Author's Note: I'm so into Sherlock right now XD It's ridiculous! So this is a little thing I dreamt up to explain Sherlock. Do please review, I want to hear good and bad!
Sherlock ran his scarf through his hands, taking one end in each and snapping it briefly, feeling the tension ripple through the material before he let it return to its limp form. Lying on his desk was a faded photo. A note lay beside it.
This fell out of your pocket earlier. Figured it might be important.
With a perilous look in his green-grey eyes, the consultant detective viciously scrunched the note into a ball, and then he looked at the offending photo. Dark curled locks, same eyes with a sparkle that has all but vanished (Except during a particularly interesting case, and only then whilst he is at work), one arm wrapped around the waist of a girl whose head was nestled in his bony shoulder. He shut his eyes tightly. Louisa.
The sharp sound of the detonation of the gun, her scream, his anguished yell, the wintery chuckle, all echoed in the too-silent night air.
"Sherlock..." She whimpered as he rushed to her side, cradling her head in his arms. He wished he could speak, or do anything to help except stare murderously (Oh the irony) at the boy who had pulled the trigger. Then, things snapped into place, except, they didn't, because Sherlock Holmes released the dying girl to smack her killer in the jaw with about as much force as a six-year-old. He laughed. He doubled over with laughter at the hit and that was the last Sherlock saw of him, and of Louisa.
He woke up hours later in a clinical hospital ward, with two smashed ribs and more than a few cuts and bruises. Nobody said anything about Louisa.
Holmes winced and brutally shoved the photo back into his pocket. He had worked as soon as he could, assimilating useful information, deleting that which was not so, training mind and body to perform exactly as he wished. The delighted teenager he saw in the old photo was buried somewhere deep beneath the coat of armour he had built for himself. A fortress of emotional detachment had formed around his impenetrable persona. Louisa was the last person out of it before the lockdown began.
Sherlock smacked the wooden desk in his room, tuning out the pain in his hand afterwards, just wanting to prove that he could, and also that his fist made a Sherlock-hand sized dent in the fairly soft wood. He pulled his hands down his face, closing his eyes, trying to shut out the pain he had learnt to subdue. He never broke. It wouldn't break. It wasn't possible for Sherlock Holmes to feel, or at least it shouldn't be.
"No!" He howled sharply. "No! No! No! This is not right!" Fury oozed from his words, almost tangible. What he needed was a miracle. A chirping from his pocket signalled that he might have nearly that – a distraction. "Sherlock Holmes." Silence in 221b Baker Street.
"I'm on my way."