Insufferable man, Sherlock thought as he watched John pretend not to storm from their flat for the second time since his return. His annoyance was extreme and perhaps a little unwarranted but what could a person expect from a sociopath who lived for excitement and could barely comprehend the complexities of human emotion. All he had desired for the past five years was to return and have everything go back to normal. Well as normal as he would allow. Perhaps he meant a return to the chaos of the past. Yes, that was it it. Since when did his thoughts become so inaccurate? John's influence no doubt.

A complete return to the past and for things to be as though he had never left, this was all he desired. Was it too much to ask? Apparently so, considering John's desperate need to bare his heart in some misguided attempt to have his feelings reciprocated - as though that were even possible. Before he left, he had imaged that John had known him well enough to realize a relationship was not something he could ever want and frankly he was disappointed to discover upon his return, he seemed to not understand him at all.

Sherlock sighed deeply and walked to the window, violin in hand. The music filled the room. This was the tune that had kept him awake, playing for days. Like a silver bell ringing in the ever expanding dark, it brought him back to his true self. Sherlock was quite confused as to where it came from originally. One evening, freezing in an icy landscape and shivering for warmth he thought he heard something on the wind. It had taken that to remind him to move and not to freeze to death. To discover that cabin in the storm and build the fire that warmed his body and kept him from expiring in a forgotten wasteland. As the flames took hold that single sound filled his head and he shivered over the warmth of the fire wrapped in a dark blanket. It echoed inside his skull and seemed to find a home there. Fancifully Sherlock considered it the song that saved his life and he had been composing it ever since. Letting it out of his proverbial heart.

The jet black darkness of that night long ago crept into his playing. The violin sang of longing, dreams unfulfilled and hearts broken beyond repair. The front door opened but it hardly registered. John had returned. He could feel him watching, waiting for him to acknowledge his presence but all the tall man could do was sadly play on. There was nothing to be said. No way to heal this breach. This moment is all we shall ever have, he thought softly to himself. The silence between them grew until it was suffocating and still the music plays on, ringing out in the night and through the wayward turn of infinity.

Hours later, fingers bleeding, he stopped. Turning to discover an empty room, he slowly cleaned the bow and placed it carefully away. He found himself returning to his room and laying on his bed, almost lost in the tangled tragic thoughts of his past.

From his first moment of awareness he knew he was different than those around him. He could look at them and see them for the petty beings they truly were. Not only that he saw them as pathetic creatures he could manipulate with ease. Tears, laughter, indifference these methods quickly found his way into his repertoire. His ability to manipulate grew with age until it became more than second nature.

Later it became something he could no longer turn off. The instant he would see a person he would deduce them and for a brief time tell them exactly what they wanted to hear to just to witness the approving look of their face. Then he would turn and tell them all those nasty little secrets a person kept to themselves. It was rather fascinating to watch a person crumble before him. Light entertainment one could say.

Something dangerous had indeed settled upon him as he came to understand the ease with which he could lie or use a person. All he had to do to accomplish this was to believe it, convince himself and he could convince the world. It was pathetically easy. So simplistic. Was it any wonder he looked at people as less than himself when he could play them as skillfully as he played his violin?

It was to be expected Sherlock realised. Such a removal from humanity. At least with his upbringing. The absent father. The mother lost in her troubled past, the woman who never looked at him twice beyond his birth that nearly killed her. The elder brother he loved in the beginning and who in the end failed him when he needed him the most. It was childish at best to blame Mycroft but over the years it had become a pleasing habit, one he frequently indulged.

His brother's resentment and occasional anger was rooted in a childish deduction he had made about his father's extramarital affair. It had ended the family as they had known it. Leaving their mother with a nervous breakdown and six months spent in hospital. Mycroft had raged at him as they has taken her away screaming, "How could you?"

To which he simply answered, "Because I could see it." He was puzzled at first at his brother's anger. He did not comprehend why he should have kept it to himself. Later as the months ate away he began to see his brother preferred living the lie to this harsh truth: They were a broken family that would never heal.

When their mummy was released the bickering between the two brothers escalated and he had turned to cocaine to soothe his weary soul. At the time it had seemed a logical choice. In the beginning he used it lightly, just to take the edge off of the the overtly melodramatic family he had sprung from but it had slowly turned into something not even he with all his intelligence and wit could ultimately control. In the end it became just another mistake. Something so far beyond what he had intended.

He was 14 by the time he could come to terms with his grievous error. Then he spent his own time in hospital. Rehabilitation. Talking to strangers. He charmed them all and was released early but he knew he needed something to tether him to this life or he would take an easier way out than addiction.

It was the music who saved him then as well. He used it to feel. Instead of like a so-called normal person who laughed and wept at the various aspects of life, he cried in his soul through the violin. Using it as the ultimate release. He was not exactly a sociopath in the classic sense of the word. Not if he felt through his music as he did but he did not feel things day to day as the average person was wont to do. This release was all he could manage. He could feel emotions more strongly than any other person but only through the music. In the end it too became a type of trap, as he discovered it was the only way he could ever express his inner thoughts and soft affection.

That particular section of his personality, the need to distance himself from emotions had developed from parental neglect during his formative years as well as his intense desire not to be as weak as his mother. Looking at her all he saw was weakness and he needed to be strong. Nobody admired the weak; they walked all over them and used them. He decided early on he would be the one to use others and in the end never be taken advantage of like she had. He used this to suppressed whatever emotion that may have tried to develop. Repeating in his head, "Be in control. Show strength. never give in to weakness."

It had helped in the end to produce an adult who could mimic even the greatest of sentiment but never truly feel them. Not day to day.

Until John.

With John he had truly laughed for the first time in years. A partial memory hit and he gave a small half smile in the dark. John was the only person he felt for. The man who had got under his skin and had buried himself there, allowing others to seep into his heart as well. He had cared for them - Lestrade, Mrs. Hudsen. But only after John had taught him the concept of truly having concern for another, outside of his release when playing.

Sherlock could hear John slowly make his way downstairs. He opened the door with a sigh, walked in to his bedroom and as he came closer to Sherlock's prostrate form on the bed he gave a tired, sad little sigh. Sitting he opened his mouth and no words came out. Turning to stare at the man laying on the bed, his eyes sad, he tried again.

"Sherlock, we need to talk."

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I'm sorry for the time this has taken.

I apologise for shoddy nature. *Sigh* My fans deserve more than this late attempt.

I wanted a chance to let people into Sherlock's head and this chapter is very personal.

If my best mate did not sadden me today it would not have been finished this month.

Thank Icrat.

Sadly.