A/N: You'll have to forgive me if this is a bit disjointed in the beginning. This came about because I promised my friend Z.C.A I would write something for Sherlock. The beginning of part 1 is something I wrote ages ago, then just the other week I opened the document and basically sat down and wrote the rest. It doesn't have much of a plot - just testing the waters I suppose.


Anomalies Part One:

221B Baker Street had never exuded a particularly homely feel. Not with the previous tenants, and definitely not with the current one. Sherlock Holmes was a man who knew at least more than the average person about just about everything there was to know. That wasn't to say that he paid attention to all of it. Social etiquette, for example. Sherlock was functioning at too high a mental capacity to bother with what society deemed as 'appropriate and polite' social behaviour.

Anyone naïve enough to mistake Sherlock as a homely person would immediately be proven wrong. Did normal people keep human skulls on the mantle and fingers in the fridge?

It was a hard task indeed trying to find someone who could cope with Sherlock's unique personality. Mycroft was the obvious first choice, but they were brothers, and Mycroft was his own brand of unusual anyway. No matter how much Sherlock may resent Mycroft's intrusions, there was still a bond there that couldn't be broken.

One was the British Government, the other the World's only Consulting Detective. They made an odd pair, especially when one half continuously claimed the other as his arch enemy. But you can't choose your family, and were they really such a bad pair?

They simply worked, because, although Sherlock would never admit it, he wanted someone to understand his upfront, often abrasive, socially inept personality. Mycroft, despite not being the most understanding person in Britain was, ironically, the one who understood him best.

At least, he was in the beginning.

And then 221B Baker Street received its second tenant.

John Watson was army – ex-army now – and he had his own fair share of baggage. When he agreed to move in to 221B he wasn't entirely prepared for what he would have to put up with. No matter what he might have gathered about Sherlock prior to agreeing, there were certain things that could only come from experience.

And yet, when he got fed up with Sherlock and his body parts in the fridge, and unusual experiments spread all across the table, he didn't once think about leaving. Why on Earth would he do that?

Sherlock had given him what his life had been missing for so long. Excitement. And if that excitement was sometimes bogged down by irritation, then so be it! Life wasn't perfect, and it never would be, but the current arrangement was pretty damn good.

Yes, Sherlock criticised him and yes, he got sympathetic looks from the police every single time they ventured onto a crime scene, but then Sherlock would do something amazing, and John would speak his thoughts, and just for a moment, the genius's eyes would light up from his praise.

Experience had taught him one thing. No-one appreciated Sherlock Holmes. He solved cases for the police, and was rewarded with insults and taunts which, while he claimed they didn't affect him, always left a slightly hollow look in his eyes when they were finished.

John couldn't understand how they could act like that towards him. In his mind, Sherlock, despite his social ineptitudes, was completely brilliant. And so he made a point of telling him so. Most of the time Sherlock would scoff or ignore him or say something along the lines of "of course I am John, keep up", but sometimes, when the man was in a particularly dark mood, John liked to imagine his words like a candle in the darkness.

They lived together, and they coexisted, and it was crazy because they needed each other but would never admit it.

Having someone he actually considered a friend, someone whose company he could tolerate, even appreciate, for long periods of time... it unnerved Sherlock. He wasn't the sort of person who had friends; most people avoided him like the plague. It hadn't been outwardly acknowledged and he didn't know what he was supposed to do about it and he didn't know if John felt the same way and he didn't like being dependent on people but with John it was bearable and he just didn't know what was happening to him.

Mycroft was of no help; he didn't have friends either. It wasn't the Holmes way. Mycroft had associates and allies – and no doubt his fair share of enemies too – but friends were non-existent. Sherlock only had enemies. At least, he had only had enemies until John wheedled his way into his life.

What was it about John Hamish Watson?

Sherlock was aghast to realise he didn't know.

He was supposed to be good at deducing people, but he couldn't understand his own mind.

It was terrifying, but at the same time it was a little bit... thrilling.

John Watson was an anomaly, and maybe that was a good thing.