A toast to me and one of my best friends's friendship.

Sherlock really hated himself sometimes. It wasn't that he hated himself all the time, just when he made a real sociopathic mistake. Like when he would treat Molly with no respect and be rude with no limitations. His mouth didn't have a filter, no, he had to focus to have a filter. Or part of one, anyways. It wasn't always his fault for acting the way he did, it was just how he had been raised to act. Freely speak his mind, let his deductions come out as easily as breathing. So it wasn't entirely his fault.

But other times, it was his entire fault. He couldn't blame his weird childhood or no-barrier way of speaking. When he was entirely conscious of what he was going to say and said it anyway. Frustration was usually the reason for the outbursts, other times annoying emotions. Sherlock simply wasn't sure what to do with them. So he just let the emotion go, release itself, in whatever way it would. And since he couldn't always identify the emotion, it would sometimes result badly. Very badly. And every time, Sherlock felt guilty afterwards, if only for a moment.

One of the worst times that had happened was when he had been a young boy, about 13 years old. He had been much like he was now, lean and tall, except a bit more scrawny. Several kids had made him feel useless, angry, and his very presence useless. And then he had started attacking them, going as far to choke one and break another's arm. No one had noticed he had been having an emotional breakdown the entire time. He didn't know how to deal with emotion then, and he still didn't. And Sherlock doubted he ever would deal with it like the average person. He would treat his emotions as unwanted pests, deal with them in whatever way he could. Even if he didn't know how he would deal with it.

Emotions had always been a sore spot for the consulting detective. Most of the people he worked with had learned to put their emotions away for later, at very least hide them. They couldn't let emotion interfere in their work, but they always showed compassion and other forms of emotions, even if they didn't realize it. The anger that coursed through their veins as they read over certain cases, the adrenaline of a chase. Sherlock just went through the motions and did whatever felt natural. But he never felt anything.

There was reason he was called a sociopath. But Sherlock knew, somewhere inside of him, he wasn't one. He just rejected emotion and saw it as a weakness. Not betraying emotion and acting cold was an entirely different thing from being a sociopath. Because sometimes, just sometimes, Sherlock enjoyed the emotion. Usually not. But being happy and excited, he enjoyed it. Angry and sad, not so much.

There wasn't an excuse for the way he acted, but the way he had been raised was part of one. Being frustrated and getting angry was natural. But when he got frustrated or angry and actually showed it, it came out in very bad ways. And he could never, ever control it. It took over him. It was like riding an untamed mare, wild and jerky, with no control whatsoever. All he could do was hope that there wasn't too much damage.

"John?" Sherlock said, skimming the paper. Death, misery, the usual upsetting story, and nothing interesting. No cases worth solving. So, Sherlock was bored and frustrated. No cases for 3 weeks could do that to a person. No drugs for 5 weeks. Even shooting the wall did nothing to help cure his boredom. So, he shot the table. Still didn't help, but it was an interesting experience. Now they had to get a new table. Ms. Hudson would not be pleased.

"Mmh?" John said, typing something up on his blog. What, Sherlock didn't know because they hadn't had any cases. So whatever it was, it was something about their personal life. Sherlock rolled his eyes before continuing.

"Any new cases on the site?" he asked like he hadn't checked 23 minutes and 17 seconds ago. "Anything worth going for?"

"Actually, yes." Sherlock shot straight out of his seat and to John's side, eyes glued to the computer screen. He was so excited, a case, an actual case! Or the promises of one, anyways.

"Go on, go on!" he encouraged, smacking the table top. John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's excitement, but continued nonetheless. The man was practically shaking, for God's sake!

"43 children were killed in a bus incident. 3 kids came out alive, and still are in Intensive Care. The police think it wasn't just a gas leak, but a bomb. There isn't any proof yet of a bomb, but the way it happened has the police suspicious-"

"Boring."

"You're kidding me, right?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock was honestly puzzled. He couldn't quite fathom as to why John's voice was distressed and slightly frustrated. As if Sherlock was a little child.

"43 children were killed in an accident and 3 will probably never walk again. And you're bored by it?" Ah, so it was a moral thing. John was looking at the people it affected, not the case. Sure, Sherlock felt bad for the families and all that, but he wasn't looking at the people it affected. He was looking at the 'case' and it obviously wasn't a case. John was probably thinking somewhere along the lines of how he felt awful for those kids and their families, how someone could do that. But Sherlock knew that people were very capable of that and much more. Things worst than this.

