All right, here we go. I promise to update this faster than I update all my other stuff. I also promise to try and cut back on the angst. I said I will TRY. No guarantees. This will be, as you probably guessed, a seven-part story with each chapter being a different deadly sin. PLEASE review!
Disclaimer: Let's see, I credit: Mofftiss, Benedict Cumberbatch, Martin Freeman, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and... the Bible? I guess that's where the Sins came from.
Avarice, n. extreme greed for wealth or material gain
Sherlock was not, by nature, a greedy person. He was lazy and self-centered, occasionally childish, but he rarely coveted the belongings of others. After all, what did they have that he could possibly want? He was brilliant; he had a steady hobby; he shared a lovely flat with a good friend. What did the common idiots have that he fancied?
That was just the thing. Nothing. No one had anything he wanted because what he wanted was not an object. It did not belong to anyway.
What he wanted was John. The short, blonde, ex-army doctor was occupying more and more of his mind palace with every waking hour– and with Sherlock Holmes, almost every hour was a waking one.
It wasn't necessarily a lustful kind of wanting, either. He just desired John's company, his friendship, his constant steady presence to be the Sun around which Sherlock's Earth could continually revolve (yes, it was only recently that Sherlock figured that bit out. He tried to forget it, to delete it, to force it from his mind, but nothing that involved John could possibly disappear).
He was greedy about John's social activities; anything that took him away from the flat too long was deemed unacceptable. Most (all right, all) of John's dates fell into this category, as did any recreational activity in which Sherlock was not a part. The list was long and only excluded trips to the store.
It was a material sort of gain, an object that was desired for its simple existence. It had no need to do anything but be there, the way Sherlock needed John there. That was the other thing; he would never admit it, but he needed John. He, who had never required another soul for any purpose, desperately needed John Watson.
"Another one gone," John fumed, storming into the flat and slamming the door. "She was perfectly fine, Sherlock, but the way you interrogated her when she picked me up pushed her over the edge. We had a very awkward date, thank you for asking, and now she's gone and left me. And it's all your fault!"
Sherlock merely shrugged, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere to John's left. "These girls of yours are unimportant."
"To you, not to me! I happen to like company other than you once in a while, that's not all right? Oh, why do I bother, you're not even listening, are you? I'm going to bed. Someday I'm going to get an explanation, a good one, about why you have to chase them all away." He stalked off into his bedroom and shut the door more forcefully than usual.
Sherlock blinked. "That's obvious, John," he said disdainfully, even knowing the good doctor was not within earshot. "Because you are mine."
By the way, the title "Socordia" is the Latin word for "sloth", meaning "laziness". I feel that best suits Sherlock.