"They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars—on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places."
―Robert Frost
When Jim had first begun peering (from behind one-sided glass, as was always his way) at the great and clever Sherlock Holmes, one of the things that stuck out to him was Dr. Watson. John was one piece of the consulting detective's life that just didn't conform to the pattern.
Sherlock was indisputably a genius, a solitary dragon-slayer who, when not dashing about London slaying dragons, spent his time holed up in a homey little flat and puttering away with flasks and meticulously sliced limbs. Arrogant, sure, but a rare and dazzling creature nonetheless. And just like Jim, miles away from anything even remotely resembling loveable.
But yet, he was loved. Not by many, granted, but he had still managed to win over the friendship of a battered soldier with a heart of gold.
And, if the look that had flickered across his face when he'd seen John bundled up in enough Semtex to take down any living thing within a one-kilometer radius was any indication, he also had learned to love in return.
This sudden desire companionship was quite the puzzle to Jim. He had mulled over a thousand different possibilities.
Maybe Sherlock just liked being constantly reminded of how amazing he was, to revel in a constant background noise of admiration. The problem was that, although it was certainly true, it didn't explain why he'd pick someone like John. Anyone could loaf about a crime scene and babble about how brilliant everything is. Why bother making that someone warm and brave?
Next, he wondered if maybe it was just out of sheer loneliness. Jim, although it wasn't something he'd readily admit, could certainly sympathize with that. But again, there was the good doctor's unwavering and downright noble devotion. You'd think if Sherlock wanted a friend, he'd go for someone more like him, someone who knew how it felt to constantly crave distraction.
Eventually, he'd given up trying to work it out. Jim passed the whole thing off as mere sentiment, devoid of the logic and reason necessary to make sense of it.
Sherlock, although not ruled out as a worthy plaything after the Fall, no longer captured the criminal's interest the way he once had. He had been so simple on that roof, so eager to preserve a few lives at the cost of his own. Just like a hero out of a fairy tale.
But, as he pulled the strings that made the world spin round behind a proverbial curtain, the mystery of John Watson always was there, nagging at him in a corner of his mind.
That is, until Jim realized two years too late that he had overlooked a key element in their game, a sweet little pathologist named Molly Hooper.
There it is, a brief little prologue. The next chapters will absolutely be longer. As the ancient saying goes, this is my first fic, so please be gentle! Reviews are always appreciated. :)