Sherlock Holmes looked down at the lifeless corpse that was lain down before him with a neutral expression. The woman's face was flawless, with the exception of a dainty mole on her left jaw. Her make-up was extensive, but tasteful enough to be considered pretty. Clearly a business woman. Her immaculate nails and regularly used phone pointed towards secretary, but her callous feet suggested otherwise. Personal assistant? He checked her phone book. Boss registered by first name. Yes.

He had no interest what-so-ever in investigating her death in any way, but his brain took down this information automatically anyway. It was clearly bog-standard suicide. Nothing more.

He had figured that out within seconds of him entering the room and after five minutes his deduction had not changed. He eventually waved for his colleague to follow him out the door and nodded at Lestrade in fair-well.

On the ride back, both men were silent, each consumed by the images that still lingered in their short term memory. Though their opinions on the matter could not have been more different.

John, being the kind-hearted doctor he had always been, felt subdued by the loss of such a young human being, and was lost in melancholy and hoped that he never had to experience this type of thing close to home. He was thinking particularly of Harry. His constant concern for his sister never faltered, despite the distance that had grown between them over the years. As much as John enjoyed being Sherlock's companion, he admittedly preferred when the case was exciting and action-packed. On the rare occasion that they were called in and they didn't discover anything unusual, the death of a person was just sad.

Sherlock knew exactly how John felt about these types of cases, and so he left him to his thoughts all the way back from the scene to 221B. It suited him fine, as he too was caught up in his own musings on the subject, though his were not so bleak.

He couldn't stand the predictably of suicide. Every single one was the same. It was lost to him that there was apparently no other reason for wanting to take one's life. Everything about murder was different. From the motive to the weapon choice, the choice between wanting to be subtle and craving the thrill of being caught. Each one required a steady mind to figure out, for no one was the same.

So why were suicides any different? Why did they only seem to apply to the miserable ones?

Being a sociopath meant that Sherlock was genuinely puzzled by this predicament, and he did not realise that maybe he was the only one to think suicide would ever be considered in any other situation.

He stared out at London flashing past his eyes, lights blurring, not being able to keep up with the speed of the cab. Sherlock's eyes flickered and fixated his gaze on each one as it went past. It helped him to keep his mind alert, which was essential if he was going to figure this out.

There had been a few times at which Sherlock had considered suicide.

Not because he was in any way dissatisfied with his current life. On the contrary, he often considered whether this was the most content he had ever been. It wasn't despair that led him to thinking about it on more than more occasion. It was curiosity.

They had reached Baker Street, and went up to their apartment above Speedy's café. Mrs Hudson had left them some food on the table in their kitchen, clearly not daring to face whatever was hiding in the fridge. Sherlock smirked as he remembered the pigs head he had put in their the day before. It probably would have given the poor woman a heart attack.

Sherlock watched in fascination as the bloody tickled down his hand, circling the winkles in his skin and running like rivers towards his wrist. He deepened the cut, ignoring the pain. It was worth it just to see what happened. The bright red liquid erupted from the now quite substantial gash. How dull we all are on the outside. His skin was so pale and plain, so boring, that it amazed him that such colour was hidden underneath the surface.

The bloody was now running right down his arm, he stopped it with his sleeve before it went any further.

He still had the knife in his other hand, so he leant back on the head board of his bed and pressed the tip into his figure. It took a second to puncture, before another small fountain of crimson leaked out. It was strangely calming to the detective, though he couldn't understand why.

He thought it might be just the idea that his body was working, and it comforted him to know that he was still functioning properly. However, he knew that that wasn't the reason, nor did it even make sense. Knowing that he had blood in his body meant nothing apart from what he was already aware of. No. Blood fascinated him in a way he'd never before experienced. And he became addicted to drawing it out of himself, just to marvel at how beautiful it was.

He twirled the white pill round and round in his fingers, analysing it's every feature, noting it's weight and dimensions, impregnating the information in his mind and storing it for future reference. Never know when these things might come in handy.

