Chapter One

"Sherlock, a word please," Lestrade prompted, beckoning Sherlock into his office. The consulting detective complied, shutting the oak door behind him. The two men sat down, and Sherlock observed that the detective inspector had white knuckles, which meant he was nervous. Sherlock also noticed that his wife was sleeping with a parking inspector, but that was of no importance at the present moment.

"What's the matter, Lestrade? Another failed attempt at marriage?"

"As a matter of fact, no. The wife and I are giving it another go." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at this, but stayed silent.

"The thing is, there was some new legislation brought in last week about civilians working with the police. You and John have to be assessed by a psychologist to keep working with us. In the meantime, you are both forbidden from helping us in any of our cases."

Sherlock was incensed. How dare stop him from consulting? Cases were what kept him sane. The thrill of the chase was what Sherlock lived for, and with that gone there was nothing left. Sherlock stood abruptly and left, wanting to be alone to process his thoughts. On the cab ride home, he thought about how he was going to tell John about their forced holiday. In the end he decided just to tell him straight out, as any attempt at subtlety would most likely fail on his part. He was, after all, a sociopath, no matter what Moriarty had thought. The cab arrived at 221B Baker Street, and Sherlock got out, quickly paid the cabbie and burst into the apartment.

"John, I have bad news. The blasted government is forcing us to see an idiot with a degree who thinks he can stop us from working with the police." Sherlock received no reply, but that didn't faze him. John was probably sulking after another argument with an inanimate object. He flopped down onto his chair and drummed his fingers impatiently. He was bored already.

Two days later, and Sherlock had run out of things to do for the fifth time. John had still not replied to him, he had analysed another 57 kinds of tobacco ash, he had flogged all of the bodies in the mortuary he could find, and had resorted to harpooning pigs again. As his mind pondered the possibilities left to him at twice the normal rate, he struck on something that could keep him occupied for weeks, maybe even months.

Human Nature.

Sherlock leaped out of his seat excitedly. He was about to grab his coat and scarf when he realised he didn't know where to start. He could read a book, but he suspected that it would not cover the topic entirely. He could find a documentary, but they were rarely accurate and extremely annoying and tiresome. Sherlock finally decided that the only way to learn about human nature entirely and accurately was to ask a human. It needed to be someone that wasn't exceptionally irritating, which ruled out quite a few people. It also needed to be someone who would be willing to teach him, which ruled out even more. In the end Sherlock came down to three people; Mrs Hudson, John, and Molly. Sherlock weighed his option's carefully. Mrs Hudson was agreeable, but she would most likely gossip about his questions to all of her friends. He had also come to view Mrs Hudson as a maternal figure, and the kind of questions Sherlock had in mind were not entirely suitable. John was expertly qualified, but it was extremely likely that he would ask too many questions and would be skeptical when Sherlock said that his motives were purely scientific. That left Molly. She was always happy to help, she didn't find him irritating in the least, and she was an excellent teacher. Perfect.

John was on the train home from Edinburgh when he received a text from Sherlock. It said simply; Milk. John shook his head. Of course Sherlock hadn't noticed that he had gone to visit his sister. He sent a quick reply back to Sherlock of that essence. So that's why you hadn't said anything about the bad news, Sherlock replied. Sherlock refused to tell John what it was face to face, so John sat in tense silence the rest of the trip, wondering what could be so bad. His imagination went into overdrive, wondering if someone had died or had been injured. Maybe Moriarty was back, or Mrs Hudson had been injured. By the time the army doctor arrived back in London, he was a nervous wreck. He hailed a cab back to the flat as quickly as he could, and burst in the door, running into the living room.

"What's the bad news?" he panted.

"Oh, you're back. Took your time. How was the tea and cake?" Sherlock languidly replied, looking John up and down.

"Never mind all that, Sherlock! You said you had bad news, what is it?"

"Ah, yes. That. You see, there's been one of those stupid law thingies that says we can't solve cases until some idiot who thinks they can tell anything about me says that we can."

"By that you mean a psychologist?"

"Yes, that." John's shoulders relaxed.

"That's it?! I was so worried! I thought someone had died!" He yelled.

"Don't you see? This is worse than someone dying! If someone died, I would have a case! But no, this news means I have no cases, and therefore nothing to do. This is awful."

"You know, sometimes I wish I had chosen a flatmate who actually had feelings," John said before storming off.

It was the morning of the next day when Sherlock received a text from Lestrade with details about the psychiatrist assessing him and John and the appointment times. Sherlock quickly scanned the list and realised his first session was in half an hour across the other side of London, meaning he had to leave immediately. He left a quick note for John, explaining where he was going and when John had his sessions, grabbed his coat and scarf, and left the flat. He hailed a cab and quickly got in, barking the address at the driver.. On the ride there, he considered the hour of torture that was to come, being forced to be polite to some idiot who thought they were smarter than him.

Sherlock finally arrived at the psychiatrist's office and got out of the cab after paying the driver. He strode confidently into the building, his footsteps echoing around the nearly empty lobby. He asked the receptionist where to go, being as polite as he could, as he was in a hurry and had no time to argue. He marched up the corridor and burst into the room, only to be faced with someone he didn't think he'd see for a long time.

"You." He managed to spit out.

"Hello, Sherlock. Do come in, I remembered my riding crop."

A/N: Here goes another fic! By the way, I'm open to prompts, because I can rarely think of ideas, let alone good ones. So um, reviews are awesome.