221 Baker Street was on a quiet street with tall houses with a small park in one direction and the entrance to Baker Street Station in the other. Inspector Greg parked his car one house down because there was no space right in front, but he didn't grumble about it, just smiled and pointed towards the correct door. He helped Sherlock out of the car and they went to the door together and Inspector Greg rang the bell.

Sherlock didn't quite know what he was feeling, standing on the doorstep to what was maybe his new home. It was a very unhappy feeling that made his stomach very glad he hadn't eaten lunch, but it wasn't all unhappy. There was excitement and interest, too.

An old woman opened the door. At least, Sherlock supposed she was old. She had a frail sort of look about her, like she was more bone than muscle and her skin hadn't quite figured out how to compensate for that. On the other hand, elderly people tended to slow down, and this woman didn't look slowed down. Her eyes were keen and they looked over each of them with a sharp intensity that Sherlock found comforting. Jim had eyes like those; eyes that saw. These eyes looked at the Inspector first, then at Sherlock, and then the woman smiled. It was a real smile. Sherlock tried to smile back, but he didn't think his was quite real. His stomach still felt upset.

He didn't see John. Sherlock supposed he was somewhere inside the house. Or he'd left and moved to a different house right when Sherlock arrived. Or Inspector Greg lied and this wasn't John's house. Or someone lied to Inspector Greg. Or John didn't want to see him and was hiding. None of these thoughts that now occurred to Sherlock seemed likely, but he couldn't seem to stop thinking them.

"Mrs. Hudson?" asked Inspector Greg.

"Hello," said the woman. "You must be Inspector Lestrade with Sherlock. Come inside and I'll show you to his room."

They followed her inside. Inside was older and creakier than Sherlock's old home or Inspector Greg's home. It was big in an up and down sort of way rather than a sprawling sort of way. The ground floor held the entrance room, a set of stairs going up to the first floor, and three doors. One door had golden lettering that was peeling a bit and marked the door as '221C'. Mrs. Hudson said it led to the basement and it wasn't safe down there and it was locked. She rattled the doorknob to show them.

"It was meant to be its own flat," Mrs. Hudson continued to explain. "The house was divided into three. A bit big for us I know; I thought we might get some renters when we first moved in, but then…well, it all worked out better this way. I've kept the downstairs here as the main kitchen and dining, but there's a little kitchenette upstairs as well, for when we don't want anything fancy. I left the bedroom down here as a guest room. It means fewer trips up and down the stairs and I'm closer to the boys."

She pointed at one of the other closed doors as she spoke. It didn't have any numbers, peeling or otherwise, but Sherlock could still see where it used to say '221A' because that place on the door was slightly lighter in color. She didn't take them on a tour of the downstairs but immediately started up the stairs.

Upstairs had a short hall with more doors. The doors were open and Sherlock could see the one at the end of the hall led to yet another set of stairs going up to the next floor. There were two doors on the left that both seemed to open onto the same room, a particularly large one that reminded Sherlock of Inspector Greg's living room. From his angle he could see the before mentioned kitchenette to one side and some chairs in the center of the room around a fireplace. Mrs. Hudson didn't take them into the room, though. On the right side of the hall were two more doors. The first was only barely ajar and Mrs. Hudson announced it as her own bedroom as she passed it. The final door was the one they were making for. Its door was open and through it was a small bedroom. It had bunkbeds and a long chest of drawers and a short bookcase and a desk with a chair and a faded rug and very little else.

"Here we are," said Mrs. Hudson. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you boys don't want to share, but I thought you'd be more comfortable all on the same floor with me just next door. John took the lower bed, and I think that's best, what with his arm and everything, but he insisted I tell you that he'll take the top if you want the bottom bed, Sherlock."

"Where is John?" Sherlock asked, finally voicing the question that had been nagging at him throughout the entire tour. For while the room was full of traces of a boy living in it, including rumpled covers with a toy bear peeking out and a half-made model of a ship sitting on the desk, there was a complete lack of John.

"He wanted to be here when you got here," said Mrs. Hudson. "He was very excited when he heard you were coming. But he has his appointment with Ella and that isn't to be missed. He should be home soon, though."

