Money and power didn't really interest him, their value was scarce in his eyes, they were too fleeting, too empty, too stupid.
Science was much more interesting.
And so was crime.
His knowledge of the subject was imfamous in his clan, every one in trouble or in need would come to him for advice, and they would walk away thinking he was crazy.
He was always right though.
His family had never been more powerful, he and his brother were feared by everyone, and it was all due to his intelligence and to the way he could predict everyone else's moves.
Sherlock didn't care.
Somehow it was not enough.
He had never realized what it was that he missed.
He could have girls if he wanted. He could have boys.
But he knew no one really liked him.
He knew he didn't like any of them.
John had been working for his family as an assassin for six months when Sherlock met him.
It was passing him in the hallway of their big estate that the older man caught his eye.
Nerves of steel. Army posture. Secret Services. Special Agent. Medical traning. Unwavering morals. Mole.
He smirked, and sauntered to his brother's quarters.
He knew what he wanted for his birthday now.
Sherlock didn't tell anyone he knew who John was, but he had Mycroft reassign him.
He had never worked with anyone, and John was sure to get all kinds of warnings from the people he talked to.
Sherlock sat lazily on his armchair, resting his head on his hand as he looked at the door, waiting for the man who was supposed to answer his every whim from now on.