Sherlock had always contemplated the way in which he let his body function. Ever since he was a small child he knew he wasn't like the other children and it didn't even bother him for one moment. He couldn't stand the way the other children acted anyway. So needy. So pathetic. He'd hear them discuss loving pets and other stuff he had no need for. One of his fondest memories was when his class was asked to tell the class if their household had any pets. The look on the teacher's face as he asked if the animals he dissected for amusement counted. Mother wasn't exactly pleased that evening.
Then again his mother was rarely pleased with him. Not that he cared. Other children embrace their mothers. Brothers caring for one another. It wasn't like that at all in the Holmes resident. With him anyway. His brother always had a nose stuck into a book and his mother was nowhere to be seen. It gave Sherlock all the time he needed. In those years of solitude Sherlock learnt one thing. The heart gets in the way. It is ridden with sentiment and is never to be trusted. It's probably why he turned out like he did. Why Mycroft turned out almost the same. They weren't raised to love. They were raised to learn and it did them wonders.
Sherlock did often wonder what would have happened if he had been raised 'normally'. He didn't think he would be the detective he was today. Then again if he had then this wouldn't be happening now. Maybe he would have found himself someone and settled down. That idea sickened him slightly. How boring and tedious. However Sherlock was dealt with a problem. For once in his life he was unsure on how he was feeling. He knew he was meant to be upset. Angry too. He was meant to but he had only ever experienced anger before. Whatever this was it wasn't upset.
He didn't know what it was but something in his chest burnt and the more he tried to get rid of it, the stronger it grew. He didn't know why it had suddenly started and right now he didn't care. He was trying to occupy himself with cases, against everybody's protests. Even his dear brother had stepped his foot in. As usual Sherlock ignored everybody and insulted them with meaningless dribble that spoke wonders about the person in question at the time. He'd go home and yell at the TV some more. Even considered going to a dealer once just to get over the boredom and the abnormal pain in his chest. It wasn't medical. He would know if it was. His blood pressure was normal and there was nothing else physically wrong with him. The pain wouldn't go away though and his head had no explanation for it.
Looking at John's seat, the pain grew a little stronger. It infuriated Sherlock. Anything John related and the pain got worse. There was no reasonable explanation for it. No scientific reason. He wanted to find John and demand to know the answer. So Sherlock could just get on with his cases. Sadly it wasn't that simple. Pulling himself away from John's direction, he picked up his violin and began to play it. The music was odd. He has played happy before but now this piece he was making up screamed sadness and he didn't know why.
What Sherlock did know is was that he didn't like not having somebody to rant at. Someone to get the milk. He didn't like not having someone he could show off to whenever he pleased. He didn't like that the tapping of keys didn't rattle through 221B, helping him think. One of the things that he disliked the most was John Watson being cremated and now scattered somewhere near the old school building where John has first saved Sherlock's life. He didn't miss any of these things. Well, he didn't think he did. Whenever he thought about these things he'd ache more. He didn't understand why. The things he was thinking of was all to do with cases and the mind. The ranting made him release the stress, he just always needed milk, he didn't have anybody to please him mentally by impressing them, he didn't like the silence that the lack of typing left in his head and most of all, he didn't like John not being there.
He couldn't call it missing them. It was all mind control. Like his life. Though since John had left him to suffer at the hands of his intellect he had cared less and less. His mind wasn't in the case any more. He would study cars, make deductions and be wrong. Before John left his cleared judgement and works of deduction were flawless. Now they were poor. He didn't get it. The pain and the lack of being able to deduce things. When consulting Mycroft on the matter he laughed about Sherlock having a heart and feelings. Sherlock had scoffed at that idea. He didn't do feelings. All he knew at that moment was John was gone and nothing in his body nor mind liked it.
John Watson completed his mind. He made his mind function correctly. He gave him a purpose. Although Sherlock Holmes didn't know it, he had a heart and John Watson had found his way in. It wasn't the heart that 'normal' people possess. It would never be that. The heart of Sherlock Holmes is disguised to appear undetectable. Even to himself. If Sherlock believed himself to have a heart it wouldn't do well for his thought process. For his work. Instead he continued his childhood philosophy. Did he rule with his heart or with his heart? Since he had been a boy, it was his head. In the case of John Watson, to speak of one was to speak of the other.
Even after his years of work on separating the two and trying to kill one off completely, Sherlock had failed. A failure that went by the name of John Hamish Watson.