A/N: Hello, people!

I don't own Sherlock.

I have no beta.

ENJOY!

Eleven year old John Watson, stared at the letter in his hands. He was so excited to get a return, only to find the letter he'd sent a week ago, on the floor in front of the door. Well actually, it was a letter addressed to him, from someone named Sherlock Holmes. Inside though, was the letter he'd sent the week previous, along with another letter.

Mike never got his letter.

He looked at the note from the Sherlock person.

To Whom it May Concern,

This letter found its way into our post on the fifth of May and no one by that name resides in our neighborhood. Many apologies for the time wasted, but do try to address your letters properly next time.

May fortune favor you,

W. Sherlock S. Holmes.

John showed the note to his mother, who urged him to send a reply with gratitude. He had to search his dictionary a bit, before he could properly respond.

Dear Mr. Holmes,

Thank you for not throwing my letter out. It was also very kind of you to send it back to me.

I'm apologize if I don't sound as smart as you, I'm only eleven and writing a letter such as this is confusing.

My mum told me to thank you, so I am.

Hoping you have a good life,

John H. Watson.

When he sent that letter, he did not expect a reply. In fact, when he got one, his eyes nearly bulged from their sockets.

Dear John,

It was no great trouble, returning your letter. A simple act of kindness that shall fill my roster for the year.

As for age, one should not let their age dictate whether they are intelligent or not. I am eight years of age and I have a very extensive vocabulary, if I do say so myself. You sound rather fine, yourself.

My own mother has pushed me into replying. Apparently, I have a habit of repelling other children and since you have not 'met me in person', you 'cannot run away' from me. She is under the impression that we will become 'friends' of some sort, soon enough.

I'll leave that decision in your hands. I have never had a friend and it wouldn't offend me if I never have one.

It has been a pleasure,

Sherlock Holmes.

John was beside himself when he got another letter back! And even more so when he learned that Sherlock was younger than him! And that he had no friends. That made John sad.

Dear Sherlock,

I have decided. You are my new friend. To not have a friend, is mad. So if the people know won't be your friends, I'll be your friend.

Now, because you are new to this, I have to explain it all.

Friends:

-share stories of their lives.

-tell/keep each other's secrets.

-have each other's backs when in trouble.

-stand up for each other no matter what.

-always tell each other the truth.

-sometimes mess with other people for a good laugh.

-and generally be there, when others aren't.

There are more things to add, but I think this is a good list to go on for now.

I'll start off with information.

John Hamish Watson:

11 years old.

Blonde, short hair, blue eyes.

Short(not fair, by the way).

I have an older sibling who acts 'superior' to me.

Though my vocabulary isn't generally intelligent sounding like your own, I can be smart when I want to. I read the dictionary for fun, also. I get anything related to Biology, Chemistry, and Geometry, really well. All of my classes are advanced placement and I've skipped to my penultimate year in secondary.

I intend to be a doctor/pharmacist.

I like making tea.

What about you? (This is where you exchange information about yourself in return)

Yours truly,

John Watson.

The letter he got in return, made him jump for joy!

Dear John,

I do understand what a friendship is, I have just never been in one. As for being my… friend, I'll wait before completely agreeing. Aren't friends supposed to accept each other's faults? I have many and you wouldn't like me if I told you all of them.

I guess I shall be somewhat forthcoming with you.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes:

8 years old.

Black, curly hair, blue/green/silver eyes.

I am 5 ft. tall.

I too have an elder sibling who feels entitled to make my life a bore. Thinking he has the right to 'assert' himself over me, seeing as he is older.

I have a tutor who 'teaches' me for six hours a day. She is a fool and her methods are questionable at best. She insists upon foisting unwanted 'knowledge' on me. I care nothing for Astronomy, it will do me no good later in life. However, I have taken to English, Science and History rather well.

I like to experiment, which led me into pursuing Chemistry and Biology as well.

I apparently have a form of Autism called Asperger's Syndrome. I for one, just think that I don't like being around people. They are loud. They are liars. They never say what they mean and then get offended when I point all the facts out. I'd prefer the term sociopath, instead of being treated like I possess a 'disease' of the mind. My mind is fine.

I deduce people, like a detective would.

