A/N: I wrote a thing. Kind of a cute thing. A really cute thing. I also really do have a thing for insecure/vulnerable Sherlock, so apologies there. Enjoy! (Also, if anyone can see the Chobits reference/inspiration in this, I love you.)

Sherlock had always heard what 'regular people' felt about love. That it felt like coming home, like being cherished and valued. That no matter what, someone would love you. Sherlock didn't believe them. He wasn't like them, dreaming of coming home to someone. All he dreamt about were long, empty corridors, sounds of laughter, happiness drifting through thin walls but never reaching him.

He knew that he would never love, never be cherished, for he was not reachable. He was kept away from all that was 'normal', and 'safe', for he was neither and never would be. No one ever expected him to be who he was not. Instead, they punished him for not achieving what he could be. Taunts were carelessly thrown his way, words bandied about like 'freak', and 'sociopath'. In time, Sherlock learned to adopt the titles placed upon him and embody their meaning. No use crying over something he could not fix, for he could not fix a bunch of ignorant fools.

He would never be 'normal'. It was his armour, his defence. His excuse, although he would never admit it. It allowed him to carry out the Work, to sate his endless thoughts, allowing a brief respite. It enabled him to ignore the others, ignore the quiet voices that whispered in the back of his mind that he would never be good enough, that he was a 'freak', that he would die alone and unloved.

Sherlock always told the voices that he did not care. He had no need for love, no need for the respect of other people. He was whole, and solid as he was. Not every person needed someone to be loved by, nor did they need someone to love. It was not a vital part of the human experience. Yet this view was rocked and then sunk by the invasion of John Watson.

The quiet, unassuming army doctor had walked into Sherlock's life with a limp and a bad past. Sherlock had dismissed him as he had the others, strictly laying down the limits - no involvement, not his area. He cut off any further attempts to bring about anything he was not good at (sentiment in all shapes and forms). This man would be like the others, all smiles at first, sometimes hidden attraction, but what was once fondness would quickly turn to cruel hatred as soon as Sherlock opened his mouth.

He had seen it more times than he cared to remember. He no longer allowed himself to hope. Yet, that night, the first night, John had shot someone to save him. Not just save him from the cab driver, but from himself, from his inability to give up on a puzzle that would consume him. It was then that Sherlock regarded him in a new light.

It had been a conundrum in itself, something that kept Sherlock up at night when he had nothing else. John would listen, he would smile, call things 'amazing' and 'brilliant' and 'wonderful'. Positive words Sherlock had never heard turned in his direction. Things that earned him derision and scorn from others, were treasured in the eyes of the doctor.

Soon John's limp had faded, seemingly cured by the one thing Sherlock could give him that life could not. It had taken longer than he was comfortable with to rationalise this. Some withered part of him had been pleased that John needed him, pleased that the army doctor depended on him for something. Despite that, John was 'normal', and soon he would come to his senses and realize that Sherlock was worthless, just like the others.

Yet it never happened. The months went by, cases came and went, and John was still there, quiet and dependable, right by Sherlock's side. He bought milk and bread; prepared sandwiches, tea, anything Sherlock wanted. He was not bothered by the body parts in the refrigerator (at least not unduly so), tolerated the lab equipment spread all over the flat, and even seemed amused when he found Sherlock awake at 4:30am, hunched over a microscope. The relative chaos-mixed-with-order seemed to comfort him.

Sherlock could not figure out why he stayed, could not find the key. Part of him wanted to find the solution that would make John stay with him forever. Somehow he had found himself with a 'normal' person, someone he never wanted to get rid of. If he could have bound himself to John Watson for the rest of eternity, he would have. Instead, he sat and watched him drift in and out, going on dates with this woman and that. It hurt, somewhere deep inside, and he did not know why.

He was a sociopath. He was not supposed to feel emotions, not supposed to hurt when someone he most-certainly-did-not-care-about went out and spent time with other 'normal' people and came back happy. There was not supposed to be longing to see John look at him with that expression, the mix of fondness and love, caring and warmth. Something Sherlock had seen given so freely to others, but had never been handed to him.

So he pushed John away, pushed away the emotions that threatened to well up in his chest. He knew what he was doing, knew the definition of denial, but suppressed that as well. When John asked him something he was curt and dismissive. He hated the eyeroll that elicited, the semi-fond snort of exasperation that John was so good at employing. Sherlock would snarl something, would storm around the flat in his dressing gown, anything and everything he could to push the man away. Nothing seemed to work.

If Sherlock was angry, John would retreat to his room and wait for the storm to pass. If Sherlock was quiet and sulking, John would stay downstairs with his laptop or a book, seeming to enjoy the detective's relatively quiet presence. If Sherlock was performing an experiment, John would watch, occasionally asking intelligent questions. He was there, he was present, he was interesting. And Sherlock hated it, hated what it represented, hated that he wanted it and would never, ever have it. For he was never going to be 'normal', and someone like him did not deserve what everyone else was destined to have. One day, John would find someone for him, lovely and gentle and the kind of normal that Sherlock could never be. The thought depressed him, but he had accepted it as the inevitability it was.

