So, friends, I've never published a fanfiction anywhere before. I've been Sherlocked, though, and need an outlet. Let me know what you think, please. :)

Also, I realize my writing style is a bit - run-on sentence-ish, but that's kind of the feel I'm going for. Let me know if it's terribly distracting.

Also (again), I've seen this on everything I've ever read here, so I'm think I need this:

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, or any of its characters. Or plot. Or anything related.

Our story starts on a park bench in a seedy part of London.

Well.

The story really started twenty-seven years ago with the birth of Ian Conners, followed shortly by the birth of his sister Josephine, and then a surprise pregnancy fourteen years after that. But we'll start here.

It's pleasantly warm, and the air smells faintly of pollution.

We see a familiar figure.

You know him as London's only consulting detective.

Let's take a look at him. He's still dressed in a tux, though the jacket is off and the bowtie loosened around his neck. His fingers are steepled in his lap, and he is thinking. He left the reception of John and Mary Watson roughly…three hours ago and is now, currently, on a park bench in a place where he won't be reminded of weddings or brown eyes or babies or the ends of certain eras. This is as good a place as any to begin a story, so…let's begin.

Unfortunately for him, Sherlock was, at the moment, preoccupied with sentiment. He was at a precipice higher, darker, and far more important than the ledge of St. Bart's would ever be. Since the fall - the countless minutes, hours, days, of searching and hunting and being hunted had culminated into the two years he'd been away - he had…changed. Become more…emotional. And he was finding that for the most part, he didn't mind. Oh, he'd always had some emotions – anger, satisfaction, boredom, and pride being the four most common. Easily suppressed, easily manipulated into something productive. And there was always the little tango with guilt and sadness that occasionally plagued him. He'd found though, that since he'd opened himself to more…feeling… that happiness was a pleasant enough emotion, much better than the simple satisfaction or contentment he was used to 'feeling'. Fear was unsettling, but the relief that came after was a kind of euphoria in its own right. Interesting. He always knew, scientifically, of course, that emotions affected the physical body, and he despised the uncontrollable reactions that occurred on the infrequent occasions that he was scared or worried, but he found that the physical reactions to feeling happiness, joy, pride in others, and dare he admit – love, were also very pleasant. There were still things he didn't understand, things he couldn't analyze, though. Especially about love.

He thought about the people the he knew loved him, and, that he assumed he was supposed to love back. Did he? Was Sherlock Holmes capable of love? And…was he worthy of it?

John loved him. He knew this without a doubt. But why had love made John tackle him to the ground, choking him, punching him solidly in the face, the night he first revealed he was, in fact, not dead? It proved that love hurt, that he had hurt John, but also, that love could withstand being hurt. It was a powerful thing. Being rejected by John had hurt, though it was uncomfortable enough for him to admit that. It surprised him. And being forgiven - when John had called him his best friend, asked him to be his best man…he felt loved. He knew that shockingly warm, pleasantly tingling sensation hadn't been numbness, or paralysis, brought on by sudden onset diabetes or any other imagined malady. He had felt loved. Strange, that love could make you do things like drink out of a coffee cup contaminated with human eyeball.

And there were so many types of love. John loved Sherlock, and John loved Mary, and Mary loved Sherlock too. In hindsight, he realized that he hadn't been 'taking John for a run' at all before the wedding – she had read his nerves and emotions like a teenage girl's diary, and – clever girl – had known how to trick him into distracting himself, and John. It took a bit to admit it, but he liked her, and appreciated her – yes, he loved them both. It would be different with her in the picture now, too, and the sadness and loneliness he'd felt hours before leaving the wedding returned full force. Enough of John and Mary's love. Let's study another subject.

Mrs. Hudson loved him. She accepted him, accepted his obnoxious, ridiculous habits and obsessions, and had prodded him, nagged him, like his mother should have – but that woman had given up years ago. Mrs. Hudson, however, was hardened from years of being married to a very bad man – and her stubbornness matched his own at times. She was very fond of him, and he'd had to admit – he was fond of her. Her insistence that she was "not his housekeeper", and yet she always came with a cuppa and biscuits when it was needed (and oftentimes when it was not needed). She loved him with the exasperated love of a mother, and yes, he loved her too. Soundly assured of this fact, he closed that door and opened another.

