A/N Reading over this again, I realize how seemingly irrelevant the title seems to the actual content of the drabble. Trust me, it makes sense in my mind...

Thanks to Potterabbeylockd, johnsarmylady, MapleleafCameo, and Guest

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

XXXVIII. Abandoned

Of course, there are always the cases that he doesn't succeed in solving. They're rare, naturally, but certainly not nonexistent, and Sherlock's not necessarily afraid to admit it. As a matter of fact, he's almost delighted by them, because they tell him that he's not truly on top of everything, not yet—that there's more to come, farther to progress, that it's not quite time to slump permanently into his chair and dub himself bored beyond rescue.

No, the best part of the chase can sometimes be the failure, and even if frustration blinds Sherlock to such a fact early on, he grows to understand it as he matures. John helps with that, too—reminds him that his ratio of getting the answer right will always be higher than the majority of others', and that the tiny, inconsistent flaws in his deductions and solutions are just what make him human. Because Sherlock doesn't play to win—he plays to play, a challenge reflected in the glassy surface of the pink-and-white pill that nearly killed him on the day his life changed.

But this, this is what you're really addicted to.

Come on… play the game.

Play the game he does, and he'll continue to indefinitely, until he's rendered physically unable—physically, because his mental facilities will never dull, not in a hundred years and more. He'll only ever get farther along, building up his brain's index and cataloguing every bit of information that crosses paths with him, until he's built himself up to a flawless creature, invincible.

The day that Sherlock can solve every puzzle he's presented with—that will be the day when he can lie back with the knowledge that his life is complete.

But that day is far from arriving, and it's that fact that keeps him running, keeps him thinking, keeps him shooting and breathing and living. He's always working towards the higher goal, the paramount mystery—which might be Moriarty, the man calling himself Sherlock's arch-nemesis, or perhaps something else entirely, a question yet to be unveiled. He lives in anticipation of that final, overarching conundrum, the one that will hopefully cause him hours and hours of frustrated indecision as well as endless steady work, moving towards the great solution.

And it's the little shortcomings that convince him he's moving in that direction, their increased scarcity as his skills and patience progress. The catches in the sleek fabric of his accomplishments spread out over longer periods of time, until it's incredibly rare that he'll leave a case abandoned. Sometimes, when full months go by and he hasn't lost one single time, he begins to think that perhaps this is it—maybe he's done, maybe the world is done trying to challenge him, maybe there's nothing to work towards anymore and the time for the end, for the final problem, has arrived.

But then something else will arrive, a new mystery with little hope of solution, and Sherlock can't help but grin, because it's not over yet.

The game is still on.