AN: Hello! Uh... I hope you like this and I hope I have written it well (especially autistic!Sherlock). Mmm... That's all I have to say. :)

John had only been taking care of Sherlock for six days and he was already on his last nerve. See, John Watson was a carer and he was assigned to live with Sherlock Holmes - a 35 year-old autistic, stubborn man. Sherlock had an older brother, Mycroft, but he had been no help. He had only met John once and gave him a brief description of the needs of his younger brother then left them alone in their new flat, 221B Baker Street.

"Sherlock, you need to take it," John said sternly.

To add on the list of unfortunates, Sherlock hated taking his medication. Mycroft had warned John that he will try to convince anyone that he doesn't need the pills.

"Sherlock, please."

They sat in the kitchen after breakfast. The little red tablets of chlorpromazine laid in front of Sherlock, who was shaking his head furiously. In the previous nights he had made Sherlock stay at the table until he took them. Eventually, Sherlock would grow restless after hours of sitting and take them before running off to his room. John sighed and sat down next to him.

In a gentle voice he asked, "What do I need to do for you to take them?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders - he hadn't said a word to John yet. Mycroft had said that he had bad days where he wouldn't talk and just pout. The drugs were supposed to take care of this but apparently they didn't take care of it enough. Mycroft had also said that Sherlock could just be nervous around a new carer since he hadn't had any luck with his past ones (he didn't care to elaborate on that part).

"Do you want me to call your brother?" Sherlock shook his head. "Then buck up and take them."

For a minute Sherlock looked at the floor, then he grabbed the pills. He gave a mournful look at John before he shoved them in his mouth.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" John said with a smile.

Sherlock remained silent for the rest of the day.

There wasn't much to do in the flat. Neither of them watched much television, Sherlock mainly read or looked at police articles online - it was his obsession. He enjoyed trying to solve past and present murders or kidnappings (and he was rather good at it). Sometimes, at night, John could hear him plucking his violin in his bedroom. John had to make meals for Sherlock, make sure he didn't get into any sort of trouble, and generally make sure that he took care of himself. Sherlock didn't move from his chair too often and he would always bathe or go to bed on his own accord but always at reasonable times. The only problems John ever truly had with Sherlock were his afore mentioned medication and the silence.

This was, at least, the situation during the first few weeks. On the 15th day, John woke Sherlock up at the crack of dawn. Christmas was in a few days and they had been invited to spend it in Oxford with Sherlock's family (John didn't have much of a family, or he didn't like to talk about them). John had planned everything out perfectly. He went shopping with Sherlock last week (I'm not sure what John was expecting but it didn't go too well), he got train tickets for 10 am so they could get there around noon, and he was going to wake Sherlock up four hours before that so they could make it at the station in time with a little time to spare.

Sherlock padded into the kitchen when he smelled John making oatmeal. He looked exhausted with his hair sticking up in different directions and his eyes still half-closed.

"I heard you playing your violin all last night," John said placing a bowl of oatmeal in front of him.

Sherlock still wasn't saying anything, which deeply worried John. He wasn't sure if something was wrong or if Sherlock just didn't want to talk. Either way, he would find out soon.

Just like every other meal, they ate in silence. Then, they finished packing - John did most of it; Sherlock fell back asleep after a few socks. In fact, he fell asleep in the cab, and on the train, and then on the cab ride to Mrs. Holmes's house. John found it slightly adorable how innocent he looked. Finally, the cab stopped outside the house. John was ready to get out and rest after so much travel but Sherlock had his head against the window, still sleeping. His black curls fell in his pale face, looking delicate like a porcelain doll.

"We're here," John shook him.

The younger man groaned and rubbed his eyes. He blinked up at the large house and slowly got out with John. Sherlock walked ahead while John was paying the cabbie. By the time the door was being opened John was jogging up the steps to the front door.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Holmes greeted with a hug.

Mrs. Holmes was tall like her sons and had long white hair - that was partially pulled back - with a wrinkly face. She wore black trousers with a beautiful blue jumper that complimented her warm eyes quite well. John could immediately tell that Sherlock took after his mother with his lankiness and delicate features. And what really struck John was how he smiled in his mother's embrace.

