Sherlock Holmes once described the human mind as a hard drive, a place for storing all information valuable and useful to a man's profession. Anything superfluous had to be disposed of in order for the mind to work at optimum potential.
There was a special place in Sherlock's mind dedicated to John Watson. His brown eyes, knit sweaters, the phantom limp that still appeared if John was left to himself for too long, the way he sipped delicately at his tea; every detail recorded with care and precision—strictly for calculating his usefulness on cases and for best tactics in cohabitation, of course.
But recently, Sherlock wondered if, perhaps, John's space had grown a little too large.
He was finding it difficult to think.
John had been gone for nearly forty-eight hours, and Holmes had a case on his hands; the detective knew he should have had it solved nearly five hours ago. Most annoying.
Sherlock stood in the sitting room, blue eyes glaring out the fogged window into the rain, bowing his violin madly. He had meant it to focus his thoughts, to arrange the clues from the case into a coherent picture as the sound always did, but his thoughts kept turning insistently to the doctor. After a few minutes, Sherlock added several layers to the piece; the higher the complexity of the music, the more of his spare mind would be taken up with playing, he reasoned, and all thoughts of John would be pushed from his mind until the only two streams of focus in existence were the case and the violin—and the case could then be quickly solved. He had all of the pieces of the puzzle, after all.
It would appear, however, that his musical theory was proving to have the inverse effect.
Sherlock was finding it insufferably difficult to think. The more he played, the more thoughts of John commandeered his good sense and reason.
He added yet another layer to what was already a nearly impossible pattern.
What was taking the doctor so long…?
John should have been there for the investigation. The good doctor always got an impolite (but well-deserved) sense of amusement whenever Sherlock humiliated Lestrade and Gregson, though he did try to pretend he found no humor whatsoever in it.
Now—
the thief was somewhere in a two-mile radius from the scene, certainly. Probably an old warehouse or the basement of a flat. That much was glaringly clear. Once the exact location was pinpointed, he could instruct John to…
Bloody Hell.
Sherlock drew his bow across the strings in one passionate arc, deposited the violin on the sofa, and collapsed in the armchair, bent over steepled fingers.
Some rich old man dying every day from terminal stage four bloody cancer did not need John to sit at his bedside to draw out the inevitable a few hours more. He needed John here so he could solve this case properly! Sherlock could solve it without him, certainly; Sherlock did not need anyone to aid him. It was merely that John, for some paradoxical reason, was far less distracting while on a case with the detective than absent from it.
Sherlock righted himself in the chair, staring moodily at the wall opposite, boring holes with his eyes in the dingy wallpaper.
He considered the hidden store of cocaine—saved only for times as appropriately frustrating as these.
There was a small chance John was already on his way home, and if he returned to find Sherlock in a state (regardless of whether or not the case was successfully solved) he would probably refuse to accompany him on the next mystery, no matter how intriguing.
Besides, there was no guarantee thoughts of John would not follow him into the injection.
The most rational thing would be to simply clean out John's space in his mind, reduce it to a more manageable size—it was really taking up far too much space. The detective in Holmes needed that space.
But what of the lover in him?
A completely preposterous, if not utterly laughable thing to suggest! There was surely no such person in existence.
Sherlock shoved all thoughts from his mind and again retrieved his violin. He propped it over one knee and drew the bow across the strings in long, barely rhythmic movements.
Sitting thus for another hour, Sherlock discovered the location of the thief. Such a simple task should not have taken so long—the criminal had nearly left it spelled out at the scene! It was a wonder Lestrade and Gregson did not yet have the case solved in all the time he was grotesquely wasting to do it.
But of course, Lestrade and Gregson had chosen, yet again, to act as bumbling fools and Sherlock closed the case in another two hours, masking his disgust at the incredible delay by spending several minutes sardonically commenting on the speed of London's finest in mobilization. Sherlock had caught the thief, per usual, several minutes before the officers of Scotland Yard could arrive at the scene.
Of course, the inspectors' humiliation was worthless without John there to reap some amusement.
The detective returned home without any real satisfaction.
Sherlock took up his violin again in the armchair, and sat in silence for several minutes, tracing his long fingers up and down the neck of the instrument. Without a case, there was nothing at all to distract him from thoughts of John. Sherlock knew he had to get to the bottom of this atrocity—an eight-hour delay on a case due to distraction was simply unforgiveable.
