Sherlock is a man of few words, but when he does in fact speak, it's usually something cutting. He makes people uncomfortable - in the way he holds himself, in the way he drawls the syllables of his words.

He knows that he's handsome. He's got of a bit of a thing for avoiding mirrors, though, because if he looks, he'll stay stuck there, intrigued beyond anything rational as to why when his fingers move, that the mirrored him does the same thing. People look different in mirrors. People look different in rain puddles. People look different under water, people look different when they're dead, but not Sherlock. Sherlock is not people, and he knows this, he acknowledges it full-heartedly.

People? Lovers? Friends? Who's got time for friends when you have trinkets? Who's got time for anything when you can steal?

On Saturday afternoons, he'll carry his knapsack up the stairs to his closet, and he'll deposit all the things he had taken that week. He'll count, and mumble, and absently run his fingers over what he has.

He's got rings and earrings and necklaces in one pile, wallets in another, car keys and house keys and keys to locked boxes that hold precious secrets in yet one more. Sherlock has stolen clothing and money and power, and in his mind, he is the man with the password in a room of locked doors. He knows how things work; he knows how people work, and he knows what's important in people's lives.

Not love. Not friendship. Not time, or religion, or pretty ladies in miniskirts.

They crave things.

They crave so many fucking things.

It's insane. Honest to God, the gospel truth, insane. Sherlock knows this, why does no one else? Are they crazy?

Or is he?

Is he the crazy one? Sherlock wonders that on a daily basis, when he's sitting on his bed at exactly 5:00 AM, with his arms folded inside his lap. The thing is, Sherlock doesn't think he's crazy. He just doesn't feel the same for people as he does for superficialities. Maybe he's not crazy. Maybe he's just shallow.

He finds it ridiculous that people love. Like, what's the point? You get up, you just happen to think about an annoying person all fucking day long, you see them, they see you, great, have fun - Sherlock takes no part in this.

And Sherlock is special, too. He sees what people don't see, he knows what people don't know, he does what people don't do. The population spins around him, searching for gods that don't exist, for soul mates that aren't tangible.

Sherlock has enough fun as it is without humanity getting in the way. He appreciates humanity, he enjoys it, but he doesn't wade in it. He doesn't bathe in their stench. He just takes what he wants.

He places his knapsack on the floor, and sorts everything he'd gotten.

There's a wallet. Sherlock opens it. John Watson, 26, male, his license reads. There's a few cards in it. MasterCard, Discover Card, papers with different phone numbers on them, a... therapist's card... Sherlock observes it curiously, before sticking it into his back pocket.

He also has John's house keys, from when he slipped his hand into his coat. He'll need to be returning that.

He also has James Bond. His favorite movie in the ever of evers, the most amazing, the most intellectual. He ignores the girls, and looks at the man. He's so smart, so cunning, so brilliant - he fights with guns but says so much using so little words. And he has a lot of sex, but does he let that stop him? Sentiment. Pah. He has no need.

James Bond is so marvelous.

Suddenly, Sherlock Holmes feels the urge to share.

***

There's something different in John's flat when he gets home from the shops. He'd forgotten his wallet at home, apparently, and thus, had to return to get a few important items... and more importantly, to drink some tea.

But tea isn't awaiting him when he steps through his flat. In fact, the tea is nowhere to be found. Nor is the kettle. Or, actually, the coffee maker.

In its place is a post it note on top a CD case, along with John's wallet - James Bond: Casino Royale. In scribbly print, it says: Hello, John. I'm the man from earlier. I thought you might want your wallet back, considering I took the coffee maker. I was in need of one. I thought the movie might brighten your day; it certainly brightened mine.

Don't ask how I found you. Don't try to report me, either. Not if you value your coffee maker's life.

-SH (your favourite neighbourhood criminal)

P.S. I'd love to have my scarf back.

John stares at the piece of paper in shock, turning it over and over in his hands to check if it's authentic. There's nothing else moved in the flat, the coffee maker is just gone... and so is his sodding tea.

If he thinks he can just... waltz on in there and take John's tea, take his means of boiling that tea, and ultimately ruin his day by stealing most of things John holds dear in this life (movies, his pride, and once again, tea), he is sorely mistaken.

With a frustrated hurumph, John walks over to the phone attached to his wall and dials 999, waiting for the tones to begin. But they don't.

Maybe he unplugged it, John thinks, griping as he gets on his knees to plug the phone back into the outlet.

When John sees it, he slumps against the cabinet. "Oh, dear..." John whispers. The man didn't unplug the phone, no. "Geez..." John picks up a loose wire, surveying a scissor a few feet away, taunting him, and then he looks at the wire itself. Cut in half.

And just when he thought his day could get no worse. He kicks something for what seems like the hundredth time, burying his face into his thick hands before letting out a drawn out, malcontented sigh. Gathering the movie that the boy had oh so kindly sent over, John groans as he helps himself up, retreating back into his room to watch it. James Bond is one of the only movie franchises that he hasn't watched, and even though he's in a sorely pissy mood... he's in a sorely pissy mood. Maybe, he thinks, there is a fraction of a fraction of a chance that I will enjoy this.

As the movie begins to play, and John settles into his dirty mattress, he fiddles with his flimsy blanket, sliding his thumbs across the cool blue cloth absently.

James Bond is awesome. And the bad guy is even more so. He has a chilly expression on his face constantly, like he knows how below him you are. Did that kid have a chilly expression?

John really has to stop thinking of him as "that kid." He's more of a man. Broad shoulders, cutting blue eyes... The smile of a trickster, the laugh of an angel. Maybe it's the trench coat he wore. Or, maybe it's the scarf that John has deposited outside his bedroom door. Navy blue, hanging on a hook attached to the wall, looking as if it's waiting for someone. It smells like mint chewing gum.

But, no matter. The kid's probably an arse, anyway.

John snuggles himself into the sheets, curling his body inwards so he can watch the movie in complacency.

A/N: Ugh. I hope this works out well. Eugh. WELL. HAVE A COOKIE. MAKE MERRY. JOHNLOCK HOHOHO