Writer's note:

I fell in love with Sherlock the moment I saw the first episode and since then I wanted to write something about it. But I wanted to make Sherlock to appear a bit more like the Sherlock in the original books, so that's why he may appear colder at some points.

Rated as M for safety. Warnings for cursing and fingers.

If there is any mistakes in the story, please forgive me.

I hope you'll enjoy!

He had seen the ocean, he had seen the mountains. He knew every street of London, every school, every restaurant, and every dead end. There was nothing that could escape this man's eyes, nothing that could crush him. He was the genius mastermind. No one could compete with him. No one could break his incredible mind or catch an emotion on his cold face. He didn't care about anyone or anything. It was all about the game, yes, the game, and the excitement he got from it. He couldn't feel connected, couldn't love. He was a consulting detective, a machine without feelings. Everything in his head was complicated, too complicated for us, normal people, to understand. But even when his brain was able to solve every single problem he faced, he lacked of social skills and feelings.

Or so we thought.

It was a late evening when everything started. It wasn't anything extra-ordinary, just a normal call from Lestrade. Every other day he called him, asking for help, asking for assistance. And every other time he refused, and rarely agreed to co-operate with him. If it wasn't anything interesting, anything odd or weird, it wasn't worth of his time. But when it was, he wouldn't do it without me.

This call was just everything what it usually was. The police needed help. There had been another murder, third one, to be precise, and they had faced a dead end. There was almost no connection between the murders, expect for the smallest little detail. They all lacked one finger. The first victim had his thumb cut off. Old man, around his 50's. Living alone since his wife's death, no children, no family. Found dead from the parking lot of a mall, with no signs of violence or force. He was just… dead.
Second victim missed an index finger. She was an older woman, mother of five and lived in Southern part of London. Worked as a hairdresser in the local salon and earned just a little money. From her ID the police knew she was 43 years old and was called Sally. She was found from the toilets of a shopping centre, wearing no outerwear or shoes.
Third, and the newest victim, had had his middle finger cut off. He was certainly part of some motorcycle-gang, due to his many tattoos, leather jacket and helmet, which he had had in his hand when the police found him from the park, lying dead on the ground. He was around his 30's and had been beaten up badly. He had bad bruises on his neck and shoulders and his right arm was broken.

"Yes, yes I do understand. I'm no idiot. I'll be on my way", he said while standing up from his armchair. There was a small sound when he quit the call with Lestrade and lifted his head so his eyes could meet the stare of mine.

"We've got to go now, John. We have a new case, and interesting one, to that matter", he said and tried to smile. I forced a smile on my lips when I stood up. Few months back he'd been much more excited. He would have been jumping up and down, yelling to the ceiling and smiling as wide as he could smile. He was excited now too, but behind the crooked smile I saw the drowsiness which was caused by the things I did not wish even for my worst enemy. He might be a genius mastermind, but he also had a weakness.

"Where are we going?" I asked before I stood up. I was worried, I couldn't lie. Even when this man probably couldn't connect with anyone, he was my best – and almost only – friend. He might be weird, socially disabled and sometimes even cruel, but I wanted to believe he had a heart behind his hard shell. I was almost sure of it, even when I knew he didn't agree himself.

"To Grange Park. We need to take a cab. Don't forget to take an umbrella. It will rain during the night", he
said, getting his purple scarf and black jacket. I mumbled something to answer him, but something caught my eye. My hands were shaking, as they had been before I moved in to 221B Backer Street. Maybe he and the psychiatrist had been wrong about the stress. It had to be something else. Maybe I should see other doctors so they could give their opinions, since I wasn't capable of understanding all the things about human mind – or their nervous system. Maybe everything wasn't just in my head, but it was actually my body which was slowly giving up on –

"John! JOHN! Are you listening to me?"
His call woke me up from my thoughts.
"Yes, yes I am. No need to shout. What were you saying again?" I asked when I grabbed my jacket from the chair. He gave me the scariest look he could ever give to me. The look, which looked like he could see through my soul. His eyes travelled from my eyes to the collar of my blue shirt and ending its way on my hands. He knew what I was suspecting and I was sure of it. Some small part of me actually said that that was the reason why he did those things to himself. Because he couldn't handle it. He couldn't watch me suffer.

When his eyes returned to meet my eyes again, his expression seemed much colder than usually.
"Nothing important. Are you coming or not?" he said, turning around and leaving the room before I could answer. I sighed when I followed him, taking support from the walls while walking. I wasn't alright, that was for sure. I tried my best to hide it, but I knew it wouldn't help. He saw everything. And I could have been sure it hurt him. But he hadn't a heart, had he? I was just a replacement for the skull which he used to have on his fireplace, until Mrs Hudson hid it. For me it didn't really matter if I was a replacement or a friend. Even when everyone else didn't, I trusted him with all of my soul.

I followed him downstairs and closed the door behind me. He had stopped a cab and was waiting inside for me to join him. When I did, he didn't make a single move to show me that he had even realized I was there. It took around fifteen minutes after the cab driver had started driving, when he finally spoke.

"John, are you feeling well?" he asked quietly, without looking at me directly. I frowned.

"Yes, yes I am fine. Why are you asking?" I asked, trying to sound like I had no idea what he was talking about. I could feel the annoyed look he gave me.

"Do you think I'm stupid?"

"Sometimes, yes." I knew that he was getting a bit angry at me. He turned his head away snorting quietly. This whole short conversation was ridiculous. Both of us knew what was happening and he knew – like usually – more than me. So why bother to say the obvious things when they just hurt when spoken out loud?

"You're the idiot here", he answered after a short while and turned his whole body so he would be able to see me better. This was the first time after we got into the cab when I faced his icy stare. "Maybe", I said quietly and tried to keep my expression as normal as it usually was. Suddenly – so suddenly that I actually flinched – he grabbed my hand and pulled me closer, taking a good look on my face. His cold eyes were just few inches away from my face when he examined my tired eyes and bags under them. He opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind and let me go.

"We're almost there, John. If you feel like it, you can go home from here", he said, looking outside again, avoiding my questions and stare.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. Believe me finally. I'm completely fine", I repeated, this time with frustration. I wasn't sure if those words were meant for me, or for him. I stared my hands when the cab stopped and Sherlock opened the door to step outside. Before I could do anything, he was standing next to the door of my side. He opened it and kept it open until I was standing next to him. He closed the door with a loud bang, staring at me with those piercing eyes.

"Off we go, then", he said and smiled a little. He put his hand on my shoulder and pulled me closer. He probably caught the surprised look on my face, because when I lifted my eyes, he was smiling at me.

"We wouldn't want you to faint or fall over on the crime scene, would we?" he asked quietly and squeezed me gently.

"Lestrade is over there. Come on, John", he said, still keeping me in a tight grip when he started walking towards the police officer.

"Sherlock, what are you-"

"Shut up John, and do as I say."

"Why-"

"Oh lord, just shut up already. Even with those small brains of yours it shouldn't be that hard!"

"But Sherlock, what are you-" Before I could finish my sentence, he gave me again one of those looks of his. Then he brushed my cheek gently with his finger and smiled a bit. If nothing else, that small little thing finally shut me up. He never touched me. He never touched anyone.

to be continued!