For example: You attend a rather high end institution on scholarship. You have an older brother who doesn't and is jealous so he teases you for being intelligent. Possibly a drug addict or a drunkard, he is. Your father is not present in your lives. He either left when you were young or is dead. You are a generally kind person who doesn't like it when someone is 'left out', which is why you wish to be my friend. You like contact sports, possibly rugby and prefer honesty above all. You hate your lack of height because your brother teases you over it. You wish to be a doctor in order to save people, which goes along with your kindness. You are considering joining the military, so you can be an even bigger help.

If you are not offended by now, then I'm impressed that you stuck it out when no one else has. If you do not wish to continue this correspondence, stop writing altogether. I will not mind.

Time will tell,

Sherlock Holmes.

John frowned. Sherlock has Asperger's Syndrome. He looked that up and couldn't really believe it. Someone with it wouldn't be able to sit down long enough to write a letter, let alone such a detailed, long one that Sherlock gave him. He received a response within two days of sending his letter, meaning between sleeping, eating, cleansing, experimenting and schooling, Sherlock found time to reply to his letter.

He couldn't possibly have Asperger's.

John set about writing him back. How foolish to think that John would ignore him!

Dear Sherlock,

Yes, I want to still be your friend. It's amazing that you got all of that from just a little bit of information. Except I have a sister, not a brother, though Harry is rather boyish at times. You're impressive.

As for Asperger's Syndrome. I looked it up and from what little I know of you and your varied interests, I do not believe that you have it. You wouldn't have been able to find yourself time at all or time enough to be calm enough to send me such long letters.

You're a genius aren't you? You seem like one to me at least.

As for faults, I tend to be too 'compassionate'? That's what my mum told me at least. I'm a bit of a 'mother hen' to people and it can be annoying. I'm always trying to solve situations in way where everyone comes out happy. My carefree nature can get annoying. I'm usually optimistic. I also dump all of Harry's lagers when she isn't home.

I like you, Sherlock.

Hope to hear from you soon,

John!

J,

I've chosen Cambridge as opposed to Oxford. Mycroft is none too pleased that I broke family tradition, but it's my life and I will decide.

I intend to go for a Mastery in Chemistry. I'll achieve my goal, no doubt.

Were you accepted yet?

We won't be able to write as often if you go away, you do know that, right?

Yours,

SH.

The last letter John received regarding Sherlock, was sad. It was from his older brother, Mycroft.

Mycroft very blandly stated that Sherlock had gotten in with the wrong crowd, due to his Asperger's acting up and he was currently in rehabilitation for severe drug abuse. No outside influence beyond family was permitted in his case. And that was that. John last heard word of Sherlock when he was twenty-eight and nothing from that day forward.

And just when he had felt that he was falling for his long time pen pal too.

He was depressed for a while - seven months - and never truly forgot Sherlock, even when in other relationships. No one was the same. No one could ever replace Sherlock.

And so he settled for 'normal' and boring' relationships, because he knew that the Sherlock sized hole in his heart, would never be filled. Long term relationships weren't his style anymore. They didn't matter. No one could compete with Sherlock.

At the age of thirty-three, John Watson was injured by a sniper and because he refused to treat himself immediately, the wound never healed correctly. He had to be honorably discharged. It was terrible.

He hadn't been a normal civilian in years. He didn't know how to live among a city. He was pretty certain that army actions weren't going to be favorably looked upon among the populace.

The bedsit was hell. The food was at least better. People were annoying to be around.

His therapist was an idiot. His psychosomatic limp was enough to drive him mad.

Cold weather made the pain act up a bit. He hated rainy days. He couldn't go anywhere when it was pissing down.

And this day was like all others. Get up. Shower. Blog. Got out for a brisk limp/walk around the area. Coffee. Get back to the bedsit.

He needed better accommodations and a job. Harry would be no help, especially since she just walked out on her wife Clara and was a recovering alcoholic.

As he sat on the park bench, contemplating how exactly he was getting out of the hell hole he lived in, someone sat beside him and asked, "Excuse me, can I borrow your phone? Mine just lost power."

John looked to his left, confronted by striking blue/silver eyes and cheekbones! Good God this man was like perfection!

John barely registered himself handing over the phone Harry gave him. A gift from Clara, that she no longer wanted.

The man smirked and John's stomach fluttered at how much more attractive it made him

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" the Adonis like man asked casually as he flipped the phone open and began texting someone.

John froze and gaped, "Afghanistan. How did you know?"

