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Loneliness. It's such a simple yet consuming word. Sherlock would know. Ever since he was born, he has always been lonely. After all, he was born wrong, defective. He was a freak and a monster, but most importantly, he was something to be hated. His intelligence was the only thing that made him useful, and yet it also seemed to be the bane of existence.
You do not wake up one day and feel crippling loneliness.
It's a process. At first, you don't even notice it. When he felt the cold ache for the first time, he tried to ignore it. After all, why should he feel lonely? He may not have friends, but he had Mummy, Daddy, and Mycroft. That was enough for him. He tried his best to ignore the slight ache he felt whenever he watched his classmates play. Once upon a time, he may have asked to join them. But the other kids always said no. They claimed there were too many players if he joined, although Sherlock knew it was a lie. They just didn't like him.
As he grew older, it became increasingly difficult to not notice. He would feel the beginning feeling of resentment twist in him. It wasn't burning, hot hatred that consumed him like a rabid animal, but a cold disdain that implanted itself in his heart. He didn't need friends, companionship, or anything of the sort. People were idiots, and they didn't deserve his presence. All of them were pathetic for relying on each other, and Sherlock refused to make such a mistake.
When Sherlock met cocaine, it made everything better. It felt as if it fixed him and made him “normal.” When he was high, he didn't care about anything. The loneliness was gone, and the unwanted stimulation that made living miserable seized. It was as if the ice that had frozen his soul had morphed into a beautiful snowstorm. It raged inside his mind palace and smoothed out the cold, hard edges of ice.
All good things never last long.
Just as cocaine helped him, it hurt him. Sherlock never had a good sense of self-control; as a matter of fact, he was extremely impulsive. It spiraled far out of his control. His crutch, his guilty pleasure, soon became a dangerous dependence. Un/Fortunately, cocaine made it hard to care. It didn't matter that his health was rapidly deteriorating; it didn't matter that Mycroft pitied him, nor did it matter that his parents disowned him. None of that mattered; he had cocaine.
Oh, but of course it mattered. It mattered that Mycroft looked at him with those sad, pitiful eyes, and it mattered that his father and mother were ashamed to even acknowledge his existence. His resentment had seeped into his bones and caused an incurable, festering infection. Because, as much as he hated to admit it, he was human. And all humans are biologically engineered to be social. He would never admit to having such weak, plebeian thoughts, after all, he still had to maintain some of his shambled dignity.
When he eventually got sober, the snow melted, and the ice had revealed itself once again. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised, but it was still a very unwelcome reunion. As the ice returned, so did his disdain for the human race and his irrational desire for companionship. Luckily for him, instead of cocaine, he now worked on cases. He found it almost just as distracting, and it was much more productive. He was still wasting away, not sleeping, not eating, and definitely not socializing, but he was doing better.
It wasn't long after that he met John Watson, his new flatmate. John saved his life. Not just in the sense of shooting the cabbie and saving his life on multiple occasions. But he also saved his mind and soul. He made him eat, commanded him to sleep, but most importantly, he helped melt the ice. It was still there; after all, it had been accumulating for his entire life. But John made the edges softer. John was an insane, beautiful creature that somehow not only tolerated his presence but also sought for it.
But, of course, all good things must come to an end. And the end was named James Moriarty. Sherlock underestimated him, thinking of the man as entertainment. A game. Of course, it was his arrogance that allowed the events that happened to happen. It was his own fault that he had to fake his death, and it was inevitably his fault that his relationship with John died. He didn't know why he thought that he could just pop back into John's life and expect the older man to be happy to see him. John had a new, better life without him. He has a fiance, a new job, a new home, and most importantly, a life that doesn't have room for him.
When John took off in a cab with Mary, Sherlock stood in the rain for twenty minutes. In a way, a part of him hoped John would come back. The other part of him just didn't want to move because of the severe amount of pain he was in. John may know he left to “incapacitate Moriarty's network," but he didn't know the details. Sherlock ended up spending three months in a Siberian prison. He was endlessly tortured for information. Even now, he wasn't fully healed, and John's continuous assaults must have reopened some of the wounds on his back. He could feel the warm wetness of his blood soaking into his clothes.
Eventually, it seemed like his brain kicked into autopilot, and he mindlessly walked back to 221b. It would have been more painless and convenient to take a cab, but Sherlock honestly didn't even think of it. He felt oddly disconnected, and dazed. When he got into his flat, he immediately shrugged off his coat, shoes, and socks. He tossed them on the floor with little care, and he automatically went to the bathroom. He turned on the shower and painfully took off his clothes. He tried to avoid mirrors these days, but he couldn't help but look.
Sherlock heaved a sigh as he looked at his thin, bruised, and bloodied body. He couldn’t help but feel disgusted. In a way, he wished he had never met John. If he had never met the other man, then his ice wouldn't have melted. The ice protected him, and now he had no defenses. Is this what mourning someone feels like? He and John never had a romantic relationship, but even Sherlock knew their relationship wasn't normal. They always had a certain intimacy and closeness that others didn't have. And now? Now Sherlock is alone.
He groaned as he stepped into the shower. The water hurt, but it immediately made him feel better. After months of not showering and being tortured, a shower felt heavenly. He stayed in the burning hot water till it ran cold. When he got out and wrapped himself in a towel, he looked at himself once again. He looked tired, and his face was bruised, but he looked better.
Sherlock knew this would happen. After all, who could actually love a freak?