He felt the comforting weight and cool warmth of the violin.
The question presented, in simplest form: what was it about John that became distraction enough to keep Sherlock from doing the things he enjoyed best?
It certainly wasn't that thoughts of John were more engaging than those of a crime-solving nature; John was certainly pleasant enough to study when Sherlock's mind was not otherwise occupied, but the detective would actively exchange this focus to mentally pursue a case when the time arose, without fail.
Really, solving crimes was much more important than thoughts regarding circumstantially necessary cohabitation with an ex-army doctor in the first place. His brain needed to get its priorities in proper order.
What was John Watson doing eating up so many of the precious and productive bits and bytes of the detective's high-functioning memory, anyway?
Sherlock frowned, absent-mindedly bowing the violin.
Could his brilliant brain possibly be telling him that cohabitation with John was not merely a circumstantial necessity?
Nonsense. There could be no further reason for remaining in any such relation within the realm of logic.
And Sherlock Holmes certainly did not need anything that lay outside the realm of logic. In that way lay only miserable conflict, chaos, and confusion—common hindrances to the proper function of most mortals' minds.
He began to sway very slightly as the notes gained momentum.
Yes, outside the realm of logic lay emotional response. And emotional response would surely cripple Sherlock's legendary focus and genius.
The notes Sherlock had been coaxing from the violin drifted to his trained ear, and the detective was startled to find that he had no love whatsoever for the piece. It was Bach—just an excerpt from Suite 3, D Major; the second movement. Sherlock enjoyed Bach well, but he had no particular fondness for any of the notes drifting from the strings. The only reason he had ever begun playing the piece was because John liked it, helped always by the notes to a quick and dreamless sleep without worry whenever the doctor's flat mate was concerned enough to calm him.
But John was away. And Sherlock was quite frustrated to find he did not wish to cease playing entirely, nor could he bring himself to begin a new piece. He had quite enough trouble without…
Sherlock tried to delve deeper into his thoughts to unravel what it was about John Watson that allowed him to seep even into the detective's sacred music. No one, no one had ever gotten that far! What was it about John that made him capable of stealing Sherlock's trained and controlled thought so easily? What could he possibly be to achieve such a feat?
John was…
John was a great many things. It might truly be impossible to pinpoint just one trait that made him so capable.
John was clever in his own way—not on the level Sherlock was clever, mind you, but John could understand and, more importantly, begin to learn some of the things Sherlock taught about observation and deduction. John was also courageous, an invaluable asset to the detective. The doctor's company had certainly allowed for a much quicker end to more than one case with his bravery and extensive combat training—not that Sherlock could not have completed the cases without John's help, of course. Even John did not delude himself that far. But, the doctor's company did aid cases greatly.
Perhaps even greater was John's loyalty. John Watson would take a bullet for Sherlock Holmes—and had. He had even killed for Sherlock on their very first case together, and it was certainly not the last righteous act John committed for him.
Was it that Sherlock had never known such loyalty? Ridiculous. Sherlock was nothing if not adaptable, and things could not move him in the way they might affect normal people, regardless of the fact that the detective was sure no one else had ever experienced quite the loyalty that John Watson had shown the man others had long ago declared a sociopath.
The question now was how did Sherlock truly feel about that?
No. The question was how did it affect Sherlock.
Sherlock Holmes doesn't feel human things, nor does he feel in regards to human things.
Sherlock Holmes feels the thrill of truly ingenious success a normal human being cannot hope to touch.
Sherlock Holmes feels the power to forge his own destiny.
Sherlock Holmes feels music.
Music.
It sounded remotely human on the surface—and Sherlock knew it was true that it was probably the one place he could connect most surely with other human beings.
Sherlock Holmes knew many, many words (and let John know it, too) but he needed not one of them when he played. And John Watson was probably the only person with whom he had ever bothered to attempt true communication.
No. Sherlock knew John Watson was the only person. None of Sherlock's other flat mates had ever been treated to his full breadth and depth of musical skill. Only John had heard him play full and glorious pieces—and Sherlock was pleased to discover the doctor found it just as brilliant as the rest of genius.
In fact, it was not long before Sherlock discovered that on sleepless nights, the music quelled John's nightmares just as it suppressed his own. It was something they could share without a word.
There was the observation. But what did it mean?
He heard the telltale creak of the door, and the sound of John's particular weight on the doorstep revealed his identity. The violin found a place on the side-table.
