His professor told them that they were still young and had so much to look forward to. Sherlock thought that they were young indeed, but wasting their youth studying useless things, listening to useless professors; professors who had given up on discovering the outside world for themselves, a long time ago. But without university, you didn't get a good job. And without a good job you got nowhere in this world. Sherlock had the spirit to change the world, but everything the world had to offer him was… spirits. Sometimes, all of the thoughts in his brain and the inability to put them into good use seemed to be unbearable without being drunk. And not even that seemed to help sometimes. Sherlock didn't get drunk easily, after all.

He didn't WANT to be all high-and-mighty and look down on people. But just when he saw a glimpse of hope for humanity, someone somewhere did something so incredibly stupid Sherlock wanted to hit his head against a wall. Hard. To forget, maybe. Or to punish himself on behalf of others.

"The victims of today are the offenders of tomorrow," his professor interrupted Sherlock's thoughts. Yes, and if you keep on talking, I'll be the 'offender' and you'd be to blame! But what would he do? Run amok? Then they would take him for one of the crazy ones who killed themselves and others because of unanswered love, a carrier gone awry, escalated violence... And he didn't CARE about these things. All he had ever wanted was to be himself and be left alone with it. For his sanity. For the others' sanity.

Sherlock knew his brother cared about him. But he didn't UNDERSTAND him. Sherlock hated wasting time. Not because time was money, but because he started to get itchy when he sat still for too long, doing nothing. His professor was numbing Sherlock's brain with all of his bullshit. Bullshit Sherlock had heard before, which was more. And fuck the students who tried to discuss with the professor; he wouldn't change his opinion, let alone his ways. He had been teaching for 30 years, after all.

"Fact is: Men like feminine women." Sherlock growled at that. Yes, sure, and if women wore jeans, they would go to hell... In which century did this professor live? Sherlock didn't care about make-up or dresses, big boobs or round asses. For him, a nice voice could be alluring, or a cheeky smile. Sure, he didn't even care if it was a man or a woman he was worshipping. And worshipping was all he had done so far, his social incompetence forcing him to stick to himself.

His brother would never understand this either. For him, looks were more important than anything else in a woman and reputation was everything. Sleeping with older women or – God forbid – men was completely out of the question.

Love could save Sherlock, maybe. Alcohol – and drugs, if he would ever try them – would only lead to destruction in the long term. Love, on the other hand, seemed to be a common concept of salvation, which even sometimes worked. If it didn't work, it had to be because of people's stupidity. Most of them went about it in the complete wrong way. You had to PLAN such life-changing aspects of your existence. You had to find the PERFECT partner. Not 'try out' one, then another, and then end up hurt and damaged, unable to lead a normal relationship ever again.

That's what Sherlock would keep in mind for his whole life: He had to find THE ONE. This was why he would stay a virgin, never trust anyone with his body and mind. And most importantly: Never trust anyone with his HEART. Until John came along. John, who was the perfect lid to his kettle. John, who distracted him with his jumpers and girlfriends. John, who told him so often that he was NOT gay that Sherlock never realized how perfectly they in fact fit together… not until it was too late. Because there was one thing the detective hadn't taken into consideration: Planning needed time – and in life, you never had enough of that.