Author's note: I couldn't just leave this idea alone. Again. I hope I'm not annoying you guys.
Still don't own anything and I'd love some reviews.
It doesn't happen often.
But when it does, it certainly makes things harder.
He should be above it by now – after all, he has been hunting Moriarty's people for almost a year now, and he is used to solitude.
Then, again, maybe that is the problem.
He is used to being alone. He's not used to being lonely.
He'd always been on his own – a lone wolf, maybe that's what some people would call him – and he'd been happy with it. He had conducted his experiments (of course, when he was a child, he'd only used plants and, occasionally, a dead animal he'd found in the woods that belonged to the family property, not body parts, but nowadays he only considers that age appropriate), spent hours wandering through the house, and even longer in his mind palace (it had been Mycroft who'd first told him about it, naturally).
Even as an adult, he'd always been content. Especially in his early twenties, when cocaine had been the means of making any dull day better, any sad story a happy one, of stimulating his mind.
And then it had slowly begun: constant dripping wears away the stone, after all.
He knows people think it all began with John, and, he won't lie to himself, he never lies to himself, John is an important part of his story. But the room in his mind palace, the one where he stores this so-called "feelings" wasn't build the day John arrived.
As a matter of fact, now that he thinks about it, Mycroft had been the one to lay its foundation. Mycroft, the annoying, yet caring (he knows Mycroft cares about him, although it is a disadvantage, as he so eloquently put it; why else should he have helped Sherlock get into Baskerville, why else would eh kidnap the few friends he makes) older brother. Mycroft, who showed him how to build a mind palace. Mycroft, who probably never forgave him for telling their mother that their father had an affair and was embezzling money from one of the companies he worked for (Mr. Holmes had always insisted on working independently, of course he had), which is why she "kicked him out", as people would probably put it. Mycroft, who still looked after him after this had happened. Mycroft, who made the bullies stop. Mycroft, who forced him into rehab (there are days he's angry about it, but in the end, his brother was right, though he'd never admit it). Mycroft, who cared. Cared too much. But, then again: Sherlock cares too much too. There's a part of him that hates Mycroft – he's not going to deny it – but the other, much bigger part of him is thankful. And he can't change that.
Then, there had been Mrs Hudson. When her husband had managed to get himself convicted to death in America – while he'd been there, twenty-nine years of age, on a "holiday", because Mycroft had decided he'd "earned it" through the detox – and she'd found him, sitting on a park bench, looking miserable, and asked if there was something bothering him, even though she'd been the one who had just visited her husband in prison, heard his confession, and was still clinging to a wet handkerchief – he'd never have thought how important she's be to him, in the end.
But this is what she became – important. Motherly. A not-your-housekeeper-housekeeper. He remembers how often he shouted at her, was angry with her, and now he'd give everything to have one of her cookies. Life is unfair.
A year after he's met Mrs. Hudson, he'd stumbled upon Lestrade. Literally. He'd just stumbled upon a crime scene, after turning round a corner – and then he'd looked at the victim and known. It was a talent he'd always had, deduction. Mycroft, again, had been the first one to show him how to do it. And it had felt good, to know what had happened. So, naturally, he'd told everyone who'd listen what had happened.
Lestrade had listened, then taken him into custody (Sherlock wasn't angry – the DI hadn't had a choice, really, considering everything Sherlock knew about the case), then used him after he'd been proven innocent.
And, for a while, that had been all. And then Lestrade started coming round to his small flat in the evening, talking and listening to him, trying to make him understand social decorum. And, slowly, he'd become a friend. Maybe the first Sherlock ever had (this honour might belong to Victor Trevor at university, though). But he had become a friend. That was the important part.
Over the course of time, Molly and Stamford just... happened. Molly had been useful, of course, but she'd always mattered, maybe because she cared about everything she did, everything she said, and it was fascinating. And Stamford, while being absurdly normal and too polite, had never thought Sherlock a freak. He'd accepted him. In fact, the very first time they met, in the lab of St. Bart's, after Sherlock had just told him his life story, Stamford had cleared his throat, told him he was right, and started talking about the weather. That alone had earned him a corner in his mind palace. It wasn't an often-frequented corner – he spent less than half the time he spent in Molly's corner there, perhaps – but still an undeleted corner.
And then...
Then there had been John.
John, who'd just limped into his life one afternoon. John, who'd understood him. John, who'd been important from the start.
Now, that he thinks about it (when he has time to think about it – Moriarty's web is big), maybe it was dangerous, maybe it was wrong, having so many friends.
When it happens, he knows it was wrong. Luckily, as before mentioned (he hates repeating himself) it doesn't happen often.
But when it does...
It only happens when it's dark, and he longs to knock on Mrs. Hudson's door and demand milk. When he wants to call Lestrade to beg for a case. When he catches himself thinking about all the body parts Molly could give him. When he hopes Stamford still spends time with John. When he desperately wishes for a chance to annoy Mycroft. When he thinks of John, all alone, most likely limping again.
And, most importantly, when he thinks of what he did that day.
Destroying Moriarty's web, killing people, torturing others for information. Running around, hopeless, friendless, existing but not living, and, for the first time in his life, lonely.
When he remembers that Moriarty said "Thank you" on the roof, after he'd told him that they were alike. Moriarty said "Thank you" because he knew what Sherlock would become.
It's when Sherlock realizes, in his darkest moment, what he has become, that it happens.
That he wonders if Moriarty, after all that's happened, after all he's gone through, after his second archenemy (his first will always be his older brother) is dead...
That he wonders if Moriarty has won.
Author's note: Shorter this time. I would really appreciate your opinions; Sherlock (I love him, don't get me wrong) is not an easy character to write about.
I hope you enjoyed this story.