A/N: Oh MAN, I'm getting so much lovely feedback... you guys have no idea how happy that makes me. Just knowing that someone out there is enjoying my work brightens my life unfathomable amounts. Thanks so much to everyone who's been so kind as to review/story alert/favorite. And, um, enjoy the update! I might have a part two of sorts on this (a parallel piece with John) but that depends on whether or not my muse decides to cooperate (for once)...

Word Count: 1,400+

Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, mentions of Greg/Sherlock bromance (?and kind of one-sided romance if that floats your boat?)

Warning(s): Yet another bloody "character study." Discusses body worship, implications of sex, mentions of drugs, talk of death, slight implication of Sherlock being an atheist, and Mycroft's entirely unhelpful advice. Also, pirates.

A Study in Recognition

From the very beginning, Sherlock didn't care for people. It wasn't that they were intolerable, although they often were; he found them interesting, in fact… from a distance. He was an anomaly and well aware of it – he was a Holmes, after all. He was born to be an anomaly. An outcast. Avoiding serious violence from the less forgiving of his peers was difficult enough, much less making friends; he didn't even want friends, especially if he'd have to change to keep them.

Sherlock was also aware that humans, by nature, thrive on contact with others. It was a discouraging thought; Sherlock not only defied this rule but countered it, avoiding human contact whenever possible. The few people he could tolerate long term caused him endless grief – they too often expected more than tolerance and an indifferent appreciation towards whatever benefits they provided. Sherlock never cut corners – they knew they weren't his friends – but it seemed that people only liked being used if they thought there was feeling behind it. Rather than trying to change – or, worse yet, Play Normal as Mycroft did – Sherlock allowed himself to be cast away, retreating into the safe, cold world of studies. Science, literature, and crime – anything he could get his hands on, the more engaging the better; crime was a favorite topic for young Sherlock and he did a book report on a Jack the Ripper biography at age seven and (although Sherlock could never understand it from a personal standpoint) human nature on a chemical, inquisitive level fascinated him endlessly. He took to studying people from afar; people were like glass houses, diaries without locks, computers without passwords – easy to crack.

The idea of being a pirate appealed to many for obvious reasons: adventure, romanticism, the promise of treasure. For Sherlock it was leaving, climbing on a ship and never looking back; putting himself apart. Away from laws, from the cold stares of his mother, from the prying eyes of his brother, from strangers who understood next to nothing; sailing far from "normal" and escaping to the lawless sea. But even the fantasy of fleeing across the ocean failed to be far enough away and, so, Sherlock opted to hide within himself instead.

Sherlock detached himself at an early age from not only the people around him but also with himself. He blanked his mind to all but the transport his body provided, ignored the gnawing desires that festered and died within him. Some days, it was easy, habitual, technical, his brain subdued by whatever life provided him (books, adventures, cases); other days, it was impossible and he would stumble (cocaine, heroin, anything to keep himself quiet). Always, Sherlock stayed carefully separate until, eventually, John Watson appeared and pulled him back to Earth.

Sherlock would have liked to describe the occurrence as a crash, a collision, a great climactic event, but it wasn't. Sherlock didn't notice the change at first except that he cared for John quite a bit more than expected; it was nothing more than a subtle shift in his heart, easy to miss only because John slid in like the perfect puzzle piece, finally found among a box of scattered, useless bits. If anything he thought himself more alienated for the near-instantaneous attachment to the doctor. John didn't try to fix him; he coaxed him back to the surface and declared him not broken to begin with. Without even trying John cracked Sherlock's armor, foiled years of work towards careful detachment; the feeling that came with this was unfamiliar, startling, but somehow Sherlock doesn't resent it. How can he? Love, it was quickly apparent, was quite the convincing preoccupation. However, it was only after the supposed death of The Woman that Sherlock recognized the Shift.

The problem was this: other people. John, unlike Sherlock, enjoyed the company of many and cared a great deal about, well, everyone. At one point John had actually fretted aloud about Jim Moriarty, lamenting woes on his behalf (What if he was abused as a child? What if nobody held him when he was a baby? He's so smart Sherlock; you or Mycroft or anybody could have turned out just like that! Oh, dear, what if); albeit, he had been drunk, but it still stood as was. Faced with the Good Doctor's boundless sympathy Sherlock found himself wondering as well.

