John sat in the closet in Sherlock's bedroom, cleaning it out for him. Spring cleaning season: a time that Sherlock absolutely hated with the passion of a thousand suns (and he could say that now, now that John had taught him about the solar system). So the consulting detective had locked himself up in the bathroom, sulking and texting on the closed toilet lid. John had tried to talk to him through the closed door, but had been purposefully ignored. So he gave up and tackled Sherlock's bedroom. He was mostly done – the only thing left to handle was Sherlock's closet.

And what a mess that was. He'd found several unmentionables, several old crumpled up newspapers, when he noticed a shoebox in the corner, nearly hidden by masses of clothing, labelled 'uni' in Sherlock's untidy scrawl. John frowned curiously at the box, wondering if it was worth taking a peek. He knew that if Sherlock caught him looking though what he assumed was personal photos, he would look like a hypocrite for always shouting at the taller man for going through John's things.

But John was a curious man by nature. And, come to think of it, he'd never heard Sherlock ever talk about his uni days, except for the one time that they had met Sebastian Wilkes at the bank for the Blind Banker case. So even though his internal voice was screaming at him that this was a terrible idea and that Sherlock was going to get really angry, his hands opened the cover off the box and pulled out the top stack of pictures.

The first photo was of a young-looking boy with high cheekbones and impossibly wonderful blue-green eyes. He looked like he could be related to Sherlock, with those cheekbones, yet the sharp set of his eyes and the contemplative line of his mouth was distinctly Sherlock. But it couldn't be Sherlock, could it? Because Sherlock didn't have short, ginger hair. At all. But he certainly seemed to in all of these photos.

He continued on to the next picture, to the not-quite-Sherlock, who was hanging upside down from a tree, laughing as his shirt ride up over his belly, exposing pale skin and hard muscles. He was reaching toward the photographer, as if he was beckoning toward whoever was beside the camera, sunshine lighting up his entire face. He looked happy, which confused Sherlock even more. Sherlock made it seem like he hated uni, but here, he looked absolutely elated to be alive.

Smiling a bit at the grin on uni Sherlock's face in the photo, John put them down and peered inside the box again. He pulled out a folded, delicately thin piece of sketch paper, opening it. He brought in a sharp intake of breath as he looked at the picture drawn there, his jaw falling open.

Broad strokes of graphite across the paper came together, depicting a shoulder blade, the curve of an arm, the bunched up sheets around narrow, naked hips, and a peacefully sleeping face. The man had high cheekbones and full, slightly parted lips, and long eyelashes. It was Sherlock. And John was amazed. Obviously, whoever had drawn this had taken several long, painstaking hours, carefully constructing the sharp angles and soft curves, the exact replica of a short-haired, sleeping Sherlock. Loving strokes of a pencil. A piece of paper fluttered to the ground, and John picked it up and read the elegant script, so different from Sherlock's untidy scrawl.

Dearest Sherlock,

You fell asleep while we were talking in bed last night, and I just had to make you the subject of the next still life I was working on. You are wonderful, my beautiful man. You're the most intelligent person I know, I will miss you dearly when you leave in the morning for studying abroad. London (and mostly I) will be lonely without you. I love you with every particle of my being.

Nicholas

John sat in the middle of Sherlock's room, his eyes on the letter and the photos of Sherlock from university scattered all around him. He was still trying to comprehend it all when the door to Sherlock's bedroom opened and the consulting detective himself walked in, pyjama pants low on his hips, exposing the 'v' of muscle dipping down below the trousers. His hair was dripping wet, and he must have cut it, because it was cut short and dark. Sherlock took one look at John, scrubbing his hand through his hair, and his posture grew defensive and his expression stony.

"John, what are you doing?" he asked in a flat voice. His eyes fell to the letter in John's right hand and the sketch in his left hand, and his eyes grew impossibly large and his composure frail-looking. "What are you doing?" he said louder, storming over to John and snatching them out of his hands. "Those are…are…mine." He held them close to his bare chest, his heart pounding loudly.

Dark blue eyes met impossible green-blue, and in an instant, Sherlock knew that John knew. "Sherlock," John started, but Sherlock held up a hand to stop him.

"Don't, John," Sherlock said. "Why are you even in here?"

"I…I…" John stuttered, looking for a decent excuse. "Well, I was originally cleaning, but then I got distracted by the…photos." He looked down at his hands now. "Who is Nicholas?"

Sherlock shook his head and frowned at John, an impossible sadness in his eyes. "I really don't want to talk about it, John," Sherlock said quietly, his thumb sub-consciously rubbing small circles on the backs of the pictures. "It's a long story, and you don't want to hear it. Please don't go in my room to clean. Ever."

