*I don't own these characters or the stories they belong to*
A few days before the Fall
Today was just another typical day in the lab: Sherlock was in one of his manic, ecstatic frenzies with a case on the boil, and I struggled to overcome his disregard, making the best of it until he stung me with some awful thing he said. When that blow comes, I usually flee the scene. I fight back tears, I berate myself and sometimes him, and I ruminate over the pull he has on me. Today was no different. Why can't I let it go? Is it really worth it? Why do I keep coming back like a desperate puppy, sick with misplaced hope for a small crumb of what? Acknowledgment? Affection? What is it about him that keeps me coming back for more? And right here is where I stop kicking myself. Thinking about Sherlock leads inevitably to: "How do I love thee? Oh, let me count the ways," and it's really hard to hold onto ire and self-castigation once whimsy and longing overcome the soul.
There is much that draws me to Sherlock, but the first thing that stands out to anyone who meets him is his mind. It is beautiful and wonderful, astounding and unique. I could go on all day about the beauty of his genius, recounting numerous examples to awe and enamor, but it's more than his genius that makes him unique. There have been many geniuses in the world, but none like Sherlock, I think. No one else I know or have heard about has such a disregard for what is normal and expected. With Sherlock, there is an odd juxtaposition. He has made such a study of people and their normal reactions that he knows what to expect of them better than they know of themselves, but Sherlock himself makes no effort to conform to normal more than it pleases him to do so. In some cases, he seems oddly clueless, not even recognizing when he has stepped outside those bounds, but I think it more frequently the case that he doesn't care what other people think of him, and normal behavior in others is often classified as "boring." Most people, geniuses included, live their lives regulated, to at least some extent, by the concern of what other people think about them. Even those of us who find ourselves other-than-normal and awkward-around-anyone-who-is-not-a corpse don't share his lack of effort or his disregard for other people. Sherlock has a complete lack of concern for what people think and expect of him. He lives free from the shackles of social norms and niceties. I often think it would be wonderful to be so free!
Of course, the problem is that his freedom it is not paired overtly with a love for the other person; it employs no discernible empathy. John has had a very positive humanizing effect on him, but it still makes me sad to think what Sherlock has been deprived of or what he has deprived himself of that he is so unable to accept or give love to other people. I wonder how much of that is down to his experiences, how much down to his genius, which is such a demanding and harsh task-master, and how much is down to himself, his choices. Thankfully, Sherlock possesses a strong sense of morals and he adheres to them-mostly. Otherwise, his utter disregard for people's feelings and opinions would be a very bad thing, indeed. As it is, his beauty, genius, and uniqueness come part and parcel with a heavy dose of astounding rudeness, and this is what had me stinging, yet again. Still, I think it says something good of him that he chooses to direct his puzzle-solving efforts so often towards saving the day. He would have you think that the game is all that matters to him, but he could employ his genius in horrific ways if he chose to. The thought makes it a little easier to forgive his rudeness.
I had walked away, fighting off tears, but like a moth to a flame I returned to him as I always do. It is more than the beauty of his genius and freedom that compel me. While his understanding of and interaction with human nature is almost all attributable to the depth of his observational and deductive skills, he is not a robot. Occasionally my patience and persistence are rewarded with a glimpse of a humanity within him that is affected by life. He has a sense of humor, which is lovely. But today, I have this feeling like something is wrong, that something horrible is about to happen. His features often fell into sadness today when he knew John wasn't looking, which is worrying. I tried to let him know that I'd be there for him, that I'd be his support for whatever comes, but it was here that his disregard became forcefully rude. I wish he would accept help or comfort from me, or occasionally offer such in return. John has said that I am the only person he has ever heard Sherlock apologize to, and lately, it does seem to register when he has wounded me; his face doesn't remain completely placid like it used to when my composure gives way. This keeps me hanging on with a thin thread of hope.
Over time that I've known Sherlock, the sadness that overtakes my contentment on occasion is both better and worse. I am getting tougher against it, inured from long exposure to Sherlock's abrupt ways, but its reach is growing longer as I fall in deeper, which I do the more I know him. I feel lost, perhaps irrevocably to chance of rescue, bound eternally as the moon is, locked with its face to the Earth-whether the Earth notes the moon or not. Even if it never avails me anything, I care about him, and that keeps me hanging on too. I only wish I could rid myself of this sense of dread.