Lestrade foremost: Lestrade who always smiled smugly during drug busts, Lestrade who helped him pull out of the grim days of addiction, Lestrade who'd seen a lost, drugged up teen with a genius IQ and given him a job (and a friend even if he didn't want it), Lestrade who never judged, Lestrade who opened his door on the multiple occasions when Sherlock was booted from a flat but too proud to go to his brother, Lestrade who was never afraid to tell him to get his shit together, Lestrade who never gave the bizarre experiments a second glance. Lestrade who, according to John, loved Sherlock a good awful lot and had apparently had the first name Greg all that time without Sherlock noticing.

That got him going on, wondering about land ladies and whether or not she had a first name other than "Mrs." Mrs. Hudson had been a soft spot for him since the beginning, of course, but he'd never really acknowledged it pre-John. She was quite the quirky sort of woman and, for all of her unassuming old-lady charm she was really quite sneaky and more than a bit smarter than she looked; for that, Sherlock more-than-tolerated her. The kicker, though, was this: she claimed Sherlock as her "boy," and she did it quicker (and with far more enthusiasm) than his own mother ever had and although Sherlock was reluctant to show it most days he couldn't stop himself from returning the love whole-heartedly. He didn't understand it, really, but John said she didn't mind his reluctance – that he was just "being a teenager about the whole thing." Sherlock couldn't recall having this problem with anyone as a teenager (or ever, for that matter) but decides not to question it.

Sherlock thinks about Molly, too. He'd never given her a second glance before, not really, simply noted her as a provider of useful materials and as a woman easily manipulated by counterfeit interest and empty compliments. He hadn't understood her infatuation or what it meant, not really, until John. There had been a period where John was dating women and, therefore, not Sherlock, and he all too often saw himself reflecting Molly's lost, hopeless eyes. He wondered if John was always as oblivious as he had been and he was quite abruptly grateful that his feelings were not so unrequited. Molly's not so bad, after all – it turns out she even matters. Sherlock finds himself hoping she'll move on and find a good man soon for entirely unselfish reasons.

The most unanticipated is discovering himself.

Sherlock viewed his physical self much like he viewed everyone else – useful in passing and annoying to deal with. Given the choice, Sherlock would have exchanged himself with an omniscient form in a heartbeat, opt to observe the world without the physical form to get in the way. Then came John, changing his mind as he did – John fell in love with Sherlock's mind, but he worshipped Sherlock's body; he found himself living for the nights when John pressed promises into his skin with fingers and lips and everything else. Sherlock looked in the mirror post-Watson and saw not just transport but something personal – beautiful. And he could no longer scoff at the term "make love" – if ever the term truly fit, it was in the hands of John Watson. Sherlock found himself eager to return the favor; if he ever doubted his success, he stopped when John was in his arms, whispering I love you and Meaning It.

Mycroft is right – it's a weakness to love John, to love anyone. All hearts are broken and, in the way he chooses to live, the heartbreak will be frequent and ruthless. It doesn't matter. By the time Mycroft passes his warning to him Sherlock is already in too deep to even think of turning back; John offered again and again to live and die for Sherlock and Sherlock has no doubts that he would do the same. It was never a question – they are halves to a whole and, once bonded, survival apart is unfathomable; John is Sherlock's only anchor having shed his shell of apathy and without him Sherlock cannot imagine anything less than a full spiral into the sun.

He knows it's foolish, selfish even, but Sherlock looks up at the Big No One in the Sky each night and he prays to die first.

Review?

Also, just a quick heads up - I'm going to begin work on a multi-chapter fic (i.e. not this collection) which will probably take up a good portion of the time I'd normally spend working on these things. This could either mean (A) you'll be getting a lot fewer chapters for a while or (B) you'll be getting a lot more weird-ass chapters because my muse likes to do exactly the opposite of what I tell it to. I'm honestly impressed I've gotten this far with as much consistency as I have, actually... hmm. Either way, I just thought I'd send a heads up! xx -DC