Chapter Text
As a child, Sherlock was always so confused by others insistance that being alone was something bad. That loneliness was a sad and terrible thing.
As he grew, Sherlock learned to accept peoples inane need to be with someone. Anyone in in many cases
Whilst in university, Mycroft would constantly check on Sherlock encouraging him to connect with his classmates. One such encouragement led to a brief, yet passionate, affair with one Victor Trevor. An affair which Sherlock ended as soon as Victor brought his toothbrush to Sherlock's flat.
Sherlock loved being alone. Silence was as soothing as the music his fingers would seduce from the violin. Being alone allowed his mind to stretch and bend, as it coaxed facts from everyday occurances.
Loneliness was beautiful, extraordinary and perfect.
Loneliness was everything Sherlock strived for. Until, that is, he met John Watson.
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It started with his hand. Mycroft had observed that the tremor stopped under stress. He was wrong.
Sherlock, and John's therapist, had insisted the limp was psychosomatic. They were wrong.
The day John dropped a spagetti pot, which caused a rather serious burn that necessitated a visit to A&E, was the day that led to his diagnosis.
Sherlock called his brother. For the first time in his life, he willingly asked for help. Doctors, researchers, scientists. Anyone. He pleaded for it all. For an answer, a cure. For life.
When Mycroft saw him the night that John was diagnosed, Sherlock did one more thing that he had rarely done: he cried. Mycroft gatherd his brother in his arms and held him. He did not say that everything would be all right, for it would be a lie.
John Watson was going to die. While all deaths are cruel, Johns death was not one that could be glorified. It wasn't quick. It wasn't painless. John Watson did not fade away. He wasted away.
John Watson; flatmate, friend, partner, confidant and lover. For Sherlock Holmes, the moment John Watson died was the moment he understood loneliness as nearly every other human did.