I was lying to John when I said I was married to my work, that evening when we chased the taxi. I was very, very lonely, and seeking company. And so was he.
My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am the world's best and only consulting detective. I work alone, but for the exception of Dr John Watson, my flatmate. He was, as idiots say, an anomaly.
He wasn't an anomaly to me, of course. But sometimes his reasons for doing what he did were astoundingly hard to decipher. For example, why he stayed with me regardless of the countless warnings to the contrary; why he didn't move far away after being strapped with bombs. Why he showed me patience, affection, and concern.
He forced me to eat when I was on my thinking sprees. He brought me the newspaper when I was in a rant. He circled interesting articles that he thought may be of interest to me. He pacified Mrs Hudson when I shot the wall… again. He got my skull back, he liasoned with Lestrade when I infuriated him past the point of tolerating me. He was there for me like no one else was. And I found myself experiencing emotions I had never felt before. I felt changed, and it was odd. I had changed, for John Watson. I vowed never to tell him how I felt, for I didn't want to lose the one person who put up with me, and kept this vow, until one particular case threw my world into disarray.
It was the case that rendered me blind.
A/N: Okay, readers, this is a new story of mine that I decided to write because, well, it's the summer holidays and I'm going to be writing a lot. It won't have 2000+ word chapters like my HP stories, but I hope to update it regularly and keep it a fun little summer project. I hope you like it, it's slash, of course, and I do not own Sherlock, or any of the characters. The television programme belongs to the BBC, and the original SH characters to the genius of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Thanks...