Sherlock Holmes, was by far, the most extraordinary man I'd ever met. He was a 'consulting detective', as he put it. The only one in the world. A literal genius, his powers of perception and ability to make accurate assessments of people and situations with the tiniest amount of information, left even the brightest, most educated people feeling like bumbling fools in his presence.
His genius came at a price. Despite his formidable intellect, his ability to act appropriately in social situations was nothing short of embarrassing. I've lost count of the times I've muttered fervent apologies to people, only for Sherlock to insult them again moments later.
It wasn't that he was deliberately rude, he just had no concept of feeling or emotions. He found sentimentality to be a dirty word, and kept his distance from any relationships that required it. He described himself as a 'high functioning sociopath' on more than one occasion. I once looked up the definition of the word, and chuckled to myself as I read a far more succinct description of Sherlock Holmes than I could ever hope to write.
A sociopath is someone who exhibits an antisocial personality disorder, along with antisocial behaviours, little understanding of social norms, and lack of conscience.
A high functioning sociopath is someone with identical traits, however tends to be more intelligent, and better at integrating with society. Their disorders are harder to notice and diagnose. They can pretend they care about other people and they can commonly evince less antisocial behaviours at will.
This neat little definition described Sherlock Holmes perfectly. I had another way of putting it: An irritating, egotistical dick. Sherlock agreed with my summation wholeheartedly.
In the beginning of our relationship, I truly believed he was lonely, and that the love of a good woman (or perhaps man; it was impossible to assess Sherlock's sexuality. I now strongly believe he is asexual, although he dismisses the subject whenever it arises,) could cure him. I longed for happiness for my friend, that he would establish a connection with someone, the way I had with my wife, Mary. Admittedly, I'm unsure of my wife's actual name, she changed it to Mary Elizabeth Morstan to hide the fact that she was a highly skilled assassin on the run from her past, but you understand the sentiment. I hoped it would open his eyes to a different world, away from the blood and violence he found so intriguing, the despicable mysteries he delighted in solving. But Sherlock Holmes had only shown interest in two women in the ten years I knew him.
The first, was Irene Adler. The Woman, as she was professionally known. A dominatrix who specialised in 'recreational scolding', she was involved with several members of prominent families, including a person of interest to the monarchy. Beautiful, intelligent and drawn to Sherlock, he had a strange fascination with her. Despite my eagerness for Sherlock to find love, I didn't feel comfortable with the idea of Sherlock and Ms. Adler. My suspicions were right in the end, she had tried to play Sherlock for a fool, even though she ended up falling for him in the process. Of course, he won in the end. He always does.
The second woman, was Janine Hawkins. A bridesmaid at my wedding actually. A nice enough girl, I suppose. A friend of Mary's, she took an instant liking to Sherlock. He dated her for a while, totally fooled me actually. Sherlock can be very convincing when he wants to be. It just so happened that Janine worked for Charles Augustus Magnussen, a newspaper tycoon, whom Sherlock and I had ran in to some problems with. When I say problems, I mean he arranged for some men to throw me in a bonfire so he could slowly watch me burn to death. To piss off Sherlock, presumably. Sherlock used Janine's feelings for him to gain access to Magnussen's office, even going as far as proposing to her. As I explained earlier, Sherlock is a dick. I should probably mention that my wife also only befriended Janine to get to Magnussen, and ended up knocking her unconscious moments before Sherlock entered the office. That part isn't as important. Regardless, Janine found out and ended up selling her story to several newspapers and magazines, making a lot of money and moving to Sussex, I believe.
I've been friends with Sherlock for 10 years, and every day is an adventure. Mostly. I mean, sometimes he sits around muttering to himself, or wanders around the kitchen carrying half a human spleen. But I deal with it, because despite his weirdness, and his arrogance, he is my best friend. There's just one thing about him that could drive me away from Sherlock Holmes, just one flaw that's big enough to destroy us.
He's a drug addict.
*EDIT - I'm a little unsure about this story, please let me know whether you think I should continue with it. Thank you.*