"It's about bloody time, John."
He heard a heavy sigh as the doctor hung his coat in the hall. Sherlock waited until he was seated on the sofa to speak again.
"Dead, I presume." There was no question.
Another sigh. "It was good pay, Sherlock."
"Waste of money," the detective declared crisply. "And do stop sighing like that. It's not as though you were attending the funeral."
"I had to try."
"That money could have covered his funerary expenses and saved the children a great deal of trouble. Nothing but a waste of your time—all you did was trade your time to give him more to squander as an infirm."
"I'm sure you wouldn't know what that time means to someone, Sherlock," John snapped, rising from the sofa to stalk toward the kitchen. "Some people would prefer to do anything they can to spend a little more time with the people they love—ill or not—before they must leave the earth."
"Before they die, John. Before they die," he corrected smoothly, leaning back in the armchair and steepling his fingers.
"Oh, yes—deplorable euphemisms. I forgot," the doctor replied exasperatedly. Sherlock knew from the resounding clinks he was brewing tea. "I do apologize."
"Thank you." The detective responded dryly. "And I do believe I know much more about the worth of time than most people on this earth—those whose clocks are ticking away fastest included."
"And would you care to enlighten the rest of us mortals?" Sherlock could hear John put the kettle on to boil and knew the doctor's expression without turning. It was the one where exasperation and exhaustion went to war to disguise genuine intrigue.
"No amount of explanation can alter a person's perception of time, John, though I do appreciate your interest in the matter." Sherlock heard him take a breath to argue. "But—" the detective interjected before John got the chance "—if anyone might understand, it would be you, doctor, and I would not wish to change anything integral to your person."
He knew from the suddenly eased tension that John could not quite grasp an irritable reply.
With no interruption, Sherlock continued, "I can also appreciate the desire to stay upon this earth as long as possible to finish important business."
"Business?" Sherlock languidly closed his eyes against the discordant sound of John's now-full teacup striking the counter. "Business." For a moment, the detective nearly thought John's temper would be entirely tripped by the remnant stresses of the weekend's experience, but by the next phrase, the doctor was quietly calm, returning with his tea to the sofa. "Of course. Of course you would mark it 'business.'"
"John, you must know that only a particular kind of business would ever warrant that attention from me."
"Of course, Sherlock. I know. Your work is the most important thing you can offer."
It was difficult even for Sherlock Holmes to discern whether John's tone was meant to be taken as sarcastic or frank.
"Quite." The detective's own tone was dry. "Even so, John, if I knew I were going to die in the next few hours—with no case currently on my hands—I can think of more than one particular bit of business to which I would wish to attend."
"And what might that be?" the doctor was genuinely curious now, as he sipped his tea.
"First, I would give you the location of my notes and essays detailing my work on the science of deduction, with careful instructions regarding the publishing of my work so others may make use of it."
"Of course. Practical."
"And then, I would wish to tell you that you are my music, John."
"What?"
"There may be a few other things I would find I'd wish to fulfill later, but those are certainly the two most pressing, and I would give nearly anything to make sure I had the time."
John's tea seemed quite forgotten in his hands. "Sherlock, what on Earth does that mean?"
"Which part, John?" the detective arched an eyebrow.
"The music bit, Sherlock—I could understand the rest!" The tea was not quite as forgotten as theorized: the doctor took a frustrated sip as he awaited the prompt answer.
"It means you are incredibly distracting."
"Distracting?"
"Yes, John. Please don't make me repeat myself. It is tiresome."
The doctor stood, waving his teacup for emphasis. "Let me get this straight: you'd want to skirt death so you could let me know I regularly distracted you while you were alive?" His frustration was getting the better of him.
"Yes, John. But perhaps you cannot understand the motive."
"Maybe I can't!"
But of course John didn't—he could not know the excruciating pain of stolen thought, all the more frustrating because of the mind's usual crystalline perfection, all the thoughts flowing together to function as one powerful, cohesive unit…
"You can't," Sherlock sighed, "but you can listen, John—you're incredibly good at it. Sit down."
