The Best Man

Defined By Experience

Imagine you were born, brilliant in every way. Imagine your talents defined you, but not your heart. When people saw you all they saw was a book, a calculator, an encyclopedia. You were put on this planet to show how smart you are. Surely people thinking you are clever should be a welcome thing, but if they only see your brain. If they only hear your deductions and forget what comes from your heart, in time, so would you. So, imagine you were born, defined by your brain. How would life suit you?

Sherlock Holmes, of course, was once a child. He once had toys and had bad dreams. He used to cry when he scraped his knee, he used to climb into his parent's bed at night. He played with his dog and quite happily kept to himself, sometimes playing with his brother, in their far-off home in the countryside. He was a sweet and courteous young man and maybe sometimes he made one deduction too many, but he never set out saying that he would turn out to be cold or alone or 'sociopathic'.

Like a lot of humans would do, you cannot deny it, his classmates instantly labelled him 'freak' because he was different. Of course , they were young and hardly mature enough to understand that being different is just a part of life. Yet, this exclusion only ever continued for Sherlock. He was hardened into a man who despises the idea of caring. Though, he would never admit it's because he's afraid of getting hurt.

All his life; and outcast. Exclusion, nasty comments and even physical bullying from time to time. Sherlock Holmes was his own friend and he tried to make himself happy. He looked for substances in life to replace unknown friends. Any source of stimulation, he found, would distract his mind long enough to forget (or completely ignore) his lack of companionship. Sherlock Holmes had never loved. Sherlock Holmes never was loved (excluding his parents). So, why on earth would you question how he was acting today?

It was John. It always had been, and he had loved him from ''That was...amazing''. He had completely adored him, and he had latched like a vice onto the ex-soldier. He was new. He was different, and everyday Sherlock got by on the thought that he finally had a friend. A true friend. Someone who accepted his less-than-socially-acceptable quirks. Not like Lestrade, who only made a real effort to make conversation if there was nothing better for him to do (that in mind, he had been nicer since Sherlock had returned).

Yet,still. John Watson was a beacon of hope in Sherlock's gaunt and unhealthy life. So, of course he was the one person Sherlock would fall in love with. There's no surprise in that. And as Sherlock had found himself falling in love, his life was given purpose, but his life was also made chaotic.

He wanted to hold John. To kiss his forehead, cheeks, hands, and mouth. He wanted all of him, to lie in bed with him. To run around on cases with him and to feel the thrum of adrenaline again. 

He had almost felt that when they kissed. He had felt that longing surface and start to reattach his broken pieces. Now he was back at square one, with a few additions to his problems this time. He was spiralling out of control and Sherlock, by this stage, found it so incredibly infuriating. He couldn't think. He wouldn't eat....Well, it was a broken record by this stage. Sherlock was a broken record.

He had left John to Mary later that day to ponder what John exactly meant by ''choose''. John was a loyal man. He always had been. That would mean he would hate the idea of going against his wedding vows and leaving Mary, even if he decided he wanted Sherlock more. Then again, Sherlock hoped (he knew it was a fowl thing to do) that what had happened with Mary previously may have changed John's opinion on the woman. Maybe his love for her had slipped? Maybe even Sherlock, the manic-depressive sociopath, seemed more favourable. 

Yet, John had always been loyal to Sherlock too. He had always been there, even when he crossed a line and said too many deductions to count for, or if he stupidly insulted someone out of pure ignorance...John stuck by. Would he this time? Or would John decide it would be easier for the two to truly part ways this time. Not like before, when they had managed to come crawling back to each other, but truly separated from each other. 

When the tired detective found himself back at Baker Street, it was early into the next day. He didn't want to abuse himself with any sort of stimulation right now, but he did need to find some sort of release to calm down. So, Sherlock sat on his couch with a cup of tea and he shut his eyes. And, all he did was go over that kiss in his head. He went over the feel, the warmth, the taste, smell, desperation and love that had flowed between them. He found his fingers reaching up to trace over his own lips where John's had been. Oh, he wanted him. He loved him unbearably so and he didn't feel as if it would ever be something he would just move on from....But, who knew how John would react? Who knew who he'd choose? Sherlock managed to fall asleep to the memory of John's hands in his hair.