Author's note: May I just voice my appreciation that you actually decided to take a look? This is a weird idea, even for me, but I couldn't fight it.

I don't own anything, please review.

Bankers were supposed to be heartless bastards. That didn't mean they didn't give credit where it was due. So, really, nobody should have been surprised to learn that Seb was there when Sherlock was buried.

Though he could understand that John Watson's eyes widened when the doctor realized he'd come. His and Sherlock's – acquaintance? Friendship? – had been far from normal, to say the last. Then, again, he didn't think any of the consulting detective's relationships had been what would be considered "normal".

He still couldn't believe that people had so easily been fooled into thinking Sherlock Holmes was a fraud. No one who'd known him could be of that opinion. He'd been on Sherlock's website, and he'd read John's blog (he'd never admit, however – bankers were important people who didn't waste their time by reading about the adventures of their old comrades from uni) – how could one possibly make up all of this? Sherlock had been right all along; most people were idiots.

They had met at the beginning of their second year, when he'd been allocated the room next to Sherlock's. Most people in their corridor had shot him sympathizing looks he didn't understand until the third night (not having spent the last two in his, but in Amelia Spencer's room), when he was woken up by a bang followed by the screeching of a violin.

He'd jumped out of bed, put on a dressing gown, and knocked against Sherlock's door for a good five minutes before a tall, thin, dark-haired man had opened and glared at him. He'd been slightly taken aback at first, then decided to glare back.

"What do you want?" Sherlock had barked, and Seb had swallowed before shooting back, "Could you please not play your violin in the middle of the night, or – what was the bang before you started to – I suppose I should call it play?"

Sherlock didn't answer – of course he didn't – and instead looked him up and down with such a piercing gaze that, just for a moment, Seb thought he was checking him out, but then he declared, "Amelia Spencer? I suppose you're promiscuous too, then, since she has been sleeping with Victor Trevor on a regular basis ever since she started studying a year ago, and I am sure that she spent a night with Michael Tibson last week..."

Seb stared at him, open-mouthed, and Sherlock continued. "Then, again, since your parents are obviously divorced because your father felt compelled to sleep with every woman he saw, perhaps you just think that's normal..."

By this time, Seb's face had gone red, and he pressed out "Piss Off, you freak" before stalking back to his room, slamming the door behind him, and resigning himself to spent the night awake, as the screeching continued with even more vehemence than before.

He'd asked for a new room the next day, but the secretary had only shook her head and told him that he would be the ninth student to ask for a new room within a week, and that they couldn't keep changing rooms just because of one student, and then she'd hinted that his complaint might be the last straw and that he'd soon be rid of his weird neighbour for good.

When he'd heard that, and to this day, he couldn't say why, he'd immediately reassured her that he was a bit grumpy, because he hadn't slept well the night before, and that it wasn't as bad as it sounded, so this was by no means a formal complaint.

She had looked disappointed, and he couldn't believe that he actually felt relieved. He'd walked out and back into his room, still not sure why he'd just done that. He could have been rid of the weird noises he could hear through the wall – could have been rid of an inconsiderate freak, and yet, he, of all people, who was hoping to become a successful banker one day, hadn't taken the opportunity when it presented itself.

And he couldn't deny that he was intrigued. What was this weirdo – Sherlock, he remembered, the secretary had said the name was Sherlock Holmes – doing in his room? Why did he own a violin when all he did was torturing the instrument?

And, the biggest question of all, how had he known about his parents, or Amelia?

So, when the next night proved just as noisy as the last, he found himself in front of Sherlock's door again, knocking just like the last time.

Sherlock opened the door almost immediately, this time without his violin, but a phial full of a rather poisonous-looking liquid in his hand, and Seb swallowed. What had he got himself into? Three days ago, his greatest problem had been to make it through the second economics exam alive, and now he was standing in a corridor at three am, looking at a madman who seemed determined to prove that Doctor Frankenstein's experiments were actually possible, and actually contemplating having a conversation with him.

"I think" Sherlock drawled "that you'll find that, within the week, I'll be kicked out and you'll have your peace. Now, while I'm still here, leave me alone."

And he would have closed the door had Seb not answered "You won't be kicked out because of me. I didn't file a complaint."

Sherlock's eyes travelled up and down his body again, and, somehow realizing what the other thought, he added, "Alright, I went to ask for another room today. But when the secretary told me you'd be kicked out, I said I didn't want to complain." Sherlock raised an eyebrow and Seb interpreted this as a sign of surprise. He shrugged his shoulders. "Didn't want to be responsible for you having to leave uni."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"I can't imagine why".

Sherlock actually smirked, for a moment, and Seb decided that he would simply ask the question that had been nagging at him. "How did you know about me or Amelia or my parents? How does your trick work?"

"It's not a trick, and I didn't think you'd be interested". Sherlock sounded annoyed, but at the same time a little bit confused, as if he wasn't used to people actually asking how he came to know what he did. Seb supposed he wasn't. Come to think of it, even his first reaction had been far from polite.

"Well, I am" he answered. "And, just so I know what is going to kill me, tell me what you're doing with his" gesturing towards the phial in Sherlock's hand.

He smirked again and stepped aside. Seb knew that he probably shouldn't enter, but he was curious. And so he soon found himself sitting on Sherlock's bed – the only part of the room where one could sit, really – watching the other student doing something or other with the liquid that involved mixing it with several other substances and the extensive use of a microscope.

The place was a mess, but somewhat... homely for it. He couldn't think of another word to describe it. Compared to this room, full of books and chemicals and a blue dressing gown and a laptop and clothes lying around everywhere and the violin somehow balancing on what looked like a staple made out of true crime books, a skull and, strangely, a Union Jack pillow, his own looked positively sterile.

