before it did so. Old habits were no good anymore.

The moving van had already arrived before me. The landlady had been nice enough to answer. I watched as my possessions were carried up the stairs.

"Oh, you must be John. Nice to meet you at last." Her handshake was warm and welcoming.

"I'm sorry about the movers, I should have told you-"

"Don't worry my dear, it's no trouble. Honestly, you should see the things your new roommate gets up to!"

Another person clearly knew of his antics. I had been anxious about meeting Mrs Hudson. My mother had arranged the place for me so this was our first meeting. She seemed nice enough so that worry was alleviated, though her words served to increase the worry inside me about Sherlock.

I spent the morning moving box after box around, finding my belongings and bringing them to their new home. I was surprised to see Sherlock bringing a few boxes in himself. I don't know whether he had done so of his own volition or if Mrs Hudson had had a word with him. Either way I was grateful for it.

I had left the most difficult item till last. I placed it by my bed on the side cabinet. It was the last photograph of the two of us. His cane could be seen in his grip. I hadn't noticed it until that point, but my own hand was resting against it, as if drawn to its handle, or maybe the cane was drawn to me. I took the real thing in my hands. It lifted my heart to see it again, even after one day. I knew how daft it was in my mind, but my heart argued.

It was still a couple of days until my lectures began. It gave me some time to settle in somewhat, and get a grip on who Sherlock Holmes was. He didn't mention his surname until I saw it in intricate writing above his work. Maybe it was inappropriate to go rifling through his things, even if it was only papers on his desk, but the mystery of Sherlock Holmes was getting to me. The gravity of what he was doing at University grew heavier when I looked through each one, all of them on different subjects. It was ludicrous for one student to work like this, but Stamford had described him as a genius.

I took a walk, just round the block to help familiarize my surroundings. At least I wouldn't be hopelessly lost on the first day. Sherlock often took walks himself but he seemed to make a habit of doing so at different times to myself. It felt antisocial, not that I had much to say myself. I didn't watch him as he paced the sitting room during those first few days in case he found it rude, as if it was a crime I best avoid. I hadn't brought up the subject of his education since he interrupted me. I thought it best not to bring the subject up and instead leave him to tell me of his own will.

I had little to focus on, say for my studies now that the semester had begun. All I had was my roommate and his curious antics to consume my attention in my spare time. You can imagine how dumbstruck I was to find Sherlock Holmes in my medical ethics lecture. The lecturer gave no reaction to his presence besides a quick roll of the eyes when he spotted him. It seemed Sherlock was infamous already. Why they allowed him to welcome himself into lectures was anyone's guess. Maybe genius minds were given greater tolerance. I dared not ask anyone.

One night, back at Baker Street, there was a guest at the door. Sherlock had been sitting with one leg over the other, his hands against his lips as if he were praying. He shot up the instant the doorbell rang and bolted down the stairs. There hadn't been a call as far as I could tell but his actions left me thinking that he was expecting company. I peeped down the stairs as well as I could, but I couldn't make out who our unexpected guest was past my roommate.

They didn't come in. Their conversation was brief and lacked any sort of emotion. I couldn't make out their hushed words but whatever it was, it wasn't a quiet chat between friends. When Sherlock returned I was already in the armchair, reading through a book I had grabbed from the shelf in a rush. I heard the door close, not wanting to make eye contact. Such acts seem weird now, but that was how it was back then between the two of us. When I did dare take a look over the pages at him, he had returned to his contemplation. There was a moment of silence before a crafty grin formed in the corner of his mouth.

"It is only natural to have an interest in a roommate's life, Watson."

"John," I corrected him, as I didn't like being referred to by my surname. "And what makes you say that?"

His eyes darted over me in a flurry of movements, as they would over anything that peaked his interest.

"Could you place my book back where you found it?"

I wasn't really reading it, so I did as he said. At least, I tried. I had taken it in a hurry to not look like I was prying. I had no memory as to where I had taken it. I made a guess.

"No. Nice try, but far off. Third row, fourth to the right."

He knew exactly where it was meant to be. I looked at him inquisitively.

"You know exactly where it goes from there? Do you even know which book it is?"

He didn't move a muscle, say for those needed to move his lips.

"No, but I know the third book to the right is slanted more than it was moments ago."

He was right. I hadn't notice a difference myself, but there it was.

"Sometimes we don't see things that are right in front of our eyes, because we are not looking for them. That Watson, is a lesson to learn in itself."

I was impressed, though I tried not to show it. I placed the book back carefully.

"John." I corrected him again. That was one lesson I was determined for him to learn.

I retrieved one of my medical books from my bag and started reading ahead, seeing as I had little else to do that evening. The silence filled the room like a welcome guest, one whom was familiar with this particular residence. The clock on the mantel piece ticked away as I read each line with a broken concentration. Sherlock's presence still had a grip on me. He was lying on the sofa now, his hands still pressing against each other, his face scrunched up. What was he thinking?

