Thank you to all my lovely reviewers of the last chapter. I will respond and thank you all properly in the next one. This is merely an interlude in response to a review I received. I've always been terrified of tackling anything from Sherlock's point of view for a long time, but I think it was needed to be done. Love to me lately has become an emotion that is complex, in some ways indefinable and attached to so many other words and emotions. Can it ever be defined when so many people experience and live it so differently? An old friend of mine said love is when two jigsaw pieces (that have been mangled and chewed apart by dogs) still manage to find one another and fit together. I hope in the next three chapters my John and Sherlock jigsaw pictures are going to find one another. I'm looking forward to writing the next chapter (and all the little quirky humour bits that come with in) and locking my angst bunny (that made a special appearance for just this Interlude) away in a cage. Enjoy.
Sherlock Holmes was not in love with John Watson. How could he be in love with someone who was his heart? Prior to John's existence into his life Sherlock had lived a life of selfish mediocrity and to some extent he still did. Sherlock cared little for the people who flitted in and out of his life, they did not matter and they were not concrete. Sherlock liked his superior intellect, the eyeballs in the fridge and the fact that there were very few things in life that could hurt him.
Sherlock Holmes did not have any friends or any need for love. Yet it seemed both had found him. Over the years he had accidentally gained a group of loyal followers; Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly and John. Followers or friends? What was the difference? He did not know.
Love, the funny word that was said so often by many but meant so little to him. The only loving relationship he had left in his life (since the death of his parents) was his one with Mycroft. But using the word love to describe their warped relationship seemed to be just wrong. How could love be so complex?
When his parents had died when he was only aged ten Sherlock had not shed any tears. Crying would be what was expected of him, a display of love. Even at that age he knew that he would never truly have a grasp of this alien feeling, how could that word be used to explain why his whole world had been swallowed into darkness? He would never again allow himself to feel such sentiment.
Growing up without his parents and in a boarding school in which the occupants despised him had taught Sherlock about a number of emotions; hatred, envy and anger. Living with John Watson had taught him how to understand other more pure emotions, that he had been lacking for quite some time; pity, kindness and sentiment. With Mycroft their relationship was all just one big game. With John it was finding peace, a port in the ever present storm. With John Watson he could just be.
It had all changed when he realised that John was beginning to view him as more than just a friend. He would often find the other man's eyes on him and John's jealousy when the woman came along only served as a further confirmation. It seemed John Watson was in love with Sherlock Holmes. But did Sherlock Holmes love him back romantically? The honest answer was most likely no.
John's jealousy, however, fascinated Sherlock. It had become a drug and he soon found himself thinking up inventive ways just to catch a glimpse of it again. John's jealousy was an indication that somebody wanted him; somebody wanted him for who he was. This had reintroduced Sherlock to an old emotion that he usually ignored: lust. Sherlock wanted to claim John as his own, but wanted none of the emotions that came with it.
Sherlock had naively thought that everything would be so easy; in his mind he had seen John finally giving into his desires and claiming Sherlock as his own. Their relationship would not have to change just because sex was suddenly a factor. Did sex always have to equal love? No. When he told Mycroft this theory his older brother had merely laughed at him. Sherlock could not understand how Mycroft could see something he could not.
It had all changed of course when that woman had got involved. His John now was being claimed by another. Sherlock had thought that this fact wouldn't bother him; he was only lusting after John after all. But it had. The memory of Mycroft's laughter seemed to be in the forefront of his mind. Why did it bother him that John was with that woman? Why had he cried (when he hadn't since before his parents had died) at the idea of John married and forever with someone other than himself? He couldn't answer that question.
A nagging voice in the back of his head seemed to be working its way to the forefront of his mind. If it was just about chemicals and attraction then why didn't you take advantage of John when he was drunk? Why hadn't he kissed his flatmate? Why had he wanted everything to be so special? Why had he put John's happiness with Mary above his own? Sherlock could not answer any of these questions.
Sherlock knew that his confused feelings and inability to love were not enough for John. John deserved someone who was whole, someone who could feel just as much as he could. Mary could give him all of that. That's why he'd never read Mary, he wanted her to be a blank canvas in which John could discover the real picture for himself. He wanted John to be happy.
Sherlock Holmes did not do romance or love. Mycroft and most of his friends claimed that he was in love with John, but it wasn't true. How could he love John, when John was his heart? All Sherlock knew was that he desired John; he desired his company, his laugh, his smile and his witty remarks. Sherlock desired everything that made John, John. But that couldn't be love, could it? Wasn't love supposed to be precious, beautiful and pure? Not selfish, jealous, confused and conflicting? How could so much thought go into one little four lettered word? How could one thing have so many other words and emotions connected to it?
He didn't allow himself to think any more as he tiptoed up the stairs and into John's room. His mind was blank as slipped into the bed next to John, careful not to wake him as he slipped his arms around him. He would allow himself this little fantasy that he was enough and that John was his. Sherlock Holmes didn't understand love or even know if he was capable of it, but just for next hour he would allow himself to pretend.