Author's Note: i am apparently either an inattentive author or a lazy one. I didn't ensure the correct breaks were in each chapter to separate the past from the present. I have corrected this oversight (8/18/15). Forgive me.

I think I fell in love with his mind in that first cab ride to Brixton and a crime scene.

My involuntary exclamations of admiration surprised me as much as him.

And then when I was standing in front of Mycroft, not knowing who he was, I felt so protective of Sherlock. When Mycroft said, 'nothing indiscreet,' about his information needs, I felt like hitting him hard enough to knock him out of his £500 pair of shoes.

My fist clenched and unclenched, and I didn't notice that it wasn't shaking until Mycroft pointed it out. It's true. I had a lot on my mind at the time.

I had just met the most amazing person. And he wanted me in his life, apparently. He had invited me along to look at the dead woman in pink. I had seen his eyes sparkle when he thought about 'the Work', when he spoke about it. His deductions fell out of his mouth, struggling with each other for prominence as they tumbled out into the light.

The sensation of being wanted, needed, and useful are John Watson's drugs. The soldier in me. The doctor in me. I could not do nothing with this life. I am a man of action.

And Sherlock was promising action in spades.

With the bonus of a companion who was bright and interesting-how did I get so lucky after being so unlucky for so long?

Mycroft droned on about worrying about Sherlock 'constantly' and how Sherlock was the drama queen. Hah!

His remark about being very loyal very quickly struck me again. Yes, you learned to read people quickly when you were about to put your life into their hands and ask the same of him or her. Afghanistan had taught me that. And there was something about Sherlock. Perhaps I didn't have his deductive powers, but I knew some important characteristics of Sherlock based on our adventures already.

I knew that Sherlock didn't smile at just anyone. I knew that he had a fragile ego even if he tried to hide it. I knew that that ego deflated every time that woman referred to him as 'freak,' even as his sarcasm rose to parry it. And I knew that I was able to hide some things from his too perceptive gaze.

Or maybe I didn't hide it.

Later, in the restaurant, he saw right through my fumbling attempts to sound him out about his sexual preferences, forcing me to retreat into heterosexuality. It was a bad habit, I know. But I had learned it in the military, and it had stuck.

Maybe he had perceived my interest before that and hadn't broached the subject directly to avoid potentially embarrassing me. If he wasn't attracted to me . . . then that would explain his first rejection.

Although I'm not sure that Sherlock would see it as rejection. More like a pronouncement of 'it's too soon'. In which case, I learned something else about him. He wasn't the automaton that he wanted the world to think he was. He had feelings the same as any of us.

The same as any man.

But he was more comfortable with his ideas, his Work. That's fair. It's not like Sherlock had a great track-record with people. The smarter he became, the more experienced in general, the farther the chasm between his quick mind and the sluggards surrounding him. And the defense mechanism of the stupid is always to marginalize. Marginalize Sherlock and his beautiful, brilliant mind.

The best thing about the army was the way it stripped us all down and made us back up. Yes, I was a doctor, but I went through the same training as the rest of the troops. I had to if I was going to be fit for front-line service. So I was yelled at and called lazy and weak. And I knew that it was all a game to make us mentally tougher.

So then when the cards were down and lives hung in the balance, we didn't question. We didn't hesitate. We didn't wonder if the guy we were trying to save was worth saving. We just knew. He was here, wasn't he? He was one of us. They were all 'one of us'.

Of course I hadn't always been in the military. I had had my fair share of bullying due to my stature. Looking back on secondary, I suppose that was one of the things that appealed about being in the army. I would be given the kind of physical training needed to be a strong man no matter my size.

Plus, I knew I always wanted to be a doctor. I wanted to help people. And who needed more help than the men and women putting their lives on the line every day? By extension, I hoped I was also helping the people of Afghanistan as well.

Well.

Back to my original point: I was already in love with Sherlock on a primal level. It was so deeply ingrained in me that I couldn't name it for that at all. He just pulled at me like gravity. I was caught in his orbit. Love was insufficient a word to describe the way our lives fell together like the two halves of a neatly shuffled deck of cards.

Of course, like cards, this was all a big gamble as well.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Is this . . . real?"

Sherlock was sprawled out on the couch in our sitting room. He was holding out a sandwich I had made for him days ago.

"Uh, yes. But don't eat it. It's gone bad," I said as I scooped it out of his hand and headed for the bin. "Do you want a fresh one?" I threw back over my shoulder.

"Yes," Sherlock answered. I could tell by his tone that I had asked the most obvious question ever.

By the time I had made his sandwich and added a cuppa to it, he was curled up in the fetal position with his back to the coffee table.

"Sherlock?" I asked tentatively, not at all sure he was awake.

"Mmmm," he grumbled.

I looked over his shoulder to see if his eyes were closed. They were. I set the plate and mug on the table for him to find later. Knowing Sherlock, he wouldn't sleep all that long anyway. They would still be palatable when he awoke.

I walked to my chair, picked up the novel lying face-down on the arm, and settled myself in to read. What else is there to do on a rainy Sunday afternoon when you were single?

After a few minutes of his inactivity, I put down my book and cast my eyes over his blue-clad form. He was fond of his dressing gowns. And I liked seeing him in them as well. They said home. They said safe.

Sometimes a little home and a little safe were the best things in the world to balance out the scary world beyond our doors.

I pondered that lazy Sunday. I pondered a great many things. I thought about the first night of our acquaintance again. How Sherlock had known that I needed excitement in my life. I thought about how I had killed for him.

How had I killed for him after such a short amount of time?

I had asked myself this many, many times in the past year and a half. But I don't think I had come up with a completely satisfying answer yet.

Then my mind followed the familiar-trod path of 'but I didn't kill for Sherlock.' I killed a serial killer. I performed a public service. And Sherlock had said that he was dying anyway. So it was perhaps a mercy to a dying man as well-not that he deserved mercy for what he put those people though.

So I'd argue with myself back and forth before acknowledging that either way, I was hooked from day one. I was drawn to this man, my flat-mate. I had to know more about him and participate in his world. I had to know that I was contributing, even in some small way.

He was my drug now.

"John!" came the shout from the couch that startled me from my thoughts.

"Yes, Sherlock," I said, none too concerned despite his alarm.

He turned to see me sitting in my chair, unconcerned about anything at the moment.

"Oh," he said. His eyes dropped to his sandwich and tea. Flipping his long legs over and onto the floor, he sat up and began eating as if he hadn't been asleep for over an hour.

"Have a good nap?" I asked him, flipping on the telly.

"Hmph," was all I got.

"Good," I said absentmindedly.