Sherlock silently deciphered the elegant inscriptions sitting on his page in The Odyssey. It truly interested him, the book, though he didn't understand why the central character, Odysseus, did so much to get back to the city in which his wife and child resided in. Though not mentioned directly in the infamous anthology, Sherlock quickly inferred that he did it due to love. He was known to understand everything, everyone, and anything; may it have been a physical object or a psychological state. He could understand a person just by simply laying his logic-controlled eyes on them, however, due to his reliance on logic; there was one thing he didn't understand: love. Love, he thought, is useless. He couldn’t understand why a person would need an emotion such as love.
Sherlock thought himself as solitary as an oyster, which on the interior, he was. On the exterior, however, Sherlock was surrounded by so many people, which annoyed him. To him, people were so boring, so feebleminded. He preferred to be as isolated on the outside as he was on the inside, but that wasn’t possible sometimes. Along with people, Sherlock was surrounded by different kinds of love: family love, which was something he had not ever experienced with his older brother Mycroft, neither did he with his parents. There was also friendship love, another one he never experienced. He didn’t think he needed companions; after all, none of them could ever keep up with the strength of his intellect. Then there was romance, a love that by far he didn’t understand. Sherlock didn’t understand why a person would want a companion for their entire life, never giving them a moment’s peace. The only point would be to reproduce, but the world is too densely populated for any more humans, he thought. In all the things that people were, predictable was definitely one of them. Whenever he witnessed Jim and Irene flirting, he internally winces. Jim, in reality, was very similar to Sherlock, intellect-wise. He didn’t understand how someone almost as smart as him could need something so useless and distracting.
By now, Sherlock had put his book down, and was staring unblinkingly at the wall opposite him, lost in thought. He was sitting on a plush, leather armchair in the middle of the living room, in the flat he shared with a schoolmate, John Watson, one who he could call a ‘friend’, due to their periodic discussions and John occasionally assisting Sherlock in some of his cases. Strangely, the participation of John in solving cases was becoming more frequent, it was as if he enjoyed his company. Of course, that couldn’t be true, Sherlock thought. He had no desire for friends; he had his mind. Sherlock was swimming in his pool of thoughts when he heard on knock on the door, accompanied by the head of an old woman poked through a small gap.
‘Ah, Mrs Hudson,’ Sherlock addressed his landlady, ‘what‘s the problem?’
‘Oh, nothing, nothing! I was just coming up to see what the racket was. I didn’t expect to see you here! Oh no, did you get sent home again?’ Mrs Hudson said, in a high, though slightly raspy voice. Sherlock did make quite a commotion, as was his habit. He was throwing around some old pieces of rotten wood he found in the Chemistry Prep Room.
‘I was helping the teacher, but he didn’t appreciate it and sent me home.’ He said nonchalantly, ‘But if you didn’t expect me, why did you knock?’ Sherlock asked, his eyes narrowed.
‘I- I, well I- I thought John might be here!’ Mrs Hudson replied nervously. Sherlock and John had only lived in the flat a few months, but Mrs Hudson knew them well already. To Sherlock, she was like an unneeded mother. He was about to inquire more, as she usually knew that John comes back late from the College, but he didn’t. He was too tired to argue with a petty human, though he knew he would win anyway. Mrs Hudson left quietly, leaving Sherlock alone again. He sank deeper into the armchair, and ran a hand slowly through his mop of curls. Sherlock closed his eyes and went into his mind-palace. It was truly effective, the Method of Loci, otherwise known as a mind-palace, though only for people as intelligent in him. Knowing he was alone, Sherlock relaxed more, sinking deeper and spreading his legs onto the armchair opposite. It was his idea of a great life.