Author's Note: What? What is this? This is a Sherlock fanfiction. This is my first Sherlock fanfiction. ... I love Sherlock and Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman just make me really happy.
Disclaimer: I do not own either character in this chapter ... but I do own the girl. I am not the girl, no worries!
The hour was nearing five in the morning on Sunday, during the latter days of June. Daylight was just barely stretching over the skyline. True to its name, the day promised to be bright, though it would be unseasonably cool; the streets would be crowded with people taking advantage of the weather, which might not come around again until the fall. John Watson was still sleeping, as was his custom on the weekend. Most likely, he would get up within the next three hours, eat his breakfast slowly, and then go on a walk in the park in the early afternoon.
This was utterly the opposite of Sherlock. He was awake and had been for an hour already. This was his time for silent reflection, though more often than not, he sat in his chair and cleared his mind of all unnecessary information that he had accumulated the previous day. But today was different. Today, he used his time for … well, reflection.
His violin rested against his chest, the scroll on his shoulder, and the bottom grazing his leg. Sherlock plucked the strings absentmindedly, though he paid attention enough to hold the neck, so as to not disturb his sleeping friend.
He stared at the chair across from him where, in the middle of the cushion, he had placed the phone. The phone. Irene Adler's phone. If he gazed long enough, he could almost envision her sitting there. Her brown hair, curling as it dried, dripping on the blue silk robe he lent her; her one leg tucked under her, the other outstretched, pointing in his direction. Sherlock blinked and she was gone.
John thought that he didn't know what love was. He was right. He had little understanding and even less need for the mutual attraction between human beings. He was aware of the chemical background of the emotion – it was something Mycroft had taught him as a child; something Mycroft himself used when it was advantageous to him, though Sherlock could never be bothered with the process, useful or not.
So Sherlock knew about the release of dopamine and norepinephrine. He knew that people "in love" had lower serotonin levels, something they shared with those with obsessive compulsive disorder. That explained the sickening side effect of constant obsession.
But it was more than that, according to the average people who professed their love every day. If it was more than chemistry, what was it? Physical attraction? Then it just seems very shallow. Sherlock made a face at the chair.
"What a stupid, unfathomable, useless emotion." He gave his instrument a final tug before laying it back in its case. Standing up, he grabbed the phone off the chair and threw it back in the desk drawer. He stood by the window, overlooking Baker Street and watching as the sunlight stabbed the darkest corners.
It was unlikely, almost impossible, that Sherlock Holmes would ever fall in love, but he found himself wondering if things would have been different in alternative circumstances. If he were ever to love someone, she would have to be clever. He didn't suffer fools gladly. He would need someone who could deduce the things he deduced, see and understand the world as he did, even come to the same conclusions he came too, or, in the very least, be able to intelligently explain how it was she had a different supposition than he. But she couldn't be too intelligent. Certainly, she couldn't go above his own genius. Sherlock couldn't bear to think of someone aside from Mycroft that was better, mentally, than he was. He was vain, he wouldn't deny it. The frailty of genius was that it needs an audience, but the younger Holmes was not accustom to, nor truly ever wanted to be the audience. He was the genius; it was him who required the audience.
"And therein lies the problem," he theorized out loud.
There had been a girl like that once, Sherlock reflected. She had been very intelligent, perceptive to nearly everything around her, with just enough human stupidity to please him. She'd been a fellow student at Cambridge, one that he had made a rather strong acquaintance with, to the surprise of himself and his brother. The young woman had been able to recognize him at a first glance, though the two had never met. It was, perhaps, the first time Sherlock had ever felt something akin to awe for another person.
"You're Sherlock Holmes, I suppose."
The young man glanced to his left with mild curiosity. She was sitting three seats away, her feet on the chair, her knees level with her chin. Between her chest and legs was a book, held in place by her left hand, while her right played with the corner of the next page. Her hair was pulled into a braid, her glasses almost falling off her nose. If he hadn't heard the words himself, he would have questioned whether she really said anything at all. The jeans she wore frayed at the hems and her shirt was faintly wrinkled, hinting that it had been picked off the floor the previous night. She wasn't the sloppy type to throw her clothes in a ball, but she wasn't neat enough to keep everything on a hanger. He would have guessed she was an average college student – just left home for the first time with the typical college student allowance. That is to say, not much at all. Her outfit said one thing, but the rings on her fingers, the fresh manicure, perfectly shaped eyebrows, and her poker straight spine betrayed her true social status. Sherlock debated taking the bait. It was bound to lead to a conversation, which was something he'd rather not have to do. At the same time, he did wonder how it was she could make such a statement – and it was a statement, not a question – so nonchalantly. In the end, his curiosity won over.
"I don't believe we've met bef-…"
"We haven't," the woman interjected. Her gaze never left her book, but it was clear to him that she wasn't reading at all. "My father often does business with your brother. You have the same face."
Sherlock blinked. "I'm sorry; I can't say I agree with you."
"Of course, yours is more chiseled than his. If you don't mind me saying, you are on slimmer side. Have you tried eating?"
The ghost of a smile, which appeared at the initially favourable comparison, quickly faded. "You haven't exactly been doing so well yourself. How is it that a girl like you, clearly from a very well off family, remains so scarily thin? That's not just genetics. You're practically starving yourself."
"My above average intake of caffeine keeps my hunger at bay. I prefer to smaller, frequent meals, though there are times when I can't be bothered to eat at all. Takes up too much time."
"Not healthy. You could just get money from your parents."
"You're one to talk." She finally looked up, giving him a raised eyebrow and a smirk, her dark blue eyes piercing. "Besides, I prefer not to use my parents' money for myself, aside from tuition, of course. I'd rather make it on my own."
"Why would you do that?"
"I think you can figure that out on your own."
Sherlock could hear John's heavy footfalls on the steps. The sound brought him back to the present day. The sunlight was now covering the whole street. The man turned away from the window to watch his companion shuffle into the room, hiding a yawn behind a hand.
"'Orning," John said sleepily.
"You're up early."
"Had a horrible night's sleep."
Sherlock passed a cursory glance over his housemate. John was still wearing the scrubs he'd worn at the hospital the night before. His shirt was wrinkled around the stomach area where he leaned against the operating table. The constant use of the same surgical tools had left John's fingers in pain, causing him to periodically clench his fist and then flex his fingers. The dark circles under his eyes had been getting increasingly worse, hinting at multiple long, sleepless nights. The slight hunch of his shoulders and his constant stretches suggested that John's chosen mattress was not as good as he claimed.
"You should get a new bed," Sherlock stated. "You're not sleeping enough and it isn't helping."
"You're one to talk," John grumbled. He turned towards the kitchen and began to make coffee, missing the other man's frown of concern.
John thought he didn't know what love was, which was true enough, but that didn't mean he didn't care at all.
A/N: Yup ... thank you so much to Roxanne15927 for going over this fiction for me. She is also a Sherlock writer so, if you enjoyed this, I highly recommend going to her page and reading her stories, because they are about 156% better than mine are or, in fact, probably ever will be. Thanks for reading!