When Sherlock Was 5 years old, he had a dream. A very nice man in a white jumper taught him how to make paper stars. He told him that if he made 1000 paper stars, and placed them in a jar, his greatest wish would come true.
He woke with a start, rushed out of bed, and quickly made a star lest he forget how. Whenever he had free time orneeded to sooth his frustration with the world, he would make a star and drop it in a jar thathe'd nicked from the kitchen.
Eventually, Mycroft discovered Sherlock's little hobby, and scolded him. 'This whole nonsense of wishes and dreams is just foolish sentement. The sooner you learn that, the better.' and he tucked the jar away into the furthest corner on the highest shelf of Sherlock's closet.
As the years went on, and Sherlock became hardened by the world, he forgot about the little jar, half full of paper stars.
It was not till He was 25, in a run down building, riding the tails of his latest high, that he was reminded. In his drug induced haze he could make out a figure. A man in a white jumper looked sadly down at him. 'This was not meant to happen' he said in a sad voice. He bent down and dropped a little paper star into his lax palm. Sherlock looked at him, uncomprehending. 'Remember your stars. Remember hope.'
Sherlock was shocked into sobriety. the man was gone, and his hand was clenched around nothing, but he remembered. The jar of stars was still tucked securely onto his old closet shelf. He had never wanted to return to his childhood home again, but his desire for a wish pushed him on.
The jar was there, just where it had been for all those years. Sherlock took it down, blew the dust of years away, and cradled it to his chest like it was the most precious item in the whole world. He went back to his flat.
When the cravings got to him, or his mind became just a tad too loud, he made a star. It became therapeutic. Eventually, he had no need of drugs anymore.
He remembers the day he finished the 1000th star. As he folded the last little piece of paper he only had one desire in his heart. I wish for someone who understands me.And He dropped the little star into the full jar. There was no fanfare, fireworks, or anything of the like, only bitterly crushing disappointment. His wish had not come true. With a sigh, he screwed the lid onto the jar and placed it on the mantle next to his scull. He might as well get on with his day.
It will be forever burned into his memory. The lab at St. Barts was bright and smelled of the chemicals used as sanitizer.
'It's a bit different from my day.' Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. He knew that voice. He had only heard it twice, and the last time he was high as a kite, but he would know it anywhere. He didn't look up from his microscope.
He asked something. didn't really recall what, his blood was rushing through his ears so fast.
'Here, use mine.' Sherlock looked up then. it was him, he knew it. He wasn't wearing a white jumper but it was him.
'Thank you.' Their hands brushed as he handed over the phone. The rest, as they say, was history.