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Sherlock's life was a world of numbers.
Counting, ticking away just under his skin.
There were three hundred and sixty five days in a year. On average Mycroft ruined about one hundred of them annually with his meddling. John Watson made the remaining two hundred and sixty five tolerable. Him and The Work, that was.
There were twenty-nine pens in the flat, nine of which were broken.
Mrs Hudson had made it to the ninth season of her show. He could hear the crackling of her old television set downstairs, as well as the old woman's bright and tinkling laughter. Some comedy or other. The detective could frankly care less.
It was soothing sometimes, just to count. Count meaningless things, numbered things. Count and count so that his world around him turned into one beautiful equation, gathering data that he could measure the curvature of like how he measured the curve of John's shoulders, his breath and voice.
Sherlock counted to keep himself sane sometimes. When life became too much, when his compulsion with numbers grew sharp like shrapnel and he found himself numbering things that should have no numerical worth. When he stepped onto a scale for the third time and mentally found the mean of his three separate weigh-ins (while John was having his second helping of breakfast usually) and when each banana that passed his lips counted a value of one hundred and five and every apple ninety-five.
The detective counted other things to avoid what his brain really wanted to count. What it wished to number. He counted so that he wouldn't tally up the value of his skin through what he consumed and counted so that he wouldn't feel compelled to estimate the circumference of his hips. He counted so that his own mind wouldn't erase the equation of brilliant and fantastic that his partner would whisper to him while they lay in bed, John's strong arms warmer than his skin, which had taken to being approximately point five degrees cooler as of late due to the five hundred calories cut from his diet the past week (he can go lower, has done before. Except then he would be cold, and John would notice. John always did even if he said nothing about it).
The numbers were soothing, even though the detective had never much cared for maths. They calmed him when he felt like his own equation was too much, too large and too spacious, when all he wanted was to equate his worth to zero, nice and perfect and nothing.
They calmed him when his equation was positively bloated, when he was forced to shrink it, when John would ask him where he'd disappeared off to and Sherlock would have to connive a new answer, something more substantial than bored or a new case, John (because surely the army doctor would eventually notice the lingering flavour of vomit that accounted for approximately two percent of Sherlock's breath lately). They brought peace to his mind when every other iota of the universe seemed determined to throw his world into chaos. Had done since he was a teenager, although he couldn't remember since when (deleted, discarded, refused). He once counted cocaine needles, once tallied and listed cigarettes and how many days it took before he couldn't stand upright without his tedious transport betraying him. The numbers kept him afloat in a sea of other information he extrapolated, letting him man his own mind like a pirate captain aboard his most prized vessel.
Sherlock Holmes counted, because if he ever stopped all that would be left would be his own thoughts, cannibalising themselves in the whorl of his own mind. He held these numbers tucked away, close to his own body. A shield of armour that not even John Watson could hope to penetrate (God don't let him know, please don't let him figure it out). Strong and unbreakable, a coping mechanism that was as mathematically perfect as two point one four and as flawless as any Fibonacci sequence.
The detective counted, because at the end of the day, it was all he had left when his hands began to tremble, and the numbers became too great. It was all he had when John looked at him, eyebrows lowering in concern, asking if he was okay. Always the same answer on his lips, automatic: Why wouldn't I be?
So long as he was counting other things, and not counting himself, Sherlock Holmes was safe. Sane. He could eat. He could breathe. He could run without worry that he'd count the miles, the seconds. He could sleep without ticking away the hours.
Except when he wasn't. When things weren't okay, and Sherlock couldn't look at himself. Not if he wanted to avoid counting. When his own mind became too much, and the numbers turned on him, tried to tear him apart.
But then, that was why he had John, now wasn't it?
For when things got too dire, counted too much, Sherlock remembered that John Watson had a body count. Had seen a lot of violent deaths.
In the detective's mind, he held no desire to make the army doctor see even more.