The word 'home' went through Sherlock like a sudden jolt of electricity. This wasn't home. Was it? He wouldn't stay here for long. He knew that. This was Mrs. Hudson's home and it was John's home but it wasn't Sherlock's home. Sherlock would always be the outside boy pretending to be inside. Because home was with Jim, and sometimes it wasn't nice and sometimes it was lonely or dark or made him feel wrong, but it was home. Now he was somewhere in between, in someone else's home, and maybe it would be nice, maybe, his secret thoughts whispered, it would be better, but it wasn't his.

"Now," said Mrs. Hudson, "Why don't you take a moment to settle in. I'm just going to talk for a moment with Inspector Lestrade and do all that paperwork business and then, if you need some help unpacking, we can do it together."

"We'll be just in the other room, Sherlock," said Inspector Greg. True to his word, the two of them only went across the hall into the large open room and he could hear their voices through the open doors. If he had wanted to, he could have crept closer and heard all their discussion. Jim would have wanted him to creep closer.

Sherlock stood still in John's bedroom and let the voices be a soft murmur from another room and he looked around at everything. There were signs of John everywhere. There was a green and brown backpack next to the chair to the desk and on top of it was a folder with some sort of cartoon picture of a robot and the word 'MATHS' written across the top in bright purple ink. He nudged it open and saw a piece of paper covered in simple fractions. He let it shut again, careful to arrange it at the exact angle it had been at before he touched it. There were more folders inside the backpack, and a few books.

The small bookcase had books that looked like they were for a child reader, though none that Sherlock recognized. The one with the pirate on the cover looked interesting, and he flipped it open for a moment. Inside were lots of drawings, like a sort of cartoon inside of a book. He closed it again and put it back. The picture book hiding in a big kid book confused him. So did the bear he could still see under John's covers, and he didn't even attempt a closer look. John wasn't a baby, but he had baby things and it didn't make any sense. Normally, Sherlock liked puzzles, but this one left his stomach feeling sick inside. Because maybe John was being bad and he would get in trouble, and Sherlock didn't want John to be in trouble.

Instead of trying to work it out, Sherlock explored the rest of the room. He opened the closet and it had some John sized clothes hanging up and it had John's shoes and it had a football and it had a lot of dark space for a boy to sit in and Sherlock shut the door again too quickly so it banged and the noises went quiet in the other room.

"Alright, Sherlock?" called Inspector Greg's voice. Sherlock didn't know the correct answer to that, but he wanted everything to be calm and quiet again so he made his voice say 'Yes', even though everything had been wrong ever since the beginning of everything.

He tried the drawers next, and found one side was full of John's clothes, and the other side was completely empty, except a piece of paper that was folded up tiny and stuck into a crack. He pulled the paper out and unfolded it. It was a letter. And it was addressed to him.

Dear Sherlock,

Its me John the boy you met at the docters and we playd trains. I'm happy your comeing. We can be brothers. If you want.

Your freind,

John H. Watson

Sherlock read over the letter twice. Then, listening very closely in case Mrs. Hudson or Inspector Greg were suddenly going to come back, he sat at the desk and picked up John's pen and scribbled in a few changes to his letter. Now it said:

Dear Sherlock,

It's me John, the boy you met at the docteors and we played trains. I'm happy you're coming. We can be brothers. If you want.

Your freind,friend, brother,

John H. Watson

Now Sherlock read it again, and he didn't know why, but it was like holding his apiary book. Things just seemed better because he had John's letter. He also knew that he didn't want to share it with Inspector Greg or Mrs. Hudson. He didn't know why. It wasn't like it was a secret. It was just a letter. It was his letter, though, and it wasn't for anyone else to see. He could fold it up again and stick it back in the drawer, but it wasn't really hidden properly there at all, and if anyone else opened it they'd find it. He could stick it in his pocket, but it was a bit crinkly, and what if it made a noise and they noticed he had a bulge in his pocket and they wanted to know why?

