Note: I published this story a while ago, but took it down. After a few months of procrastination, I've decided to just post it as it is. I know there a few plot holes and incorrect details and such. It's just kind of a silly story that got me writing again.

Chapter 1: The New Neighbour

Harry stared up at the building. It was old, and crumbling in places, but it was still in a relatively good condition. It was four storeys tall, the first belonging a small friendly sandwich shop. On a heavy black door boasted the words 221b. Harry stared down at the slip of paper he held in his hand. This was it.

Harry stepped up and knocked, not bothering to use the slightly askew brass door knocker. The door opened to reveal a little old lady with a wrinkled face and a kind smile.

"You must be Mrs Hudson, I'm Harry Potter," Harry said. The woman's smile grew.

"Yes, of course you are! Won't you come in?'

Harry stepped into the dark entry hall, dragging his heavy trunk behind him. The faint melody of a violin greeted his ears.

"Now, you'll be renting the third floor. You arrived just in time, too. The previous owner just left this morning. Let's have a look, shall we?"

Harry obediently followed Mrs Hudson upstairs, leaving his trunk in the hall. As they ascended, the violin became steadily louder, until Harry found its source behind a closed door to the second storey flat.

"That's Mr Holmes playing. He's in the flat below you. Lovely playing, isn't it?"

"Yes," Harry agreed. He'd never really had the chance to listen to violin. It sounded sort of happy and sad at the same time.

Mrs Hudson lead him further up the stairs and opened a door to reveal a small, dusty living area. The place showed all the signs of recent use – dust hanging in the air, shadows left on the ground and walls where furniture had once been.

The flat was both larger and smaller than Harry had expected. In contained just a kitchen, living area, bathroom, bedroom and laundry. The place was in good condition, as far as Harry's untrained eye could see. He spent all but five minutes looking around before turning to Mrs Hudson.

"I'll take it."

XX

Harry lugged his trunk painstakingly up the stairs, ascending each step with a resounding thump. Harry considered getting out his wand and putting a feather-light charm on the damn thing, but thought better. If he was going to spend a year in Muggle London, he might as well do it properly.

He got to the second floor and took a moment to inspect the rapidly forming blisters on his hands. He wondered what the Wizarding World would say if they could see him now.

Harry suddenly noticed that the violin had stopped playing, and became aware of the distinct feeling that he was being watched.

Harry turned around to find the door to the second storey flat open. A man stood in the door frame, his figure cast in shadow. He was tall, with curly hair and piercing blue eyes that reminded Harry oddly of Dumbledore.

He wore a heavy black trench coat and a blue scarf, making Harry feel under-dressed in his black jeans and top. The man stared at Harry, and Harry stood awkwardly rooted to the spot. Harry was beginning to wonder whether or not he should introduce himself when the man suddenly moved towards him. Harry experienced a split second of panic, but the man simply brushed past him and hurried down the stairs. Harry stared after him in confusion before resuming his game of tug-a-war with gravity.

XX

John braced himself before entering the flat. It was Thursday, and Sherlock had yet to find an interesting case, so chances were he'd been going half mad of boredom for the last ten hours.

John stepped into the flat and was pleasantly surprised to find Sherlock calmly typing away at his laptop (rather than, say, shooting holes through the wall and shouting profanities at the local pigeons that often frequented outside the window).

"Ah, found a case then, have we?" John asked, shrugging off his jacket.

"No," Sherlock replied promptly. "Not a single client. I swear the entire city's gone all goody two-shoes on me."

"Maybe they've finally realised that nothing gets past the famous Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock scoffed, but didn't reply. "So, if you haven't got a case, what are you doing?" John said, looking over Sherlock's shoulder. He was on someone's Face Book page.

"Nothing," Sherlock said, slamming the laptop closed and standing up. He turned away from John and faced the door. "What am I doing, you say? Ha! Something much better than a case, I'll tell you that," Sherlock rubbed his hands together, a familiar glint in his eye.

"Yes, and what would that be?" John asked.

Sherlock whirled around to face him. "Spying on the new neighbours of course!"

"New neigh-, we've got new neighbours?"

"No, just the one, but nevertheless, he'll have to do."

"Sherlock," John began.

"Strapping young lad, he is. Barely twenty, I'd say."

