Authors note: I always thought it odd that a guy who's brother basically is the British Government and who's parents have a bit of money would need a flatmate for financial reasons. So here's my take as to how that need came about. Basically Sherlock being stubborn and Mycroft being Mother Hen (and recruiting their actual mother to help). Hope no one's too ooc. Let me know what you think
Also on my fanfiction account
Mycroft Holmes was a man whose shoulders bore a great many responsibilities. His career at the highest levels of Her Majesty's government would demand no less, after all. At the moment, however, the source of his strife lay a little closer to home. Precisely, it lay five feet away in a hospital bed, glaring at him from underneath a mop of unkempt dark curls. Many others would have quailed at the icy blue stare but Mycroft was quite used to dealing with his little brother's moods.
"So" the elder Homles said sardonically "what is the meaning of this exercise in self destruction, Sherlock?"
"Oh for God's sake it was for a case! I wasn't actually trying to kill myself!"
"Oh I see! Still playing with the boys from Scotland Yard, are we?" It was one of the many bones of contention between them. Mycroft knew his brother had a brilliant mind. When he graduated top in his PhD chemistry class from university nearly six years ago, he could have walked into any job he wanted. In fact, Mycroft had gone to great pains to arrange for the creation of a position under him that would both suit his brother's interests and give him the opportunity to excel. Instead, Sherlock chose to spend his time rooting through bins in filthy alleyways to assist the local police force and dabbling in illegal substances. Whether it was because he couldn't stand the thought of Mycroft lording it over him or because he enjoyed showing off for the easily impressed, the elder brother had no idea.
"The police come to me when they are out of their depth, which is worryingly often..."
"I doubt they approve of your methods."
"They yield results. That's all that matters." Sherlock's brusque tone urged his brother to stop talking.
"You deal in results, I deal in consequences. The consequence of this latest escapade was very nearly your death, do you understand?"
"That was the point. I proved that the dose of that particular drug combination..."
Mycroft had no time for the sordid details. "So far this year you have managed to seriously endanger your life on no less than five separate occasions in the name of these problems you enjoy solving. I have to wonder if you can be left to your own devices..."
Sherlock wasn't listening. Instead he looked out of the window into the corridor beyond, seeing a familiar pair of silhouettes. "What are they doing here?" He snapped.
"I felt you would be more likely to respond to a higher authority."
A blonde lady swept imperiously into the room, almost towing her husband behind her. "Dear Lord" growled the younger Holmes.
"That is no way to greet your mother!" Said the woman herself "now what have you been doing to yourself young man?"
"Brother dear has taken a quite alarming combination of narcotics and has nearly died of multiple organ failure. I am attempting to convince him that this was a bad idea." Mycroft replied sternly from the corner.
"Oh this is familiar." Sherlock raised his usual baritone a few mocking octaves "'Mummy, Sherlock's been at the cake. Mummy Sherlock's broken your favourite bowl. Mummy-"
"Stop it! Your brother only has your best interests at heart!" Their mother remonstrated.
"How's the life drawing class going Mother?" Sherlock had forced his face into a tight smile "not very well judging by the state of your right hand..."
"Please Sherlock, it isn't the time." His father spoke gently "your mother is very worried.". It was true, the signs of it could be read on both their faces. Mycroft disliked having to involve them in this but if Sherlock could not be drawn by him alone, so be it.
"I am perfectly fine, Father. That haircut really doesn't suit you."
"Are you being deliberately obtuse?" Mrs. Holmes voice rang shrilly in the small room.
"Isn't that his natural state?" Mycroft sighed.
"Myc, please, that really doesn't help." Their father spoke again.
A quiet 'ping' cut through the thickening atmosphere "My phone, Mycroft, give me my phone." Sherlock commanded the member of his family closest to the table on which the Blackberry rested.
Sherlock sent his brother a withering look.
"No boys! We are having a family discussion. If you two could stop fighting for more than two seconds, that would be marvellous! Honestly you are brothers! You're supposed to love each other!" Their mother pinched her brows in consternation as she took a seat on a plastic chair.
Both siblings were temporarily united in expressions of distaste. "Why?" Said Sherlock "why does the fact that we happen to share parents have to make us best buddies?"
"That is a poor line of reasoning!"
Mycroft had a dim memory of a time before he became a sibling at seven years old. He remembered not being thrilled with the prospect. The whole baby malarky seemed to him a rather messy process that no people as sensible as his parents should repeat. However, he had warmed to the younger child. Sherlock had been a rather sweet little boy. How times had changed.
She took a deep breath. "Now Sherlock, Mycroft has suggested that until you find yourself a more...stable situation, that you stay with us. Given the circumstances, I think that would be for the best."
"Oh I see, because I don't have a nice sensible job like Mycroft I am to be reduced to a child, am I? I suppose you want me to die of boredom instead? I am staying in London. That is where I am needed. There was no need to get you involved."
"At least let me arrange for less...distasteful accommodation. In a better area of this infinitely troubled city."
"You are not my keeper, Mycroft! I won't take a penny from you!"
Mycroft rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to pinch his nose to stifle a rapidly encroaching migraine. "Perhaps I can suggest an alternative?"
A week later Sherlock was again to be found at St Bartholomew's Hospital. This time he was visiting the morgue to assist in one of Lestrade's more nebulous cases. Unfortunately, Stamford was currently treating his students to an unscheduled lecture among the dead. At least it might do something to wake them up during the 9am session. As he sat impatiently outside the door at 11.15 his phone 'pinged'. Mycroft, obviously in an appointment of some kind.
/Any progress with our agreement? Mycroft/
As it happened Sherlock had made some. After a session on Google, he had managed to find an available flat that would suit him well in Baker Street. When he had contacted the landlady, he had discovered a familiar name. Mrs. Hudson, it seemed, had slowed down her pace of life in the last few years. There was just one thing left. Sherlock was typing a suitably cutting reply to his brothers text when the entrance to the morgue opened and a gaggle of students left. He brushed past them into the clinical room. The smell of strong antiseptic hung in the air which mixed unpleasantly with the odour of cheap perfume some of the female students had been overusing.
"Oh hello Sherlock!". Sherlock groaned. Stamford rarely made riveting conversation.
"Get out. I need to conduct an experiment and Molly will be here any moment." He said shortly.
"Nice to see you too mate!" Stamford chuckled. When the detective failed to respond, he busied himself clearing up his papers. Sherlock, conversely, was assembling a wide array of objects that would ordinarily have no place in this room.
"How does one go about finding a flatmate?" He mused.
"You what, mate?" Asked Stamford.
Sherlock glanced up, apparently unpleasantly surprised he was still accompanied by the lecturer. He considered brushing him off but found himself repeating his question.
"I find myself in need of a flatmate. Property in Central London hardly comes cheap."
"Flatshare? You seem more the solitary type."
"Therein lies my difficulty. It has occurred to me that I may not be the most...agreeable flatmate to most people."
"Try Google? Gotta run anyway. See you."
Sherlock didn't respond. Instead, he looked up at the young woman walking through the double doors, her customary ponytail swinging. "Oh hi Mike!" She smiled.
"Molly." Stamford responded with a short wave.
"Ah Molly. Arrived at work early this morning, I see. I assume that means you've had time to find me a suitable body?"
As Stamford left, he couldn't help wondering; who *would* want Sherlock Holmes as a flatmate anyway?