Love is said to be the finest feeling of all that human can experience.
Feelings, an eternal problem of any cogitative being — inability and ignorance of how to hide, ignore or get rid of them, letting the supremacy of intelligence prevail. I've always considered myself as the one who managed to do that — I had no need in feelings and they had no need in me. If necessary, I could imitate one or another sign of these ruining the mind itself aspects of that part of personality that the others prefer to call humanity. However, congenital sociopathy had been always the best explanation of my inability to feel and unwillingness to spend energy that could be directed to some more effective way — for instance, to defeat boredom — for emotions.
It was always like that. Or nearly so. Fixity of habits has never been peculiar of me to the extent it usually is of those who come to me, but in this constant I was sure. Yet Mycroft, perhaps, would say otherwise. But who cares.
Anyway, by being biological objects as we are, we are enslaved in many aspects by our physiology and activities that proceed in it. Someone to a greater, someone to a lesser degree. All these feelings, appreciated by the others, in fact are nothing more than chemical reactions that take place in the brain. And love is just a chemical reaction too. Ending. There's no everlasting love, glorified by art and young creatures' of the low IQ blogs.
I don't know if the same can be said about friendship. Or rather I know, of course — it can. But my attitude towards you that I'm used to consider as friendship didn't pass with the years passing, didn't grow smaller or weaker. Two years is a term long enough, and still it could clearly show me that my brain is up to something that I haven't found explanation to.
A chemical reaction. You are a constantly renewed chemical reaction in my brain. After two years I realised that all this time I had an almost physical need to see your face, to hear that nonsense or exclamations of admiration of which your speech is usually build. Like a drug. You make my brain to produce chemistry which I haven't noticed of getting addicted to — perhaps as strong as to nicotine. Or stronger? A question far from the pleasant ones. Asking it myself as though admitting such a possibility is twice unpleasant.
But it is so. I proceed living in my usual manner, leaving you in charge of your wife, or, better to say, bearing with her presence — being aware secretly that your inclination to thrills, your addiction to adrenaline in your veins sooner or later will lead you to my door again. And then I would get another dose of mine. You, John.