He jumped up and began to pace the room. It startled me and I placed my textbook on the floor beside me. He paid no heed to my reaction and walked back and forth, clearly upset with some train of thought. I couldn't let it go. This wasn't the first time he had done this and it was starting to bother me.

"Do you always pace with your hands behind your back? You look like a Rah." His manner of walking like an upper-class man was starting to seem obnoxious to me.

He didn't look impressed by my summary of him.

"Oh, listen to Watson here and his pejorative view on the affluent," Now I was convinced he was trying to blind-side me with archaic speech. "Why do you always feel the need to walk around with that cane? You look like Captain Mainwaring. Truly Watson, do the bags under your eyes not make you look old enough as it is?"

That stung. I didn't like anyone mentioning the cane in a bad light, but my sleep deprivation was certainly off limits. What gave him any right to mention what I was going through? I am not proud of it, looking back, but I didn't let it slide.

"It's my father's! I keep it close to remind myself of him." He had seen my cane and even made a point of mentioning what it was during our first meeting, but still he asked.

I think his question was more to make me think about the answer, upon recollection. That was his way. He would pose a question for others' benefit, as he would normally know the answer already.

He continued to pace, taking longer strides.

"Really John, if you're forgetting about your own father already then I would worry about those pills you've been taking. Oh, by the way, the recommended dosage is two a day, not four."

Now he was starting to piss me off. I shouldn't have let it get to me like I did.

"It's three, actually, and they're just to help me sleep. Have you been spying on me?"

It seems ironic now considering the quiet interest I had taken in him since arriving. I hadn't thought for a moment that he had been doing the same with me.

"Four Watson, apparently they aren't working."

I had been falling into a habit of taking more than I had been prescribed by my consultant. As a student attempting to enter the medical profession, it was hardly a good signal, but I had become desperate to get my head down and end reoccurring thoughts.

"Who was it at the door?" I wanted to change the subject from me as soon as possible.

It was still early days but every time I would phase him with a question, he didn't give that flinching moment of panic other people often would when asked something suddenly. Sherlock welcomed it like a challenge.

"Someone inquiring about something. Nothing for you to be concerned with." He turned away as he spoke, focusing his eyes to the road outside.

The enigma that was my new roommate was like a Pandora's Box. I wanted to open it, to see what was going on in that head of his, even if what lie within was not for mortal eyes.

"Tell me Sherlock, because I don't quite understand you. With your mind, why are you even at University? You seem to know everything already! You corrected the lecturer twice today!"

"Four times." He had corrected me before I had finished speaking.

"See? I know you're doing multiple courses, but you don't even study for them. How do you know so much?"

This question was not met with the excitement of a challenge. His gaze fell from the window to the desk in front of him. He looked, from my point of view, like someone pondering over who they were.

"You have a deep fascination with me, don't you Watson?"

I didn't grace him with an answer. I picked up my study book and sighed.

"What are your ambitions?" he quickly turned the subject back on me. "Let's see… The Human anatomy. Judging from your books, the lectures I have seen you in along with your notes and family history, you wish to become a doctor."

It wasn't exactly brain surgery to work out what I was studying. I hadn't been quiet on the matter around campus. It was the last remark he made that I found unwelcome.

"What do you mean by family history?" I asked him.

"When I heard you were to be my roommate I took the liberty of 'researching' your family history, date of birth, address and, ahem, medical records."

I couldn't believe his nerve. Most of that was private information. How he had gained access to it I dreaded to think.

"You cheeky bas-"

"Your father, a medic in the British Army. Suffered a bullet wound in the leg in Afghanistan. That didn't stop him though, did it? That wasn't him, no. He went out again… only he didn't come back that time. I assume you wish to follow in his footsteps, minus the tragic demise part?"

I sat in a humbled silence. It was enough to shock me. All this time, friends, family, even psychiatrists had tiptoed their way through or around the subject, like it was a minefield waiting to snare them. Sherlock Holmes on the other hand brazenly strutted through, caring not for where he was stepping. My reaction was the only one I had in that moment. Back off.

I stood up out of my chair and stopped inches away from him.

"Don't pry into my personal life again, do you understand me?" I wasn't one for threats, but he was bringing me dangerously close.

He was not fazed, nor surprised by my reaction. I think now he even anticipated it. I returned to my seat and gathered my father's cane before retiring to my room. I lent against my closed door and focused on nothing but the intricate handle in my grip. I wished it wasn't in my possession. It didn't belong to me. The thought of it being buried where I could never see it, along with its owner, was the main reason I took it. It was too late by the time my mother realized where it really was. She looked for days. She wept because she thought she had lost it. He wouldn't be buried with the one thing that defined his physical character to everyone who knew him, and it was because of her carelessness.

