The Scared Detective
It was the night after the sighting of the hound and Sherlock couldn't sleep, thoughts racing through his mind even faster than usual.
He was sitting up on the bed, fingers steepled under his nose, eyes wide open despite the darkness that shrouded the room. He could hear John's faint snoring coming from the bed next to his, and the sound made him come back to the same moment over and over again. He had been 'not good' that evening at the inn; so much so, even he could realize it all by himself.
It all had been because of one mistake: feelings had muddled his reasoning. He had let himself be overwhelmed by them.
He'd been – was – afraid of the hound. The human being is afraid of what he can't understand, of the unknown. Precisely because of that, Sherlock had made it his purpose in life to understand, to know. But he couldn't wrap his mind around whatever it was he'd seen tonight, and it was driving him insane.
But it wasn't only that. Tonight's incident had frightened him in more than one way. It made him realize that this wasn't the first time that he'd felt overwhelmed by emotions. Because, if he had to be honest to himself, he had been terrified of what John had been making him feel ever since they had met.
He knew that sentiment in any form represented a disadvantage. Throughout the years, Mycroft had made sure he never disregarded that fact. And yet, he somehow had. He had let himself develop feelings for another human being, and it unsettled him deeply.
As a result, tonight he'd found himself trying to deny the whole issue, trying to put a stop to it all. "I don't have friends," he'd snapped at John. But even as he uttered the words, he knew they were nothing but a defense mechanism. A futile defense mechanism. Because it was already too late; he'd got too involved. And it was all John's fault.
He'd come into his life and all of a sudden everything had changed.
Cases were different. Dashing around London following criminals, hiding from them, getting the necessary clues to prove them guilty, all of it felt somehow more exciting when John was there with him.
Crime scenes were different. Ever since their first one together at Lauriston Gardens, crime scenes had become to Sherlock even more fun than they used to be – perhaps due to John's constant praises at his deductions, which not only made him feel cleverer (something he didn't even know was possible), but also never failed to stir a warm sensation in his stomach.
Most importantly, life at the flat was different. John's company seemed to render the most mundane of activities – such as watching telly or eating – worthy of Sherlock's time. Pleasant, even. And so, ever since John had moved in with him, the flat had become to Sherlock a place where he felt at home, where he liked to be. At least when John was around. Which is why Sherlock unconsciously chose to pretend John never left and continued to talk to him while he was gone. John was the first – and only – person whose presence or lack thereof Sherlock noticed, whose absence made a difference, and it made Sherlock realize what feeling lonely, what missing someone, meant.
John had become like a drug to him, one to which he had swiftly become addicted. And, just like with his other addictions, he wished it hadn't started to begin with. Sherlock wondered whether that was how people felt towards their friends.
It was starting to dawn when, after much ruminating, Sherlock finally came to the conclusion that he had reached a turning point. It was time for him to decide the course his life would take from that point onwards. He could either keep his bluff, drive John away and remain a loner, completely devoting himself to logic and reason, or he could continue his friendship with John, which would mean definitely choosing sentiment over rationality.
He scoffed. As if he had a choice anymore.
He had to face the bitter truth: that, much to his regret, he did have a friend, and, what was worse, that John was the best friend he could possibly have found.