Hey guys! Here with a Sherlock fic that is basically a product of my end of season three feels. Pain. So much beautiful pain. So I needed something fluffy. Therefore.. this. Anyway the chapters are gonna be really short because each reason will be a chapter but that pretty much means I'll upload multiple chapters at once. I tried so hard to get into Sherlock's head but we all know how hard that is. I tried my best, so if you have any suggestions, please let me know. And as always, review pretty please 3

On with the show!

-Reasons

There are reasons John Watson makes Sherlock feel like maybe he can actually bring himself to love, truly love, another person. Reasons with history and emotions the detective has never really been familiar with. But they are something he finds he doesn't mind nearly as much as he thought he would. Sociopath. As if.

1. This has, and always be the main reason. John finds Sherlock brilliant, almost to a fault. And even though it's easy to see sometimes John gets irritated with his deductions (and usually it's only the ones the doctor would like to avoid seeing the truth in) it never changes that he finds Sherlock and the way his mind works absolutely remarkable.

They are standing outside in the rain and Lestrade is standing with them.

"Double homicide," he says. "Male and female. Married. Appear to be strangled. But the house was locked up and there are no visible means of entry. No weapon was found either. Both in completely separate sides of the house." He looks up at Sherlock, hope obvious in his eyes. This is a reason Sherlock actually doesn't despise Lestrade as much as the rest of humanity. The DI believes in him, trusts him. But it is not the almost child-like awe he sees in John's eyes whenever he solves a crime. As they enter the home Sherlock takes everything in at once like a sponge of science. His eyes are everywhere and John can practically see his mind working.

"The woman didn't die here." He says, looking over her body.

"What do you mean? No one moved her. Swear." Lestrade is bent over slightly, watching Sherlock deduce.

"I didn't say they did. I'm simply saying she didn't die here." He stood and, with long strides made his way through the house and ended up in the kitchen. "She was killed here, approached from behind." There is a half made dinner sitting pathetically on the counter. "But there was time, she was killed first and the murderer," John could swear there's always a tint of happiness whenever Sherlock says that word. "Must have gone to kill the husband before coming back and dragging her to the bedroom. But why?" Lestrade didn't bother trying to answer, knowing the question had not been directed at him. Sherlock is quiet for a moment before he makes his way to the opposite side of the house where the husband lay, face up, in the living room.

He is crouched over the body for less than a minute before he stands back up.

"Who called it in?"

"The neighbor... She said the lights had been on all night but she didn't see anyone moving so she was worried." Sherlock nodded.

"Long fingernails, blue nail polish?" Lestrade brightened a bit.

"Yes. How did you... never mind." His question cut off by the look on Sherlock's face.

"I though so. You should probably arrest her, she's the killer." He points out a speck of blue nail polish by the husband's collar and some fingernail imprints/scratch marks just under his ear. "It appears she used the strap of a leather purse. As for entry, she has a key."

Not too much longer do they find out that, of course, he was correct. Some of the couple's DNA had been found on the strap of her handbag and the key to her neighbors house in her pocket. As they put her in the car she yelled something about the couple "fighting too loudly to have a proper night's sleep." And then she was gone. And while Sherlock is thoroughly disappointed in the case, not having lasted an hour. He is pleased at the praises he hears escape John's lips. Remembering whenever he's been told off by people for his deductions this is the one man who sees only the genius in it and never (almost never) condemns him for it. The feeling that this gives the detective was originally a foreign one. The warmth in his chest and the smile he always tries to fight. But by now it has become a welcome familiarity. And it is only one of the reasons he loves John Watson.