"Your posture, haircut, and tan lines show that you've been in a lot of sun but not on holiday. You have a cane, which means an injury, recently. Where would a man get such distinctive tan lines and an injury, with your specifics? Afghanistan or Iraq."

John gaped some more, completely blown away by this man.

"You live at the local bedsit and are looking for better lodging. Tell me, how do you feel about the violin?"

"Uh… it's a nice instrument. Why?"

"I've got my eye on a nice place in central London that we should be able to afford once my job really takes off. The landlady requested that I have a flatmate for purposes of not being alone, should I lean toward unsavory actions. As a former military man, recently invalided home, you'd have a better moral compass than most and would stop me before I got rash.

Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Will that bother you by any chance?"

John just stared, even as his phone was placed back in his still outstretched palm.

"You want to share a flat when we don't even know each other?"

"Then we get to know each other."

The man turned to him, looking him over. "Army, twelve - no - thirteen years. Returned two months ago. Therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, correct I'm afraid. Calloused hands show a lot of work, could be day to day handling of various weaponry, but you're very fluid in movement, so must be a surgeon. So, army doctor. Having a doctor assist me in cases would be helpful. I can't stand the medical 'professionals' the Yard has. We can cure that limp of yours really quickly as well. I think this is enough to be going on, don't you?"

John shook his head, though still amazed.

"As spectacular as you are, I still don't know you."

The man flushed suddenly, eyes going wide. "You're not… unnerved?"

"No, that whole thing was rather brilliant. I just don't know a thing about you, other than the fact that you're really observant."

Cheekbones smiled slightly and offered his hand, "I'm the world's only consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes."

John's stomach dropped.

He inhaled quickly, loudly, catching Sherlock's attention.

"You've heard of me?"

How many Sherlock Holmes' were there? Really? Holmes wasn't a common name.

John sputtered to respond. "Uh! What do you think of the name Sherrinford?"

Blue eyes widened instantly and Sherlock was leaning close to him, "Have I met you before? Did I delete you?"

"Not necessarily 'met'," John said, leaning back onto the arm of the bench even as Sherlock drew nearer. "That doesn't mean I don't know you."

"You think you know me when we've never met," Sherlock said, sounding incredulous.

John bristled and straightened, "William Sherlock Scott Holmes, thirty years old this year. You have a Masters in Chemistry which you received upon attending Cambridge which you chose in order to rile your family up, breaking the Oxford tradition. You use your knowledge in order to conduct experiments. You constructed a Mind Palace for yourself when you were seven years of age and you hate Astronomy, proven by the fact that you deleted the fact that the earth revolves around the sun. Your older brother is Mycroft Holmes, a right tosser with a position in the government. You were in rehab, thanks to Mycroft, for drug abuse. Need I continue?"

Sherlock's eyes traveled over his form, very closely. John was preparing himself for some sort of terrifying evaluation.

"Mycroft told me that you were disappointed in my drug use at that you didn't want to speak to me anymore, John."

It was said in a whisper. A heartbroken whisper.

John scoffed, "I knew he was a complete arse! I got a letter five years ago, after nearly six months of no response from you, from your brother. He told me that you were in rehab and that you weren't allowed to communicate with anyone who wasn't a member of your family. I received no letters from then on."

Sherlock. This was Sherlock. He found himself appreciating him. Form and all. What he had imagined, hadn't even come close. Sherlock was perfection. Cheekbones.

The consulting detective sat back, frowning. "You're telling the truth."

He looked away. "Mycroft told me, in front of both of my parents, that you wanted nothing to do with me, because I took cocaine. My mother, who was the one to push me to try a friendship with you, was particularly angered. She said it was betrayal. She said a few other things as well."

John sighed. He knew Mycroft could be bad, but did he seriously jeapordise his little brother's only friendship? Why?

Sherlock stood suddenly, "John, stand for me."

The doctor stood slowly, leaning on his cane.

Sherlock pulled him away from the bench and began circling him. "I can't believe we'd been writing each other for years and never entertained the thought of sharing what we look like. I envisioned you much shorter."

John laughed, "Well, you aren't what I expected either."

"What did you expect?" Sherlock asked, stepping really close, into his personal space. His eyes, a literal mix of blue and green and some silver, were somehow shining.

"Well, not perfection, for one."

Sherlock was flushed suddenly. "'Perfection'?"

