My first story for Sherlock, I hope you enjoy it. I wanted to write stories for this series, but I didn't know how to start my first one, so I just started writing and this came out. Feedback would be greatly, greatly appreciated.

Psychopath. Sociopath. That's what they call him. Or, if they're feeling generous, arrogant sod. Freak. He hears them say it and the words enter him. He knows they're all true. He made them true. Well, the sociopathic part anyway. They called him a freak, called his deductions a "trick." Even Sebastian, and Seb was…

What choice did he have but to shut himself off? They didn't understand him and the way his brain works. And because they didn't understand, they feared him. They feared what he could find out about them with just a look. After all, everyone has secrets. Those who deny that fact have even more. And they're the ones desperate to keep their secrets hidden.

He didn't realize at first how people felt when he laid their life bare. By the time he did, everyone hated him, and it was too late.

They don't understand why he behaves the way he does. They all expect him to rude, callous, and insensitive. He simply lives up to their expectations. Logically, he can't change their mind, so he may as well have some fun. Now it has gone deeper. It's who he is.

Nor do they understand why he doesn't care about the victims. Because it's not that he doesn't care, it's that he forces himself not to. As strongly as he pretends, he doesn't just do it for the challenge, for the puzzle. At least, he didn't when he began. He wanted to help people, save them from criminals. And logically it was best to ignore feelings of concern. They simply got in the way. He cares so much about people he buries that caring to save them. But that reason's gotten a little, lost, over the years.

He's so wrapped up in his "Sociopath Sherlock" persona, he's forgotten who he used to be. But it didn't take much to remind him of who he was before.

ooo

"That, was amazing."

"You think so?"

"Of course it was, was extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people usually say."

"What do people usually say?"

"Piss off."

John would never know just how much those simple words meant to him. Amazing, extraordinary. Words he'd never heard before. Not applied to him. That was the first time it had occurred to him that someone other than himself could find his brilliance amazing and wonderful, instead of annoying and freakish. And it felt good.

ooo

"That's fantastic."

"Do you know you do that out loud?"

"Sorry, I'll shut up."

"No, it's, fine."

And it was. More than fine. John's verbal tics brought new sensations. He knew about psychology, about how things can slip out and the sheer honesty in those slips. That it meant John had not been lying earlier. Of course he hadn't though. All of his impressions of John had been of a very honest, straightforward individual. And he considered himself an excellent judge of character. It made him enjoy explaining his deductions. The look of awe on John's face made trying to explain his brilliance to fools all worth it.

He'd forgotten how nice it felt to be admired by others.

ooo

"Good shot."

"Yes, yes it must have been, through that window."

Through banter and jokes, he lightened the grim mood.

"Stop it, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene, stop it.""

More banter between him and John.

"You were going to take that damn pill, weren't you?"

So John actually cared about him. Funny, he'd been so detached about everyone else. How had John become so close so quickly? Well, to a mind like his, the answer was obvious. John was the only one of "everyone else" who was willing to become close.

"Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson."

He rather liked the sound of that.

ooo

"Because I had a row in the shop with the chip and pin machine."

"You had a row with a machine?"

"Sort of. It sat there while I shouted abuse. Have you got cash?"

"Take my card."

"You could always go yourself, you know. You've been sitting there all morning. You've not even moved since I left."

He said nothing.

Didn't defend himself. Just hid the sword and continued reading. He didn't want John to worry. Although it was nice to think that. Usually he didn't tell people things because it wasn't worth the trouble. But this was different. He knew John would worry. And as nice as that felt, he didn't want John to worry.

Things were definitely changing.

ooo

"This is my friend, John Watson."

"Friend?"

"Colleague."

When John said that, he had to pause for a moment. John wouldn't know what that word, that distinction, meant.

What it meant to him.

ooo

"Yeah, well, I remember all of it."

"Really?"

"Well, at least I would, if I can get to my pocket. I took a photograph."

He knew it. He knew John was smarter than the brainless rabble most of London was inhabited by. None of them would have taken a picture. Not Lestrade, not Molly, not Mrs. Hudson, certainly not Anderson or Donovan. John wasn't on his level, almost no one was, but neither was John on the level of the rest of them.

