A/N: Hmm, first storyish thing for Sherlock. Please note this is FRIENDSHIP and not slash. I don't write slash. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this. :)

I don't own Sherlock, as much as I like the series.

Before, he'd never really had any friends.

Before, he'd never really cared, either. Sure, there was the occasional fleeting desire to have someone to talk to, but he was so often preoccupied by his work that he completely ignored this. He would force himself to be more and more concentrated in his work, less caring to the world, as to repress the urges. He did not need company, and it was never easy to find anyone who would put up with him to begin with.

To most people, he was something to marvel. A genius of sorts, though one who constantly put his life on the line. He spent many of his years doing the same thing, constantly challenging himself with the newest murders until the police could finally figure things out by themselves. Oh, he hated when they didn't need him. As gruesome as it was, the murders were puzzles. They gave him something to think about.

This, however, was before he'd met John Watson. And then everything seemed to change.

He knew from the moment that bullet had ripped through the cabby, from the moment he'd realize who had been holding the gun.

This was the sort of person he'd been wanting to know for all his life. No matter how hard he'd tried to stop himself from finding friends, one had found him, and then he wasn't sure if he could ever let go.

And then there was the panic. The panic he'd felt when he'd seen the explosives on John's body had been unreal. This had been one of his reasons for staying out of everyone's way. His job was dangerous, and he knew it. His job was dangerous because he liked it that way. Inadvertently, he'd thrown John straight into the line of fire, the same way he'd always feared he might do to someone else.

But nevertheless he now had someone to rely on. No matter how often their differences might get in the way, they would always be able to rely on one another. Even when wired with explosives or on their last breath, they'd be willing to stop a bullet for the other person.

Of course, they were no ordinary sort of friends. He'd never expected them to be anyway. They'd hardly known each other when they'd met, and yet John had not seemed disturbed when he'd guessed everything about him. They didn't know each other's secrets, nor did they care to. But somehow, they were still close, still willing to fight for one another. They did not need to know the other person's favourite color - he would have called it irrelevant anyway - nor their birthday or any other trivial fact.

They were no ordinary sort of friends, but they'd never trade for any other.