Title: Interesting Friends

Rating: K+

A/N: Although this can be easily read as a standalone piece it is actually related to my previous oneshot "An Even Match" in which Sherlock and Reid meet as children. I've got a few other ideas for fics in this universe as well and there may be more stories (oneshots or otherwise) to come. This was mostly written to fight off a bit of writer's block on another fic.

Hope you guys enjoy it! Please review!

221B Baker Street, London, England

October 28, 2010

Spencer Reid stepped out of the cab, looking around the street with an odd sense of childlike wonder on his face. He'd never been to London before, but he'd always dreamed about it from the way his mother talked about the city. Busy with buses and cabs and people and life. Of course, with his job when did he ever get time for a vacation? Or, for that matter, when would he ever indulge himself in one anyway?

He wouldn't be here at all if anyone other than Sherlock had asked him. He hadn't seen Sherlock in almost a year, not since his last visit to Quantico. They still emailed and texted – Sherlock loved hearing about the cases he was working on – but hadn't had the time to actually visit in a while. Not until Sherlock emailed him last week telling him that he had moved again about a month and a half ago and he'd like him to come if he could. Or if he couldn't. Either way, he wanted Reid to visit.

Knowing Sherlock, it wasn't anything of real importance, but once he told Morgan about the message the older man had insisted that he go. Something about him needing a break from work. So he'd cleared it through Hotch and a few days later found himself on a plane to London.

He easily found the address and took a moment to gather himself before ringing the bell. As much as he liked Sherlock, his friend could certainly be abrasive when he wanted to be. Not that he minded. Reid had grown used to Sherlock years ago.

The door was opened by a smiling woman who took his hand warmly and patted his back as she tugged him inside.

"You must be Spencer," she said, "Sherlock said you'd be arriving today. You can go on upstairs, he's waiting… Mind where you sit though, dear, he's been experimenting again."

Reid raised a brow as the woman laughed to herself and moved away down the hall. He climbed the stairs slowly, not hearing anything at all as he reached the landing and looked around. He was standing in a small, cluttered living room and as he looked around he saw the definite signs of Sherlock Holmes having been there.

His violin was sitting on the desk next to a laptop, a stack of papers – most of them at least partly crumpled – sat underneath it. In one far corner there was a metal walking cane propped up next to the bow for Sherlock's violin. Reid wasn't sure why Sherlock would need the cane, but decided there was probably some odd explanation for it just like everything else.

On the opposite side of the desk rested a pair of safety glasses, discarded rubber gloves and a test tube that had been knocked over, but was thankfully nearly empty. There was a scorch mark on the wallpaper next to it.

"Sherlock?" Reid frowned as he turned around and caught sight of the equally cluttered kitchen. "Sherlock where are you?"

He heard a muffled voice and then footsteps coming up the stairs and turned expecting to see Sherlock when instead he saw a shorter man with blond hair. He was reading something on his cell phone and shook his head.

"Alright, Sherlock, I'm here, this had better be g- Who are you?" he frowned when he spotted Reid standing in the middle of the living room and Reid stood there awkwardly for a moment.

"Spencer Reid," he said, holding his hand out to the other man. "You are?"

"John Watson…" John frowned, shaking Reid's hand and looking down at his phone for a moment. "Um, sorry for being rude but… what are you doing here, exactly?"

"I'm an old friend of Sherlock's," Reid explained, shifting his feet somewhat, wondering who John Watson was. Sherlock had never mentioned him before… "He wanted me to visit."

"An old friend of Sherlock's? Sherlock doesn't have any old friends," John frowned, even more confused now than he'd been before. Why would Sherlock invite an old friend and not tell him? And furthermore, how did Sherlock get an old friend anyway?

Before either man said anything else the man in question entered the room, looking a bit frazzled to say the least. There were smudges around his face and his hands were burned a bit but he still managed a small smile – more a smirk than a smile really – when he spotted John and Spencer.

"Ah, Spencer, I see you've met my flat mate. John this is Spencer, he's an old childhood friend," Sherlock said, stripping the white coat off his shoulders and tossing it to the side. He quickly turned back to face them and his pale eyes shone with a frightening intensity.

"Glad you could make it, Spencer, John and I are working on a particularly puzzling case, I thought you might want to have a look at it,"

John frowned, "Case? What case? Sherlock, you haven't had a case in two weeks!"