John stared, open-mouthed, at Sherlock. The taller man wasn't shouting, but he might as well be, the way he was standing there, looking heartbroken and angry and the way he was possessively holding the pictures cut John deeply. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," he said defensively, standing up and passing Sherlock. Before he stepped out the door, he put a hand on the consulting detective's shoulder and rubbing his thumb on that shoulder blade, the exact shoulder blade that had been depicted perfectly in the sketch.

Sherlock waited until he heard the door close behind him and reached into the shoebox, to pull out pictures, pictures of himself and Nicholas. Sitting down on the bed cross-legged, he spread the pictures out all around him. He reached out and stroked a picture of Nicholas, smiling and laughing at Sherlock, who was taking the picture. He could remember what was going on exactly , every single second.

"Sherlock, just come in the picture with me! It's not going to be the same without you here." Nicholas held a hand out to the ginger man, wiggling his fingers to beckon him closer. "You already hung upside down from that bloody tree, let one of those nice people standing over by the swings take it."

Sherlock hid behind the camera and aimed it at his partner, laughing. "God no, are you joking? If I went into the picture, I'd only ruin it. You're beautiful, and I wouldn't want to—"

Nicholas laughed and reached out, and Sherlock snapped a picture before Nicholas reached him and he dropped the camera, drowning in tanned skin and sun-warmed kisses.

"I love you."

"Until the moon falls out of the sky."

"Until the sun stops burning."

"You know I know nothing about the solar system."

"Yes, I do."

"I still love you."

"Oh, I know."

Sherlock closed his eyes as the memories overcame him, and a tear leaked out from the corner of one of his eyes. His bottom lip trembled, a shuddering breath slipping though his lips, God, this hurt so much. He had the memories stored away for so long, and in this moment, so close to when Nicholas left him alone, it hurt. A lot.

He curled up in bed, the pictures still on the covers and the consulting detective himself under the covers with the sketch clutched to his chest. His eyes were wide, leaking traitor tears, when the door opened and John stepped in, two cups of tea in his hands. "Sherlock…?" he asked, catching sight of the trembling form under the covers. "Oh god, are you…are you crying?"

Tensing up when John came closer, Sherlock blinked and shook his head at John. "I don't cry, this is just…" He floundered for words, for something for John to leave him alone, and came up dry. "I am sad," he realised, his eyes wide. "I am crying. And I am sad."

John sat on the corner of the bed, resting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, eyes concerned. "You need to talk about it, Sherlock. You can't keep it inside. You can't do it." He felt Sherlock collapse emotionally beneath his hand. He could feel his heart breaking for his flatmate, making his eyebrows draw together in concern. He rubbed his hand on Sherlock's back, trying to soothe the sobbing man, watching him clutch the pillow to his face. "Who is Nicholas?"

He waited and waited for Sherlock to finally regain control of himself, the consulting detective sitting up with a shuddering breath and reaching out to show a few pictures of himself and Nicholas. Nicholas was a tall man, with tan skin and warm brown eyes. And those warm brown eyes were fixed on Sherlock in the first picture,one hand on the side of Sherlock's faceheir noses touching, both laughing hysterically. Their hands were clasped tightly together, their eyes locked. They looked madly in love, absolutely beautiful.

John flipped to the next picture, a picture of the pair on the beach. Sherlock was lying with his head in Nicholas' lap, his eyes closed and sleeping peacefully. Nicholas' fingers were in Sherlock's ginger hair, running through them.

"We were sitting down having a bite to eat when he pulled me up and professed that he was in love with me. That he had been from the moment we met. We agreed to not get married, but we were in a café, sitting outside, when he pulled me up and got down on one knee and proposed anyway."

Sherlock laughed as Nicholas pulled him up, the sun shining down on the both of them, setting below the horizon. Then, the dark-haired man slid down onto one knee, holding one of Sherlock's hands in his.

"Nicholas…" he breathed, his eyes wide. "I thought we agreed—"

"Just…just let me finish," Nicholas interrupted. "Sherlock, my partner. My best friend, my lover, my everything. I know that we agreed not to marry, but I want to give another offer. I'm madly in love with you. Absolutely, hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you. Marry me. In a year. When you come home from America, where I will be waiting here in an empty flat, waiting for you to come home to me. Marry me. Please."

The taller man's eyes went soft, and he pulled Nicholas up so they were eye to eye. He smiled, the warm smile that he reserved for Nicholas alone, the smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "One year," he promised, pulling him into a kiss. "You're willing to wait one year?"

