Even Sherlock had to admit that his bedroom was amazing, with its huge, comfortable bed, his own desk, and even - he almost couldn't believe this - an actual balcony. It was almost the perfect bedroom, and there was really only one thing wrong with it: it was only his.
Sherlock had shared a room with John for his entire life, or at least all of the parts he could remember. Even through all the time they'd been in foster care, they'd been together. He had never been alone before, and neither had John. What if John had a bad dream or he wet the bed or he woke up in the middle of the night and remembered suddenly where they were and needed him? He definitely couldn't be alone.
He said as much to Mrs Hudson, who he thought might understand. She only smiled at him, then asked if he wanted help unpacking.
"All these empty shelves are yours, too, now, don't forget. It's not just the dresser. You have the whole room."
He glared.
"Show me John's room," he demanded.
"Please," she said.
"What?"
"It's show me John's room, iplease." /i
He gave her his deepest, darkest, worst scowl. Who did she think she was, anyways? Not his mother.
"Go on, now," she said, unfazed. He brought up the intensity as much as he could. It still didn't work.
"Well, then, I'm sure you'll find it eventually on your own. I'll see you at dinner, dearie," she said, still unfazed, and then turned and walked out of his room and down the hall. He stared at her back in disbelief. Not only had his stare not worked, but it had failed to even make her angry. This total lack of reaction was completely new to him, and he certainly did not like it. With one final glare at her back, which was heading downstairs, he left to explore the house and find John's room.
It wasn't hard to find, as it turned out; it was at the other end of the hall. There were a couple of rooms in between, but he didn't really explore them, just stuck his head in and, not seeing John, turned away and shut the door.
John's room was a little bigger than Sherlock's, and definitely more... comfortable? He wasn't quite sure how to describe it. The reason was apparent. There was a toy box full of toys, books on the walls, a mess on the floor, two twin beds, and two other boys in there already, playing trains happily with John. They were very obviously intent on what they were doing, and they didn't even notice Sherlock. He stared at John, who was laughing and playing and completely carefree... without Sherlock.
Sherlock slammed the door and ran back into his bedroom, slamming his own door too as he ran in. He threw himself onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling, eyes burning with angry tears. It was supposed to be him and John and even Mycroft against the rest of the world. They were a family, not he and John and Mycroft and... and whoever they were! Just because they lived here and just because the Holmes brothers were staying with them, just because they were called their 'foster family' didn't mean they were anything. Nothing. And John should know that. He should be here, with Sherlock, exploring the house and helping unpack and bothering Mycroft and not, not doing that.
Suddenly, Sherlock jumped up. He grabbed the duffel bag that had his things in it and zipped it open, digging through the contents until he found what he was looking for: his Chemistry textbook. It was old and probably out of date and some of the pages were missing, but it was his and it was what he had and maybe he did know it from cover to cover but it was his and it was familiar and it would always stay with him. He flopped back onto the bed and began to read.