Unbetaed, so if you see anything that bothers you, please review. If you don't see anything that bothers you, please review anyway. Enjoy reading!
The first time Sherlock had been left for a lover, he was 4 years old. Elisa was one year older and always his companion on the playgrounds, where they imagined they were that rabbit family from television, each playing different characters at the same time, or that they were digging up treasures on the most beautiful islands. But that particular day, she ran to him and told him that she had a boyfriend now, proud, knowing that was what adults did, so she couldn't talk to him anymore, because he was another boy. And with that much she ran away to a blond child and didn't play with Sherlock again. He didn't understand. Tried to tell her, to convince her with a reasonable argument that playing with one child did not mean another would hate her, but she put on a wise face.
"I am older, you just don't know yet how it works. A boyfriend is not just a friend! I can't talk to anyone else now!"
Sherlock did not have the impression that he would understand it the next year, when he had the – according to Elisa so mature – age of 5.
He moved on and played on his own, kept pretending that he was a pirate or a fox or whatever he liked to be at the time, but it was not the same, being alone in his self-created reality.
The second time was in his second year of high school. Richard was not really a friend, though. Rather someone who was brave enough to talk to him without caring about how their classmates would judge him for doing so, someone who was open-minded enough to accept the freak. Whenever they had to work in group, Sherlock would turn to him, because everyone else would wrinkle their noses as if they had been asked to pet a dung-smeared rat. One time, Richard had even defended Sherlock when a group of girls was provoking him. He had been surprised, but grateful.
Though he had seen how Richard looked at Simon, another boy in their class. He was one of the worst bullies, but suddenly Richard didn't seem to mind. Socially gifted as he was, he made Simon into his best friend and wouldn't work with Sherlock again – Simon would not let him live it down. It didn't really make Sherlock sad – after all they had not been friends. It just was inconvenient that no-one would work with him now and that every time, the teachers would look at him as if it was his own fault. Maybe it was, he thought on dark nights, and then dismissed the thought because he knew he had done nothing wrong. 3 years later, Richard had finally come out and Simon treated him as if he had an extremely contagious disease. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to pity his former classmate.
The third time, it was far worse.
Victor Trevor was his only friend at university – but he was a friend. They laughed together and had quiet discussions about science in Sherlock's room. Now and then Victor would be impressed by Sherlock's deductions. Sherlock even spent a month of the vacation at Victor's home. He realized that if he would allow himself to let down the barrier between his feelings and the world, he could fall in love with the dark-haired, dark-eyed, skinny boy. Of course he wouldn't allow himself. It would cloud his thinking, his actions; obstruct his freedom in every possible way. Besides, it wouldn't do him any good. It was quite obvious that Victor was straight. In their last year, he found himself a serious girlfriend and a job abroad. Of course they moved away, and Sherlock knew it wasn't true when Victor said they would see each other again after college. Victor would be too busy building a life. Sherlock had made a new friend that wouldn't leave, named cocaine. It was even better at keeping his mind from being bored.
He had never considered the cases as a friend. They were a bare necessity of life. The adrenalin they resulted in was far better than what the cocaine could produce, because he accomplished something. They were not even an addiction, because that would make the urge to breathe into an addiction as well – though a far more boring one. The cases made him into who he was.
And now there was John. He was a friend, an addiction and a necessity at the same time.
Mary Morstan was a nice-looking woman with short blond hair. She came to Baker Street on a Friday afternoon and explained the case of her missing father in a clear way which revealed her intelligence. Within seconds, Sherlock could foresee what would happen if they took the case and John would get to know her. After all, the two of them had never made any promises. John was not even sure if Sherlock could reciprocate his feelings, so his practical mind would show him the perfect way to move on and it would work.
Sherlock refused the case, claiming it boring despite the years of mystery that enveloped it. Mary left their flat, disappointed, and John frowned at him, asked why he didn't take it while it promised to be so interesting and he had been nagging about being bored before she came in. Sherlock sighed and collected his courage. It was time to make a confession.
That night, when Sherlock was draped over John's left side, both of them naked and content, he pressed his face in John's neck. "Please never leave me, John." A whisper in the safety of John's scent.
John kissed his head and made the promise silently.
Tomorrow, Sherlock thought, he would call Mary to take her case. It was far too interesting to discard completely, and there was no risk in it now. He smiled. Sometimes, if you waited long enough and acted on the right moments, you could have it all.