This version is much more cannon, adding Moriarty into the mix. I'm not a big fan of this version because of him. Once he shows up, it seems like he threw a wrench in my story (which would be in character, but still...)

People describe Sherlock in a number of different ways: crazy, psychopath, arrogant, proud, insane, egotistical, freak, genius, selfish, bloody bastard, conceited, apathetic, reckless, clever, rude, narcissistic, cold, unfeeling, uncaring, and many, many others.

They're right, for the most part. Sherlock never has been nor will be one to conform to society's standards- limitations being the more apt description. What good is politeness? Isn't it better to just tell the truth, not lie or hint at it instead? Why doesn't everyone notice the seemingly obvious facts instead of asking stupid questions? And just what is normal anyway?

So they're right, but not fully.

The problem is not that Sherlock does not feel.

It is that he feels too much.

The worse part is that most isn't his own.

Ever since he can remember, he has been pressured by other people's emotions. That's the actual reason for his mind palace. Technically, it's not a palace, it's a castle. A castle with thick wall and a moat around it. It's the only way to keep everything out, to stay sane.

He never tells anyone. It's obvious that what he can do isn't normal. And people fear what isn't normal. He knows this. He can feel the discomfort, the shock, the dismissal and disgust and fear when he reveals his intelligence. Always too smart for his age.

He doesn't need another reason for everyone to hate him.

Their emotions hurt. More than the words because while anyone can lie- and he always knows because he always feels them- the intent is the danger. The desire to harm, to injury, to wound, to cause as much pain as possible.

Mycroft tells him that caring is a disadvantage. He believes him. What is the advantage of feeling the other children cruelness- they're all stupid anyway, his Mummy's distant caring- 'that's lovely dear, but not now', his Father's expectations- too much, too heavy, his brother's disinterest- 'loud, messy, unorganized, when will he grow up?, be useful?' ?

There is none.

So he builds up his walls, keeps everyone out and his mind safe. He stops trying to fit in- as if he tried that hard anyways because the damage was already done before he knew better so why fight a useless battle? He withdraws- they can't hurt you if you don't let them near you. He sharpens his deduction skills- a weapon against all the stupid people in the world and they're all stupid. He becomes an island unto himself.

Time goes on. He attracts labels and dons one himself- "I'm not a psychopath, I'm a high functioning sociopath, do your research!"

They assume that their words bounce right off of him, that he doesn't care.

But their words- their intents- batter the walls of his castle. Every word, every sneer, every thought of disgust he has to work to keep out, has to protect himself. Cocaine helps for a time, but eventually he is forced to stop. They don't understand that is isn't ruining his mind, it's helping preserve it.

So time goes on and no one ever stops to wonder why he's like this. No one ever realizes that they are as responsible for who he is today as he is. That their emotions fight to overwhelm him with each breath he takes. That his apparent cold and uncaring nature is simply a defense mechanism for him to survive. That if he cares, if he lets down his walls, he'll drown.

Everyone assumes the labels are true.

And then he meets John Watson.

John is unlike anyone he has ever met before. He says amazing and brilliant and means it. He radiates depression, but he also radiates an aura that Sherlock can only describe as pure sunshine. He wants to bask in it. He wants to curl up in John's lap and purr as John praises him. No. He wants to be inside John. To find out what makes him different from the rest of the idiots on this dismal planet.

Some days all he wants to do is curl up in John's lap and bask in his light. Feel the warmth of regard and fondness emits off of him, strengthen his walls, calm his racing mind. Some days it takes all of his control not to. Because that's a Bit Not Good- it's not what flatmates do, nor best mates, but couples. And heaven forbid they do anything to fuel the fire. Everyone else already thinks they're together enough as it is. Never mind that Sherlock doesn't give a flying fuck about other people.

All he wants is a cuddle. It's not like he's asking the Doctor to have sex with him or anything. Sherlock shudders at the thought. Sex is more than a Bit Not Good. Sex is classified as Horrifying and Overwhelming and Never Try Again.

He found this out in uni. It was for an experiment of course. So many crimes are crimes of passion. And to understand passion, he decides he has to experience it for himself. Of course, not knowing what to expect- oh he understood how it was done well enough, he did do previous research on the subject- it went very bad, very quickly. He knows exactly what went wrong and he knows never to try again. Ever.

