It was my fabulous beta The Baker Street Puusy-cat who recommended my next big plot arc to me. Thanks, sweetheart!

Home

"So...Mycroft." John looked at Sherlock with a cautious but friendly smile, sort of nudging the rigid consulting detective as they walked home, trying to get him to relax a little.

"What about him?"

"I like him. He's nice."

"You're the only one who thinks so," Sherlock grumbled.

John grinned, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets and chuckling. Sherlock peeked at his flatmate, watching the smile that could have lit all of London, and quietly concealed his own happiness behind his trademark smirk. "Thank you," he said finally, causing John to look over at him in shock.

"Did you just thank me?"

Defensiveness caused Sherlock's hackles to rise but he kept his composure. "Yes."

John, wearing an expression midway between disbelief and amusement, stared at the streetlamps and the goldenrod patches of light on the ground. "For what?"

Sherlock pulled his coat closer to his lanky frame. The October chill didn't bother him but he felt a sudden need for enclosure and security. "No reason."

"Nobody thanks someone for no reason, least of all you, whom I don't think has ever willingly thanked anyone," scoffed John, grinning wolfishly. "C'mon, tell me. What's gotten you all sentimental?"

"I'm not 'sentimental'," Sherlock sniffed stiffly, "nor will that word ever be associated with me."

John laughed again, and Sherlock was delighted to hear it. It was so rare that people laughed kindly at the things he said and not with malice. He relaxed, silent. It took him some time to finally speak. "For putting up with my brother, I suppose. For...being kind to him."

"You'd rather not admit it but you actually like your brother."

"Yes, but I also hate him."

"I can understand that." A small smirk accompanied this, but there was a fair amount of unreadable emotion behind it. Sherlock watched John's expression in his peripheral for a moment.

"...Mycroft, he...appreciates you being willing to room with me. I'm something of a difficult person to find a flatmate for."

"Sherlock, it's nothing."

No, it was as far from "nothing" as Sherlock thought it could get. It was so much more than "nothing"; it was John's kindness and patience, his skills in cooking and his pragmatism, his smile and his laugh and his strange warmth.

It wasn't the first time Sherlock had ever had something, but it was certainly the first time he'd ever had something quite like John Watson.

I have a friend, he realized with surprise. When or where it had happened, he had no clue, but he had a strong sense about it.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"There's a fine line between good eye contact and the stare of a psychopath, and right now you're on the wrong side of that line. You've been glaring at me for what seems like a good minute or so."

"Ah...my apologies."

John snorted. "We're just about home. You want me to make us some tea, provided your aren't growing a colony of bacteria or something in the kettle?"

"Ah, we'd better not...that colony has been in there long enough to have a written language and a calendar now."

John paled, quickly turning to Sherlock. "I was kidding about that, you know."

Sherlock smirked. "Yes, John...so was I."

John blinked, then visibly relaxed. "Oh, thank goodness. You really had me going there. Who knew you had a sense of humor?"

He happily trotted up the stairs leading to the door and Sherlock mentally commended his quick thinking. He didn't think John would react well if he knew about the mold species he was attempting to grow inside the kettle. He'd almost warned him this morning as John made tea, but had been curious about the mold's strength against hot water.

"We're home," called John, though Mrs. Hudson was probably sleeping. It seemed a ritual for him, most likely something picked up from a parent who'd often said it.

Home. It had a very nice ring when John said it, Sherlock thought to himself with a smile.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Sherlock didn't socialize at school, really. He wasn't shy or anything, just disinterested ("Antisocial," Mycroft had once sniffed in disdain).

The other students didn't really talk to him much either; they thought he was an aloof but obnoxious bastard who seemed to live only to one-up them and try to embarrass them with his knowledge. He always seemed to know who was sleeping with who, who had done what, and what had gone on, even though no one ever saw him outside of class.

It was rather surprising to Sherlock, then, that as he was packing his things up at the end of class one day someone paused in front of his desk.

"Hi," said the someone.

Sherlock's eyes took in a quick analysis and was only able to register a normal university man with a hooded sweatshirt, jeans, trainers, and a backpack with headphones sticking out of one pocket. He had a fairly open smile and his eyes were trusting (and intriguing, Sherlock thought- they seemed almost too trusting). He had a bit of stubble on his face but he seemed fairly well-kept; Sherlock recognized an expensive wristwatch and a respected brand name stitched onto one of the belt loops of the jeans.

"Do you need something from me?" he asked mildly, straightening.

"Really liked your presentation today, though you got something wrong," said the young man, displaying his computer screen to Sherlock.

Stunned, Sherlock took in that he had indeed screwed up, but on a date (but not an important one).

"...I stand corrected," he said, wondering why the young man had bothered to look up such a thing- Ah. He'd already known about it. But what an obscure thing to know. Interesting.

Sherlock found he didn't have to try too hard for a friendly smile (John's influence? he wondered vaguely) and said, "May I ask your name?" as he held out his hand to shake.

"Jim Moriarty," replied the young man happily as he shook Sherlock's hand.

Prompt was #87: goldenrod