Lestrade. There were indeed many different forms of love, and this one was – lighter, somehow, than the others. Sherlock knew that this…strange emotion called love was not the same for Lestrade as the love he felt for Mrs. Hudson, and it was certainly not what he felt for John or Mary. It was not on the same level – it was not as deep or as fond or as connected – but it was still there. A grudging respect, with the urge to help each other, to protect him from Moriarty's bullets, the way Lestrade had tried to protect him from…well, from the world at large. From being involved again in drugs, with criminals. Lestrade cared about what happened to him. Was that love? His lips twitched into a small smile, eyes closed, remembering when he had asked Lestrade for help. Of course, Sherlock meant help writing John's best man speech, but when Lestrade showed up with the cavalry (two dozen armed policemen, a SWAT team, a fighter jet and a helicopter), Sherlock realized he probably should have been more specific. There was love in friendship, and in family, and there was love in his friendship with Lestrade.

Family. He knew he did not love his parents. Not like he should. He tolerated them, appreciated that they had tried, and attempted to forgive them for giving up so easily. He and Mycroft were not easy to get along with, and he supposed being regularly outsmarted and out-thought by your toddler was not a pleasant situation to be in. He would always protect them, of course – and thankfully Mycroft saw to that more often than Sherlock ever did – but the bond that tied him to them was blood, not…feeling. He felt obliged to them, but he did not…love them.

Mycroft. Something was going on with Mycroft. Perhaps he was dealing with sentiment tonight as well? He was always so guarded, and for Mycroft, so predictable…but his recent attacks on sentiment, usually beneath him, and his exercise habits…could there be a chance that Mycroft was struggling with feeling as well? Possibly. He knew he could rely on Mycroft…for some things. Life and death things. But he still wasn't quite ready to forgive him for waiting so long to rescue him from his torturers. Family love, Sherlock decided, was much more difficult and complicated than friendship love.

Don't forget Molly, you twit. John's voice interrupted his musings on his brother.

You know, the one who helped you fake your death? Ring a bell? Sherlock sighed internally. He didn't really want to think about Molly tonight. She was his friend. He definitely acknowledged that. She was a special, intelligent, trustworthy friend. He just didn't feel comfortable admitting that he…loved her.

Why not?

She's a girl, John. It was a lame excuse and Sherlock knew it.

Apparently, so did internal John. So's Mrs. Hudson, and you don't get tongue-tied over her.

Shut up John.

Wait a minute…do you LOVE love Molly?

No. He gagged the John in his head, and took a moment to distance himself. He paid attention to his body. He heartbeat was steady, not racing, and as he analyzed the rest of his body, he was relieved to find that he was showing no signs of physical attraction at the thought of Molly Hooper. Feeling safer, he slowly ventured into that room in his mind palace labeled 'Molly'.

But wait. It was labeled 'Molly'. Not 'Molly Hooper'. Everyone else's room was labeled with a first and last name. Martha Hudson. Mycroft Holmes. John Watson. Mary Morstan – now Mary Morstan-Watson. Why was Molly just…Molly? His head tilted just a bit as he tried to understand why her room was simply Molly. Was it because he was waiting to learn the last name of her fiancée? Was he going to replace "Hooper" with whatever unfortunate moniker her copycat boyfriend would bestow on her?

No, he decided. Mary was still Mary Morstan-Watson. Why then was his Molly just Molly? He froze, very, very still on his park bench.

That's right mate, run through that thought again, internal John encouraged, almost gleefully.

So, Sherlock did. Slowly. Why. Then. Was. His. Molly. Stop. His Molly? Oh no. This was not all right. This was…she was not his Molly. His pathologist, perhaps. His friend, yes. His Molly? No. How could he be possessive of her? Why would he be? When he first met her, she was mousy, intimidated, easily manipulated. Bright, and very, very good at her work, and he respected her for that. He might even go so far as to say he preferred her company, as long as she was quiet and not stammering around him like a schoolgirl. And then she deduced him. She deduced his emotions and he realized that she was more than just a bright, respectable pathologist. She had a good heart, and she cared for him. Not just infatuation…she saw him, and she still loved what she saw. And though he didn't understand why, he appreciated it. A lot. She trusted him completely, and he had learned to return that trust. When he was away…he missed her. So yes, he loved Molly Hooper.

But blast it all! There were so many different kinds of love, and it was a subject he had not thought to study so intensely before. So what kind of love was it?

Internal John sighed in his head. You really don't understand love, do you Sherlock. Not a bit.

No, apparently, he did not understand it a bit. He needed more data. He needed to watch, experience, observe more frequently. He had research to do.

Little did he know that an excellent specimen was to present itself, in the life and relationships of Josephine Conners.