So no, he didn't want sex with John Watson. He just wanted to be shielded from the world for a few hours. Was that such a bad thing?

When Sherlock first saw Molly's new boyfriend, he felt a wave of lust hit him. He didn't react outwardly, but on the inside he shivers. Too much lust always made his skin crawl. After all lust was often the prelude to sex and sex was not something Sherlock would ever be interested in.

But the lust was almost enough to distract him from what was underneath. He would have missed it completely if Jim had not stopped, just for a split second, to look at John. Then he felt the obsession, the focus, the madness directed at him and the revelation directed at John. He doesn't understand that last part, but he knows it's not good. John is his and he refuses to let him to used against him.

He tells Molly her new boyfriend is gay. John scolds him, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't want Jim around her. He may act cold towards her, but there he does hold some fondness for her, just not enough to be polite. It would be better if she could keep her sexual desire to herself. As previously stated, it makes his skin crawl.

But then Jim is forgotten in the rush of the case and he forgets about him until to Pool.

When John walks out to meet him, Sherlock is horrified. Not that he thinks John is Moriarty, no that is not something Sherlock could miss. But he feels John's fear and determination, though neither show on his face.

Then Moriarty reveals himself and it turns out he is Jim as well. The revelation makes sense now, but too late. Too late to protect John, which is what he was trying to do by driving him away. Better that he be safe and angry with him then trusting but in danger.

Sherlock feels his angry, fear and protectiveness well up inside him. He wants nothing more than to lash out, to make him feel the same fear he is feeling. He wants him to regret the very thought of ever touching John Watson. To regret being born.

But then he is gone and Sherlock rips that damn coat off of him and flings it away. John is giddy with relief and makes some joke. Sherlock responds without much thought. His walls are down right now and he can feel John, feel much more than he ever could, but he can also feel the others. The snipers have not left, nor has Moriarty.

"Sorry boys, but I'm just sooo changeable," he says with a demented grin.

No he isn't. He has planned to kill them all along. He can feel it. He can feel the excitement, the eagerness, the desire to cause as much destruction as possible. He can feel his sick fascination with death, the more violent the better. He can feel the obsession directed all at him. The desire to never stop until he is destroyed. And the pitying curiosity towards John. Sherlock feels the rage come back. No. Never again will this monster live to wreak more havoc on their lives.

Sherlock knows what he must do.

His uni years were the years he did the most research on his powers. Far from his parents and the questions they might ask. Far from Mycroft and his sneering judgment. He explored the world of science fiction, fantasy and comics. He found a name- empathy. And he found out what he could possibly do. There were numerous applications, ways to control and shield and do. It simply came down to his strength, determination and his imagination.

Now, there is one application that stands out. He remembers being interested, yet sick at the same time. He saved the information, just like he saved the rest, but he never thought it would apply. Now it does.

He levels his gun at the bomb. Beside him, John tenses, ready to push him into the pool. He feels Moriarty's amusement.

He smiles in return. "Surprise," he says. Just before he shoots, he flings his rage and fear at every single one of them. John pushes him into the pool as the world explodes above them. He feels Moriarty's surprise and shock before everything goes dark.

He wakes to pressure on his hand and a beeping sound in his ears. His head aches fiercely, but thankfully his walls have recovered. He would not have survived long if they hadn't. It is bad enough that he felt as much of Moriarty as he had. They are nothing alike. On the surface yes, but underneath, no. He knows himself well enough to know he doesn't enjoy death, but the puzzle of how they died. He has no desire to see someones blood pouring out of them, of spattered brain on the ground.

Sherlock tries to push this away for the time being. It takes more effort than it should for his aching head and he groans.

"Hey," he hears a voice say, "Sherlock? Are you awake?"

Of course he is. What kind of dumb question is that?

"Sherlock?"

And what is this pressure on his hand?

"Sherlock."

Oh. Obvious.

Sherlock opens his eyes to see John in a chair next to him, holding his hand.

"Morning sleeping beauty," John grins. "How do you feel?"