Spencer frowned, "You and John?" he asked, trying to hide the surprise in his voice. For as long as he'd known Sherlock Holmes he'd always worked alone – due mostly to the fact that there were very few people willing to put up with him.

"Yes but that was this morning!" Sherlock insisted, "Lestrade phoned. They've got a body in an empty dorm room of a private school. No marks on the body, the doors all locked. This should be interesting." His eyes glistened as he grabbed his scarf, gloves and coat, quickly donning them with practiced ease.

"Well?" he frowned when John and Spencer hadn't moved from where they were standing. "Don't just stand there, get your coat!"

John was staring at Sherlock incredulously, still stuck somewhere back at the part where Sherlock said the words "childhood friend" together in same sentence. He shook his head and nodded slowly, "Yeah, sorry, alright."

Sherlock's smile could only be described as predatory as he thought about the case. He glanced over at Reid and looked him up and down, "Coming?" he asked, "Chance to finally see me in action?"

Reid smiled and almost rolled his eyes at the arrogance of the man. "Or a chance to beat you at your own game?"

Sherlock smirked, "Oh, Spencer, if you could do that you certainly wouldn't ask for my help on your own cases now would you?"

Reid raised a brow and shook his head, "Who was it who emailed me three months ago completely stumped on a case?" he asked.

Sherlock made a face then, shaking his head, "That was a single isolated incident. It has no bearing on my nearly perfect record. And if you'll recall, you were of no use either. That case is still unsolved,"

There was a bitterness to his voice as he said that and Reid smiled at him. Sherlock hated not being able to solve a puzzle or a riddle. It drove him mad.

"Come on if you're coming," he said over his shoulder as he descended the stairs behind John. Reid stood there for a moment, sighed to himself and shook his head before quickly following after his friend. There was no way he was going to miss this.

SH-SR

A little over two hours later the three of them were in a cab on their way back to Baker Street and Sherlock had a distinctly annoyed look on his face.

"That was disappointing,"

Reid stared at him, "Disappointing that it was suicide?" he asked, "How?"

"He killed himself in a locked room and didn't leave a note. We'd never have known it was suicide at all if I hadn't noticed the discarded bottle of pills hidden beneath his pillow. It's inconsiderate."

"That he killed himself?" John frowned.

"That he killed himself and made it look like a promising case," Sherlock nearly huffed and John fought not to smile at the look on his face. It wasn't exactly appropriate to smile at something like that and he was surprised when he saw that Spencer was smiling then.

"Still," he reminded him, "You did solve this one. Unlike that mysterious woman a few months ago who washed up on the Thames." There was a sparkle in Spencer's eyes that while not quite as frightening as Sherlock's was nearly just as bright.

"What woman?" John frowned, "Wait, you were working on that case?" He remembered reading about that in the papers and it had been on the news for nearly two weeks but the police had never found anything to go on. Nothing other than the woman's name. Cynthia Carter.

"Yes, one of the few unsolved cases. It was before I met you,"

"How long have you known Sherlock?" Reid asked, leaning forward.

"A little more than a month," John said, "One of my friends from school introduced us. What about you? I mean, he's never told me he had any childhood friends. Any friends at all, actually."

Spencer smiled again, looking over at Sherlock and then back at John, "We met when I was five. His family was in Las Vegas for the summer and we played chess in the park, we've been friends ever since,"

"Chess? You played chess when you were five?"

"He was good too," Sherlock smirked, "Nearly as good as me."

The younger man's eyes narrowed slightly and he smiled, "And I've gotten better since the last time we played."

"Well we'll have to see about that, won't we?"

John was trying to follow them, but he was still a bit surprised to hear that Spencer was yet another genius. Clearly, Sherlock did not normally associate with "regular" people. He wondered what made him so different.

"How's Mycroft? And your parents?" Spencer asked, glancing sideways at Sherlock, who frowned a bit at the mention of his brother.

"Same as ever, nothing's changed much. I've been busy, haven't had time for social calls,"

"You never have time for social calls," Spencer said, shaking his head. "When was the last time you actually saw your mother?"

"When was the last time you saw yours?" Sherlock shot back, annoyance in his voice.

"That's not fair," Spencer frowned, "You know I have to work."

"Three hundred and sixty-five days a year? You aren't working now, yet instead of visiting your mother you came to London to see a friend. Hardly son of the year,"

John watched as the young man, who'd he hadn't thought of as particularly easy to rile, clenched his fist like he was seriously considering hitting Sherlock.

