The resolutions of a lifetime started to crumble right after John's wedding.
He'd never seen his friend so happy before, and that was all Mary's doing; she was definitely a remarkable woman, the only one who truly deserved a man like John.
Could it be that love wasn't such a disadvantage as he'd always believed? Not that it actually mattered; Sherlock was well aware that he wasn't capable of such a sentiment, no matter how hard he tried.
He contented himself with pretending he was a part of John and Mary's family, at least until their child was born. The infant was probably the most beautiful thing he'd seen in his entire life, though he tried his best to hide the emotion when his friend eventually trusted him with holding the baby.
A miniature human being with John's eyes and Mary's smile.
It was the unexpected breakup between Molly and Tom that offered him the perfect excuse to stay away from John's place. Witnessing his friend's happiness only reminded him of the fact that he was effectively cut out of it; John had a family now, and even his best friend had to take a backseat to that.
He dragged Molly around on the crime scenes, just like he'd done upon his return to London; she brought him coffee and he spelled out his deductions for her, as he used to do with John. He even invited her over to Baker Street once; they played Operation and joked about Mycroft, when she was about to leave she said thank you and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
A week later Mary asked him out for tea. He frowned, then grabbed his coat and followed her to a nearby café.
"John's worried about you," she said as soon as he sat down before her. "And so am I."
"Worried? Why?"
"Don't play dumb with me, Sherlock. I know you're lonely. John can see it too."
He stared at her, his face carefully blank. "I can't see what you mean. I have Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson. Oh, and there's Molly too."
Mary tilted her head to one side, as if considering what he'd just said. "You're right. Molly's a nice girl. Perhaps you should try –"
"What?" he countered, mentally scolding himself for walking right into the trap.
"Sherlock, have you ever considered the option of finding someone – I don't know, a girlfriend, boyfriend, whatever."
"Why should I?"
"Because every human being needs company, even you."
He shrugged. "I had John. Now you have him, which is okay, because he's happy."
"What about you? Have you ever been happy, Sherlock?"
It took him all his willpower not to blink under her penetrating gaze. However, Mary was a smart woman; she could easily work out the answer by herself.
"I'm not unhappy," he said at last, though he knew that wasn't what she was asking.
"Think about it, will you?" Mary told him in her best motherly tone, then stood up and left him brooding over a subject he found particularly unpleasant.
Sentiments had always upset him, ever since his childhood. He didn't fully understand them, and he hated it when he couldn't understand things; Mycroft used to tell him he was an idiot, and perhaps he was right, though it had nothing to do with intelligence.
There had always been something missing, something he longed for – even though he desperately tried to deny it. Reason and logic he could handle, but there were too many uncertain variables when it came to human emotions; those he couldn't measure nor deduce, and that was the reason why he'd chosen to ignore them.
In a way Mycroft was better off than he was; his brother didn't need the company of other human beings, which he only found dull and disappointing. Sherlock wasn't exactly sociable either, but he'd discovered he liked the idea of having a restricted subsection of humanity around him – namely the very few people he'd come to call friends.
He had no idea what prompted him to broach the subject with Molly one evening, as they were sitting at a pub and he was bored witless with deducing all the people around them.
"Do you think I'm happy, Molly?" he muttered over the rim of his glass, and she stared at him in surprise.
"I – I've no idea, Sherlock. How would I know?"
"What about you? Are you happy?"
She ran a finger along the edge of the table. "I suppose I am, in a way."
"That means you're not."
"Sherlock, please."
He paused for a moment. "You're still in love with me, aren't you?"
The sharp intake of her breath was the only answer he got. He was right then, as he usually was.
"Why?" he enquired at length, and she sighed.
"There isn't a reason. I do, that's all."
That didn't make any sense to him; as a rule people didn't like him, and even those few that did could barely suppress the urge to strangle him on occasion.
Nobody loved a freak that couldn't help deducing them all the time. Nobody except Molly, as it seemed.
"Marry me," he blurted out at last, and she seemed uncertain whether to burst out laughing or crying.
"You're drunk. I'm taking you home."
"I'm not drunk, just a bit tipsy. And tired of being lonely – Mary was right after all."
"So you're expecting me to marry you because you're lonely?"
His gaze finally locked with hers. "Isn't that the reason why people get married?"
"No. Well, not exactly. I mean –"
She trailed off, then shook her head. "I won't marry you like this."
"I'll wait. We can play Operation in the meanwhile."
"You're tipsy, no way you're going to win this time."
"We'll see," he teased her, donning his coat and making to the door.
They both laughed, couldn't help it. He wondered if she could handle a broken heart, and what Mycroft would say if he ever told him about it.