What I have learned as a sociopath is that there are two types of connection-those you make instantaneously and those you don't make at all.
Some people you just feel nothing for. Regretting not saying something to them, or their death is like feeling remorse towards a brick. Congratulating them is like throwing a party for a wall.
They are truly worthless-it's not an insult, not really, but they don't mean anything to you.
They can be your family, co-worker, chip shop lady, whatever. But they are nothing.
And then there's the thunderbolt. These are the people who you look at and you can't stop. You feel this incredible, ineffable need to be near them, to be accepted and cared about by them, to be important and worthy. It hurts to be away and it pleases to be close.
They are your best friend. Your lover. Your flatmate.
They change you like water changes a rock-so slowly you don't even see it until you smile and shake hands and are nice to people who mean nothing. You're not whipped. They're a thunderbolt that struck you through the heart when you first met and hasn't ceased since.
You find yourself doing things you never considered, putting yourself in danger, going mad, all over them. You smile more. You assimilate better; less distance is between you and everyone else, with their squishy, soppy selves, all because of them.
You help people.
You laugh at bad jokes and make your own.
You stare at random parts of their body, fixated, helpless.
You apologise and mean it.
You love them, and there is no shame in that. You would do anything for them.
You would die.
You would live.
For Sherlock Holmes, there is one thunderbolt in a world of bricks and walls, and its name is John Hamish Watson.
Walls and bricks have faces, and he smiles more.
Thunder strikes only once in the same place, so you must be there to see it.
Only once.
So be ready.
And chase after your thunderbolts.