I've recently gotten interested in criminal psychology as a career path, and I started wondering, maybe that would be something Sherlock would do, if he wasn't a consulting detective. This was the result of that thought. I've vague plans for another part, in which more about John is discovered, but this could work on its own. Let me know, and of course, I hope you enjoy it.

"Goodbye, Mr Sherlock Holmes," purred Irene Adler as the guards escorted her from the room for the last time.

Sherlock shook his head, smiling slightly. He'd always been fascinated with Irene, who had no real motive for murder except to cause chaos. She loved it, craved it, wanted to ruin everyone else just because she could. To bring people to their knees, was how she had put it. She was the only woman in this particular prison, and she had used it to her advantage. She had delighted in telling Sherlock that she'd managed to persuade a high up guard of her innocence, but at the same time, that she really wasn't very innocent at all. 'I know what he likes...'It had been a lengthy process, apparently, but she'd finally accomplished her task, and was being released the following morning. Sherlock had to admit that in a strange way, he would miss The Woman. She provided intrigue, which was why he had pursued this job in the first place.

He had always been interested in the minds of criminals, serial killers in particular, and his current job allowed him to speak with them, delve and probe around deep in their psyche, find out how their funny little minds worked. Many called him mad, a freak, the lengths he went to, the way he easily connected with convicted killers compared with the difficulties he had with co-workers. What could he say? He was addicted to the work. He didn't need friends. Anyway, who'd want to be friends with the man who got along better with serial killers than with his own family? No-one, that's who. And Sherlock was fine with that. The people he conversed with were far more interesting.

In theory, that was. Most were easy to read, in Sherlock's opinion. Many were driven by lust, for money or flesh, by anger, a deep seated trauma in their childhood which built up over years and years of trying to blend in and disguise their pain and fury before something inside them snapped.

Sherlock found these people extremely boring. It only took a session or two, three at most, before he pinned down the event that caused the unravelling of the patient, and then that was that. He lived for the strange, seemingly impossible cases, like Irene, who worshipped chaos, she had taken many sessions to begin to understand, and didn't cooperate in the slightest, choosing to engage Sherlock in a game of cat and mouse, in which the roles were forever changing. She'd distract him, dazzle him, try to turn the tables. But, in the end, she'd gone, bringing the game to an abrupt, unsatisfying end. Disappointment was a constant, Sherlock found. Jim Moriarty was a prime example of this. He was intelligent, extremely so, perhaps more than Sherlock, and he said that he just wanted to watch the world burn. Another anarchist, like Irene, Sherlock was delighted at the thought. But it turned out that he was just another of the boring ones. Bullying in his youth had driven him to murder his tormentor, and then continue it into adulthood, murdering people just to make himself feel better. A sort of recompense for his childhood struggles. Dull.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

Sherlock heard a muffled whisper from outside his office door. Almost certainly Donovan, one of the guards, and a sub-ordinate in every way.

"He's the best we've got," was the reply. Lestrade, Sherlock noted, his boss. He heard an exasperated sigh, and the sounds of Donovan striding away.

The handle on the door turned, and Sherlock quickly dropped his cigarette in the ashtray he hid in his drawer. He pretended to be busy with paperwork as Lestrade entered.

"Ah, good morning," he said, in a falsely bright voice. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

"You can drop the act, Holmes, I'm not going to report you for smoking during working hours. Just don't do it in front of the patients," said Lestrade, with a long suffering look on his face.

Sherlock smirked, and abandoned the pretence of the paperwork. "How can I help you?"

"We've got a new one in, he arrived early this morning," Lestrade said, dropping a file onto Sherlock's desk. He opened the file, and saw a picture of an unremarkable looking man attached to the papers. He flicked his eyes up to Lestrade's, who was staring straight ahead.

"Doctor John Watson," Sherlock read, "38, white male, previously served in the army. Convicted on a charge of arson and the murder of ten men in the same event."

"Will you take the case?" Lestrade asked.

"Why me?" Sherlock asked. "Donovan is doubtful of me taking the case. Why?"

"Donovan is doubtful of you taking any case. If anything, she thinks that you should be being spoken to by a criminal psychologist. Not to mention that the bloke, although he is a convicted murderer, is a war veteran. You don't have the best track record of being tactful."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"But," Lestrade continued, "You're the best I've got. In your case, tactless gets the job done. Watson's yours. Your first session will be tomorrow morning, which will give you an opportunity to read his file."

"I'm ready now, bring him to the interview room," Sherlock said, excited at the prospect of a new puzzle to solve.

Lestrade blinked. "Ok. I'll go and see if he's awake. Five minutes alright?"

"Excellent."

Lestrade left, and Sherlock looked at the front page of the file again. John Watson. He sounded thoroughly average, unremarkable, looked it as well. But, appearances could be deceiving. Sherlock rubbed his hands with glee, before taking a last few drags on his cigarette, snubbing it out and rushing to the interview room.

...

Sherlock watched from behind the two-way glass as the guards led John Watson into the room. He was limping, and being partially dragged by them. He sat down, and the guards clicked cuffs around his ankles, attaching him to the chair. Sherlock doubted that an injured war veteran was going to harm him, but the cuffs were protocol. Sherlock watched his new patient for a minute. His hands were resting on the table, and his left hand shook almost imperceptibly, as he stared into his lap. Sherlock straightened his suit jacket and entered the room.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked, by way of a greeting.

"Sorry?"

Sherlock smiled slightly, and sat down opposite the doctor.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he repeated.

"Afghanistan. Didn't you read my file?"

"I started to, and then I got bored. I'd much rather talk to you in person than read someone with a far inferior intellect than my own attempt to analyse you. I sincerely hope you do not disappoint."

"Far inferior intellect than your own? Who the hell talks like that?"

"The name's Sherlock Holmes."

"John Watson."

"I know."

"So, you bothered to read that part of my file, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock merely smiled. "Sherlock, please."

John shook his head, smiling slightly. "And here I was thinking that I'd get some by the book old fart judging me with their eyes as my psychologist. You're not boring at all, are you?"

"I try not to be. Hopefully, you will prove the same. So, John. Tell me about yourself."

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything."