When most people met Sherlock, they saw a man who seemed not to care about anyone or anything. They saw a man to whom the world was merely a toy to play with, one giant game of chess with an infinite number of moves being made at once; people nothing but pieces to manipulate and, once their usefulness has past, discard. Even if they had known him for a while, the feeling that he was always subtly twisting them to serve some incomprehensible purpose that would be purely for his own benefit, simply grew stronger.
So far, no one could see anything more in this strange, brilliant man. No one but John Watson. John, who had stumbled into his life and, instead of recoiling disgusted when he had started to deduce everything about him, found his gift amazing. Never before had anyone thought him to be anything other than creepy. John had stayed with him and surprised him by starting to unravel the complexities of his mind. He did not quite understand but he was the closest to doing so.
John saw; not a man who viewed others as pawns, but a man who was a pawn himself, enslaved by own his need to know, to understand. John saw a man who, without that understanding, without that knowledge, would be broken.