One night, John came home early. Sherlock glanced his direction and then back to his microscope, focused on his experiment. John looked haggard (long day at the surgery, then), and there was something drawn in his expression that made Sherlock's insides squirm. Forcing his thoughts away from his flatmate, he focused on the nematodes swimming about on the sample of pond water resting underneath the magnifier of the microscope.

"Sherlock?" John asked, his voice low. Sherlock paid him no attention, did not flinch. He counted out the the requisite seven seconds (not too few or too many, just enough of a pause to ensure he did not sound eager).

"Mm?" he said, noncommittal. Listening intently, he heard John's soft footfalls as the doctor moved closer. It made him shift in his chair when John invaded his personal space, fingers on his chin tilting his head away from the microscope, to meet a gaze as scrutinising as his own. He hardened his eyes, injecting as much disdain and boredom into them as possible. The deep blue orbs of John's eyes were unreadable, searching as they seemed to probe into Sherlock's darkest secrets.

TIme seemed to stand still as he felt John move and then felt soft, warm lips press against his, hesitantly at first and then with a slightly larger amount of pressure. Gentle brushes as John kissed him once, twice, thrice. He pulled back a centimetre or two and licked his lips, the smallest movement, before his gaze flickered up to Sherlock.

He seemed to see something that Sherlock could not name, for John gently tugged the taller man out of his chair and stood him up, moving so that he was pressed against sherlock. John slipped a hand into his curls and gently tugged him down so that he could capture his lips. Sherlock allowed him, his mind blank. He felt as if his blood was all rushing in his ears, his stomach had bottomed out, and there were supernovas in place of his eyes. Everything was feeling and sensation and far too much and not enough at the same time.

Sherlock wanted to devour John and be devoured. He wanted more of his mouth, more of his tongue, hands, everything. He wanted to crawl inside John and stay with him forever. John's tongue flicked lightly across Sherlock's lips, coaxing and sweet, and Sherlock parted his lips in response. Tenderly John slid his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, one hand in Sherlock's hair and the other holding him steady, for the consulting detective swayed on his feet.

Finally John pulled back, lips swollen and red, and his face broke into a happy smile. Sherlock stood and stared, his lips still parted, eyes wide in utter, complete, shock. He did not know what to say. His mind had stopped, as thoroughly as if he had just finished a wonderfully complex case, yet John was standing there, looking at him through half-lidded eyes as if he had just done the most wonderful thing in the world. Was that what the rest of the world had been talking about, that feeling of completion, of want, of need?

"Talk to me," John murmured, gently tugging Sherlock forward until he could wrap his arms around him in a hug. "What are you thinking."

"I can't give you what you want," Sherlock whispered without meaning to. He tried to step back and was stopped by the fierceness of John's grasp, trapped in John's arms.

"Yes, you can," John said, his voice sure and confident.

"I'm not normal, you need normal," Sherlock babbled, his mind racing. "You need someone normal, and I'm not normal and never will be." John pulled back the slightest amount and Sherlock was certain that this was it, John was going to leave, to desert him forever.

"I need you, you git," John said fondly, something warm and tender in his eyes that Sherlock could not understand. "You're my normal."

"No." Sherlock stared at him, feeling uncertain for one of the first times in his life. John had said nothing but the truth in the past, and lying was not one of the doctor's strong talents, especially when Sherlock was concerned.

"Yes," John whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. "I want you, Sherlock Holmes. All of you. Dressing-gown wearing, experiment-performing, wool-coated, dangerously sexy git you are. I want it all."

"No," Sherlock whispered. He felt like he was sinking, felt like he was drowning in the depths of John's gaze, the warmth that he regarded Sherlock with. A soft whimper escaped him and his knees buckled. John caught him and guided him to the sofa, keeping him wrapped in his arms.

"Yes," John said softly, tilting Sherlock's head so he could kiss him. "Yes."

Sherlock closed his eyes and surrendered, giving up his semblance of control, allowing the warmth and want to cloud his body. He wanted it, more than he had ever wanted anything else. John was offering it freely, without strings. His voice was soft, barely a whisper, but he knew John would hear it, knew John would see and feel and understand. "Yes."

Now he no longer dreamt of those blank walls, no longer dreamt of the laughter and the joy just out of his reach. Instead, he dreamt of warmth and love, soft golden light and the feeling of someone there for him, what he desired within his grasp. He no longer thought about what other people said; none of their opinions mattered. Instead, he came home to the one person who understood him, who accepted him for who he was, who loved him fiercely. John.

He was all that mattered.