"Not much longer than that."

"And you'll be here, in London, waiting for me? You promise?"

"I'm never going to want anyone else."

There was something shy in Sherlock's smile, something self-conscious, but slowly growing into realisation. The realisation that Nicholas was in love with him. He pulled Nicholas closer and fitted his mouth to his, a promise and a question.

Nicholas grinned and kissed back, answering the question and sealing the promise.

Of course he loved him.

"And as you read in the note he wrote me, I was leaving for America. We were talking on the phone, and he was driving to the store to get the milk, because I used to always get it for us, and I was in America, studying in my dorm room and…" Sherlock swallowed as if his words were having a hard time getting out. "And I heard him scream, and then metal on metal, and the air bag, and then nothing but sirens and then I get the phone call and Nicholas was dead and I had nobody left. Nobody.

"Nicholas was everything to me, and that was just ten short years ago. I miss him when the anniversary of his death comes around. I sometimes visit him in the graveyard, but it's not the same. I loved him, with everything that I owned, everything that I was, and he was gone from my life. In an instant. I heard him die, John, and I couldn't do anything about it."

"I love you, darling. America is so far away, you should come home and visit me."

"Nicholas, I'm studying you know."

"Don't you love me back?"

"Of course I do, I just have to—"

"You never study."

"I need to pass so I can come home to you."

"You'll be coming home soon, right?"

"Of course. How is your painting going?"

"It's half finished, I haven't gotten to your eye colour yet. I can't wait to see you again. My memory of your eyes don't do you justice."

"I think you're lonely, aren't you?"

"Terribly. I wish I could transport to America and hold you in my arms and kiss—"

A scream and the screech of metal on metal, and then nothing.

"Nicholas!"

"Nicholas, please. Please, love. Answer me. Please tell me you're alright!"

"My Nicholas…Please…"

Broken sobbing, and the sound of sirens from opposite ends of the line.

John looked at Sherlock, an unexplainable sadness in his eyes. The taller man was still sitting cross-legged on the bed, staring down at his hands. "Sherlock," he tried, but the consulting detective shook his head. John ignored it and continued talking. "I understand. I get it now. You're cold and callous and silently sad because of what happened with Nicholas, aren't you?"

"Shut up."

"Sher—"

"Don't. Don't talk about Nicholas like that. I…I can't talk about it. Not right now. I need some time."

The smaller man nodded, standing up, leaving Sherlock with the pictures and the memories of Nicholas stirring around in his head. "I'm going to work, I'll be back later, alright? Don't…don't do anything stupid."

Sherlock didn't say anything, just slumped forward again, moving back to the same position he was in before, elbows on knees and head hidden in his hands. It hurt John to see him like this. Sherlock was always so strong; even when things were at their worst, he did his best to stay strong. If he was upset he just pushed it away and started rattling off deductions, joking with John, letting him know he was okay, so he wouldn't have to worry. He knew this was different.

John came back from work a few hours later, in a wary mood. He knew that Sherlock was hurting, that Sherlock was certainly not okay, and that Sherlock was unstable in emotions. "Sherlock?" he called into the living room, then stopped as he heard voices. Sherlock and another man laughing, joking. Then an unfamiliar woman's voice, telling Sherlock and the unnamed man to stop hiding out in the corner and to come and join the party, because it was time for the piñata.

Blinking in confusion, John entered the living room to the television on, what looked like a home video playing, and Sherlock sleeping on the couch, his face still damp from crying. John identified the unnamed man on the screen as Nicholas, who held Sherlock's hand tightly in his own as he teased someone (presumably his mother) and followed, Sherlock in tow.

"It's only the piñata, Sher," Nicholas said, as Sherlock reluctantly followed, the sunshine making his ginger hair shine brightly.

"It doesn't have a purpose, does it? All you do is hit it to get the sweets out." Sherlock was sulking, about ready to get stroppy with Nick. "I bet that I could hit it with one swing and get the sweets out."

"No you can't." Nicholas looked back at Sherlock, saw the serious look on his face. "Do you want to try? Mama would probably let you."

The video changed to Nicholas laughing as Sherlock looked in confusion at Nick's mum, holding a baseball bat in his hands. They seemed to be trying to explain something to the dumbfounded man, both doubling over in laughter.

Sherlock seemed to be a part of the family, literally. As if Nicholas' family had inducted him as an honorary member, because of his relationship with Nick. Sherlock shoved the bat at Nicholas, who hefted it in both hands and pulled it back, twisting his hips and driving through the piñata. It burst into multicoloured sweets, and the kids started screaming and very nearly having a vicious bloodbath in their eagerness to get to the sweets.