Sherlock crinkles his nose is disgust.

John laughs. "That's what I thought. Here." He holds out a cup. Sherlock takes it and John gentle helps guide it to his mouth. He drains it. "Better?"

He nods. The water did help clear away some of his less desirable thoughts.

"Good. You've been unconscious for twelve hours. The doctors can't find anything wrong, other than some bruising, so you need to be checked over one more time and then we can leave."

Sherlock looks John over. He is in different, dry clothes, but he hasn't showered. There are dark circles underneath his eyes, along it is not visible in the one, due to bruising. His shoulder aches, that is obvious, as well as his back, but nothing serious.

"He's dead," John informs him quietly. "All of them are. We are the only survivors. Lestrade is having a fit. The case has been taken off his hands- Mycroft obviously. He says it's a bloody miracle we both survived relatively unscratched. You should expect a lecture for arranging meetings with dangerous bombers by yourself."

Sherlock feels a rush of relief and nausea. Relief because he did it. John is safe. And so is he, but John is the more important factor in this equation. But nausea because he did it. He just killed seven people with his empathy, something he never thought he would do.

"Hey, Sherlock are you alright?"

"Home," is all he says.

John nods. "Okay, I'll go get a doctor. I'll be right back."

The doctor is boring and pointless and having an affair with one of the nurses. Cliche. Sherlock doesn't want him touching him. He doesn't want anyone touching him. He fidgets.

John places a hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock, stay still. Just a little while longer. He needs to finish." He leaves his hand where it is.

Sherlock finds the doctor much easier to bear after that.

They take a cab back to the flat. Sherlock bounds up the stairs two at a time, walks in and flings himself on the couch because headache be damned. He is home and he is staying home until the world decides to shut up.

John makes tea and pokes at him until he takes it. "Better?" he asks as Sherlock sips it.

Sherlock shakes his head. No, it is not better. Tea does not make everything better. Tea does not erase the rage and fear he felt. Tea does not erase that John- they- could have died. Tea does not erase the feel of Moriarty. Tea does not erase that he just killed seven people with his mind. Tea does not erase any of that at all.

John nods and sits next to him. Right next to him so they are touching, shoulder to knee. John is radiating calm and soothing and Sherlock can feel himself relax.

They drink their tea in silence. John doesn't move away from him the entire time. In fact, when they are finished, he moves closer, wrapping an arm around the detective. Sherlock isn't sure what this means, but he can't help himself when he snuggles closer.

"So," John begins, "at the Pool, I felt something."

Sherlock is silent. Of course he felt something. Sherlock knows exactly what he felt. He was in his head.

"Something that wasn't mine."

Shite.

"Which sounds ridiculous at first. But it makes more sense the more I think about it. Because I know what I was feeling. And I know that I was much more worried about you then I was about myself. Yet somehow I felt a distinct fear for myself. And also rage," he pauses thoughtfully, "Of course that could have been all mine. I was fairly pissed at him. So that part isn't conclusive, but still interesting. The protectiveness was interesting as well. Never felt protective over myself before."

Sherlock snorts. Leave it to John Watson to come to a reliable conclusion that would disturb most people and have him joke about it.

He smiles. "I just thought I should let you know I got a bit more than you were probably intending. Also the sociopath argument has officially been obliterated, but I'll keep that to myself," another pause, "Not that I plan on telling anyone else anything anyways. Who would believe me?"

"The irony is rather rich," Sherlock agrees, "The sociopath is really empathic. You might cause someone to fall into a coma from laughter. On second thought, maybe you should tell Anderson. I could use the peace for once."

John scowls. "I should just to shut them the bloody hell up. I never liked it before. I really don't like it now."

"Because you suddenly think their words matter?"

"No. Because they have enough nasty intent behind them to hurt anyone, let alone someone who can feel that intent."

Sherlock is silent, which wordlessly confirms John's suspicions. While he may not be as smart as Sherlock, he is not stupid, like the rest of the world's idiots. He may not be able to deduce things like a person's career by their hands, but emotions are his forte. If there are emotions involved, Sherlock is learning to rely on John to navigate through them. It is just another way Sherlock is coming to rely on John.