He obeyed the command without protest, as Sherlock knew he would. The detective in return, stood, and paced as he spoke:
"Each of my thoughts is specifically controlled to work with the others like the programming script in a computer. Each one is important to me, unlike most people who allow their thoughts to whirl about in an impressively disorganized fashion. If even one is distracted by something outside its usual or prescribed function, this causes painful delays and problems in the function of the whole machine. Music has represented the untamed part of my mind—or perhaps my spirit, as you would prefer to say, I'm sure. Music behaves as my essence, and as such, can do as it pleases. But, as an integral part of my function, it can also help regulate my thought process—which you have witnessed on countless cases as I play my violin while deducing. The music is soothing, and the patterns of sound can distract unnecessary rambling or better align the workings of my thoughts to come to a distinct conclusion about a problem. You have the uncanny ability to breach the defenses and disorganize my thoughts, regardless of music's function. Do you understand?"
John's brow furrowed. Sherlock Holmes—who has looked at who knows how many horrific crime scenes and bloody beats corpses with a riding crop in the name of science—says I have an uncanny ability. "I suppose, Sherlock, but what…?"
"I was just getting to that," the detective said, crisply. "Without a problem to solve, music is usually free to drift about my conscious and unconscious mind; it has done this ever since I can remember. Sometimes, it is music I have heard and played before. On rare occasions, however, I can hear my own music, and with it, I have a unique aptitude for composition."
The word "amazing" tumbled out of John's mouth before he realized he was thinking it.
"Thank you, John, though that's hardly accurate. For years, I have had to prompt the music when I felt the mood strike me—very rarely would it come on its own, until it faded." He turned to face the doctor, pivoting with one foot. Sherlock's intense, midnight eyes met John's soft brown ones. "And then I met you."
John invariably squirmed beneath the piercing gaze. "But what do I…?"
"For years, John, the music was gone. In my late teenage years that music disappeared, and would only come if I called it. But even calling it became difficult. The silence started driving me mad, and solving complex problems was the sole replacement to distract and fill the void long enough to satisfy me, but only the most challenging of mysteries could serve to distract and fill me once I became very proficient in the science of deduction. I took to playing violin as often as possible, but even that can only go so far. I began taking cocaine in my early twenties." A thoroughly shocked John seemed ready to protest, but Sherlock continued brusquely. "I was in the habit of taking a seven-percent solution whenever I had nothing to occupy my mind before Inspector Lestrade called me for my first case with the Yard. When he found out, Lestrade made me swear off all illegal substances, and I took up smoking. Lestrade and later, Gregson, began employing me much more often; I was able to switch to patches to keep me focused. And then I met you, Doctor John Watson. Former soldier in the Queen's army. Freshly returned from Afghanistan with a phantom limp and a taste for danger."
The remainder of the doctor's tea was cold, long forgotten on the side table.
"It took me a while to notice, of course." Sherlock had returned to his habitual pacing. "When we moved here together I found myself considering the use of any stimulant less and less—but I merely attributed it to having someone new for observation." The detective paused in his steps. "I believe I initially noticed it the night you came downstairs after our first case to find me at the window with my violin. You fell asleep in the chair, nightmares forgotten, and I followed not long after. This was unheard of until I met you." He began his endless route across the carpet again. "The only time I could sleep was when I nearly collapsed from exhaustion, but that night, the music served me as well as it had you. Even then, it took me several more weeks of this pattern to realize what had changed. I had, of course, already tried playing to coax myself into a dreamless sleep. The song was one I had never before played. Nor was the song one that I had taken to learning because you enjoyed it so that my habits were more bearable to you, nor was it a song I had simply forgotten. It was my music, John. My music had returned to cure your nightmares." Sherlock fixed the doctor again under his grey gaze. "That did not make sense, of course."
"I—of course," John managed during the expectant pause.
"You started your practice not long after, and left me for hours or days at a time, as you did this week. I am certainly capable of solving cases on my own, and did so today. I have found, however, that I cannot concentrate properly. Your lack of presence distracts me immensely; the portion of my brain compartmentalized for you will not back down. The violin does nothing to help me." Sherlock's eyes smoldered with the passionate heat he usually saved for a successfully solved case. "And this afternoon, I discovered why: John Watson, you are my music. As my music, you are free to drift about my mind as you please, and your presence regulates my thoughts. Your being, your company, returns the music to me. My music cannot exist without you." The man found he could not move from that piercing gaze. "John Watson, you are my music."
Sherlock studied him intently as the information swam behind wide eyes. Rather than catch an edge of panic or embarrassment or fear after several seconds of undecided turmoil, they merely softened, studying in return, saying nothing.
