So, this is me testing the waters. Meaning, I NEED YOUR REVIEWS. I'm currently deep within an obsession with this fandom, but I'm not confident in my own abilities to get the characterization for Sherlock. I empathize just enough with his character that when I write it, I know I start projecting myself and then I'm unsure whether I just wrote Sherlock or me. Odd, I know. So I need your guys' help! Please give me an honest evaluation of how in-character you believe this to be (of course, I acknowledge that what actually happens could be viewed as OOC, but hopefully you get what I mean). Anyways, this is not really a full story, just a sample. But I need your opinions to give me the confidence to let all my plot-bunnies free!

Thanks for reading that. Now, on with it!

He never liked not having a case, but not simply because of boredom, as he so often whined and as John believed. No, it was something more—the curse of his own genius, he supposed.

Without some intriguing problem on which to concentrate, Sherlock found it difficult to remain in the outside world. He would sit, silently, unmoving, and find his thoughts moving deeper and deeper within himself. The TV would disappear; John's movements would cease to be recognized. Until all he could see was the black blank canvas of his mind.

And he would stay there.

Active thoughts—thoughts with colour—would slowly fade. He retreated into a world of grey matter so entirely himself. There was only contemplation: of himself, of his past, of why why why.

He enjoyed the cases because during them, he thought on the edge. Right on the cusp of understanding, superficially aware within himself. His mind was a bullet and his body—his self—was the gun left behind.

But here, now, when there was nothing outside on which to focus, he felt his consciousness dragged deeper and deeper into the torrent of his very soul. It became harder to escape when within himself he felt so at home. It was so right, so easy to be here. No more frustration. His company was a mirror, and he enjoyed the friend very much.

He thought freely, without restraint. Nothing could hold him, nothing to guide his thoughts. They simply fluttered and twisted unrestricted, probing facts, analyzing experiences without bias or emotion.

But then, sometimes, as he could hardly control his mind when within these states, he would find the emotion. Deep, always hidden away: it stagnated in some dark corner of himself, waiting to be released during what was almost always an inopportune moment.

If only, he contemplated. If only he could learn to release it slowly, like others can, in order to prevent the terrible mind-shattering eruptions he had experienced before… If only he was like others…


And there was that horrible pain again, he knew he would find it if he probed long enough. He may be able to do what others could not, but the price he paid wad the inability to connect. What had he been born with that others did not have?


It hurt, he admitted to himself, to be entirely unable, no matter how hard he tried, to connect with another, to feel happiness and love as they did. Of course he knew how to define those emotions as fact, but to see others experiencing them and to know that he would never truly understand…


John's hand waved before his face. Sherlock blinked, his vision being slow to return even though his eyes had been open.

"Hmm, what?" Sherlock turned to see John's frustrated face.

"Finally!" He exclaimed in exasperation. "Where were you? Because it certainly wasn't this flat."

Sherlock made no comment. Something about John's tone was off though, he could feel it. Yet, as if he had just awoken from a deep sleep, Sherlock still found his mind moving slowly. He folded his hands before him and adjusted his stiff muscles.

John sighed at the lack of response, but seemed to resign himself to the nature of Sherlock Holmes. "I'm off to get bread and milk and a few other things we're missing, need anything?"

A flat "no" was all Sherlock offered.

John sighed again and turned to leave, but then paused. "Sherlock," he said slowly, eyes trying to find purchase within Sherlock's, "you were… erm, crying…"

Sherlock felt a dim shock come over him. He slowly lifted a hand to his face and sure enough, he felt the smooth tracks of salt down his skin that were the signs of tears.

"I don't…" he began, but was unable to continue his thought, mostly because it hadn't formed yet.

John shifted uncomfortably. "Well… I, uh, just wanted to say that, um—"

"Oh, do get on with it!" Sherlock exclaimed sharply, rubbing his eyes in order to erase the marks of his emotion.

John frowned and seemed to want to withdraw his yet offered sympathy, but he scrutinized Sherlock's seemingly unbalanced state once more and gave in. "If you need to talk, or, or you need help with anything… I'm here."

Sherlock refused to bite. "Yes of course you're there, I can see you plainly. Now what was it you wanted? Ah yes, the store. Is it money that you need?"

John silently shook his head. "No, no… fine. See you later, Sherlock."

He quickly exited the sitting room, leaving Sherlock to his peace. Or rather, his confusion.

He stood quickly, then regretted it as the room began spinning around him. He leaned against the sofa until the haze over his vision cleared, and he was able to navigate towards a mirror.

He didn't like mirrors, usually, as he always felt that there was something off about his own features, that they didn't fit the image of humanity he had constructed for himself by observing others. Now when he gazed upon his own countenance he was shocked to see his eyes so red-rimmed, and the shinning streaks across his cheeks.

It didn't make sense. When had he even last moved? Yesterday? The day before? What could have caused this? Sherlock felt the beginnings of a fear form within his chest. What would happen if he could no longer control himself? What use would his mind be if his emotions were out of control?

He closed his eyes, shutting out his own image, and banished the thought. No, he would always have his mind. He must. There was no such thing as Sherlock Holmes without his abilities.

It was with this resolution that he washed his face and made sure no trace of his embarrassment lingered.

So, humble readers, do I release the bunnies?