Finally, he did fold it up, and then he climbed up on the top bunk where he was to sleep, and he went to place it inside the pillow case, because there was no reason for anyone to look there anytime soon, and he'd find a better hiding place later.

It seemed someone had already been there. Not inside his pillowcase, but under his pillow. There was a small torch. He picked it up and stared at it, and then he pushed the button to turn it on and it shown a yellow dot on the wall and then he turned it off and then he had tears in his eyes and he didn't know why. Perhaps the torch was so bright it made tears, even in the daytime.

He tucked his note away and he tucked the torch away and he climbed down and he looked everywhere in all the room and found colors in the desk and some rough drawings of tanks and stick people and space ships. He found some plastic dolls dressed like super heroes and some green army men in a box under the bed and he shoved the box back under quickly. There was also a box of some sort of colored blocks that called itself Legos and he looked at it longer because it seemed a sort of thing to make models with, and it said on the box it was for ages 6-12. That was Sherlock's age and John age and even more than both of them. Maybe model blocks are different from baby toys.

There weren't any trains in anyplace in the room and Sherlock didn't know why he expected them or why he felt disappointed that they weren't there.

Then Sherlock knew everything in the bedroom, and he didn't know what Mrs. Hudson meant when she told him to 'settle in' but she said they'd unpack after so it wasn't that. He didn't know if settling in meant he was allowed to look in the other rooms in the house, and he didn't know the rules and he wondered if maybe he should hide his new torch inside the closet, just in case it was a timeout closet.

He didn't have a very long time to wonder, though, because Mrs. Hudson and Inspector Greg came back into the room because they had finished their papers and their talk.

"Did you have a good look around?" asked Mrs. Hudson. "We made sure to clear out these drawers for you." She opened the secret note drawer, and Sherlock was glad he'd already taken the note out. "You do have clothes to put away, right? Or do we need to take you shopping?" She said 'you', but she looked at Inspector Greg.

"His clothes are here," said Inspector Greg, and they opened his suitcase and he and Mrs. Hudson started to take out his clothes and put them in the drawers and Sherlock had to be quick to grab his socks out before they messed them up.

"They have to go in order," he explained, because Mrs. Hudson looked very confused when he almost grabbed them out of her hands, except she hadn't quite picked them up yet. That was true, but they were also where he hid his blue stone that no one was to know about. They were still staring at him, so he said, "I have an index," because that sounded scientific and adult and not like a kid trying to hide something.

"Well, go on then," said Mrs. Hudson, "A big boy like you can probably sort his own clothes out."

Sherlock wasn't sure how he felt about being called a 'big boy', but she didn't sound angry or confused and she let him put his clothes where he liked, so he supposed it was alright. The microscope went on the desk and the books found room on the bookcase and Sherlock watched Mrs. Hudson very carefully in case she noticed John's picture books but all Mrs. Hudson said was 'You read these?' like she was very surprised and then 'What's that!' because she had found the skull.

"It's my skull," Sherlock answered, even though he thought Mrs. Hudson should know what a skull was, but sometimes people don't seem to know obvious things.

"It's not real," said Inspector Greg. "I checked."

"I should hope not," said Mrs. Hudson, and then, "Now, where to put it? How about on top of the bookcase? Then it can look out the window while you're away at school."

The idea of being 'away at school' threw Sherlock so completely that he didn't even think to point out that it was a pretend skull and it didn't have proper eyes and couldn't see anything.

The jar of fingernails had Mrs. Hudson exclaiming a second time.

"And I suppose you'll say these aren't real, next," she said to Inspector Greg, who was laughing just a tiny bit but trying not to.

"No, those are real. Sherlock collects them ever time his nails get trimmed. He says it's for an experiment."

"What experiment?" They both looked at Sherlock for the answer. He could not tell them that the primary experiment was in seeing people's reaction to a jar full of fingernails. It would skew the results. Anyway, one never knew when one might want to know about nails and how they react to different things. It's sensible to have a large supply on hand.

"An important experiment," he answered at last. He watched Mrs. Hudson carefully. Jim never let him get away with that sort of answer, and he wondered if this was when she would get annoyed and throw away his nails and maybe tell him to go away and not stay after all, and he had a tight feeling in his stomach again.

