A/N: Yeah, I know, the Holmes siblings have been exhausted already, but here's to one brother who never materialised. Shame. Still, what's in a name? -csf


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'You've got a guest, Sherlock.'

My words sound unfamiliar as I stop short at the glass sliding doors to the kitchen.

I really don't know how come I'm so surprised. My flatmate, the great Sherlock Holmes, is only human and he pays half the rent we owe Mrs Hudson, the landlady. If my flatmate, aka self-proclaimed sociopath genius and proficient hermit, wants to bring over a mate to watch the telly, I suppose he absolutely can.

We just never addressed this before.

I once tried, early on, sitting down with Sherlock to write the bare bones of our shared flat's peace treaty. We both thought it fair that the rent was divided halfway; although I got the impression that Sherlock didn't know how it got paid, he just trusted his brother Mycroft would take care of that. We both agreed that Sherlock wouldn't again damage the television with a homemade chemical concoction to measure the wavelength of the emitted electrical sparks, that he would not fill the bathtub with the Thames dredged mud to study the soil profile, and that he also would not stick detached fingers in the margarine tub (including any intentional or unintentional similarity to comical or rude gestures). In return I would not yell at him and vindictively ruin his ongoing black mould experiment, again.

We spent a long time discussing the topic of guests, only we both assumed they'd be my guests. He banned my girlfriends from the common areas if he was actively engaged in a case and happened to be in that room and, to be honest, although it limited me a lot because it turns out Sherlock is a workaholic, I could understand that request. Sherlock needs to step back from the buzzing crowds of investigators, the crime scenes gory details, and just recede onto familiar homely territory to separate from reality and analyse the facts as elemental data in his giant brain, safe in the knowledge that he won't be suddenly interrupted by strangers I'd let in.

That he always allowed me around when his mind was so deeply enthralled that he wouldn't answer my calls, eat or drink, and sometimes wouldn't allow himself to sleep for days, was as unexpected as genuinely endearing – for it was always Sherlock all over.

The detective never pushed me away. Ignored me, yes. Closed his eyes and just blocked me out, presumably entirely, erasing my existence from his inner world. But I'm not a fool. I always knew better. I'd bring a cuppa and leave it at arm's length. Some time later I'd return and he had drunk the tea I had brought him. Never wondering who might have brought to him, or if it was poisoned (so many missed opportunities, hm-hm), nor letting the sudden apparition of tea snap him out of his mental processes at it should if he hadn't known me around.

Other times, in the middle of the night, I'd find cause to come down to the living room. I'd take a tired seat on the armchair, trembling hand and hair plastered to a sweaty forehead, ignoring the immobile wax figure wannabe on the sofa. I'd allow the soothing familiarity and close my eyes. Eventually dozing off, only to startle myself awake. And in that disorientated second coming back to consciousness I'd catch a glimpse of Sherlock watching me, genuinely attentive. Possibly counting my hyperventilating breaths, cataloguing the pale shade of discomfort veiling my expression, because he's Sherlock. I'd blink myself out of the shadows of a lingering nightmare and face him straight on, only to find my friend's eyes closed once more, his face etched in expressionless lines. A bit too perfect a mask, and I knew he was waiting to tell if I wanted to reach out, talk about it, or if I preferred to save face, gulp down the shadows, clear my throat, and focus on the homely flat and the calm presence guarding me from the sofa.

Some people say Sherlock is a jerk, always berating me for the most inane things I presumably have done. "John, the lamp has been moved two centimetres to the left, it's aggravating!" "John, my Lactobacillus experiment is not to be shoved aside to make room in the fridge for your food!" "Stop thinking, John, your thinking is too loud!" Fine, I'll grant Sherlock can be a bit difficult, as I presume all real geniuses are, but he never, ever, had a go at me for the number of nights that, having solved a long case and finally allowed himself the grace of sleep, I'd wake him up with a badly timed nightmare from the depths of my damaged mind.

You see, he must have awaken.

Sherlock is not the only tenant to have shot 221B's walls. Only I can claim not to have been really awake when doing so.

Sherlock made me promise to remove the bullets from the chamber every night before I went to sleep. He knew better than to ask me to lock away my service gun. I wouldn't have been able to sleep without it at hand, not during those first months in London. And, later, the nightmares finally subsided, lulled back to restless dreams and no worse, by the constancy of 221B and my newfound worth by Sherlock's side.

For my part, I saw all sorts of people invading 221B, coming by Sherlock's request or to beg him to take on a new case. Clients, sources, spies, witnesses, investigators, the odd bomber or kidnapper... What they all shared in common was a connection to my friend's work.

221B was always a home and a detective agency.

A friend, for the sake of spending an evening in, was just never something Sherlock would bring.

He never has done so in all the months we've shared 221B, so I'm a little surprised.

Sherlock, on the other hand, acts as if there's nothing untowardly about this break in character.

