As a child, he couldn't really understand why people around him constantly looked for signs of affection on his part. All his elderly female relatives wanted to be kissed on the cheek when they came to visit; Mycroft always complied dutifully, while he usually ran for his life as soon as one of the dreaded ladies stepped into their house.
The worst part of it was that his brother managed to find him most of times; that meant he had to listen to a lecture on how a child of his age was supposed to behave, and eventually perform the kissing malarkey all the same.
Their mother never kissed them, why were they supposed to do it with their aunts and great-aunts?
xxx
His grandmother got him a robin in a little cage for his fifth birthday. He stared at the bird in fascination for an entire day, studying the colour of its feathers and the way its bright black eyes looked curiously at him. Soon he learned to mimic its whistle, and they shared unintelligible conversations through the steel bars that divided them.
Then one morning he woke up to find the cage empty. He looked everywhere, but the robin was nowhere to be found.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Mycroft told him in a condescending tone. "It flew away."
However, he wasn't stupid; he knew that the cage was closed and the bird couldn't have magically disappeared from it.
That only meant his brother was lying, and he hated him for that.
He didn't speak to anyone for the next two weeks. From that moment on, he never really trusted Mycroft the way he had before.
xxx
The death of the little robin had taught him he couldn't allow himself to care for living creatures. That only brought pain, and he didn't want any of it.
Imaginary friends were another thing entirely; he spent hours talking to them in his mind, though he was always careful not to let Mycroft know about them.
His brother would snitch to their mother, and their mother would tell him off for living in a world that was not real. He never really liked it when Mummy talked to him like he was stupid.
What he liked were the rare occasions when Mummy stroked his hair before he fell asleep. It made him feel safe and warm, though he couldn't tell why.
xxx
When he was eleven one of his grand-aunts asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up.
"A pirate," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He liked adventures, liked the thrill of danger and the excitement that came with seeking hidden treasures.
That evening his mother gave him a lecture on how inappropriate that would be of him, and what was her idea of a suitable career for her younger son.
He cried himself asleep that night, ignoring Mycroft's awkward attempts to soothe him.
Next time someone asked, he told them he wanted to be the prime minister someday. Only his brother was able to see through his lie.
xxx
As an adult he found it unbelievably easy to ignore the fact that he was actually capable of sentiments. His brain was all that mattered; the power of deduction was far superior to anything else, while emotions were nothing but dangerous traps.
It unsettled him when he realized how close to John Watson he'd suddenly become. John was the one person that seemed to tolerate him, and he couldn't afford to lose him.
He almost panicked when John showed up at the pool with a bomb strapped to his chest. Moriarty said he was going to burn his heart, and it was only at that moment that he actually realized he had one.
xxx
He liked Mrs Hudson. She was far more motherly than his own mother had ever been, and while her fussing annoyed him at times he was still fiercely protective of her.
When a miserable wretch dared to lay a finger on her, he proceeded to show him exactly how displeased he was with his actions.
He never felt any remorse whatsoever for throwing the moron out of the window.
xxx
Anderson was an idiot, so he didn't count. Donovan hated him, but that was okay. Lestrade, on the other hand, kept trusting him even against his best judgement.
He always liked it better when Lestrade was in charge of the investigation, no matter that he'd never bothered to learn his first name.
However, he was actually surprised when he heard John calling him Greg.
xxx
He always thought that everybody else was an idiot, but that was just a generalization and therefore quite inaccurate.
Molly Hooper wasn't an idiot. She'd seen right through him when he was struggling with the revelation of Moriarty's true intentions.
Her clumsiness irritated him sometimes, but he knew he could trust her with his life.
And that was exactly what he did.
xxx
Sentiments were the only code he wasn't able to decipher. There were times when he had no clue as to why John was angry; those were the times that had to do with sentiments, one way or another.
When he told him he had no friends. When he showed up two years after his fake suicide.
John yelled at him and walked away, leaving him completely dazed. And he was no good at making it up to him after that; it was always John that grew tired of his clumsy attempts at apologizing, and eventually let him in again.
xxx
John was gone. Married. He'd rather die than admit it, but he missed him.
Friendship he could understand to a certain extent, but love was definitely beyond his comprehension. However, he could tell that Mary made John happy; he supposed that was the whole point of it.
He had never been in love, not even with the Woman – contrary to what John had seemed to think once. It would take a fool to trust someone like Irene Adler, though he'd actually enjoyed battling wits with her.
Trust was a basic requirement for love, or so he'd been told. Personally, he couldn't say anything about it one way or the other.
He wasn't one for sharing theories unless he'd proved them himself.
xxx
For the next few months, he threw himself into his work. He solved cases, talked to the skull that rested on the mantelpiece, and tried to bribe Mrs Hudson into letting him smoke just one cigarette.
She never did, not even when he started turning the flat upside down looking for his stash.
Turned out she'd given it to Lestrade, and Lestrade to Donovan and Anderson. There was no way he would humiliate himself by asking either of them.
xxx
When he couldn't take it anymore, he called a cab and went to the morgue. Molly was startled when he walked up to her; she clearly wasn't expecting him to be there.
"Lestrade said this was a suicide. Do you think it's a murder?"
A quick glimpse at the body was enough for him to read the signs. "No, it's suicide alright."
"Why are you here then?"
He was silent for a moment, thinking of a suitable excuse.
"Bored," he said at last, but she quickly corrected him.
"Lonely, you mean."
"Yeah, whatever."
Molly stared at him, biting her lip as if trying to summon her courage. Then she closed the distance between them and tentatively wrapped her arms around his waist.
"What are you doing?" he asked, though he suspected it had to do with sentiments.
"Giving you a hug, you moron," she mumbled against his coat. "Just shut up and hug me back."
He was about to dismiss her, then remembered he'd better collect some empirical data instead. That was why he slid his arms around her, and finally relaxed into her embrace.
It wasn't as bad as he was expecting. As a matter of fact, he actually liked it; Molly was warm and soft against his chest, and a long forgotten feeling of safety awoke inside of him.
He wasn't sure whether this was what people usually called love, but he found himself thinking it wasn't so worthless after all.