"Let's keep them in the closet," Mrs. Hudson decided, and she didn't throw them away and she didn't throw Sherlock out, and the nails found a place in the closet and there was a little less space for it to be a time out closet and, anyway, if he was locked inside then he'd have his nails and maybe that was better than being alone, though he wasn't sure why.

When all his things were put away and it wasn't all John's room but a little bit Sherlock's room too, then Mrs. Hudson stuck his suitcase in the far corner of the closet and it was almost all full and not at all like a time out sort of room and Sherlock's empty backpack was left lying next to John's fuller one and something inside Sherlock's stomach felt better and something in his chest felt full.

"Alright, Sherlock," said Inspector Greg, "It's almost time for me to go."

Sherlock didn't know how to answer that. He didn't want Inspector Greg to go, but he knew that Inspector Greg didn't live here and he knew the whole time that Inspector Greg meant for Sherlock to stay here and for Inspector Greg to go back to live with his wife. And he couldn't tell Inspector Greg to stay, because he couldn't, and they both knew he couldn't, and Sherlock wanted to stay here with John and Mrs. Hudson, but he just wanted for Inspector Greg to stay with them too.

"We'll see each other again," said Inspector Greg, "And I'll leave my phone number with you and you can call me at any time. Even in the middle of the night."

"Come along, Sherlock," said Mrs. Hudson. "We can say goodbye to the inspector together, and then just think about all the things you'll have to tell him about the next time you see him! You can tell him about John and the park down the street and, oh, everything."

Sherlock wasn't sure about that, but he did follow them down the stairs and to the front door and his chest felt tight and his eyes were trying to let down tears but he wasn't going to let them because only babies cry and he definitely wasn't going to be a baby for Mrs. Hudson, and anyway, he didn't think he was sad so he didn't know why he felt all wrong, except he just knew he wanted for things to be different than they were.

And then Inspector Greg put his hand on his shoulder, solid and warm, and the Inspector got down on one knee so his head was closer to Sherlock's.

"I'll see you very soon, Sherlock. If not tomorrow, then the day after. And here's my number." He looked at Sherlock in the eyes and his expression was kind and serious, and he gave Sherlock a small bit of paper that had 'I. Greg' scribbled on it, followed by a number.

Then he squeezed Sherlock's shoulder and he stood up and he turned towards the door.

The door opened before he could reach it. The door swung open, and there was John, with the same blue cast, but the blotches on his face were a tiny bit less and his hair was cut short now and he smiled when he saw Sherlock.

"You're here!" he said, and Sherlock was almost surprised to feel himself smiling back.

"Hello, Sherlock," said a voice that wasn't John's. It belonged to a man standing in the doorway. He was about the same size as Jim, but a lot older because his skin was all wrinkly and saggy around his neck, and his hair was gray. Then the new man reached out a hand to shake, not with Sherlock, but with Inspector Greg, while he said, "Frank Hudson. You must be the inspector. Thank you for bringing Sherlock over. Sorry I couldn't be here when you arrived. I trust Martha got all the particulars?"

"I was happy to bring him," said Inspector Greg, shaking the man's hand. "I can stop by anytime you need me. Can be here in minutes, if I need to be."

Frank Hudson's face did complicated things while he shook Inspector Greg's hand and Sherlock couldn't figure out what the man was thinking. He seemed friendly, but up to then Sherlock hadn't even guessed that there was a Mr. Hudson, as this man clearly was. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. He'd only just gotten used to the idea of living with Mrs. Hudson and John.

"He's okay," John whispered into Sherlock's ear. "He isn't the hitting sort of man. I promise. He's nice. And if he turns mean, I'll protect you."

"And it's a pleasure to meet you, young man," said Mr. Hudson to Sherlock, and he offered his hand. Sherlock shook it, because that's what you do when you meet people.

And then Inspector Greg really was leaving for real, and Sherlock was alone with Mrs. Hudson and Mr. Hudson and John in a house that was his to sleep in and eat in and live in but wasn't his home.