Quick author's note: Hello there! This is my first fanfiction ever, and I really hope it goes well... It's rated T only for language, by the way. The story's pretty much clean, definitely nothing graphic or even all that suggestive, I guess... okay, well, just a head's up. I guess that if you've got something against the word "fuck" you should stop reading now... otherwise, forge ahead, please forge ahead! Also, constructive criticism much appreciated. Thanks, and have fun!

•••

CHAPTER ONE: THE COAT

"Two twenty-one Baker Street." The voice is gruff and seeps through an accent thick as the peanut butter at the bottom of the jar, the kind of accent that turns every "th" sound into an "f" and denies the existence of the letter "h" with almost religious devotion. John's eyes flick up to the little screen – a number is already sitting there. Oh, bugger, he thinks. It takes him a moment – a little time to recollect the past ten minutes spent sitting in the small vehicle, watching the little people outside make their way by foot down the gum-splattered streets or into tube stations, and he wondered, What the fuck is it all for? Now he just thinks, Why? but it's over and done, and the cabbie's getting impatient, so his hand makes its way down to his wallet like a man out to war, and he waves a far too sizeable wad of bills a sad farewell.

He doesn't exit immediately; he looks out the window for a second, and there he is. This Sherlock Holmes person, the madman, this psychopath who knew everything about him just by looking. This man who's going to be a part of his life now, John supposes, who's standing in front of what could be his new home. This is why, John realizes. I'm not just moving, or maybe moving, I'm starting my life over and goddamnit, I drove up in a fucking cab.

The cabbie clears his throat and John realizes that he's been sitting there for far too long, awkwardly long. "Sorry," he mumbles, reaching to open the door and remembering something very important.

He starts to reach into his pocket and can feel the cabbie bristling. "Sorry, just a mo, please," he says, and slips a couple of color-changing contacts into his eyes. You're kidding yourself, he thinks. He knows so much about you already and you'll be living under the same roof and you still think you can hide this from him?

"Shut up," he mutters, and opens the door, and steps outside.

•••

He's trying so hard not to stare. "That's a skull," he says.

"Friend of mine," Holmes tosses out nonchalantly, adding, "Why'd I say 'friend'…"

"What do you think then, Doctor Watson?" asks the motherly landlady who's been standing politely in the corner with the air of John's own mum when he used to have his mates over for slumberparties. "There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

John looks up, startled. Wait, hold on, what? "Of course we'll be needing two…"

"Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts 'round here. Ms. Turner next door's got married ones." Before John can say another word in protest, she begins to step towards him, arms outstretched. "Here, dearie, let me take your coat for you."

"No." The sound erupts from his lips before he can hold it back. Ms. Hudson raises an eyebrow; Sherlock's head swivels towards him at the sound of his outburst. Inwardly, John's smacking himself. He clears his throat, unsure of what to do next, trying to shut out an age-old terror that threatens to consume him on the spot.

"I'm fine," he mutters, with a tight smile. "It's fine."

The landlady peers at him, scrutinizing him for a moment, and finally fans out her face into a kind smile. "Well, I'll leave you two alone to get settled in."

As soon as she leaves, John lets out a long breath, and looks around himself, at the flat. It is nice. Not the kind of place he'd imagined himself living in – at least not for a while. Not that he was complaining, of course. But be realistic, he tells himself. Can I really live here, with this person?

Holmes' (or, rather, Sherlock's, he supposes) sharp baritone voice slices through the air and through his thoughts; "I don't mind, you know."

A pregnant moment passes; John turns and tilts his head to the side in subtle confusion. "Sorry, what?"

"I don't mind," Sherlock repeats. He looks up from his computer, which somehow found its way into his lap during the past minute or so. John can't read his expression. "It's fine. It's all fine."

"Sorry, what's fine?"

"You know what I'm talking about." He looks back down, leaving John standing and glancing around the room in bewilderment.

"No, actually, I've no idea."

"You read the news, don't you?" He doesn't look up.

"Yes, of course."

"Then you've no doubt kept tabs on all the stories that have been popping up throughout the last few years."

Still, John could only stare. "What are you talking about?"