"You must be John," she said after releasing Sherlock.

"Yes. It's very nice to meet you, Mrs. Holmes," John was a bit awkward.

"You too. Your rooms are ready upstairs - they are the first two on the left - you can freshen up there. The bathroom is a few more rooms down the hall and the one down here is just over there, past the dining room. Sherlock knows where everything is, ask him if you get lost. Lunch will be ready in an hour. Also, Mycroft won't be getting here until later this afternoon."

John took in all of the information. He nodded and led Sherlock upstairs. They unpacked Sherlock's bag first and then John went to unpack his own. After a few minutes Sherlock walked into his room and silently sat on the bed.

"You don't have to be here, Sherlock," John consented.

Sherlock didn't move; he continued to watch John until he finished. By the time they had both gotten situated a servant had came up to fetch them for lunch. For the first time in weeks, John didn't eat in silence. Mrs. Holmes was a very intelligent women who knew very much about her son's condition. It turned out when Sherlock was little, she would spend all her free time reading textbooks on autism. John was very impressed. It wasn't as though most parents didn't read up on their child's condition, it was just that Mrs. Holmes understood it in a way that could make her a major on the subject and become a psychologist. They had talked about simple things all throughout lunch, Mrs. Holmes questioning Sherlock why he was so quiet every now and then.

Hours later, Mrs. Holmes and John were still chatting over tea while Sherlock was curled up in a chair reading.

"That should be Mycroft," Mrs. Holmes had said at the sound of the doorbell.

Sherlock closed his book and nearly ran down the hall way. Mrs. Holmes laughed.

"It's just like when they were children. Mycroft would get home from school and Sherlock would come running with -"

"I don't think he likes me," John blurted.

Mrs. Holmes could only stare at him for a moment. "Sherlock?"

"Yeah. He doesn't seem to want to have anything to do me."

"John, you know how autism will make him withdrawn."

"He hasn't said a word to me since we've met. I'm starting to get concerned."

Mrs. Holmes assumed a very worried expression. Neither of them said anything for several minutes. They could vaguely hear Mycroft talking to Sherlock while they walked up the stairs.

"I didn't know John. He won't speak on occasion but he's never -" she cut herself off. "You mustn't blame yourself. No. It's probably just stress. He'll be himself soon."

"That's what Mycroft told me the first day."

Mrs. Holmes smiled gently and cupped her hand around John's face. "I'm his mother. Trust me."

John did trust her. He felt that now Mycroft was there Sherlock would start to improve. Dinner proved him wrong.

It was a nice meal and a nice conversation that no one really cared about. Everyone's attention was secretly on Sherlock who had his head down, continuously stirring his soup. He could feel all the attention and he didn't like it. There was nothing to like when he knew that they all had been talking about him just moments before. Other than that, everything was going smoothly - until Mycroft had to start talking.

"Why aren't you eating?" he had gently asked.

Sherlock looked up at him and did something with his hands that John could only guess was sign language.

"Use your words, Sherlock."

Again he signed a response.

"Sherlock, sweetie, you know I don't like it when you don't speak," Mrs. Holmes replied in a motherly voice.

There was no response. They both gave up after that. Sherlock kneaded his shirt and rocked slightly throughout the rest of dinner. When their plates had been cleared away John took Sherlock upstairs. His watch beeped just in time when John was putting the pills and a paper cup into Sherlock's hands.

"Are you alright?" he whispered.

Sherlock nodded his head quickly before swallowing the pills. His actions were rewarded with a smile from John.

"Do you want to go to bed or go back downstairs?"

After some thought, Sherlock pointed to the stairs across from them. John nodded and they went back to watch the documentary on Jack the Ripper (it had been Sherlock's choice but was really quite interesting).

Mrs. Holmes retired for the night after the movie ended but the rest of them stayed up to watch reruns of QI. John only made it half-way through one episode before Mycroft nudged him awake. He gave him a look that meant "go to bed, I'll make sure Sherlock follows soon." Or at least that was what John hoped it meant because he bid them both good night and made for the stairs. He paused, though, when he heard an unfamiliar voice say, "Good night, John."