"John, I didn't-"

"No, Sherlock. 43 different families are mourning the loss of their children and 3 are praying for their children to just live another day. And you have the nerve to be bored? It isn't right, Sherlock. I get it, you're a sociopath. But this is a step too far. It's wrong and it's sick, Sherlock. Wrong and sick. Children have died, Sherlock. Do you even care about that, that people are mourning?"

"People mourn everyday, John. People die everyday. It's a part of life, a bad part of life, yes, but still a part of life. And I've come to terms with it long ago. Death happens to everyone. And this wasn't intentional," Sherlock answered simply, trying to explain. It wasn't intentional, Sherlock knew that much. It was just a tragic incident to him now. And like every other tragic incident, he wouldn't show remorse. Sure, he felt bad for them, but things happen. Accidents happen, people are murdered, and life goes on.

"You don't get it, do you?" Sherlock remained silent. "These are children, the youngest being 4 years old. The ones still living are only 5, 8, and 10 years old. It's completely and utterly heart wrenching and you say it's a part of life, that it's boring. Would you say that to the families? Watching the tears flow down their faces as they weep? It's sick, Sherlock. It's really sick."

"And don't you get this?" Sherlock felt the words leave his mouth in an angry fashion, escaping the prison of his thoughts. And they were armed.

"Get what, Sherlock? Get that you're a sociopathic, cold-hearted shell of a man? Because I completely understand," John snarled, a difference emotion in his eyes. They were like bullets, hurting him deeply. Paining him.

"Get that it happens everyday, so what's the point? What's the point in mourning when it's just going to happen again and again? When someone will commit the same crime that been repeated for centuries? Why bother to show the pain you're feeling when someone else is experiencing the same thing, when everyone is? Why bother to show sympathy when that's all people are getting? What's the point in showing pity today when tomorrow it'll be a different tragedy and people expect you to show pity again? When people expect you to show pity every damn day?" The words shot out of Sherlock's mouth coated with poison. They were bitter to the taste, souring his mouth. "What's the point, John?"

John stood up, deadness in his eyes. He looked no different from a dead body or a shark coming after its prey. "The point is being compassionate, Sherlock. Being kind to those who face the emotions at their purest. Having morals, Sherlock. Keeping yourself from being a bad person. Maybe you need to do a once over, Sherlock."

And with that, John left. The words were like a slap in the face for him. They stung like wounds rubbed with salt. Because they really were true. Sherlock knew he wasn't a bad person, per se, but he was... not compassionate. And he knew that it hurt people, he just couldn't always help it. And yes, he supposed it was a bit more than a tad insensitive to respond in the way he had, but the excitement had been drained out of him. He was bored, and being bored was different from a normal person being bored.

When the average person was bored, they entered a numb state where they want to do something but can do nothing. Maybe get antsy. It's really that simple. When Sherlock was bored, he started shaking. It was a side affect from his need for drugs. It was partly withdrawals fault. But that wasn't the worst part. When he was bored, his mind slowed down and sped up with no warning, causing great headaches and crankiness. His mind would search for something to solve, going through every thought in his brain. The speeding up. When it found nothing, it would stop. Just, nothing. He imagined that it was what the normal brain was like when the brain wasn't bored. That would be the slowing down.

Being bored wasn't just being bored for Sherlock. It was something he was scared of. Because what if his brain stayed in slow down or sped up mode after the boredom was fixed? What if his boredom was never fixed and he went back to doing drugs? He didn't want to, but if it went on long enough he would. And that's why boredom scared him.

No one understood that. Probably because Sherlock never told anyone about it. Even Mycroft wouldn't understand because his brother always had something to do, some war to cause, something. He liked people, enjoyed their company. For the most part. But he had never gone through Sherlock's life. He would never shake due to boredom, nor would he feel like he was going insane. No one could understand that.

And ever since he had been a small child, he had been yelled at for caring. Reprimanded for showing compassion or any sign of... Well, anything. 'Emotion was weakness,' they had said. 'You're better off without it.' At times like this, he wasn't sure if they were right.

At certain times, yes, showing no emotion and being cold was a strength. But other times it could completely destroy things, make the situation worse. And every time that happened, Sherlock felt hollow. Sick to his stomach. He felt guilty. Guilt visited Sherlock a lot.

