To those who may read this piece.

The following story is not a work of fiction. Although this tale may seem bizarre, or even unbelievable, I can assure all that every word is pure truth. I myself still unravel and feel heartbreak in the fact that I was a part of it, that I was the one who would know and work with the greatest pupil England has ever known. He was not most known for his aptitude in exams, or even the intellect well beyond his years that he possessed. It was the adventures he and I found ourselves in, and the dangers we overcame. He was a master of the unknown and the unobserved, a genius of deduction, but most of all a champion of the law. You might question how a mere student of the University of London could solve some of the city's greatest murder mysteries, but that is because you did not know him. You never saw the stubborn, infuriating and yet brilliant mind that was Sherlock Holmes, or the dangerous rivals that spawned from his abilities. I am John. H. Watson, and this is our story.

Chapter 1 - A Master of Deduction

"John?"

I could decipher only a whisper through my racing mind.

In those first days the future was the last thing I wanted to think about. I remember sitting alone in that bleak room, not physically, but mentally. The voice of my mother was just as blurred as the voice of the Councillor. It was no more than she expected. I was not the only one to walk through that door carrying the pain of loss, and I certainly wouldn't be the last. It was present in my mother but in front of me she held such a strong determination that it fractured any image I could have of her own suffering. She kept those moments to herself, when she knew she was truly alone. She didn't think I could hear her, but through thin walls, my ears had no choice but to listen.

At first I wasn't sure who the whisper had come from. My confusion ended when the Councillor continued with her rhetoric, not knowing how much I had actually taken in.

"It is alright to talk about how you feel. It isn't weak to let it out."

My silence continued. Not a tear had been shed. I didn't have the inner strength for that. A calm and regrettable silence is how my mind coped with the loss of the man I once called father. I felt the hard wood of his cane between my fingers. It was his prized possession. I had taken it when mother wasn't looking and it had been by my side ever since. At times I had found myself leaning against it as I walked, almost imitating him.

"You know you can talk to me, John. Please… don't try to bottle it up." It was my mother this time, her voice soothing but its message inevitably in vain.

Several sessions mirrored each other, all with the same level of success. In the end, it really was up to me to try and understand what I was feeling. I found myself staring at photographs of us together. My father's life was cut short by his duty. Maybe it was mine to live the life he could not. Something altered in my head. The prospect of my own future is what would be my focus to escape despair. I would live the life Father could not. I already had a knack for the sciences, biology being a personal favourite. I'm sure I got that from him.

A new vigor was born. I studied as hard as I could with the grand goal of becoming a doctor. I figured that if I could go on to save lives, then his death would not be in vain. I still remember my mother practically jumping for joy the very moment I read aloud my acceptance letter from the University of London. Now there was no going back. Now it was time to prove myself to the man I could now only see through photos. As fate would have it, on the day my mother and I visited the Criterion restaurant for a celebration dinner, I caught sight of an old friend passing by.

"Stamford, I don't believe it!" I called out to gain his attention.

At first he didn't seem to recognize me, then I saw his eyes light up as it clicked.

"John!? Jesus, what are the odds of bumping into you?"

We had similar goals at school but his family had moved away during the last year, right before I started college. I explained to him about my acceptance, and about my father.

"That's hard, man. It must have been a blow. I'm sorry, I remember you said he was abroad?"

"Afghanistan." I clarified.

It didn't take him much to put two and two together.

"I'm sure he would be proud of you."

I knew he would say that. Practically everyone I told said it, in one way or another, as if they knew every thought that went through his head when he was alive. Speaking about him at length made me uncomfortable.

"Maybe I will see you around campus some time? Have you been given any accommodation or are you commuting?" he asked.

"Accommodation." I answered him.

I hadn't had the chance to check the place out yet.

"Anywhere nearby, may I ask?" he was always an inquisitive sort. Perhaps too inquisitive at times.

"Yeah, somewhere called…" I took out a scrunched up piece of paper from my pocket in case I forgot. "…221b Baker Street. I haven't seen the place yet."

The bright expression on his face disappeared. It was like I had just insulted him.

"No….well, it won't be boring, I'll tell you that."

His reaction puzzled me.

"How come?" I asked him.

"You haven't met your new roommate have you?" he shook his head in a disappointed manner.

"No, like I said I haven't seen the place. He's not messy is he?"

Stamford let out an amused grunt.

"You have no idea. He is, how can I say it? Different. A genius really, depending on how you see him."

What a strange thing. I was under the impression that he would be a student like me, yet Stamford described him as a genius.

"A genius at University. I suppose study comes easy to him?"

Stamford seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. It came to my attention that it was a topic he had never considered.

