Don’t ever try convincing me that Sherlock never feels...

Don’t ever try convincing me that Sherlock never feels sorrow for the suffering of other people. It may or may not be his only priority, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t one, or that he doesn’t care. Look at his face upon witnessing the old lady’s death over the phone. Look at both Lestrade and John’s reactions. Lestrade is looking away at first, then immediately turns in toward Sherlock. And John - John immediately moves closer and reaches for Sherlock, needing to touch him or, failing that, the nearest substitute. Don’t tell me that John squeezing the back of the chair here wasn’t meant to be Sherlock’s shoulders, a reassuring hand on the back of his neck. He just didn’t know whether that would be all right or not, whether it would be welcome. But he instinctively knew that Sherlock needed comfort here. And look at his face: he did.

That’s why John says that Sherlock is the best man he ever knew, why Sherlock is his best friend, why, when he thought he was two seconds from his own death, it was an “of course” when he said that he forgave Sherlock. He knows that the moments when Sherlock tries to make himself look like a machine are the lie, not the other way around.

And Sherlock knows, obviously. He knows how much he can care: it’s why he tries so hard not to, but he’s not Mycroft. He fails at not caring quite regularly. He cares so much that it’s dangerous.

And Lestrade doesn’t reach for Sherlock because John already is, and he knows that there is nothing and no one else that Sherlock could ever need in a moment like that, or in any other moment, either.