"You have seen yourself, right?"

Sherlock looked away for a moment, before pursing his lips and saying, "I think you're perfect too. All compact and comfortable looking in your ridiculous oatmeal colored jumper."

John looked down, frowning. His jumper wasn't ridiculous. Cable knit was lovely and good at keeping in the warmth.

"So, to be clear, you don't hate me for doing drugs?"

John sighed, "I was disappointed, but I figured that it was because of the Mind Palace thing. You told me once that if you don't have something to hold your attention, your mind becomes unbearable to you. Loud. I figured that you replaced the violin with drugs."

"Quite right. Come, John!" Sherlock nodded, taking off in a random direction.

"Where?!" John called out, hobbling after him.

"The bedsit is in this direction. You kept all of our letters. You're sentimental like that. Did you keep the one Mycroft sent you?"

"Yes. Though I did want to rip it up and toss it in the nearest rubbish bin. Why?"

"We're going to see mummy."

"From what you told me, it sounds like she hates me!"

"That's why we're going to show her Mycroft's letter. He'll be in trouble for lying to not only me, but her as well. And the result of his lie, led to me being in rehab for three extra years due to depression and attempted suicide."

"'Suicide'?!"

"You were my only friend, John. Of course I wasn't happy to learn that my actions which were only done to make the boredom and voices go away, had also pushed you away. Life didn't seem as worth living. I've been out for six months."

John frowned, not liking that. Was mycroft that heartless? "Are you sure your mother won't try to kill me?"

"Was Mycroft's letter typed or written?"

"Written. I thought it was really feminine."

"That's Mycroft."

Mummy Holmes had been terrifying.

Sherlock dragged John and his box of letters, dusty and unopened in years, out to Cornwall to see his parents.

Sherlock had them take a ridiculous course to get there, explaining that Mycroft was practically the British Government now and had control of the CCTV. They avoided all cameras.

The house was large and made of stone. There was an iron gate and even a cobblestone walkway.

Sherlock literally dragged John by his free hand, to the front door.

The woman who answered, was definitely older than she looked. No sixty something year old woman should look that young.

"Sherlock! I haven't seen you in months!" the woman threw her arms around him, smiling.

"Mummy, I wanted you to meet my friend."

The woman had stilled at that, turning to John. She scrutinized him closely, jaw as stiff as her silvery bun.

John tried to smile, but it was probably more of a grimace. "Colonel John Watson, Md. It's a pleasure, Mrs. Holmes."

Her eyes goggled instantly and she stepped forward quickly, John was good enough still, to spot the hand that lashed out in his direction. He caught it effortlessly, stopping her from smacking him. He loosely held her wrist in front of her gaping face.

Sherlock intervened then, pulling his mother away from John. "Mummy, we have something important to show you. Mycroft has been a bad boy."

The woman looked between her son and John and a twinge of disbelief lit her face. "He didn't?"

"Come, Mummy, John."

The woman's reaction to the letter, was enough to truly terrify John. Especially when she pulled out her mobile and dialed furiously.

"Mycroft Harold Sigeberht Holmes, how dare you lie to your little brother about his friend! I have half a mind to bend you over my knee and cane your unruly behind, young man! Do you not understand how grievous your actions were? You're brother nearly killed himself because of you! Is this how you've turned out? Is this what I raised? Such a callous brat? You better get your behind over here or so help me you will regret ignoring me!"

Mr. Holmes was a lot more accommodating. He wasn't scary either. Soft spoken and calm for the most part, though he did frown at the revelation of Mycroft's actions.

A few hours later and John was officially listed as Sherlock's assistant, his flatmate and was allowed to be his private doctor as well as his friend.

Mycroft was properly taken to task over his actions and John agreed with Sherlock. Nothing else could have been more beautiful.

Mummy made a big point to impress upon him that his actions nearly killed Sherlock. Mycroft's auburn head dipped low in reaction to her remonstrance.

He then apologized to them all, though Sherlock refused accept any of it and latched onto John, telling him not to accept it either.

In return for his actions, the elder Holmes brother had to promise them constant vigilance and apparently he'd have to help if either of them asked for assistance or wanted something. Any time.

All in all, it was an interesting day for John Watson.

John was officially Sherlock's personal blogger. The two managed to live together just fine, especially after they got to know each other in person.

Sherlock easily deduced that he was bisexual, which led to a discussion of their past experiences.