'John, I want you to meet my guest.'

I squint at the genius. 'Hi, guest', I retort to the stranger, politely, basking on all the sarcasm I can put into a pointed look at the detective.

Sherlock must be in a childish sulky mood of his, for he clearly rolls his eyes at me. 'Does it really matter?' he asks me, petulantly, only to abruptly adopt a despondent Greek effigy look.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Hard.

'Yes, well, I'm John', I recover to the man sat at the kitchen table. 'I'm Sherlock's flatmate.'

'Sidekick', the detective corrects, sibilating the Ss in discontent.

'Never pondered it may well be the other way around?' I say, brightly, just to annoy Sherlock.

He immediately plays along, feigning puzzlement. 'Honestly, no. But your sense of humour is in sparkling form tonight, John!'

I shake my head and return my attention to the newcomer. Maybe he's an informant. I'd do the deduction thing, but Sherlock's the expert here. All I see are nondescript clothes, an average looking man, probably British, bulky and who has recently come a long way by plane, as evidenced by the small luggage by his chair and the boarding pass ignored half wedged in the case's pocket. A ticket from... no, can't read it.

'Hello, John!' the stranger beams pleasantly. 'Nice to meet you! Been hearing a lot about you!'

I shake my head quickly. 'Whatever he tells you, I didn't possibly gun down that gangster in the alley. I have a solid alibi.'

Sherlock shrugs. 'It's solid, alright. I crafted your alibi, John. Why would I undo my work and snitch on you?'

I frown between the two of them. 'Don't know. Just thought— I mean, Sherlock doesn't have a lot of friends and— Not that he's not a great guy, but he can rub off on you the wrong way, and—'

'You're rambling, John', Sherlock alerts me, idly twirling his hand. His green eyes are fiery and set on me, though. Like gemstones. 'Just drop it, John', he warns me fairly.

I take a deep breath and pull up a chair by their side. 'What I meant to say is, Sherlock doesn't have a lot of people he calls friends.'

The stranger blinks. Sherlock smirks, amused. His eyes still a fiery gemstone colour, though.

'And', I carry on, 'it's because some people think they can treat him wrong, because he's different. They can't handle the ways in which Sherlock is brilliant, and unique, and they are, quite frankly, insecure idiots that attack a brilliant man in order to try to feel better about themselves. So, what I'm trying to say here is, if you think, for a second, that you can do anything that I won't like to Sherlock Holmes, my best friend, well you can go right ahead and leave through that door. Let's call it a head start, because I'll make sure to hunt you down and make you pay. Get it?'

The kitchen fills with an eerie dead silence after my declaration. Sherlock is eventually the first to recover.

'John, this is my younger brother', he solemnly introduces the stranger as if nothing whatsoever had happened previously.

I gulp drily.

'No, wait, your brother? As in a Holmes?'

I take a double look at the full, bland looking man by my friend's side.

'Yes, John. My brother, Bob.'

'Bob?' I repeat, blank. What kind of name is that? Sherlock's younger brother, Bob?

That's the kind of name someone like me is supposed to bear, not a unique Holmes brother!

'Yes, Bob Holmes. Did you not hear clearly? Robert Hercroft Holmes, if you need the full name.'

I blink, then get a grip, plastering my best smile on. 'Bob, hi, I'm John, your brother's flatmate! Nice to meet you! Staying long?'

The goofy looking man, with the shaggy hair and quick smile hands over his hand for a shake at once. I'm linking him already.

I wonder if Mycroft is giving his other surveillance teams a day off now both brothers are present in the most secure location in London.

'Yes, you said already you were John!'

I realise I didn't quite make it clear and haste to explain:

'Yes, John Watson.'

Sherlock cuts in, in an abstracted knee-jerk reaction: 'Doctor Watson.'

'Yeah, it cost me several years of medic school to get that extra name, and forever more the trouble of pretending to be asleep through restaurant emergencies.'

'Really? Why?' the younger Holmes looks wide eyed at me.

'You know, when someone shouts out "is there a doctor in the house?" and your food grows cold before you come back? Never mind. It just... a joke. It actually happens a lot.'

'Sounds incredible!' the man assures me, innocent, and full of a forward honesty that you just can't fake.

I glance at Sherlock. He's rolling his eyes. Suddenly I realise that I'm intruding on the family reunion. Maybe I should excuse myself and...

'Is there any chow mein left?' I say instead, working my way to the fridge, pushing the butter dish with the severed fingers aside from the top shelf, to check the other containers.

'Great idea, let's order us all some food, John!' Bob pats me in the back. 'How about a couple of pints each? I've had a killer flight, I could use a kip in the sofa with a cold pint! Is that reality show with the two blonde twins still on?'

Sat at the table, Sherlock looks like he's suddenly grown ten years older watching us get along.

Bob, the guy next door, is one of the Holmes brothers, and perhaps the only Holmes I can ever hope to win at chess.

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