Chapter Text
Heartless, They Called Him.
He's supposed to be above this. Heartless, they called him. Machine. Robot. Freak. He used to agree. He used to take pride in it. Caring is never an advantage, after all. But then, if he's so terribly reliably informed in regards to his heart, why is it currently thumping an erratic beat in his ears? It's not even supposed to be there. But it is. And it's picked a hell of a time to make itself known. A hell of a time to rebel against his mind's orders to settle down. You're only transport. In this moment, he hates it more than he has ever hated anything in his life. More than Mycroft sticking his fat arse into his private affairs, more than Moriarty's game, even more than Anderson's unfathomable idiocy. He hates it because right now, on the other side of the door, john sits in 221B. Good, kind, patient John. Whose waited three years. Whose going to be furious. Who's going to want an explanation. Who may very well choose to walk out this door, like so many times before, and decide that unlike before, he's never coming back. And Sherlock knows that he will never, never recover from that. Heartless, they called him. If only they'd been right.