Sherlock had been with some guy named Victor, for a little while. He didn't like women much.

Months passed. John met DI Lestrade and his band of merry men/women. Sherlock's business expanded. They were constantly in danger. His limp was gone. He had to fight his flatmate to eat and sleep like a normal person. Overall, it was all great.

And then Moriarty happened and John was forced to admit that he was in love with his best friend. When he wrapped his arms around the maniac while having a bomb strapped to his chest, he was able to internally admit that he loved Sherlock.

And then things turned out fine and John was relieved to be able to spend more time with his friend. But Moriarty was still around.

And Sherlock changed after the semtex incident. He seemed to follow John more often than not. He was always in the kitchen when John cooked or made tea. He was always in the living area when John watched the telly or even blogging. He also remained a lot closer than normal at crime scenes and when they sat in cabs. Their arms frequently brushed when they walked.

John even caught him grinning when Angelo, the restaurant owner, when he called them a couple and wished them well on their 'date'.

And then when Irene Adler entered the picture, things seemed a little strained. John was watching his best friend/crush, flirt with some dominatrix who was a little too forward for his liking.

And then she flirted even more, threatening to bend Sherlock over the desk and have him begging for mercy. Twice.

"I've never begged a day in my life," Sherlock had replied.

"Twice," she replied, cocking a brow as she smirked.

John had to intervene then, pretty much outing Sherlock, but also showing Irene that she wouldn't be the first to get Sherlock to beg.

"I remember a month ago, when you hadn't had a case in a week and I wouldn't let you have a simple fag and you kept repeating the word 'please' to me as you tore the flat apart, searching for the pack."

John said it with a smirk, sure that there was a bright twinkle in his eyes.

Sherlock flushed, amazingly enough. Irene's jaw dropped. John felt proud of himself.

And when the whole Irene incident was over, in which John learned that she really liked Sherlock but he apparently ignored her existence for the most part, which made him feel great for some reason, he noticed that Sherlock was staring at him more openly.

After an odd week of staring, John finally had to ask, "Why do you keep staring at me? I'm not so interesting."

Sherlock was sitting in the standard 'thinking pose' with hands held in from of his mouth in a prayer position. "Irene had sent me some interesting messages and at first I ignored them. Until a week ago, I received a final goodbye and some advice to read them all again. Tell me John, do you fancy me?"

John knew better than to drink when Sherlock spoke, so when he spit his tea up, it was his own fault. Sherlock didn't flinch and inch.

"Say what? What about Irene's texts would make you ask that?"

"She pointed out your flowery writing where I am concerned and suggested a few variables that aren't too preposterous, now that I have thoroughly pondered them all."

John flushed instantly and placed his cup and saucer down.

"Fine. I like you, there you go."

"Hm. I expected a more emotional and sentimental confession."

"You don't do emotional and sentimental," John pointed out, earning a small Sherlockian grin.

"Touche."

And they sat there for several minutes, John refusing to meet Sherlock's gaze.

And then Sherlock was there, kneeling in front of his hair. "That's why you were so put off by Irene's presence. You were jealous because you assumed that I was attracted to her."

He never gave John the chance respond. Sherlock was a talker. "You were incorrect, of course. Her intelligence was indeed interesting, but I was not interested in her like that. Her gender put me off."

John's eyes bulged, "Meaning you only like…?"

"Men, yes. So John, what do you have to say to that?"

John could form the words. He had questions.

"Will you possibly take advantage of this new revelation?" Sherlock inquired, silvery/blue/green eyes sparkling.

John stared for another minute. He took in the fact that Sherlock was currently kneeling between his spread legs. A nice visual. The fact that Sherlock was staring at him expectantly and then his recent question ringing through the doctor's mind.

Take advantage of revelation? Yes!

"Oh God, yes!"

And John launched himself at his flatmate/best friend/crush, locking lips instantly.

Sherlock easily caught him, taking them both to the floor.

"A better reaction that what I expected," he breathed after a moment of fervent snogging.

"You git."

Sherlock chuckled, "Perhaps, but now I have my doctor forever, so you'll have to forgive me."

"Forever," John grinned. "I like that."

A/N: Done!

Harold- power, leader, ruler.

Sigeberht- bright victory.

I thought they were good names for Mycroft.

Check out my other Sherlock fics!

See ya! :D