That was why he kept John around. Initially it was because he needed a flatmate. Anyone would do. But John had made himself better than "anyone" when John saw his deductions as brilliant.

Now John had proved even more so that John was an excellent choice.

ooo

"John, I've got it! The cipher, the book, it's the London A-Z that they use—"

John was gone. And those damn symbols were there in John's place.

Deadman.

No, not John. That was all he thought as he searched on the map for the location.

Not John.

ooo

"Don't worry; next date won't be like this."

He looked up at that, a little insulted. He had just saved the two from certain death. He expected at least a thank you. Maybe not from that damn woman, she was just another one of those mindless, boring people. She was clearly so in shock she was unable to function. Couldn't talk, couldn't move, could barely sit there and whimper. Not her fault, but still.

Boring.

What did John see in her? She was so, dull. He was annoyed at John consorting with such a mindless woman. He considered John a friend by now, and he was always a possessive person, never liking to share. And he certainly did not want to share his John with someone like this, this "Sarah."

ooo

"You know what I do. Off you go."

"No."

"Go on."

"No, I am not going to stand there so you can humiliate me while I try to de—"

"An outside eye, a second opinion, it's very useful to me."

"Yeah, right."

"Really."

He did mean it. Partially it was to get back at John for what John about how he treated Molly. He wanted John to think well of him. And he was a bit petty.

But he did value John's input. John got a lot more than most would, that much was certain. And he wanted John to know how much value he put on John's opinion.

And it was nice to show off how much more he got out of the shoes.

Besides, he had to insult John a bit. It was the only way to hide what he actually thought.

ooo

"There are lives at stake, Sherlock. Actual, human lives. Just so I know, do you care about them at all?"

"Will caring about them help save them?"

"Nope."

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."

"Oh, and you find that easy, do you?"

"Yes, very. Is that news to you?"

"No, no."

Silence.

"I've disappointed you."

"That's good, good deduction, yeah."

"Don't make people into heroes John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did I wouldn't be one of them."

As much as he tried not to show it, he cared a lot about the fight he and John had just had. He wanted John to understand. He didn't care about the victims because if he cared it would hurt his ability to save them. And then not only would he lose the game, he'd have lost the victim. Didn't John see? He had to push aside his feelings.

He wanted John to see, to understand. He didn't want John to be angry at him. He cared a lot about what John thought. More than anyone else. So it hurt a lot for John to react like that.

It hurt a lot more than he would care to admit.

But he couldn't change. His ability to save people depended on it. He couldn't change.

Not even for John, who he…

Not even for John.

ooo

"Evening."

No. No, not John. Anyone but John. But there John was, standing in front of him. So many emotions flashed through his heart, so many his brain actually shut off, something that never happened.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it Sherlock?"

He could only stammer a reply as his incredible brain tried to process the image in front of him.

"Bet you never saw this coming."

No, he hadn't. How could he? This was the last thing he would have—

Wait. His brain had finally come back, and he started to notice those little details again. And they said—

"What would you like me, to make him say, next?"

A bomb. A hostage. One he actually cared about.

Which was worse? A betrayal he hadn't seen coming, or knowing his only friend and—

Was in danger because of him?

Both hurt.

ooo

"I'm glad no one saw that."

Why? Was it so bad that people thought they were together? He certainly didn't mind.

There it was. His brain, so used to dissecting others, had finally admitted his own secret. He cared about John as more than a friend. There was no denying his attraction to John.

After all, John was the only one who accepted him as he was. Well, mostly. John was the only one who didn't just use him for his abilities.

And John had begun to act as his conscience, a guide through social interactions he'd never cared for before.

He'd never realized he'd missed having one, if he ever had one.

But John was safe. They'd both survived Moriarty, and John wouldn't be hurt because of his mistake.

Thank God.

ooo

"I would try and convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

He glanced at John, who nodded. That nod said more than any number of words could. The absolute trust contained in it was astonishing. Strange to think that not long ago he had been alone.

John had fixed that, and he loved John for it. Even if they both died, he'd still love John. John made everything better.

Sherlock steeled himself, and turned to face Moriarty.

"Then probably my answer has crossed yours."

And there it is. Please review and leave comments: good and writer worth their salt recognizes the value of constructive criticism.

Until we meet again,
Shay.