"I would trade anything to tell you before death—yours or mine—because I cannot live without my music again. I cannot be without you, John. I would be unable to function any longer. I would take the cocaine again with great frequency, and I have a feeling it would be ineffectual. My death would come shortly, one way or another."
The doctor remained silent, his liquid eyes deep and gentle; considering. But still he said nothing.
The detective was unsure of his next action, what to say or do now that the necessary confession had been put forward.
But there was one thing known for sure.
Sherlock knows exactly what to feel about John Watson.
Because Sherlock Holmes feels music.
Music.
His music.
His Watson.
It might have simply ended here with dinner and tea, implications saved for some other time when Sherlock knew the words and appropriate action for his discovered realm of emotion (however exclusive). But, over the last few months of being dragged hither and yon in a life he had come to take real pleasure in, John Watson had picked up a few of Sherlock Holmes' tricks regarding the powers of observation and deduction. He could not solve a case with the efficiency of the detective, but the doctor had certainly learned to observe Sherlock better than Sherlock could observe himself, and had much more practice than the detective in the perception of emotional response in others.
John had nothing to compare his current observations to in previous experience with Sherlock, so it was upon the latter sense the doctor was forced to rely. For a moment, he simply could not believe what he perceived—regardless of the fact that Sherlock's words matched the deduction—until he was forced to concede that perhaps the idea was not as inconceivable as he had previously thought in light of this evening's events.
The way Sherlock was looking at him now…
Sherlock was taken in the doctor's gaze, seeing him, truly knowing John as something absolutely essential, so unquestionably real, so true as nothing the detective had before been able to pinpoint even with all his science and deduction.
Sherlock had drawn closer to study him with that new softness, the intensity behind his eyes so familiar and strange. As though he was considering John as something truly valuable, something even more intriguing than the most complex mystery.
Like something deserving of his entire attention.
Later, John Watson would never be able to describe what made him do it, or even why.
Perhaps this was because Sherlock later could not remember if the action had been tentatively and unthinkingly his.
They kissed, slowly, lips pressed chastely together—asking, gentle.
For the only time in his life, Sherlock felt he might cry. Warm, quiet tears of wholeness, the filling of a void.
He knew without doubt that when John Watson departed the world, so would he.
Sherlock's arms had found John's waist, and seemed determined to keep the doctor from departing, to keep him safe, to keep him close. John had the answer to his question, though his mind was now far beyond anything resembling conscious thought. His lips moved carefully against Sherlock's, warm and tender. There was a tiny, muffled sound as he felt the detective's shoulders relax, and there came an answering movement against John's lips.
The careful attempts were raw but calculated, and Sherlock knew it was obvious he had never before done anything of the kind, though the detective was confident in his adept skill as a fast learner—or he would have been, had the majority of his conscious thought not been taken up with John Watson. It was no matter.
The kiss was pure, earnest.
They parted, for the moment—weary, having given everything to answer the query.
John rested his head lightly on Sherlock's shoulder, closing his eyes. He whispered, like a confessor: "I love you, Sherlock."
That had been the next proper action! Sherlock straightened abruptly and clasped John's shoulders, pushing the doctor away gently to hold him at arm's length, too focused to be confused by the sudden terror in John's expression. He leveled his intent grey eyes to those of the man before him. "I love you, John Watson," he said with utmost seriousness. "I cannot properly live without you."
Another kiss—this one more confident, more insistent than the first. For a man who had never before been interested, the detective did understand the principal of the thing, and knew exactly what he wanted as he traced his tongue to taste the doctor's lips. John obliged with a soft, helpless sound in his throat.
Sherlock immediately began a further study of John Watson, tasting and tracing, testing places and pressures, learning what the doctor might most enjoy.
The detective found he much preferred this to finding out just how John took his tea.
The fingers of John's right hand seemed to have found their way to his thick hair, and the detective decided he quite enjoyed the sensation. Sherlock took this as a sign that he had most definitely gotten the essence of the activity and was rather certain that with more practice, he could be very adept.
He made startled, pleasured sound when John's tongue suddenly flicked across the roof of his mouth.
Sherlock smiled a little before redoubling his efforts—a genuine smile that John would have been disappointed to have missed had he not been more engagingly occupied.
Neither had managed to quite outdo the other when they parted, breath heavy, their foreheads resting together lightly. Both were smiling faintly, and could find no reason to look away from the other.
And it might have ended here, too, for the evening, had the two been men of meditation and simple emotion. But Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were men of action.
