Aristocratic, austerity.
Adultery, abandonment, aunt. Animosity, Abel.
Avast! Art, arsenic, acid, anatomy.
Asthma. Appendicitis. Acne.
Adolescence. Acumen. Awkward, alienated, antisocial, abrasive. (Asexuality?) Anguish. (Autism?) Anger. Ambition. .
Alone.
Adult. Apathy. Addiction.
Authorities, amateur.
Abduction, arson, affair. Answers.
Abstinence. Appetite. Adrenaline.
Afghanistan. Assistant, acquaintance, ally. Audience, applause. Adventure. Alignment. Appreciation, affection. (Amazing!) Attachment.
Admirer. Antagonist. Archenemy.
Atrium, aorta, artery, apex. Arrhythmia.
Azurite. Auricle. Awareness. Oh!
Adversary. Achilles. Authenticity. Assassins. Aegis.
Adieu. Abyss.
Asunder.
Armed. Avenge.
Absence. Alive. Apology. Atone.
Affirmation.
Adoration. Adore.
Sherlock's life has been defined by the letter A, but he would find the concept incredibly idiotic.
Aristocratic, austerity. The Holmes estate is beautiful. Old, grand, lovely. Cold in the winter, and that's what Sherlock remembers most. He hasn't seen it in over twenty years, so he is unsure if his childhood memories ring true.
Adultery, abandonment, aunt. Animosity, Abel. Sherlock is seven when he deduces his father's infidelity. Mycroft has known for years, but keeps quiet. The family, surviving on only the façade of contentment, shatters. Mrs. Holmes doesn't know who to blame, so everyone is blamed. Mr. Holmes the eldest, already feeling the strain of living multiple lives, leaves little by little, over several weeks. The man slowly goes missing, until he has completely vacated the estate. Sherlock is sent to live with his mother's sister, who resides in London, and he visits the Holmes estate infrequently. Mycroft stays with Mummy, and Sherlock's seven-year-old mind can't help but feel betrayed.
Avast! For years, he is quite committed to the idea of piracy. That is, until Aunt Helen tells him pirates no longer rule the seas, and he should be something practical. (He still secretly gets his kicks pirating music from the internet.) So he focuses on other topics that interest him. Art, arsenic, acid, anatomy. It isn't until Carl Powers that detective work becomes a passion, though, but he seems to be unwittingly training for it beforehand.
Asthma. He eventually grows out of it. Appendicitis. When the appendix comes out, Sherlock mourns not being able to keep it. Also, after the surgery, he nearly has to be readmitted to the hospital due to malnutrition. Sherlock is a finicky eater, continues to be, but when feeling any sort of unease, no food will tempt him. Acne. He eventually grows out of this, too, which is good because he believes no one will listen to a spotty thirty-year-old. They barely listen to a spotty fourteen-year-old. Idiots.
Adolescence. Acumen. Awkward, alienated, antisocial, abrasive. (Asexuality?) Anguish. (Autism?) Anger. Ambition. Sherlock Holmes is seventeen years of age when he confronts his own mortality and asks himself, "How shall I be remembered?" The answer, of course, is "It doesn't matter." He resigns himself to the oblivion that waits, and until then commits his entirety to greatness. Who else can enjoy that but himself? Agenesis. He is told early on that the brain in his head and the heart in his chest are all wrong. Armor. He starts structuring the walls, building up his observational skills, suppressing and rejecting the hallmarks of humanity that have never made sense. He believes he has succeeded in what he set out to do, though now he can't remember what exactly it was... he must have deleted it.
Alone. Solitude becomes the only viable option. It suits Sherlock well. It's safe. Sherlock doesn't know if he wants to be safe.
Adult. Apathy. Addiction. Years of training his mind to move faster and faster have crippled Sherlock's ability to deal with moments of tranquility. He grows listless, has been growing listless for years, and he knows the ennui will kill him one way or another. Later, years later, he will wonder if boredom or desperation brought about his cocaine addiction, or if it was both, working in tandem to send him to an early grave.
Authorities, amateur. Lestrade first sees him loitering along the edges of a crime scene, curiosity worn openly on his face. It's only when Sherlock's high, the new DI learns, that he doesn't shutter his emotions. Sherlock solves that case, and shows up at the next scene. He solves that one, too, and Lestrade doesn't know quite what to do. There's no manual, really, on what to do will brilliant drug addicts who capture criminals. Did it matter Sherlock cares more about the puzzle than justice? "The end justifies the means," Sherlock says when Lestrade poses the question. Regardless, Lestrade knows it's wrong of him to let a high Sherlock faff about on his investigations. So, he gives Sherlock an ultimatum: Get off the cocaine or get off my crime scenes. And, to Lestrade's surprise, Sherlock does. He disappears for seven months, seven peaceful months, then shows up again, colder, more in control, and in many ways unlike the addict Lestrade sent away. Sherlock without the drugs is more biting, more severe, and far less unwilling to suffer fools.
If Lestrade were superstitious, he'd think it odd that as soon as Sherlock is sober, a slew of bizarre and baffling cases find their way to Lestrade's desk. He's not superstitious, he also knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Abduction, arson, affair. Not all of Lestrade's officers are sold on Sherlock. Some outright hate him, yet all but a few begrudgingly admit he works magic. Answers. Despite the problems his often tactless comments cause, Sherlock provides results. He forsakes the cocaine, and sets up shop as a Consulting Detective.
