Sherlock lived for it.
Not the crimes, not the deductions, not the smug satisfaction of leaving the gaping police in his wake. (Although he quite enjoyed those.)
It was impressing John.
Even from the off, in that cab to Lauriston Gardens, Sherlock wanted to hear more. He'd been praised before, but it sounded ...right coming from John. Right and natural, not put on for social niceties.
"That was ...amazing. Quite extraordinary."
Sherlock Holmes was hooked. More additive than cocaine, more soothing than music, more thrilling than a clever murder. This wounded army doctor, completely ordinary at first glance, was anything but.
He killed a cabbie to save a man he'd known for two days then giggled at a crime scene. He dated and worked yet would leave either at the drop of a hat to chase thieves and murderers across London.
The Work had put John in danger more times than Sherlock cared to admit but still John stayed. His loyal blogger, doctor, flatmate, friend. Anyone else would have fled months ago but John stayed. And that impressed Sherlock. So he returned the favour.
Even when The Woman implored him, "impress a girl", there was only one person in that flat whom Sherlock wished to impress. To see him smile and say those words he longed for:
"Fantastic! Brilliant!"