"Sherlock..." he asked "how long have you been living here?"

"I arrived the day before you moved in. Why?"

"No reason, just – great you know how to keep your place in order, that's all."

Sherlock turned around. "Amelia and Victor are far from subtle" he said, and Seb realized he was finally answering his question. "Of course, Victor has a girlfriend, but thankfully, she's visiting another university. Victor smells of Amelia's perfume at least three times a month, normally when her clothes are in disarray – wasn't a difficult leap. Oh, and Michael Tibson had traces of her lipstick on his shirt. Could be another student, but her lipstick colour is rather distinctive."

Seb had to agree with him. Amelia wore a light orange lipstick.

"She left traces of it on your neck, by the way, that's how I knew."

He nodded. "What about my parents?"

Sherlock turned around again, apparently to observe some reaction through his microscope. "your dressing gown and pyjamas are frankly hideous. Your mother bought them for you, and if your father was still around you'd have gone to him for help."

Seb shook his head. "He could have died, or – "

"Shot in the dark, good one though. You flinched unconsciously when I used the word "promiscuous". If your mother had been the guilty party, you wouldn't wear what she bought you."

"Okay" Seb replied. "You're a bit of a freak, you know that, right? Still, your trick's pretty impressive."

"I told you it's not a trick."

"What should I call it then?"

"The Science of Deduction."

"That's too long for me. Let's just say I mean – whatever you just said when I say "trick"".

For a moment, Sherlock looked as if he wanted to explain – and, this time, probably much longer and more slowly – why the Science of Deduction was not a "trick", but then he thankfully decided to tell Seb about his experiments instead, all about how various substances reacted when brought in contact with – well, other substances. Seb had never much cared for science, but it was fascinating to watch Sherlock talk about it. His eyes sparkled, and he was completely focused on what he was talking about. Seb couldn't say he'd ever been that focused in his entire life.

He finally returned to his room at six thirty am, thankfully before even the early birds were up. He didn't want to know what sort of rumours might fly around if he were seen to leave Sherlock's room in the morning. Before he left, he said, "I'm – "

"Sebastian Wilkes, I know" Sherlock interrupted him.

He simply answered "Call me Seb" and left.

From this day on, they became – not exactly friends, he couldn't say that. But – Sherlock tolerated him, and sometimes, at breakfast, after he'd just told everyone in earshot who'd shagged who on the previous night, he'd tell Seb how he'd deduced it.

And he tried to be quiet on nights before Seb had an exam. He didn't always succeed, but Seb appreciated the effort, nonetheless.

Maybe they were a little too different to become real friends – Seb with his ambitions, and his life plan, Sherlock, who more or less swayed from side to side while making his way through life. Yet – they did like each other, in a way, at least he liked to think so.

They didn't see much of each other after he finished his studies in economics and Sherlock earned his degree in chemistry – he'd only done it so his brother would stop nagging him, he told Seb once – in fact, in the eight years before a Chinese smuggler decided to break into Sir William's office, but they had communicated sporadically per email.
Though Seb had been convinced that Sherlock had used drugs even back at uni, and was concerned he'd finally taken too much when he didn't hear from him in over a year.

Then Sherlock wrote to him to tell him he'd decided to solve crimes for a living, and Seb thought that this was actually a rather good idea.

He'd heard from him now and then even after he'd met Doctor Watson (to this day, he didn't know what had been going on between them, but he hoped it had made Sherlock happy, whatever it was). And, of course, there had been the blog.

Maybe he should have listened when Sherlock told him about Eddie's murder, but he couldn't very well say anything against his boss, not if he wanted to climb the ladder further. Still Sherlock sent him emails, to which he always replied immediately.

And then –

The articles. He'd been convinced, utterly convinced, that Sherlock would clear everything up.

When he heard the news, he thought calling for a big coffee, then decided that the markets could very well live without him for a short while and gone home, after declaring himself sick, to drink a large brandy. Or several.

So, really, going to the funeral – he had known immediately that he would go.

Though John Watson greeted him with "I wouldn't have thought you'd come".

Seb shrugged. "We were at uni together. He tolerated me, and that is saying a lot, considering how he was back then".

John answered, with a sad smile, "I suppose so."

Because Seb could see John didn't know what to say, he told him how they'd met, and earned himself a real smile.

He left the cemetery with the feeling that he'd at least helped Sherlock's – best friend somewhat, and that was something.

And, though he didn't know it, three years later he'd hear Sherlock had returned and was cleared of all charges, and he'd write him an email.

Hey Buddy,
Glad to hear you're back. Knew it wasn't a trick.
Seb

He'd get an answer.

Glad to be back.
And "it" is still called the Science of deduction.
S

He'd shake his head, wondering how he, of all people, had come to befriend Sherlock Holmes, but rather happy that he had.

Author's note: I've noticed a tendency of writers to portray Seb in a rather unsympathetic light, and I can understand why. For example, he doesn't listen when Sherlock tells him that the supposed suicide was in fact murder.

But... I couldn't help but feel that there was something more to his character. Sherlock goes to the bank immediately after reading the email, even though he doesn't know whether it will be an interesting case; he allows Sebastian to clasp his arm; he calls him "Seb".

And when Sebastian asks "friend?" and looks from Sherlock to John, he seems to be genuinely interested. As if, he would be happy to know that Sherlock has someone. Maybe I am reading too much into it. I'm definitely reading too much into it. I'm crazy. I don't care.

I hope you liked it, please review.