He wasn't a superstitious sort of man.
Cold, dark cities could make a shiver crawl up his spine - anticipation - alleyways and the metallic sound of a cocking gun raised the hairs on the back of his neck - survival instinct. Living on and off the streets like he did wasn't safe; ignoring that fact was stupid more than it was logical. Perhaps one might argue the danger of what he did in general was not a sign of textbook intelligence, but that was different. People didn't (want to) understand. It was one of those desires without which life was not worth pursuing - a brand of desire he commonly labeled as need. It was his cure and its side effect; a high that crashed itself. After all, one who contemplates, analyses, understands the world around requires no gift outside of his own ability to think.
Nor can he know a more inescapable punishment.
Each chase had its own distinct thrill to savor. Feeling the machine of the mind whirring, picking up speed, racing forward to discover and remember more and more and more. Seeking, finding the rarely elusive pinnacle of the search where everything - the adrenaline, the pride, the satisfaction - came to a head. And in that heady rush was the satiation of having crossed the finish line.
As well as resignation to the fact that even then, he couldn't stop going and no, he wouldn't ever be able to.
Afterwards, he often found himself thinking of old cases. But the triumphs were hollow, empty; he'd long ago drained their riches. Instead, he thought of old puzzles that had aged past their prime into old failures. It wasn't in his nature to let anything go. He could still catalogue their elements, hold objects he'd lost in his hand, see faces he'd failed to save move about him.
Failures. Like captured chess pieces.
He'd never considered himself a sentimental sort of man because he had never been. But oddly enough, in his inability to escape logic, he found himself contemplating its other extreme.
They were always silent, these people - not that people ever needed to speak for him to know everything about them. They didn't seem to scorn him any more than he scorned himself - it wasn't that he didn't care, but caring about them didn't matter at that point. He cared that he'd lost. That seemed to be why they were summoned by his relentless brain, the organ continuing to churn out faces and faces and faces - until one mystery might find itself solved. And the face would leave.
But the departures were few and far between as the ether around him crowded further with walking memories. Breathing souls tying ribbons around his fingers. And although he knew it was only because there was literally nothing else with which to distract himself, it was strange.
That in his most rational mind, his everlasting companions were nothing more - or less - than ghosts.
Whew, first posted Sherlock fic. Still getting used to writing the marvelous characters. But thanks for reading!