It visited him when he did something 'morally wrong' to society. When he hurt good people. But feeling guilt and showing it were two very, very different things for Sherlock Holmes. Showing guilt was weakness. Sherlock wasn't weak. He associated the two and knew that if he showed guilt, things would change. Morairty would use that and abuse it if he knew. Mycroft would use it to exploit him to help himself. All of his enemies would abuse his emotions to their advantage.

So, could anyone blame him for playing the role of a sociopath? It was an interesting role, one he played well. If he wasn't full of emotions, he was just numb. Sociopathic, one might say. Psychopathic, several had said. But he wasn't. Sherlock was just strange. An anomaly. There was nothing wrong with that.

There was nothing wrong with having a fascination with death, a morbid sense of humor, and being detached from emotions. Nothing at all. But at certain times, in certain places, with certain people, there was something wrong with it.

Sherlock slowly sat up, shrugged on his coat, tied his scarf, and out he went. He had business to attend to.

Sherlock was exhausted, but he forced himself to stay awake. He had come home long after John had, and hadn't slept since he had. There could no be a change in the routine. John could not notice anything out of the ordinary. So, Sherlock was dressed in his blue bathrobe and, newspaper in hand, sat in his chair, awaiting John to wake up. His fingers merrily strummed the violin, the bow churning out some song Sherlock had long deleted the name of. It wasn't particularly happy, but it was beautiful. And one of John's favorites, but John didn't know that. Sherlock noticed that the ex army doctor always seemed slightly happier when he played it.

Finally, Sherlock heard John's footsteps as he shuffled out to get the newspaper. Sherlock's heart practically beat out of his chest, but he kept on playing. Remained normal, neutral, whatever state he typically was in the morning. Granted, he didn't have a typical, but still, there was nothing too extraordinary about this morning.

John slammed the door as he entered the flat, as he normally did in the morning, and the corners of Sherlock's mouth attempted to force themselves upwards. He had been waiting hours for this, he couldn't stand another moment.

He sat down in his chair, flipping open the newspaper, eyes filled with morning grog as they normally were. Sherlock counted down the seconds until that grogginess disappeared. And there it was. John's eyes flew open, and he dropped his bagel.

"Sherlock, look at this!" John said, jabbing a finger at the front page. Bingo. Sherlock tsked, setting down his violin and acting annoying, but he felt the excitement bloom in his chest. This was why he had stayed out all night, or at least, the main reason. He had other reasons, more noble reasons, he supposed, but this was what he had waited for.

"What, John? Can't you see I'm playing?" John's jaw tightened, and for a moment, Sherlock thought he had overstepped his carefully-laid boundaries. Fear shot up into his stomach, and forced it down. And then, the stupid smile broke out once more, and the relief flooded his system.

"Remember the bus accident from yesterday?" The accident itself had happened a few days prior, but Sherlock didn't correct him.

"Mh."

"Well, apparently someone left roses with all of the families, including the ones with children in the hospital."

"So?"

"Whoever they were, they left a little money, words of condolences, and decorated the graves. The children in the hospital got teddy bears and all sorts of stuff."

Sherlock's heart beat faster. "So no one knows who did it?"

John shook his head, turning the page. "But whoever they were, they must have a hell of a big heart." Sherlock silently accepted the indirect compliment and abruptly stood up. "Sherlock?" He turned his head.

"I'm sorry about yesterday." Sherlock froze.

"Stop that." John seemed a taken back.

"What?"

"Stop being sorry."

"But it was-"

"No, it wasn't."

Silence.

"Is this your way of apologizing?"

"Believe whatever you want, John." Sherlock then turned and left the room, but not before catching the smile on John's face.

Five months later, Sherlock jumped off St. Bart's, and he watched John as he cried. Watched him mourn, watched the people who loved him (John, not Sherlock) comfort him.

Five months later, Sherlock had to disappear.

Five months later, Sherlock didn't want to leave.

Five months later, Sherlock called in some favors.

Five months later, John got a lot of roses and teddy bears.

Five months later, Sherlock finally understood that there was something very wrong with emotion.

Five months later, John Watson learned the same thing.

Five months later, they learned that if the person you cared most about in the world had to leave that it hurt more than anything.

Five months later, they despised emotion more than either ever had.

Six months later, they came crawling back to it.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were friends the bitter end. And they had beaten that. So what's left for them, only time will tell.

In the end, it turns out Sherlock Holmes did have emotion.

He wastes every single drop of it on John Watson.

I have been writing this for months, and I just finished it tonight. Please, tell me what you think and how to improve my writing. See you guys next time.