Abstinence. Breaking the habit isn't easy. But as long as the cases are interesting and the chases are long, Sherlock manages.Appetite. He doesn't like food. He never has, but since he's been off the cocaine, his appetite returns with a vengeance. Sherlock is a control freak, if anything, and it's at this point in his life he plans a strict diet. A set number of meals meals per week, just to keep from collapsing, and fewer when on a case. (A metaphorical wrench in the gears called John Watson will entirely derail Sherlock's system, but that happens later.) Adrenaline. He finds a new drug, and though it might also kill him prematurely, it's not illegal. Sherlock hasn't decided if that's a pro or con.
Afghanistan. John is... unexpected. Not that Sherlock minds. He likes the unexpected. He finds he likes it when the unexpected proves to be a crack shot with nerves of steel. That development is certainly more exciting than the possibility of being poisoned. Assistant, acquaintance, ally. He's not alone anymore, not like before. There are unforeseen benefits. He'll never say as much, though. Audience, applause. Adventure. Alignment. Appreciation, affection. (Amazing!) Attachment.Sherlock never loses his acerbic personality. No, that would be unimaginable and quite impossible. He still does the thing with being mysterious and the cheekbones and an upturned collar, still drops stinging remarks faster than the receiver can comprehend, only now he has a blogger. It makes a world of difference, but does not change his essential makeup.
Admirer. He's enthralled to have an opponent in this game, especially an opponent that has yet to be dull. Moriarty's everything Sherlock's stimuli-starved mind needs. Antagonist. His opinion of Moriarty changes drastically at the fifth pip.Archenemy. Sherlock estimates just under half of his most interesting puzzles have been planted by Moriarty. He's not flattered by the attention, not anymore. Flattery loses its luster when the other party kidnaps and straps bombs to important people. Important person. John.
Atrium, aorta, artery, apex. Arrhythmia. There's a heart, Sherlock realizes, and it's his. There it is—beating out of time against chlorine saturated air. Because John, attached to incendiaries, is a half-step from death. Sherlock sits in the eye of a hurricane, and can feel his blood scream through him, a shallow reflection of his heart. He doesn't run when John tells him to, it doesn't even occur to him, but he knows the implications of John's offer. When the jacket is off, Sherlock stands between it and John, as if by his will alone he can be a wall against an explosion.
Azurite. From afar, John isn't very remarkable in appearance. Compared to Sherlock, he might even seem plain. But up close, in Sherlock's mind, John is bewildering, striking, and quite astonishing. He's never considered another person like he's considered John. Nor has he ever given an expressive name to someone's eye color. Auricle. Sherlock has a strange fondness for John's ears. Their shape, their function. It's inexplicable. For God's sake. What has he done to me? Oh.
Awareness. Oh! Irene Adler may be the sort of woman to take her clothes off to make an impression, but she's clever. She's clever in ways Sherlock can't fathom. She knows humans in ways he doesn't; she's taken the human heart in her hands and picked it apart until she understood all there is to know. She can see right through Sherlock, and John, and he imagines she could make them dance if she were so inclined. But in the end, it's her own human heart that brings about her downfall.
Adversary. Moriarty is back, because he can't help it, and because he is the same as Sherlock. Except for one thing. Achilles.Sherlock has known his latent heart would get him into trouble. Those people attached to his life, the lives to which he's become attached—they are the weakness to his demigod façade. Authenticity. Another weakness, in the form of a question, grown from the seeds of resentment. Assassins. They'll be the first to go, Sherlock vows, standing on the London skyline. He watches John's cab pull up outside Bart's. Angel. There will be too much blood on his hands for him to ever hope he'll be one of these. He'll settle for something lesser. Aegis. Athena, goddess of wisdom and war, was said to have had a breastplate bearing an image of a gorgon—an apotropaic symbol meant to avert evil. For some reason Sherlock hasn't deleted this information yet. He doesn't believe in fate, but if he did, he might think this information was meant for this moment.
Adieu. He can't think of anything else to say. Sherlock Holmes, rendered speechless. How singular. If he were actually falling to his death, he likes to think he would've said something more than just "Goodbye, John" but he doesn't know what. Abyss.Molly is there to take care of the small details, and Sherlock's grateful because he trusts her to do all the things he's not able to do right now. "Where will you start?" She asks. "I have a plan," he replies. Of course he has a plan, but the less she knows, the better. He refuses to botch this opportunity Moriarty's given him by getting Molly Bloody Hooper killed.
Asunder. It takes months for him to shake the habit of looking over his shoulder for John. Eventually, he tells himself he's looking over his shoulder for people who might kill him. The lie only works late at night, though. He knows why, but won't say it.
Armed. He doesn't stop, not once. Avenge. With near inhuman determination, he goes after the people who threaten what he's claimed as his. The hurts against him and the people he cares for are avenged. Death doesn't become Sherlock, creating or faking it, but he does what he must.
Absence. Alive. Apology. He knows John won't welcome him back with open arms. He doesn't expect forgiveness. This fact doesn't stop him from wanting it anyway, or from being happy once he attains it. Atone. John follows, as he did before, but he's closer now than he's ever been. Sherlock doesn't mind.
Affirmation. Sometimes, Sherlock can't figure out why his heart does as it does, or beats the way it beats. Sometimes, he can't quite wrap his mind around why he went through so much trouble to preserve both himself and the people around him. He struggles with the irrationality of emotions, he always will. But Sherlock realizes there's value in emotion, and purpose to every trial he's faced, when John takes his face between his hands and kisses him breathless.
Adoration. Adore. Both etymologically Latin in their roots, adoration and adore relate to the religious ideas of formally beseeching, as if in prayer, the payment divine honors, or worship. Now, their meanings have weakened to something more like a fervent, devoted love. It's far from apparent, at least to the outside world, but Sherlock adores John. In every sense of the word.