A/N: I don't know where in the world this came from. So sue me for posting it. (No, seriously. Please don't. I don't have any money.)

Disclaimer: Hey, guess what? I don't own Sherlock. Pooh.


There was black. There was white. Grey was absolutely not allowed.

There was always a proper explanation for things– one that fit the facts and filled in the empty slots. There had to be.

Sherlock Holmes was a genius. There was absolutely no getting around that fact. It simply was. But, like most geniuses, Sherlock Holmes was under appreciated and paid a grand total of nada for his work.

John Watson, on the other hand, was nothing more than an army doctor. He was simple, he was plain, and he was poor.

It was their finances that brought them together, originally. It was merely practicality.

So, Sherlock Holmes bunked with John Watson. It was logical. It was a matter of black and white.

But then… Then, John Watson had to go and become so much more than just an army doctor.

He followed Sherlock Holmes about. John Watson watched him solve case, after case, after case. He watched him analyze complete strangers. He watched this ice-cold, indifferent man do things that were only seen in movies.

Over time, John Watson managed to become Sherlock Holmes' acquaintance. During this period, he saw the stone-hearted freak soften ever-so-slightly. He saw him go from black to the darkest shade of grey.

John Watson saw this, of course, but he didn't observe it.

Sherlock Holmes himself didn't observe it.

And their acquaintance continued. It moved from just a business-partnership to a full-fledged friendship. There were jokes made and rumors whispered that perhaps there was just a bit more than friendship behind the doors of 221b Baker Street, but if there was, it certainly wasn't public.

John Hamish Watson, ordinary army doctor, had done the impossible. He'd made friends with Sherlock Holmes. He'd taught Sherlock Holmes that grey was an acceptable color. That things weren't always just black and white.