A/N: Yup, I'm breaking into a new fandom...again. Hello, readers both new and old, and welcome to this short story of BBC's frankly brilliant production, Sherlock. The genius of Steven Moffat, aside from expertly running the show (Doctor Who) that my last oneshot was based in, has also recently got me completely hooked on one Sherlock Holmes. Why, Moffat, why do you have to be such a creative genius?

Disclaimer: As I believe I've stated above, BBC (and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle) owns Sherlock.

1. A Heated Interrogation

"Well?"

Sherlock raised one delicate eyebrow. "Well, what?"

John Watson's expression did not change as he crossed his arms. "Well, this is the part where you tell me what the hell you were thinking."

"You'll have to be more specific, John. I'm always thinking about something. Except when I'm bored; then I don't have anything to think about."

"You know bloody well what I'm talking about, Sherlock. Don't pretend, please."

Sherlock met his gaze coolly. "I'm afraid I really don't know what you're talking about, John."

John grit his teeth, knowing that if he wanted to get answers, he was going to have to press to the narrowest detail. God, the man was infuriating!

"Fine, then," he conceded. "I am referring to the fact that you shot a man not three hours ago."

"Oh, is that it?" Sherlock sounded almost bored, as if he had been expecting something more interesting. "It was the logical thing to do."

"Logical…" John inhaled deeply, willing himself not to strangle the world's only consulting detective with his own ridiculously long scarf (something that had happened on more than one occasion – apparently others had had the same idea; that scarf was really just begging to be pulled tight around the detective's neck). "And how, exactly, was it the logical thing to do?"

"He had a gun," Sherlock explained patiently, as if talking to an ordinary policeman – which was the same as talking to a five-year-old, for Sherlock – unless said policeman happened to be Lestrade, in which case the age would be closer to twelve. "He was pointing it at you. He had threatened to kill you and he was seconds away from pulling the trigger."

"Sherlock, I had a gun. Which I am perfectly capable of using, as I've proved."

"Yes," Sherlock said wryly, "but you were instead pointing it at the other person in the room, instead of the man who was going to kill you." He shifted his left leg none-too-gently, without the slightest hint of a wince, and John briefly wondered if he was concealing his pain extremely well, or if he really wasn't human enough to feel it.

"Lawson would've killed you if I hadn't been watching him," John defended.

"Perfectly correct assumption, but you're forgetting that with your gun trained on Lawson you would not have had time to change direction and shoot Warrick before he shot you. Also, the firmness of your stance and the narrowed set of your eyes indicated that you would not have changed your target even if you knew that Warrick intended to kill you – which you undoubtedly did, because you are neither blind nor deaf and Warrick was being quite vocal."

"Yes, I know," John said curtly. He didn't need Sherlock to remind him – he could still see the scenario in his head. A dim warehouse, four people, three guns, and a precarious stalemate. Sherlock, leaning heavily against the wall, limping and bleeding profusely from the jagged laceration on his left leg. The impossibly large Sinclair Lawson, poison dagger in hand, half a metre away from the injured detective – who would not have been able to move quickly enough to avoid getting nicked. The smugly supreme Aaron Warrick, gun trained on John's head even as John himself was using his own gun to keep a watchful eye on Lawson.

"Ah." Sherlock sounded mildly – very mildly – pleased. "Hence you understand my subsequent reaction. It was merely a defensive action."

"It was unnecessary!"

"Honestly, I don't understand why you're getting so worked up. You're no stranger to violence – you've shot people before – and killed them, I might add."

"Only when strictly necessary," John qualified. "Sherlock, the police were right outside, listening to every word. They were already coming in. Warrick would've been shot down by a sniper before he could pull the trigger."

"The police are imbeciles. Excuse me for not wanting to risk depending on them."

John sighed in frustration. "You didn't even know that Warrick would have shot."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Have you not been listening at all, John?"

"Oh, I've been listening. I was listening when you profiled Warrick and proclaimed him to be a man of all talk and no action. I was listening when you deduced that he was a crap shot because of the inexperienced way he held his gun. I was listening when you very calmly pointed out to Warrick in that damned warehouse that the police – not to mention yourself – would descend like a pack of wolves on him if he dared to shoot me, and that he was basically guaranteeing a life sentence for both himself and Lawson, perhaps even the death penalty for his numerous crimes."

"Very good," Sherlock congratulated. "I've never faulted your attention, John – nor your observation. It's merely your deduction skills that require work."

"Indeed. So explain to me why, knowing all the above, I am unable to deduce why you would be so certain that Warrick was going to shoot that you decided to take pre-emptive action?"

"Everything in his manner and behaviour indicated that he would. Crap shot or not, the logical choice was not to take that risk and hit him first."

John threw up his hands in frustration. "You're impossible," he growled as he stomped towards the kitchen. Sherlock instantly noticed that he was limping.

"Why are you limping?" he asked at once.

"Psychosomatic, remember?" John retorted, a decidedly sarcastic edge to his voice. "It comes back when I forget that I don't need to limp, and when narcissistic, unreasonable, downright infuriating sociopaths refuse to give me a straight answer."

Sherlock sighed long-sufferingly. "Why are you asking so many things, John? These are idiotic questions, and you are not an idiot."

"Of course – most people wouldn't ask why their flatmate would shoot a man when there was absolutely no necessity to do so," John said acidly.

"No, I mean I fail to understand why you are asking at all."

"Good God, Sherlock!" John exclaimed.

"You are not an idiot, John," Sherlock repeated bluntly. "And I fail to see why you would ask when you are perfectly capable of deducing the answer yourself."

That made the doctor pause, as he turned over Sherlock's words in his head. "I believe we've established that my deduction skills need work," he said finally.

"Then this is an excellent opportunity for you to work on them."

"Sherlock," John cried exasperatedly, "I am not you, all right? In fact, I don't know why you even bother to ask for my opinions when you clearly always find them lacking…"

"That is not true."

"I…what?" John glanced at Sherlock, unsure if he had heard that correctly.

Sherlock did not deign to repeat himself. Instead he said, "You're an intelligent man, John, and on occasion I have found your observations to be quite…"

"Quite?"

"Clever."

There was a pause, wherein they both stared at each other – John in confusion, Sherlock in anticipation.

John finally realised that Sherlock Holmes had just complimented him. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Sherlock responded blandly.

"But, that aside…"

"I am not going to tell you why I did what I did, John. All I'll say is that I had a reason, as I always do, and that reason may be good or bad – but I had a reason, and you'll find out what it was if you put your mind to it."

"Perhaps," John agreed. "But what if I can't figure it out?"

Sherlock busied himself in a letter and did not reply for a long while. John waited patiently until the great detective decided his question warranted an answer.

"You will," Sherlock said finally. "Eventually."

"Eventually, yes. But it will take me a while. We could save all that time if you just told me."

Sherlock's casual smirk was positively devious. "We could," he agreed. "But what would be the fun in that?"

John had to resist, once again, the urge to strangle the man.

A/N: I suppose I could have squeezed everything into a oneshot, but the pace of this story sort of demanded some separation of chapters. Hence, there will be three chapters in total, and the second one will be updated tomorrow.

So, what do you think? ;)