He took a moment to keep his breathing even and shook his head, "I do visit her,"

"Yes, once every few months to soothe your conscious. You know your ridiculous fear is entirely unfounded. I've told you before; genetics isn't the only contributor to mental illness. There are too many other unexplained variables."

"I don't want to talk about this,"

"Because you know I'm right," Sherlock said.

"No, because if you don't shut up, I'll probably punch you,"

Sherlock smirked, "You've only ever hit me once and you were ten then."

"You deserved it,"

"Probably,"

John listened to the exchange and tried to imagine Sherlock getting punched in the face as a child. It was easier to picture than it should be, honestly. "So, what do you do, Spencer? For a living?"

"I work with the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit," Spencer answered.

"What do they do?" John frowned.

"They profile criminals," Sherlock answered this time, "Using Behavioral Science. Which I'm not entirely sure is even a legitimate science at all. Seems a bit touch and go, really. Mostly guesswork."

"It's a science," Spencer said, "Not guesswork. We give the police a general profile of who they're looking for and who committed the crime based on things we find at the crime scene, how the victim was killed or attacked and who the victim was."

"But… isn't that what you do, Sherlock?" John glanced over at his flat mate, confused.

"Of course not!" Sherlock shook his head, "I observe all the details of the crime, make deductions, and once I have all the facts, I theorize who the killer is most likely to be."

John blinked. "But that's exactly what he said he does,"

"It's entirely different," Sherlock insisted. "Though I will allow that there are similarities. Still, I have far more freedom in my work. Spencer always said he'd be a cop… Never really believed him until he graduated from the FBI Academy."

"Why wouldn't you believe him?" John frowned, glancing over at Spencer again. The man was tall and thin and didn't look like a fighter, but he'd seen plenty of police working with Sherlock who were similarly built. Spencer might not be the first person he'd assume was with law enforcement but still.

"Because he said it was beneath me,"

"It truly is," Sherlock said, "You could be working as a nuclear physicist or curing cancer and yet you fly around the United States hunting serial killers."

Spencer smiled, "I like what I do, Sherlock. Besides, you could be doing the same and instead you're a private detective."

"Consulting detective," Sherlock corrected him. "Only one in the world, remember?"

Spencer smiled, "That's not entirely true anymore,"

"What?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. "How is that not true?"

"In California there's a consulting detective who works with the CBI on cases*. So you're not the only one anymore,"

Sherlock very nearly pouted and leaned back in his seat, looking incredibly childish for a moment before sitting up straight again. "Well he can't be a good as me,"

"He's very good," Reid said, "The unit he works with has the highest clearance record in the state. He closes cases."

Sherlock looked extremely annoyed, and John sighed.

"Oh come on, Sherlock, he's on a different continent! You're still the only consulting detective in Europe. I highly doubt he's going to steal your spotlight."

That seemed to cheer him up considerably, and he nodded, "Well, of course not. Even if he is good, he can't possibly be better than I am,"

SH-SR

John was listening in fascination as Spencer and Sherlock talked in the kitchen. Sherlock was wearing his white lab coat again and the rubber gloves. Spencer was standing beside him wearing safety glasses, watching with interest as Sherlock took a blue liquid and squeezed a small drop of it into the small clear dish on the counter top.

"See! It eats right through it! I knew it! This is how the paint was stripped away!" Sherlock's eyes were bright again and he was grinning. Reid smiled too, the other man's excitement nearly contagious.

"Could you pass me the margarine tub?" Sherlock held his hand out and Reid frowned, looking around and spotting in on the other side of the table. He reached over and lifted it, frowning when he realized that whatever was inside was rolling around and was clearly not margarine.

When Sherlock popped the lid off the tub Reid's eyes got huge as he saw five severed fingers lying in the bottom of it, some still a bit bloody. "Are those… Why do you have human fingers in your kitchen?"

Sherlock didn't even look up as he removed one of the fingers from the tub and sat it in its own little dish. "Experiments," he said simply. "I got them from morgue at Saint Bart's."

Spencer sighed and shook his head. Experiments. As long as he'd known Sherlock, he'd always been experimenting on something. He'd nearly burned down the Reid household once when Spencer was eight. Sent Diana into a fit and William yelled at them for hours until Mycroft showed up to take Sherlock back to the hotel they were staying at.