Sherlock's body was still jolted with the energy and warmth John had just shared, his mouth still quirked in a slight smile when he said: "You must realize, of course, how difficult it has been for me to admit…"
"That you actually have feelings, Sherlock?" John, chuckled. "I think you're more surprised to feel them than I am to hear about them."
"And your skills in the science of deduction continue to improve, doctor," the detective returned sardonically.
"Besides," he added, "I think you quite like acknowledging them for a change."
"And what gives you that idea?"
"This." John tugged him down for another thorough kiss, both hands tangled in his dark hair this time, more than a little pleased at the involuntary (and rather louder) sounds he managed to elicit from the detective as very solid proof. As soon as Sherlock's mind—quick, though slightly impeded by this sudden onset of distinct emotion—realized that John had gotten his desired reaction, he gave a soft, frustrated growl and set to work putting all of his observations from the last bit of contact to use: flicking and pressing and tracing with fervent energy. The doctor faltered only slightly, seeming to have no inclination toward surrender just yet. But when Sherlock recalled that John was very responsive to deliberate gentleness and lifted one hand to lightly caress his cheek, the detective was quite certain he had won.
Then, just as John began to submit, one of his hands trailed lithely across Sherlock's neck. The detective all but halted in his ministrations, attention deferred to the fingers gently caressing the skin of his throat. It was such a pleasant sensation—delicate, unique. He felt John's mouth smirk before it left his own and pressed sensually to his throat. Sherlock could not help another soft sound as the doctor focused his attentions on the pale skin of his neck, kissing delicately.
The first time John traced his tongue carefully across the soft skin that smelled of steel and London rain, he earned a quiet gasp. When he could restrain himself no longer and passionately bit the detective's graceful neck, he earned an uninhibited moan. Without another thought, John undid the first three buttons of Sherlock's shirt so that he could give proper attention to his prominent collarbone. As soon as he found he could not reach the entirety of the detective's shoulder, he decided the sensible thing would be to simply remove the rest of his shirt, and made short work of the buttons, pushing the garment onto the floor. Sherlock's torso was as graceful and pale as he expected, covered here and there with neat, little scars.
"Hazardous occupation, you know, John," the detective supplied, pulling him up for another kiss, lithe fingers working at the doctor's buttons. With his own shirt removed, Sherlock maintained that it was probably the logical thing to do as he pushed the garment over John's shoulders.
There was a murmured phrase against Sherlock's mouth that seemed something like "I know" before he felt an incredibly pleasant warmth against the skin of his chest disrupt his thoughts. When he recovered them, Sherlock knew he wanted nothing more than to have John closer.
The doctor seemed to have the same thought as he tugged the detective carefully up the stairs, without breaking their kiss.
They were settled on John's bed when Sherlock asked the doctor if he was quite sure.
John, ready to ask Sherlock the same question, answered with an enthusiastic kiss.
Their first ministrations were energetic to say the least—desire and spirit impassioned, intent. These gave way to delicate, gentle kisses and tender caresses that spoke of depth and devotion ever-present, now fully shared.
After they had first made love, John marveled at Sherlock's expression; how very much it resembled the rapture granted by his violin, thin frame silhouetted against a rain-streaked window, lost in the melody.
Sherlock smiled at the wistful intensity on the doctor's face and knew his thoughts. "You are my music, John," he supplied.
With a small smile, the doctor buried his face in the space between Sherlock's neck and shoulder.
"But you do realize," Sherlock continued, the shadow of a grin flickering across his features, "that this means you cannot leave me for days at a time, as you did this week."
John gave him a quizzical look.
"I have allowed you to effectively commandeer my mind, John," the detective said matter-of-factly. "If I let you leave me now, it would be like wishing away my single means of satisfaction.
The doctor, his expression rather between smitten and self-effacing, seemed ready to speak—probably a declaration of love or that ridiculously endearing modestly, but Sherlock continued:
"Besides, London would be rather worse off if you left me to my own devices; I cannot function properly without you. All the interesting crimes in this city would go unsolved. It is in everyone's best interests if you remain."
For a moment, Sherlock feared he had made quite the wrong argument from the way John's brow furrowed and creased. But then, the doctor's expression settled as he shook his head.
"You know, Sherlock—you're right insufferable."
The detective arched his eyebrows.
"But you're never wrong."
Sherlock smiled; a genuine, comfortable smile.
"That's why I love you."