So, this is my first ever fanfic posted to this website. I wasn't sure if I liked the whole John/Sherlock pairing, but I read some other fics featuring it and loved them, so decided to give it a go on my own. I love the new version of "Sherlock" and really enjoyed writing this. I'd love to hear back from you all on review, so please don't be shy! Hope you enjoy! - AB

Chapter 1 - Born to Run

Some people said John Watson missed the war. Others say the war was what had screwed him up so much. Other said he wasn't screwed up at all, that it was just his mind telling him he had issues. But one thing was for sure, John Watson hated being disabled. Most people don't particularly like being handicapped, but to John it was like torture. But worse than the pain and stiffness in his damn leg was the way people treated him for it. Words couldn't explain how sick John was of being embarrassed by the thing. He hated the shame he felt whenever he got on a bus and people, seeing his limp and cane, immediately scrambled up to offer him a seat. He hated the way cabbies would attempt to help him get out of the back of a cab or when hotel managers would offer him rooms closest to the elevators.

And then there where times when his leg got particularly painful or his moods got significantly worse that John thought that perhaps maybe he did miss the war because at least in the deserts of Afghanistan, everyone looked at him like a soldier and not a cripple. Just thinking about how people must saw him made John's face go hot with embarrassment. Every time he took one of those seats on the bus, he'd burry his face and wish people would stop treating him differently than anyone else. And then he met Sherlock Holmes.

There was no denying it, as most people had warned him, Sherlock Holmes was borderline crazy. For god sakes, he had literally only just met John, spoken maybe two words to him and in five seconds flat asked "Afghanistan or Iraq?" But despite his crazy tendencies ("Sherlock, what the hell is that in our microwave?" "Oh that? That's a jar of human eyeballs.") or the fact that everyone seemed to think John was his date, John actually liked the time he spent around Sherlock because Sherlock actually treated him like a person, not a cripple with some dog tags and months of emotional baggage.

John had no idea what kept him coming back to Sherlock. He "got off" on solving murders, frequently called everyone else around him stupid and many people constantly pointed out that he was a psychopath or could potentially be a killer when he get bored. But Sherlock didn't make excuses for John like everyone else did. In their first case, which John had taken to calling "A Study in Pink", the two tailed a subject across several London blocks on foot. When Sherlock had ordered him to get up and start running, there was part of John that wanted to protest, "But me leg! I can't!", but his better half won out as he jumped up and took off behind him.

And that cane? Yeah, he forgot all about that as he was tearing up stairs and vaulting over cars, each time he slowed down just a bit Sherlock pressuring him, "Come on, John! We're losing him!" And the strangest strange thing was…John actually had found it kind of fun. The event has made the two men smile when they thought of how incredibly absurd it was that they had run through several London city blocks to chase a cab. Sherlock always enjoyed bringing up how John had not needed his cane at all while running and suggesting maybe John "got off" on solving the cases more than he did.

So that's how John got roped up into Sherlock's craziness and why he continued to help him solve crimes. He forgot about his pain when he was keeping himself busy. He had even cut his therapy visits down to once a week. He hadn't limped in days after their first case, which Sherlock gleefully said proved definitively that his limp was in fact psychosomatic. John conceded to this argument, just happy that if it was in fact all in his head, he wasn't really as damaged as everyone said he was. And this made him happy. So, he stayed around, because he enjoyed having Sherlock as a friend (John guessed they where kind of like friends…) and he felt that the two men helped each other more than with just solving cases and paying rent.

"John, it's your turn to suggest something to do today."

John looked up from his book for the first time in a while. Sherlock had been so engrossed in some study that John had almost forgotten he was in the flat. Now Sherlock was up and pacing the floor hyperactively, knotting a blue scarf around his neck.

"I don't suppose just staying home and reading is an acceptable answer, is it?" John asked with a sigh. He had gone through this routine a thousand times already within a few short weeks. One of the problems of living with a self-proclaimed "highly functioning sociopath" was that boredom was an intolerable option.

At John's words, Sherlock stopped his pacing and stared at John in disbelief.

