Disclaimer:The characters in this story are not mine and belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle as well as Steven Moffat.

Author's Note: This is my first public fanfiction, so please if you don't have anything nice/constructive to say please don't say anything at all. I hope you enjoy this.

It was not so much that Sherlock thought sentiment was useless, because he understood it could be very useful in certain, rare instances. However, people who relied on sentiment were, well, complete idiots. Sherlock knows what people think of him. They call him a freak, and a psychopath. Everybody, except perhaps John, is steadfast in the belief that there is something intrinsically wrong with him. Sherlock, however, understands the truth that it is actually quite the opposite. Thereis something wrong with them. They, not him, are the ones who are defective. Sentiment cripples, and sentiment kills. He has years of objective, deductive analysis to confirm this. It is not theory. It is not supposition. It is law. Sherlock Holmes is never wrong.

Which is exactly why people like Molly Hooper completely infuriate him. She does not utilize her emotions appropriately. She does not even try to hide her feelings, or at least not well enough for Sherlock. To put it bluntly, she is possessed by her need to feel loved, and it sickens him. Literally. There have been moments in the past few months, ever since Christmas and the present wrapped in lipstick-colored paper, he has thought he was going to be violently sick, because of her.

It had occurred only a few days ago, when Sherlock had needed to procure some assorted limbs for a recreational experiment. She had smiled softly at him when he entered the morgue, her thin lips twitching only slightly, and his stomach did a violent turn. It was not the smell of the formaldehyde, because he had been used to that for years. It was not the sight of Molly with one of her hands deep inside the somewhat bloated abdomen of a murder victim. Who, as it so happens, was murdered because of the man's long-term affair with his much younger and much blonder secretary. An affair his wife apparently unearthed through her own investigation, and decided to handle in her own way. Women do love their poisons. Yet another example of sentiment and its relation to the destruction of both the mind and body. He had been able to deduce all of this with only a minute or two observing the body. Molly, if she had any intelligence, should have been able to discover this in the countless minutes she had been rummaging around in the man's digestive tract.

Instead, she had gazed up at Sherlock, her eyes wide and a slightly awkward smile hovering at the corners of her mouth. She had stared at him as if he was the most amazing man she had ever met, which to be fair he probably was. The look she had given him though, nobody had ever looked at him in that way before, not even John. He instantly felt ill as a strange sensation came over him. His palms felt sweaty, and his intestines seemed to be filled with thousands of crawling ants. He turned abruptly, muttering an embarrassingly hoarse, "Your sentiment's showing, Molly." He quickly walked out of the morgue, leaving an embarrassed and confused pathologist in his wake.

Sentiment cripples. Sentiment kills. Sentiment cripples. Sentiment kills. It was not until Sherlock noticed the weird stares from passersby that he realized he was speaking quite clearly as he walked briskly away from Bart's.

"Sentiment cripples. Sentiment kills."