"Sherlock!"

"There's something about him, John, something interesting. I can tell he's better than a client whose lost her smelly cat, any day."

"SHERLOCK!" John shouted, putting an abrupt end to Sherlock's rant. "You can't go spying on the neighbours!"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Why not?"

"Because his life is none of your business! Do you remember that young newly-wed couple that moved in up there a few months ago? Do you remember how you were personally responsible for them getting a divorce not one month after they were married?"

"I wasn't responsible for their divorce," Sherlock scoffed. "He was gay! It was blindingly obvious, I'm surprised she had to hear it from someone else to be perfectly honest."

"It was none of your business, Sherlock. As much as you loath to believe, people don't actually like it when you pop into their lives and tell them everything that's wrong with it,"

"Yes, alright." Sherlock huffed. "But this is different,"

"Different," John repeated. "How is this different?"

"It's different because-" Sherlock scrunched up his face comically. "Argh, I don't know, okay?! But it's different. There's something about him, John. He's different, and I want to find out why."

XX

Harry glanced proudly around at his new apartment. It hadn't taken him long to find some furniture, the place was finally starting to feel homey and familiar. He had found a surprisingly comfortable couch for the living room, as well as a cheap telly and stand and a desk

. He'd also bought a few appliances for the kitchen – namely a microwave. Harry new how to cook, but that didn't mean he was any less likely to eat microwaved dinners for days on end. He was nineteen, remember.

All his keepsakes were in the bedroom. He had set up the trunk at the foot of his bed, just like at Hogwarts. Harry had decided to keep his flat looking as Muggle as possible, just in case an unexpected visitors came by unannounced. His stuff was strewn carelessly across the room, despite the fact that he'd only moved in that morning.

It bothered Harry, though, that the flat still looked so empty, so barren. Like it was missing something. Harry had to continually remind himself that this was what he wanted. A year living as a Muggle, to get away from the fame and nuisances of the Magical World. To find himself again, to work out who he was and what he wanted to do with his life now that the war was over.

The war had ended six months ago now. The weeks afterward had been nothing short of hell for Harry. What with the funerals, press and the public.

Harry had lost count of the number of funerals he had attended. He had made a promise to himself to attend as many as he could, even if he only new the deceased by face.

Hermione had insisted that he grant interviews to a few select reporters. The facts needed to be set straight. The public needed to know what had really happened. That's what Hermione had said, anyway. Harry had gone to the interviews, but Hermione had ended up doing most of the talking.

Harry hated all of it, especially the looks the reporters gave him when the interview was finished, like he was some sort of godlike hero with enough power to kill them on the spot with a flick of his wrist.

He was interrupted from his quickly darkening mood by a soft knocking on the door. Harry's thoughts immediately turned to the man in the trench coat, but the door opened to reveal little Mrs Hudson, laden with a tray of tea and biscuits.

Harry politely invited her in, and they sat together on Harry's new couch, sipping tea and dunking biscuits.

"You really are settling in quickly, aren't you?" Mrs Hudson said conversationally. "Already got the furniture in and everything."

"I've never been one to procrastinate," he smiled.

"Of course," Mrs Hudson said, patting his knee. "Now, Harry I probably should warn you about something. Do you remember that man who was playing the violin earlier?" Harry recalled the happy-but-sad music and nodded. "Well, that man's name is Sherlock Holmes and he's a little... eccentric."

"How so?"

"Well, he is a remarkably brilliant man, but he's a detective, so things can sometimes get a little haywire around here."

Harry repeated his earlier statement. "How so?"

"Oh, well, with him around, things like; police charging around at ungodly hours, him shouting and jumping about like a lunatic and buildings across the street spontaneously combusting, tend to happen almost on a daily basis. He really is one of a kind, and quite unpredictable. I just thought I should warn you. Him and that Mr Watson do get into some rather... unique situations."

"Mr Watson?"

"Oh, Sherlock and John are flatmates."

Harry nodded, and Mrs Hudson stood. "Well, Harry, I won't keep you any longer."

"Thank you for the tea and biscuits."

"You're welcome, Harry, I thought you might like a little house warming gift."

Harry smiled as Mrs Hudson left. It looked like his time here was going to be much more interesting than expected, if Mrs Hudson's words were anything to go by.