A little girl, Nicholas' little sister it seemed, was hovering on the edge, unsure. The video zoomed in, to Sherlock picking her up and setting her on his shoulders, lifting her up so she could get the candy that hadn't yet fallen out of the top of the piñata. Her eyes lit up and she hugged Sherlock tightly around the head, making him burst out in laughter.

"How sweet," said the camerawoman in a low voice. "Que lindo, no? You picked a good one, Nicholas."

"Yeah, Mama. I know."

Sitting on the beach after uni let out for summer, Sherlock was contenct. His head was in Nicholas' lap, cool fingers running through his hair, and a cigarette in hand. He was content.

"You know what?" he asked, taking a drag from his cigarette and closing his eyes.

"Mmm?" Nicholas hummed, his head tilted to the sun.

Sherlock lifted his head, propping himself up on his elbows. "This is terrifying."

The dark-haired man looked down at Sherlock, a curious expression on his face. "Terrifying?"

"Yes. Because anything could happen. You could leave me, I can understand why you would want to. You could get bored. You could—"

Sherlock was interrupted by a hand over his mouth. He glared at Nicholas until the hand peeled off, and he sucked viciously on his cigarette. "There's no way I could get bored," Nicholas said. "Bored with what? Bored with the way your hair turns gold in the sun? Bored with the way your eyes crinkle when you smile? Bored with the way your eyes never decide on a color? I don't think I could get bored."

The look on Sherlock's face was dubious. "You could still leave me."

"And leave you on your own?"

"Well, yes."

"What would happen if I left you alone?"

"I would first break down, beg for you back every single night. And if that didn't work, I'd close myself off. I wouldn't let anyone else in the way you're in my life right now. I don't know how to explain what I feel for you, but I know it's good and I know I'll never feel it again. Ever. Sociopathic. I'll never love anyone else. I don't think I ever could." Sherlock exhaled nervously, avoiding Nicholas' gaze and focused on the smoke in the air.

Nicholas' serious look melted into a smile, and he lowered himself so he was lying next to Sherlock. He put a hand on Sherlock's, rubbing gently before he spoke. "You'll never have to go through that. Ever. I promise."

"You'll stay with me, even when I'm old and gray and grouchy?" Sherlock asked. "Even when I'm a hundred?" He was quoting something, something partially forgotten (not deleted, because Nicholas had showed it to him. He never deleted anything in the Nicholas file.).

Grinning, Nicholas nodded. "How old shall I be then?"

"Ninety-nine."

"Even then."

They sealed their promise with a kiss, and held each other until the sun sank below the horizon.

"Sherlock, wake up!"

Nicholas, please, please…

"Sherlock, come on. You've been sleeping for hours."

"I'm trying to sleep, love," Sherlock mumbled deliriously, curling further into himself. "Don't you have a painting to finish?" Nicholas, please, please…

"Sherlock, it's not Nicholas. Wake up, alright? You need to eat something."

The consulting detective woke and blinked, sitting up. He looked around the room, his heart sinking in his chest, his expression falling from the hopeful look he had before. So Nicholas was still dead.

John was looking at him with a sorry expression in his eyes, a cup of tea in his hands. "I made you some tea," he said quietly, holding it out to Sherlock. The taller man nodded in acknowledgement and took the tea, a blanket that hadn't been there before bunched up around him and his pyjama pants low on his hips.

"Thank you, John."

"Are you feeling…better?"

Sherlock pondered this for a while, thinking hard. He felt fine. No, he didn't. His heart felt like it was beating slower and slower every second, and he hoped that the pain would go away. Maybe if he died, he'd get to be with Nicholas. The horrifying bit was that he had never let on about these feelings, especially not in front of John. John had never seen him like this.

John watched his best friend, his facial expressions. He seemed depressed, worse than he'd ever seen him. He wondered if Sherlock had been worse off after Nicholas had died. Sherlock seemed to come to a decision about something, giving John a small smile. "What are you doing for the rest of the day, John?" he asked.

"Erm, I was just going to stay home and make sure you were alright. We could get takeout if you wanted—"

"No, let's not. We're going out, alright?"

"Where to?"

"I want you to meet someone."

Disclaimer: Characters are property of SACD and BBC Sherlock.

OOC is mine.

I decided to write a story about how Sherlock became so cold. I've had this headcanon for a while, and I'm going to continue the story if anyone else wants to read it. Review if convenient.