"You know, I don't really know what he studies. He seems to be knowledgeable about anything asked of him. Chemistry, other sciences. It just, clicks for him. Actually, this morning he was in one of the chemistry labs, I could introduce you if you want?"

It was a generous gesture. I suppose he remembered the days I use to keep a particular bully off of his back. You don't think about things like that at the time but now such an action had given me a free favour to spend. I said goodbye to my mother, who was still adamant that she triple checked I had all of my bags with me. I kept my father's old cane strapped to my backpack and headed off, looking back one last time. I can still remember that last expression on her face. It was a look of a proud yet scared mother. She knew the pain I still carried, the cane being a symbol of it but she knew she couldn't keep me from the world. It was time to fly the nest and become something new, even if deep down she felt like she had lost both of us.

The campus was no less impressive than I had expected. The first week of the semester was about to begin so new and older students alike were preparing for their year of study.

"Actually, I better cover myself here. If it turns out you don't get along, don't blame me." Stamford jested.

"Why wouldn't we?" I asked with a sense of misunderstanding that feels foolish looking back.

"Your roommate isn't the most approachable person. Don't get me wrong, he works hard but the way he tends to go about is a bit, well, cold-blooded."

That didn't seem too bad to me.

"He's passionate about what he studies. That's not a problem. At least we may have some decent discussion."

Stamford didn't look convinced.

"Not so much a conversation, more a one sided lecture I would imagine."

Without further ado, Stamford and I entered one of the chemistry labs. The room was filled with an overpowering smell, and darkened by the blinds that were pulled down just enough for small bars of light to enter. I could imagine myself spending many hours in the place during my future studies. Stamford spluttered and attempted to swat away the smell, as if that would be of any use. Clearly he was less inclined towards the atmosphere than I was, I myself having spent much time in College labs.

A single student was looking intently under a microscope. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the top of the workbench. I couldn't quite make out the tune but it didn't sound like anything modern as far as I could decipher from it. So engrossed in his work he was that he didn't even notice our presence, or he chose to ignore it. Either way, Stamford grew impatient and cleared his throat. Still the student carried on with his work.

"Sherlock."

He reacted to the call of his name. He jolted upwards slightly, his brow lowering as if he had heard a distant nose, despite us being barely ten feet from him. I got my first look at my roommate. He seemed normal enough, with dark, short cut hair that had been gelled back smartly. His piercing glare was less welcoming, but at the sight of us it became a smile.

"Stamford. Twice in one day. Is this a special occasion?"

I hadn't expected his voice to sound so, sophisticated. A student who had not even reached his twenties spoke with a manner so calculated.

"It is for you. This is John, an old friend of mine, and your new roommate."

His eyes darted from spot to spot, as if he was scanning me. He cocked his head after a moment and gave me a smile that seemed fake.

"Then it is a special occasion indeed. Pleasure to meet you John."

I shook his hand for the first time. The strength of his grip gave away the very little effort he was putting into our meeting.

"Good to meet you. I'm sorry if we are interrupting."

I was sure from his demeanor that we were no more than an inconvenience to him in that moment, even if he cared not to admit it.

"Tell me John, does the phrase 'ABO test' mean anything to you?" He asked me, his face not giving away why.

"Yes, it tells us that people have one of four blood types, depending on what antigens are in their red blood cells."

A great grin shone across his face as if I had just passed some sort of test. He placed his hand on my back and began to scurry me over towards his work bench.

"Exactly! It's such important knowledge in the medical profession, for sure. Without knowing what type of blood runs through your patient's veins, transfusions are guess work. Without the correct type you have a transfusion reaction."

I wasn't sure where he was going with his train of thought. Stamford didn't know what he studied precisely, so perhaps I had got lucky and was now roommates with a fellow doctor in training.

"Imagine however, all the discoveries we are yet to make of a far more sinister nature. Think of what we could do if, say, these discoveries could be used for criminal cases."

I had to admit I was intrigued, if not by what he was saying then by the sheer satisfaction he expressed as he told me.

"I don't quite see how blood type could help criminal investigations any more than they do." I told him.

"No, broaden your scope. What if such tests could be sped up? What if data could be collated and analyzed within hours? I am on the edge of one of those great discoveries John, the very edge of changing the future!"

I really hoped he was right, because he was starting to sound full of himself. He no longer had his hand on my back, now he was peeping through his microscope once again.

"I was on the very verge of my first breakthrough. They were lost and yet the answer was with me. Mason, you wouldn't have gotten out of the country if they had listened." He seemed to be talking to himself.

"Not still going on about that are you?" Stamford asked him.

"Mason, Levevre, Samson. I will go on about them as long as we continue to lack the power to bring men like them to justice."

Stamford was quite amused by the whole thing, while I was still trying to discover if Sherlock was for real or not.

"You could write a book on all the times you 'let them go', Sherlock."