I hadn't the heart to tell her the truth. It wasn't fair of me, but none of it was fair. When she finally found it I had expected her to hate me. She stared at the cane in my hand. She watched her only son lean against it, imitating his father. She didn't say a word. She didn't even look upset. She looked at me the same way she would…

I placed the thing by my bed-side cabinet. I didn't want to think back. The whole point of me being there was to move on in my life. Why did Sherlock have to march through my grief like it meant nothing? He didn't know my father, yet he spoke of him like he was reciting his biography. His character wouldn't have bothered me so much if I had met him at any other time in my life. Fate though had given him a helping hand. It was the right time to meet him, even if I didn't know it at first.

I was broken out of my trance by sharp chords. I thought it was on the television at first, but in the short time I had lived at Baker Street, I hadn't seen Sherlock turn it on once. I let my anger die down and opened my door just enough to gander through. My roommate was in the middle of the sitting room. His head was bowed. The source of the sound had become obvious. The way he played didn't follow any particular song to its conclusion. Instead, it danced from one mood to another. It came to my attention that he wasn't reciting a memorized tune, but instead he was expressing his inner self. One moment it was calm, then it would veer into the chaotic. His face told a similar story to the sound that filled the room.

"I didn't know you played the violin."

He stopped immediately. His face formed a grin.

"I think there is much for us to learn about each other, John."

He rested the instrument on the sofa he would whine away the day on, pondering over one thought or another. I hadn't noticed any form of case for it.

"I meant no disrespect. I, like everyone, have my shortcomings. Sometimes I get in the dumps when a particular thought process grips me. No need for worry, just leave me to it and it will pass. I often play my violin to help, I hope you don't mind?" To be honest it would make a nice change to the seemingly endless silence that filled each evening between us. "I smoke, though only outside. I sometimes have private business to attend to with guests if you are fine with me using this room at such times?"

I nodded, though it peaked my interest.

"I guess it would make sense to know each other's worst vices, if we are going to live together. I wake up at ungodly times at the moment. The pills help with that a bit," He knew why quite clearly. "Sometimes I get lazy when I have nothing to focus on. I don't like rowing."

He gave me a warm smile.

"Nor do I. Arguments rarely solve anything, say for the mystery of one's temperament."

We had learned more about each other in one evening than we had the whole week. Breaking down that wall of unfamiliarity made me feel better, at the very least.

"Sorry for calling you a bastard." I apologized.

"You didn't quite get that far." He corrected, returning to the window.

I wasn't so reluctant to speak to my roommate after that evening. We were far from familiar but at least we could learn now. There was still the mystery of what was driving Sherlock Holmes. As he focused on God knows what outside, I wandered over to his desk. His University papers had been tidied away, but I recognized his handwriting on the single piece of paper remaining. I couldn't make out much of it. The subject was hypothetical, or as I saw it, ludicrous.

"What utter rubbish is this?"

His eyes looked back at me questioningly.

"Ah, that." He wasn't disappointed in my review.

"The Science of Deduction. It's written well but half of this isn't possible. No one could work that much out so quickly, I'd bet money on it. It would take… a genius."

"You would lose your money, Watson." He answered.

That look of excitement, I hadn't seen it since the laboratory during our first meeting.

"Really? And who have you met that could decipher who a person is from one look?"

He didn't answer straight away, instead he turned to the bookshelf.

"I didn't look up your records, Watson. It was just easier an explanation. That there, is how I knew so much. You were surprised to hear of my knowledge about your father's cane. Your eyes, the solemn look you have on you most days, the pills, and of course the medals I helped carry to your room. Left to you, no doubt, by someone who was close to you?"

He had chosen to let me believe that he had snooped into my personal life, rather than explain the truth of his methods. I guess my reaction to his theory was what he had expected to hear.

"I told you John, man and woman often miss what is in front of them because they aren't looking for it. It's true, it requires great knowledge on many matters, and a talent for observation and deduction to put this theory to work. That's why I'm here, John. That's what I study. Not science, not medicine. Deduction, and it requires knowledge from many fields."

I could see what had caught his attention now. Outside the window was a police car, parked on the other side of the street.

"You want to be a detective?" I asked him.

"I want to be the detective. No… I must be, for the sake of this city. Something is coming, Watson. I can feel something in the shadows, hiding in sight but it's the one thing that alludes me."

I could see why people would question if his genius was bordering the psychotic. Through all his boasting, nothing had given me reason to think that Sherlock Holmes thought too highly of himself, until now.

"You're doing it again." I said.

"Opening your eyes to a bigger world?"

"Talking absolute crap."

"I wasn't aware I did that." He scoffed.

The police car's lights shut off.

"So, have these 'guests' of yours got anything to do with your ambitions? Are you hoping on becoming a private detective or something?"

The doorbell rang. A policemen stood at our door.

"I already am."

He passed me with a reserved confidence and answered the door.

"What have I got myself into?" I said to myself.