"Sightings, Doctor Watson. Sightings. Confessions, even. Rumors." Now he looks up – and yes, there is something in his eyes. "People say they've been seeing things."

"What–"

"Suzana Turner, murdered by her drug dealer, eighth of January last year," he says quickly, still without any emotion. "I was able to help out a bit."

"You–"

"I'm a detective of sorts, yes. The murder was completely transparent. But there was something interesting… about her body."

In the smallest of ways, John freezes. It is utterly insane, and it is impossible, but there it is. Sherlock can't possibly be talking about anything else, can he? Still, he can't possibly know. Knowing about his sister and his service is one thing, and it's an amazing, impossible thing, but knowing this is completely different.

Because John has been hiding this from everyone in the world for twenty-eight years and he'll be damned if someone sees through him in just one day.

"What," he begins, "the hell are you talking about."

Sherlock sighs. "Please stop pretending to be stupider than you are, Dr. Watson, most people start to short circuit when they descend below their normal level."

"Look. Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock," the man corrects. He sighs again. "We're going to be living together, John. I suggest you give up any hopes of hiding them from me. More importantly, judging by the small beads of perspiration collecting on your brow just now, you'd really like to take off your coat."

John cannot do anything but stare. Shit. How can he possibly know? Shit shit shit.

"You're suspicious about me because I'm not taking off my coat?" he asks, remaining as calm as he can.

"Yes. Well, that and the fact that you're wearing contacts even though you don't need glasses."

He shakes his head. "How the hell did you–"

"Never mind." He looks back down at his computer. "I'd like to make it very clear that I am not prejudiced. You're aware, of course, of the groups that are already organizing against your people; I see no reason for such hatred. What are you afraid of, Dr. Watson? Are you afraid I'll turn you in to some sort of authority, even though there is none that I know of? Are you afraid that I will see you as some sort of deformed monster, just like the your classmates in primary school?"

The silence that hangs in the air is as heavy as lead as John stares and his blood begins to simmer, and then boil. This is insane, he thinks to himself. How can he possibly know all of this? This is insane and impossible and I will not take this bollocks for one more second.

"You're right," he says, after the pause draws itself out.

Sherlock looks up. "Right about what?"

"It is warm in here," John says, his rage and indignation coolly channeled out into one laser of a sentence. To Sherlock's evident surprise, he all but rips off his coat, and the jacket underneath, and takes a breath and throws the coats on a chair and stares Sherlock down.

And this is it. He tries his hardest not to hide and/or smirk at the look on Sherlock's face; his mask of apathy remains, but the astonishment in his eyes is obvious and blatant. John smiles, to his own surprise, at the almost boyish awe overcoming this infuriating man's face – he can't help but forgive him the smallest bit for his lack of tact.

After a moment, Sherlock senses himself staring, and discreetly turns his eyes away, attempting to make it seem as if he doesn't care at all, as if it's no big deal, which it is, of course. He clears his throat. "Er. Yes." He can't seem to think of anything else to say.

"Yeah, I know," says John, not moving. "Pretty terrifying."

"No," Sherlock says, before he can seem to stop himself. He looks back up, awkwardly, for a moment. "I… what I mean is. They're. Er, well. Sort of. Beautiful, actually."

John's breath catches in his throat. His heart's pounding begins to slow as he stands in a stupor. He remembers; those kids back in school, who he thought were his friends, and all the things they'd said, and all the scars they'd left – and now here is this man, this madman, who sits and calls them beautiful.

"Thanks," he says, because he doesn't know what else to say.

Sherlock stares again, and John sees him, and he looks away. "Sorry."

"No, it's fine." John can feel himself beginning to relax. "It's… not everyday that you see a bloke with these big things sticking out of him like some oversized bug. I understand."

Sherlock says nothing, but reverts his focus back to his computer in silence. John continues to stand, until he walks into the other room and begins to survey the kitchen, only half paying attention, because his brain will not shut up.

I'm John Watson, and I'm a freak. I'm half fucking fairy and I have bloody giant insect wings and I think, I just think, that I might have found someone who doesn't care.