The more they spoke the more I started to understand how often Sherlock must have rambled on about these discoveries of his. The back of his hands were discoloured and on his right were a number of scars and old cuts. I broke my gaze when I realized that he was looking directly at me again.

"Your father was a veteran from Afghanistan, correct?"

I was speechless. How could he have possibly have known that!? His use of the word 'was', was sharp to hear.

"How do you know that?" My voice was quiet and my lips barely moved. He didn't look fazed by my reaction at all.

"The cane you keep trying to conceal in your backpack. Vintage, old wood with a distinct bullet mark just below the handle."

My father had told me the story of how it had got there. I barely noticed it myself anymore, and yet here was this student who knew exactly what it was from a single glance.

"My condolences."

There was little emotion in his words. Stamford looked awkward beside me, he himself having got a taste of how the subject made me feel.

"I better be off. John hasn't actually seen your flat yet so-"

"I'll ensure he arrives safely. Thank you Stamford, I'm sure I will see you again very soon."

Stamford made his exit swiftly, leaving me alone with my peculiar roommate.

"How did you know about the cane?" I asked him.

I spotted a slight grin in the corner of his mouth.

"Deduction."

A single word, not much to go on, but maybe that was who this young man was.

"Well John, I am about done for the day. I'm sure you are anxious to see where you will be living for the next couple of years." His speech was monotone, the excitement he gained from his work having all but disappeared.

He seemed like he was going through the motions, as if our meeting was some string of required actions and words. Perhaps I was thinking too much about this odd character. Maybe it was just his nature and from what Stamford had told me, that thought process seemed about right.

Baker Street wasn't too far from the campus grounds. Sherlock remained quiet, only breaking his reserved silence to keep me on the right track. He carried himself with a rehearsed vigor, each step in line with the one before it. I hadn't got a good look at him in the dark laboratory but out in the London streets I could see it all. He was like an echo from the past. This is the way people use to carry themselves. I hadn't been in London long, but I knew that the people who lived here had changed. I don't think anyone had given Sherlock the memo. I wondered if his parents were traditionalists.

I was pleasantly surprised by the rooms at Baker Street. There were two comfortable bedrooms and a large living room, with two windows that let in a homely warmth. It certainly looked nothing like the kind of place you would expect two University students to stay. It had an old quality to it. Perhaps it was the red wallpaper, or maybe the lack of modern furnishings and rows of tattered books that aligned shelves on the left wall. I can still remember the first time I heard the ticking of that old clock that stared back at me, its hands counting down every second we spent without a word between each other.

"I trust it is to your liking?"

I'd forgotten that he was even there for a moment.

"Err, yes. It's fine."

He had already left the sitting room before I could turn to face him. With him out of view, I took the opportunity to take a gander at some of his many books. I thought they would shine a light on what my new roommate was studying. They only served to add further confusion. There were textbooks and theories written for well over a dozen different topics on the first shelf alone. At first I thought he was into the same line of study as myself, what with the first row containing biology texts and studies of the human anatomy. That idea was shot down when I saw the rest. I thought at first that his interest was in criminology, considering what he had said to me with such excitement on campus. The books on his shelf didn't serve to support that theory however.

"You are free to perusal through them. As long as you put them back in order, of course."

I turned immediately, as if I had just been caught doing something distasteful.

"Oh, thanks. I was just wondering-"

"That is a mystery, isn't it?"

He already knew what I was thinking. I was starting to see why this person could get on others nerves. He was already ahead of your own thought processes. It was something I would have to get used to. Sherlock continued to watch me as I analyzed the place. Cobwebs were strung in the corners of the sitting room, and a layer of dust was beginning to form over the furnishings like snow. It was a different story for other parts of the room. The books, the sofa, the desk against the right wall, they were all immaculate. Even the papers atop the desk were placed to give the user ample room and access to them.

I left the sitting room and sat on my bed for what would be the first of many times. The place suddenly felt very alien. This is what I would call home, yet nothing screamed John Watson. I didn't bring any of my old posters with me, I was regretting it. The room was darker than I would have liked, with only a small window above a dusty side cabinet. The bed was comfortable at least. I placed my father's cane against the bed frame.

I would be staying in a hotel for the first night until my stuff was delivered the next morning, so I thought there was no harm in leaving it there. It was harder than I thought, taking each step towards the bedroom door with the cane behind me. I had kept it close to hand for years, like a ghost that comforted me at night. I felt like I was betraying it, leaving it there in a strange place. "I have to do it," I said to myself. If I couldn't move on for a night, how could it ever happen?

I fought through my doubt and closed the door behind me. Sherlock remained in the sitting room, staring intently out of the window with his fingers entangled behind his back. This truly was like no one I had ever met before. Only time would tell how different.