I just started writing and didn't stop, please tell me what you think.
I'm dedicating this to my friend Ant, even though he'll never read it, he's one of those special people who touches your life once in a lifetime.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, if I did he wouldn't be nearly as brilliant.

PS. read my note at the end for a weird little fact.


Sherlock's P.O.V.

I was walking through the battle field, alone, every night dark and starless. It is what I needed to live, to survive. I used my skills to solve other people's problems. Because if you are helping them with their problems, people have a habbit of not thinking about whether you have any problems of your own. You're not faced to confront your own demons.

You become that person people can tell things (even if it is by accident, without words) because you won't tell anyone else. You become that person people can become angry at, vent their frustration on, because somewhere, they know that you understand. You become that person that no-one will say they want around, because you're not normal, you anger people constantly, yet they feel better after having been around you, even if they rarely notice it let alone admit it. Like when a mother will annoy her child untill the dam breaks and all the pain and hurt of life just comes flooding out in an uncontrollable wave of rage and sorrow, however misdirected, aimed at their parent.

No one ever saw the me beneath. They thought that tight lipped smile was genuine, that my indifference at a person's death was sincere.

Then I met one person, this army doctor; average hight, sandy blonde hair, deep blue eyes, skilled with his hands. Admirable, but not extraordinary in any way. But when he looked at me, he saw me. The moment I insulted Anderson, a small smile played at his lips and he understood. He saw that I had devoted my life to the greater good, and lost myself along the way. That I insulted Anderson because it was better if he focussed his anger at me than at himself. Because he hated himself for cheeting on his wife despite the fact that she belittled and controlled him, that the only reason he stayed was to protect his daughter with autism, he hated himself for cheeting on her; and I made him forget that.

I took the pain for so many people and denied myself any feelings at all. I hid behind the veiling, all encompassing, cloak of drugs; and god knows how, but John saw through it. Saw the truth in my eyes, my smile, my face.
So naturally, having met the one person who understood me, who knew me better in half an hour than any but Mycroft had in my entire life, naturally I ran, because I am human and react irrationally to such things.
I left the army doctor with a psychosomatic limp alone at a crime-scene with no way to get home.

Any normal person would have turned around and walked back to his crappy flat, searched for a new flatmate, stayed as far away from that crazy man who flogs corpses with his riding crop, has a skull for a friend and who jumps around saying it's Christmas when a woman gets found murdered. But what did that strange doctor do? He headed back towards 221 b Baker street, got kidnapped by my 'arch enemy' and refused a "fill in the empty check" amount of money to betray the odd flatmate he met only this morning.
When he walked through that deep blue door and I heard him limp up the 17 steps to our floor, I was honestly surprised. But I told myself he wouldn't last, no one ever did. Even after he shot that cabby to save my life, I didn't believe he would stay; it had been his nature, his army training, that had moved him to act. Not some misguided affection for me, surely?
For some reason it wasn't until he called me an idiot and we were giggeling together into the cool night time crimescene air, that I believed this man may just be good and amazing and crazy enough to walk through the battlefield beside me.


Thanks for reading, as promised, here's a strange thing I noticed whilst reserching Jack the Ripper (who was active in the same time as Sir Doyel's Sherlock Holmes)
In the investigation into the Jack the Ripper murders, Anderson was one of the detectives on the case, and a man by the name of Donovan was one of the prime suspects.
Touché Moffat, Touché.

Please review, I lap all comments up like a Pirate his rum.