He sat, transfixed, continuing to turn it over. How could something so small be so powerful? One little pill, and you're life is over.

He smiled. He often found himself in these situations. Would it kill him? Really? He always like to think that it wouldn't, that he could fight it. That something so minor could take down Sherlock Holmes.

John was right. He thought, amused. I do risk my life to prove I'm clever. He held it to his lips and grinned like a madman. It wasn't this easy? Surely? It was ridiculous!

His confusion only became more intense. If it really was this simple, then why weren't people killing themselves all the time? He couldn't possibly be the only one in the world who got curious.

He considered that. Maybe he was insane. Maybe normal people didn't think like he did. Well, he was already aware of their stupidity, but the idea that his entire perspective on life was parallel to that of the rest of the world was a completely new thought.

Sherlock felt warm at that. Maybe he was more special than he thought? Maybe he really was one of a kind. His grin faltered slightly. Maybe he was more alone than he had realised.

He looked back down at the white pill that rested far too comfortably in the palm of his hand. Energy suddenly surged through him and before he knew it, he had thrown it with all his strength against the wall opposite, panting slightly.

Interesting. Reflex. He frowned, then laughed out loud once. How... human of me.

A noise from the living room brought him back down to present. He got up and went to join his colleague.

'John'

'Yes?'

'What is your view on suicide?'

There was a lengthy pause, in which Sherlock observed John's clear discomfort. The doctor stared at him for a moment, but he seemed unsurprised at the question. He cleared his throat and looked Sherlock straight in the eyes.

'Well, depending on your reasons for such an extreme act, I generally think of it as very selfish.'

Sherlock's head crocked to the side slightly. 'Really?'

John watched his reaction with a matter-of-fact expression. He nodded. 'Yep. And cowardly.'

Sherlock considered this for a moment, seemingly lost in deep thought. He had never looked at it that way before, but now that he thought about it, it seemed to him that John was sort of right. It was cowardly. Like just running away. And selfish? Sherlock looked back over at his friend sitting on the sofa opposite himself and studied John's face.

His friend's face was...clearly sad. But there was something else. Something that he noticed never left the doctor's expression, particularly when the detective was involved. Quiet, but set determination.

The detective's eyes widened a fraction as the realisation hit him in sudden epiphany and one side of his mouth curved upwards.

Of course.

People didn't commit suicide because... well why would they? They always had something worth staying alive for. Something that kept them there, on Earth, for an extended period of time. It kind of made sense to him. Sentiment. The one thing I shall never fully understand.

Sherlock had spent the majority of his life keeping himself a safe distance from people and their natural interactions. It seemed like the best thing, as he did not believe that him having 'friends' would in any way help him in achieving his goals which were, and always had been, to prevent any type of boredom. It might of seemed tedious, if his methods for keeping himself entertained were anything other than extraordinary.

He cut people out of his life, preventing any unnecessary contact or connections. But now..

Now it was different.

'I have John,' he supposed.

It was simple. So simple in fact that Sherlock wanted to smack himself for being so STUPID.

It was John. JOHN was the reason he never gave into curiosity.

Obviously, at some point he had grown attached to his blogger, causing him to act more... rationally? Normally? No. He was never NORMAL. And he would detest to be so. But at least now he wasn't alone. Wasn't damned to a life on his own. And for that he was surprised how grateful he was. To John. To Mike Stanford.

He gave the man a small smile. 'Thankyou, John.'

And with that he went to his room and promptly threw the pills back into his draw. Once again, they became exclusively for research and cases. Nothing more.

Sherlock rubbed his temples in slow circles as he deleted the puzzle from his memory hard drive, satisfied that he had finally cracked it. Strange. He thought. Maybe I'm less of a freak than people give me credit for. Donovan will be thrilled.

He returned to the sofa and put his feet up on John's lap, who raised an eyebrow at him back didn't comment. After all, he had just saved the bloody moron's life. Not much could prevent him from feeling incredibly smug about it. Idiot would kill himself just to prove he was clever.

Well, not any more. Not now he had finally given Sherlock something to live for.

Well.

Someone.