Sherlock was rather tired of being alone.

No, that wasn't quite right.

He allowed himself the luxury of pondering it, applying his methods to his own inner workings, finally admitting to himself: he was lonely.

He insinuated himself on the sofa like a long, lean cat; prone, pillow beneath his head, hands in prayer pose beneath his chin.

He had located a flat in Baker Street, owned by one Mrs Hudson, a former client. The garish flocked wallpaper notwithstanding, the flat was a real find. It felt like coming home, except that no one was waiting to greet him when he got there.

So this is why he got clean? Why he allowed Mycroft to convince him to quit the drugs, use his powers for better things, begin a new life? So he could endure this emptiness? He had suffered agonies of withdrawal, every cell of his body screaming out against the torture he inflicted upon himself. Now, in the aftermath, his heart was withdrawing, and somehow that was infinitely worse.

Everywhere Sherlock looked, everywhere he went, he was reminded of his shortcomings as a human being. Insults were hurled at him ("Freak!"), strangers recoiled against his social awkwardness, acquaintances repelled his clumsy attempts to fit in. He heard their barely concealed comments behind his back. He despised his own reflection in the mirror. Flawed. It had always been so, for as long as he could remember. Before, the drugs had numbed and dumbed him to all that.

He didn't want to be clever, if it meant he couldn't have one meaningful conversation, one connection, with another person. As a child he had come to loathe his cleverness for the way it informed his every thought and deed. Doomed him to a life forever without, wondering how other people made it look so easy.

Sherlock took stock, examining past relationships, trying to identify the problem, form a hypothesis, figure out where he went wrong. There had been one girl in school whom he had fancied, but she was incredibly cruel as she was beautiful. The memories had tormented him for years after. Later there had been a boy at university. That had gone better; turned out the boy wasn't interested after all, but at least Sherlock escaped without public humiliation.

Sherlock remained draped on the sofa for a full week, aimlessly drawing the bow across the strings of his violin. Mrs Hudson brought him tea and sandwiches, clucking that she was his landlady and not his housekeeper. Sherlock didn't respond. Still, she continued to bring the trays.

Mycroft watched, worrying constantly, fearing a relapse.

Sherlock absentmindedly caressed the parietal bone of his skull-friend, who now seemed woefully inadequate. He was nostalgic for the days when the empty eyesockets and vacant grin were enough.

Morose, Sherlock halfheartedly began looking for a flatmate... to help pay the rent, of course.

Who in the world would want a flatshare with a Freak? Didn't take a genius to answer that question: No one. He told himself it was probably pointless. And that it didn't matter, anyway.

Fate spins the wheel, sets the stage. Curtain up. Cue the players.

He is in the lab at Bart's surrounded by scopes and beakers and test tubes when two men walk in: One Mike Stamford, the other a stranger. Distracted, Sherlock asks to borrow a mobile phone. The stranger offers his.

Sherlock palms the phone (tan below the wrists/ military bearing/ left hand tremors/ psychosomatic limp why can't I ever turn it OFF?), begins tapping a text message.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asks as everything falls into place. Almost like it's been rehearsed.

The immortal pairing is born.

The game is on, two become one, and Sherlock feels alive for the first time in his life.