His brother was always berating him for his life choice, claiming that he had the mind of a scientist or a philosopher, and why would he waste that genius on solving dull crimes? But Sherlock didn't care about if the Earth went around the Sun or what the meaning of human existence was. That was all quite boring to him. But the human mind: that was something worth studying and deducing. Analyzing motives, and patterns, and the way that people's terrible, worthless emotions propelled them into the stickiest of situations. Picking strangers apart piece by piece, stripping off their exterior and revealing the true nature underneath the masks.
There really wasn't anything like what he did, on a professional or personal level. To Sherlock, there was no feeling in the world like putting all of his brain power to use on a project, enveloping himself in the smallest of details that no one paid attention to. Maybe he thought he was like those details- small, insignificant unless studied alone, and then you saw the true value of just one simple thing.
Maybe he wanted to be the best at something. Maybe he wanted to be the only one in a certain field. Maybe, since he had spent his whole upbringing being an outsider, a loser, he wanted to develop something where he could always be the very best. No-one to compete against him, no one to beat him. By creating his own game, he won (for the first time) from the very start.
But now, as he looked at the blond soldier in front of him, Sherlock found he didn't need to win his game anymore. He had found all the acceptance he'd ever needed in John. All his life, all through his career, Sherlock had been looking for validation, for someone to approve of him. And although Lestrade was always grateful for his help, Sherlock had never been fully satisfied. That is, until Doctor Watson walked into his lab and into his life, and suddenly, Sherlock had wanted to win more than ever. He wanted to impress John with his knowledge, his superiority, his unique employment. He didn't need anyone else's acceptance- his vision tunneled and focused on the former military doctor alone. John became his world, his rock. And somehow, he grew to love him.
He didn't need to tell John any of this. He already knew. Sherlock figured he'd always known. He told John that he was an idiot, simple-minded, like the rest of them; but in his heart he knew it wasn't true. He knew the soldier was more intelligent than any of them- even than Moriarty. John could figure him out with a single glance, knew his way around Sherlock's head sometimes better than Sherlock himself did. He knew how to make Sherlock eat and sleep and keep a healthier schedule. He knew how to make Sherlock be polite and courteous, how to help him function socially. He knew how to make Sherlock better.
He was Sherlock's savior, and now, his angel.
Sherlock zipped the body bag and walked out of the mortuary, trying to pretend that there weren't tears falling from his eyes, and trying to ignore the aching cavity in his chest, slightly left from center.