A/N: Yes, yes, I should work on To Win. I know! But I'm an idiot, and I plan badly, and I wrote myself into a corner, and it got sticky. I'm trying! But that, plus school, plus original stories, plus other stuff make it so hard! Here, have a oneshot from a completely different fandom.
Disclaimer: Yes, of course I own Sherlock, that's why this is on fanfiction dot net.
Sherlock was used to people being in love with him. It seemed to be a choice for people with whom he interacted on a regular basis. Either they hated his guts, or they wanted to mate with him.
He generally ignored these pathetic little obsessions. This was mostly from experience, rather than callousness. The first few times, he had confronted them about it, and it had not gone well. The first time, when he was in high school, the girl had ended up transferring to another school. None of the others had been so drastic, but almost all of them had been reduced to tears, and he'd made an enemy out of each and every one. Now, enemies were all well and good; enemies made your life interesting. But only if the enemies themselves were interesting, and these were most certainly not.
For a long time he'd held out hope that someday, somewhere, he'd meet someone that was immune to whatever it was that made people either love or hate him. But the hope was futile: everyone who had ever been a major player in his life had been either an enemy or devotee. Including those he might call his friends: Molly and John were prime examples. Even Mrs. Hudson had spent a good bit of time attempting to flirt with him, in what he would remember to be the most awkward hour of his life to date.
Some of them eventually got over it, which was a blessing. But some didn't. At that Christmas party, (it seemed so long ago), he'd thought Molly had finally found someone else to fixate on, but he was wrong. He'd managed to play it off as a first discovery, since he'd been "oblivious" before, but, nevertheless, it was still a problem. Molly's affections were acceptable, even useful, but what if he misjudged someone else, and they turned out to be the "psychotic stalker" type? The usual kinds he attracted were puppies, again like Molly and John, but there were also more dangerous people, for example, The Woman.
Ah, The Woman. She represented a glitch in the pattern. For the months that he'd been investigating her, he'd thought this might be different. She was fascinating, a puzzle. And she was right, he did know where to look, (and not just for her safe code). But, once she was done causing trouble, and getting into it, the first element was no longer present. The second was simple biological imperative, and he could ignore hunger for days on end; sexual desire made almost no impact on him without some other factor helping it along.
However, it was an almost equally important component. Fascination was not enough, because he most definitely was not in love with James Moriarty. Though Jim was almost certainly in love with him. In fact, the fact that their mutual obsession was different on Moriarty's side almost depressed him. Jim was, perhaps, his favorite enemy, even better than Mycroft, because he was a true dark mirror of Sherlock's, (and because Mycroft would never really be a threat; they might be enemies, but they were still brothers). He had respected his favorite so much, and now some of that was lost, because James had fallen into the grip of Sherlock's unintentional magnetism. It was sad.
His only reprieve was Greg Lestrade. The DI was the only non-enemy Sherlock had ever had who did not harbor any intent to have sexual relations with him. It was refreshing. Lestrade was a great man, in his own way, and Sherlock did not want him for an enemy or a love stuck puppy dog. He wanted him for perhaps, just perhaps, a friend.
So, as he plummeted from the roof for the sake of the people he cared about, the main regret he had, just in case the plan he'd worked out with Molly failed and he died from the impact with the pavement, was not that he hadn't told someone he loved them. It was that he hadn't told Lestrade that they were friends. Wonderfully, blissfully platonic friends.
A/N (again): Wow. Just… wow, that was weird. That was not how I meant that to go. What the f%#& did I just write? Oh, well, better publish it.