"'Just stay home and read'?" he repeated in disbelief, in a tone very similar to the way most people would say, "You hide what in your sock drawer?" or "You're running a ponsi scheme?"

John nodded simply with a brief, "Mm-hm" before looking back down at his book.

Above him, he knew Sherlock was still hovering around in shocked boredom, hopping John would come up with anything clever for him to embark on.

"You could have taken that diamond heist case Lestrade offered you last week, but no. You didn't want to take it, so it's not my fault you're bored now."

"Ugh." Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes disapprovingly, "Diamond heists are so boring. They always end the same and are far too easy to crack."

"So, diamond heists are boring, but here you are pacing around the flat being bored? Where's the logic in that one?" John asked, looking up from his book, "At least in one we would have gotten paid to be bored."

Sherlock took a pause as if to analyze the validity of John's argument before saying,

"Oh, shut up. My motives are mine and mine alone."

John put his book down and began leafing through the paper, using today's front page article to hid the smile playing across his face at this simple win. He scanned for a few seconds for something to do that day that might end Sherlock's annoying boredom.

"Here's something." John chimed in, Sherlock perking up at this mention, "There's an art gallery not far from here. An up-and-coming young artist is displaying some of her works. Isla Higgins, I've heard of her. She's suppose to be pretty good."

Sherlock rolled his eyes once again, that chipper, excited look at the prospect of having something to do evaporating.

"Ugh, art. I never understood the use of art or moreover the purpose of wandering around bare, stuffy galleries to look at art."

"Well, it's beautiful." John said, "It's suppose to be recreational to walk around and looked at them and, you know, spend time with people."

Strangely, John had almost added, "spend time with me", but caught the words before they came out of his mouth. Not sure why that thought crossed his mind, he shook his head a small bit to regain composure and listened as Sherlock replied,

"But with art, there's no rhyme or reason to it. No purpose behind what's going on on the canvas or anything to analyze."

"Just a suggestion." John said, turning the paper over and crossing art galleries off the list of things Sherlock dubbed appropriate to combat boredom.

Just as Sherlock walked over to the mantle to grab his skull, before remembering with an air of sadness that it was no longer there, a faint wailing of sirens was heard in the distance. John pricked his ears.

"Are those…" he began to ask

"…police sirens?" Sherlock finished for him, brightening again.

In less than five minutes, the wailing became louder and then stopped as Detective Inspector Lestrade pulled up in front of the flat and got out of the car.

"Must be something good," Sherlock observed happily as Lestrade walked up the stairs into the complex, "otherwise he wouldn't have come to get me."

John cast aside his newspaper as he waited for Lestrade to come in through the open door. The second he appeared in the door, Sherlock practically jumped on him.

"What have you got for me?" he demanded as Lestrade nodded politely to John who nodded back.

Art theft…" Lestrade began, hands in his pockets.

Sherlock sighed and began to walk away before Lestrade added,

"I'm not finished. Murder case, too. The artist who's painting where stolen turned up dead in her flat this morning. We think it may be the high profile thief we caught from the Andredie Diamond Heist Case."

"Yeah, I read about that in the papers." John said with an annoyed look at Sherlock. That was in fact the case Sher had turned down last week, "You think it was Rhys Nathans? How is that possible, I heard they just put him away?"

"Nobody reported seeing him the night of the murder and the heist was just his style. We're looking in to see if there may have been any way of him getting out and any motive for him stealing the paintings. Want the case?" Lestrade turned now to Sherlock.

"Yes. Who's the artist?" Sherlock asked, finally finding a combat for boredom.

"A young woman. She just opened up a gallery not to long ago."

John and Sherlock exchanged a knowing look.

"I don't suppose her name's Isla Higgins, is it?" John asked.

"Yeah, how'd you know? Did you see the exhibit?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, we certainly aren't going to be seeing it now." John replied, but Lestrade retorted,

"You may still. The artwork that was getting ready to go in the exhibit was what was stolen at Isla's flat."

Hopefully that was a good start for chapter 1! I'm still finishing up and checking chapter 2, but with any luck it will be up in a few days!