This is a story inspired by Captain Xena-Mation's great story 'When a Family Falls'. It contains her OC, Charlene, so this story will make more sense if you read that first.

fanfiction dot net /s/9485206/1/When-a-family-falls

Two weeks after John Watson moved back into 221B Baker Street, Mrs Hudson visited him in his flat, bringing freshly-baked blueberry muffins as a present. Blueberry had been Sherlock's favourite, but neither mentioned that. They sat together and ate companionably, glad things were back to normal. Well, almost normal.

Mrs Hudson eventually brought up the subject of Sherlock's belongings. "I didn't touch them, like I said. But I was wondering if you had any plans for them? There are lots of boxes and such, in his cupboards and in the attic."

John sighed. "I'll get round to clearing them out sometime. I'm a bit busy at the moment, but soon. Next weekend."

It was actually three more weeks before John could muster the strength, both physically and mentally, to shift the boxes out of Sherlock's room. The wardrobe was full of them, all different shapes and sizes and weights. He could have called a friend to help him, but he wanted to do the task alone. Somehow, he felt he owed it to Sherlock.

He started early in the morning. It was the middle of the afternoon when John finally stood in the middle of the living room, gazing at the large piles of boxes in front of him. He was rather daunted at the prospect of going through all of Sherlock's belongings, but nonetheless he rolled up his sleeves, knelt on the floor and got to work.

He opened the first box, small and thin, and looked inside. It was empty. He sighed and put that to one side, and opened the next. It was large and flat, and full of papers.

John pulled a few out of the top of the box, and sighed. It was full of old bank statements, tax returns, and all sorts of normal paperwork that he wouldn't have associated with Sherlock. He reached in and grabbed one from the bottom of the box, and sighed when he found it was dated fifteen years earlier. This is going to take a long time, he thought, rifling through the box again.

When Mrs Hudson came up to visit John at tea time, she found him knee-deep in papers of all colours and sizes, concentrating hard. She smiled and left him to his work, heading back downstairs to do battle with her malfunctioning cellphone.

A long while later, John looked at the clock and was surprised to find that it was two in the morning. He stretched and looked at the complete darkness outside, rubbing his eyes. He had been so engrossed in his work that he had hardly noticed the time passing.

As John got up and shuffled off towards his bed, he realised that he had not learnt anything about Sherlock from going through his papers. He had finished twelve and a half boxes, containing bank statements, tax returns, school reports, exam results, and letters. All they told him was that his friend had been smart, and good at school, and paid his taxes on time.

In fact, John thought as he lay down in his bed, Sherlock knew a lot about him, most of which he'd learnt by looking at him the first time they met. But John knew barely anything about Sherlock, except that he was an insufferable git at times, and was unbelievably brilliant.

The last thought John had before drifting off to sleep was that he should try and find out more about Sherlock. What had he been like as a child? When did he move into 221B? He had been an addict, what was the story surrounding that? I'll find out in the morning, he decided before sleep eventually overtook him and he drifted off.

o0o0o

John woke up late the next morning, which was no surprise, given that he had been awake until the small hours of the morning. He padded downstairs and saw the boxes still lying on the floor as he had left them, half-sorted. He got dressed and ready quickly, and hurried out the door.

Half an hour later, John was sitting in the Stranger's Room at the Diogenes Club, waiting for Mycroft to deign to join him. He had been waiting for a while when he heard the door open behind him, and he twisted around to see the British government step through the door quietly and sit in the chair opposite John. He leaned forward and steepled his hands expectantly. "And what can I do for you, doctor?" he inquired.

John leaned forward also, hoping to intimidate Mycroft. "I want to know about Sherlock."

Mycroft leaned backwards in his chair, looking relaxed and at ease, not at all intimidated. "He was your flatmate. I'm sure you've seen more of him lately than I have, Dr Watson."

John stayed leaning forwards. "I'm sure you've been watching him, Mycroft. But that's beside the point. I want to know about Sherlock as a person. His childhood. What he was like before I met him. Can you at least tell me that?"

Mycroft's mouth tightened slightly, almost imperceptibly, at the mention of Sherlock's childhood. "I think you really don't want the answer to that question, Dr Watson," he said dismissively.

John sat back in his chair. "I think you really don't want to tell me the answer to that question, Mr Holmes," he said, deliberately using the other man's full name.

Mycroft shifted slightly in his seat. "And if I do not?"

"Why won't you tell me? I have a right to know!"

"Do you, Dr Watson? What makes you think you have the right to demand anything? Are you my late brother's next of kin?"

John frowned. "No, but-"

Mycroft continued, cutting him off. "Do you have any evidence that shows that you should be allowed unlimited information about Sherlock?"

"No, but-"

"So what right do you have?"

"Well, none, but-"

"I thought as much. Good day, Dr Watson." And with that, Mycroft stood up and swept out of the room, leaving John wondering what had just happened.