Spencer removed the safety glasses and walked into the living room where John was half listening to their conversation, half typing on his laptop. Spencer sat down next to him and read over his shoulder. "What's this?"

"My blog," John answered, "Never had much too really write about until I met Sherlock." He glanced over at the other man, who probably hadn't even realized that Reid was no longer standing next to him.

"Your blogging about the cases he's solved?" Spencer leaned a little closer to read. He never spent much time on computers; he didn't really like them much. He'd been on Sherlock's website a few times, but he hardly ever used his email account except to talk to Sherlock.

"Just the ones I've helped him with," John said.

"How did you two start working together?" Reid asked curiously.

"Accident? I dunno, really. First day I came to look at the flat with him and he got a case… Asked if I wanted to go with him."

"And you just went?"

John shrugged, "Why not? I had nothing else to do… Not really sure why I went, but I'm glad I did," he smiled ruefully and shook his head, "Never thought I'd be spending my nights chasing down killers in the streets of London, but it beats watching telly."

Spencer smiled, nodding. "I guess it would, yeah. You can never really be bored when Sherlock's around,"

"Especially when he's bored," John said, shaking his head. "I can't believe he manages to keep himself alive…"

"You should've seen him when we were younger. Before he started doing consulting work he was between cases a lot. He was a mess…"

"A mess? I was merely in need of mental stimulation, Spencer. I'm sure you can understand that,"

"Still," Reid shrugged, glancing back at Sherlock, who had looked up at them from his experiment and was frowning at them. "You have to admit that recreational drugs probably weren't your best option."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "Well you've never been hypocritical before," he muttered under his breath before turning back to the finger in the dish.

John noticed how Spencer stiffened next to him but didn't reply to Sherlock's comment at all, instead self-consciously gripping the inside of his left arm. He immediately changed the subject to something John figured was a bit more neutral.

"What do you do other than help Sherlock, John?"

"I'm a doctor," John said, "I work at an office in town… Whenever Sherlock doesn't have me running around at six in the morning trying to find something or solve some small piece of a puzzle."

Reid smiled, "Sherlock doesn't sleep much,"

John snorted, "He sleeps?" he muttered. "I hardly ever see him eat!"

"He can run on fumes," Reid said, "Doesn't need anything to eat when he's working. And he only sleeps when absolutely necessary."

"You're one to talk," Sherlock said, "You run on a diet of nothing but coffee and sugar. And possibly Chinese if you could ever figure out chopsticks."

Spencer rolled his eyes and ignored the comment, "It'll catch up to you one day, Sherlock,"

"If it hasn't already I very seriously doubt it ever will,"

SH-SR

Spencer stayed in London for three days, during which time he and John had begun to develop a psychological profile of Sherlock, which John then posted on the blog, much to Sherlock's annoyance.

The first night John had been nearly overwhelmed with the amount of genius confined to one room as Sherlock and Spencer argued about things like behavioral science and the importance of being able to identify different types of dirt. By the next morning, however, John was used to listening to the two of them talking about things he didn't quite understand.

He even wrote a blog entry specifically dedicated to Sherlock's friend Spencer and the fact that Sherlock was much easier to bear with Spencer around. He was going to miss the younger man once he was gone. They'd gotten pretty close in the last couple of days.

"Wish you could stay a bit longer," John smiled as he shook Reid's hand at the door. "Keep Sherlock from getting too full of himself."

Reid grinned, "You're doing that already," he assured him.

John smiled as he got into his cab and headed off to the airport. "He was certainly interesting,"

Sherlock smirked, "Well of course. I'd never be friends with anyone who wasn't interesting," And with that he turned and went back inside 221B. John stood there for a moment, watching the cab disappear and thought about what Sherlock had said, grinning in spite of himself as he slowly followed his friend inside.

-FIN-

A/N: So… First time *really* writing Sherlock as an adult. I've written a couple of other times, but in one oneshot he didn't really say much and in the other… it was a total Crack!Fic which remains unposted. So I hope I did him justice.

*This is a reference to "The Mentalist", which is a fantastic show, and Patrick Jane who is a wonderful character based on Sherlock Holmes. In my head, CM, Sherlock and The Mentalist are all in one huge universe together.

I hope you guys enjoyed this! Please let me know! Don't forget to review!