Sherlock moves closer still and John lets him. John lets him practically climb into his lap and all he does is pet Sherlock's hair. Sherlock closes his eyes. This. This right here is what he has been longing for for so long. A good cuddle with nothing to interfere, no pesky desire to fend off, just a calm, accepting, fondness. Sherlock virtually purrs with contentment.

John chuckles. "You really are something else."

"Hmmmm, yes," Sherlock agrees, "Don't stop."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

This is part of a completely cannon version of the story. I've never been particularly good at writing Irene, which is why I gave up on this particular version. The inspiration didn't get me very far, as you can clearly see.

John is under the impression that Sherlock is in love with Irene Adler.

John is very very incorrect.

Sherlock is not merely not interested in her, he is repelled by her. Her mind is interesting, her intellect, but so much of her radiates sexuality. Her entire being is practically dripping with sexual drive, sexual desire. It is the center focus of who she is. Irene Adler is a very sexual being.

Sherlock could never be interested in someone like that. Lust makes his skin crawl. It makes him feel dirty, like they are using him, taking something away that he cannot get back. They take without permission, stealing what they want and leaving the rest to be cast aside.

It leaves Sherlock appalled. He never understood the desire to have someone sexually. He has never felt lust for anyone. It was always something other people experienced, never him. And he feels that they make up for his lack as well. In the years he finally grew into his too tall, too thin limbs, he noticed as steady increase in the lustful stares of his peers. Of course he soon discouraged them, but that did not stop the numerous strangers from looking. There was nothing he could do but endure.

Nothing said he had to do it gracefully after all.

But finally, in uni, he decides he needs to experience it. So many crimes are committed because of it. Why? What was so great about it? What was about it that fuelled enough jealously to kill?

Just because he never felt the desire himself didn't mean he couldn't have sex. All he had to do was find a willing partner. Once he did, he could reflect their lust, which is practically the same as feeling it himself. He could work with that small technicality.

Except it was no where that easy. He may be able to find people willing to stare at him, undress him with their eyes, but they were unwilling to have sex with him. Whether that was because they were not interested after he opened his mouth, didn't want a virgin, or were just plain uninterested in doing anything but stare, he was unsuccessful.

He also found that he did not want to have sex with those people. All they wanted was his body. They did not care about anything else. The shag was the only important thing. That was what Sherlock wanted as well, but that didn't seem to make a difference. He couldn't have forced himself to go through with it, even if one of the people had expressed interest.

So he set out to find someone who not only appreciated his body, but his mind as well. This was substantially harder as there were fewer of these- approximately zero. Sherlock about gave up on the experiment when he finally found someone, through a dog bite of all things. He didn't realize that Victor would be the one he could experiment with at first. But as his regard and fondness for the other boy grew, he decided that it could work. He fit both qualifications and was agreeably to the idea.

It was a disaster.

With the first kiss, Sherlock was rather passive. He could admit that it felt interesting to have another person's lips against his own. But only to a certain extend and certainly- once he experienced it- never with a tongue trying to lodge itself down his throat. But Victor seemed to like it enough and that was all that mattered. He let down his walls to feel it and oh. Oh that did feel good. He got lost in the sensation of Victor's pleasure.

And that was the problem. He lost himself. His walls opened too fast, too wide. He was bombarded with emotions. It felt like he was drowning. He was drowning, never mind that he could get enough air. Everything came too quickly, too much to handle yet alone process, too many sensations. His body was out of control and his mind was fast following. He panicked and Victor got caught in the backlash of it.

They put it down to first time nerves, though neither believed it and never tried again. They did stay in touch, but eventually that stopped as well. The whole experience was consuming and he vowed never to try again. He didn't care how much his brother teased him for it, it was not happening. It was too much trouble for something he felt no desire for.

Thus when Sherlock met Irene, he stuck to the case because of the puzzle, nothing more. He would never, ever, fall in love with someone who lusted after him that much. She would eat his brain alive if he tried. And he refused to lose himself to that woman.

So no, Sherlock Holmes is not in love with Irene Adler and he wishes John would stop thinking that he is.

The jealousy is getting tedious as well. Obviously he is John's. Not that John seems to realize this either. Idiot.