John had always prescribed to the understanding that he was undeniably and inescapably average. Sure, he was a doctor- he had graduated second in his class before enlisting- but, even that was average. There were over 200,000 doctors in Britain, all living the same average, doctor-y lifestyle. He was also a soldier, he noted. But there were roughly 138,000 of those, as well. Living their average, soldier lives. So, he was just an average man, an average doctor-soldier, living an average doctor-soldier life, post Afghanistan.

Or, at least, that was what he had been doing, before it had been inexplicably interrupted by the absolute hurricane that was Sherlock Holmes. The raven-haired man was thrust forcibly into his life against his will, against his consent. Before he could blink, he had this- monster/sociopath/disaster – forced upon him. It consumed his whole life, the disaster.

In that sense, Sherlock Holmes and Afghanistan were one in the same to John. Both were all-consuming, frustrating, beautiful, and dangerous. Both pushed him to the absolute edge of his sanity, to the borders of his self-control. But, that was what suited him. He thrived against the sharpness of that edge- proof could be found in the way his hand refuted its tremble within hours after meeting Sherlock. It was like his body knew: all of his senses told him- we're back in a warzone. Back where we belong. It was certainly true that Sherlock was a minefield. One wrong step and John might…

"-the traces of Silicone are to be expected. He must work in a factory- a factory- a factory that requires Silicone. It requires Silicone, so thus it must produce something that requires heat-protectant. Cookware? That's just a guess, but it fits. So, he works in a factory that produces cookware. How many of those are in or around London? John?" Sherlock was off- no time to think, now. What? Pondering life, are you? How poetic. He could just hear his flatmate's bland reaction. Sherlock had no patience for anything that wasn't science or deduction. "John? Could you refrain from being your normal bumbling idiot? If it wouldn't be too much of a bother?"

"Sorry, Princess," He grumbled, though he was blushing with embarrassment- only for the notion that Sherlock would find him even more idiotic if he knew what occupied his mind. "What can I assist you with?"

"Get on that useless computer of yours and find me a cookware factory. Twenty-mile radius from inner city. We'll narrow the search once we have options." Sherlock was pacing, pacing, pacing. He was chasing his mind around the room, John imagined, trying to match its speed. His eyes were recording everything simultaneously: the way the walls looked, how full the ashtray was, the pile of old case files strewn about across the floor, the way John was watching him- "What are you doing?" he snapped.

"Google- it's loading." John measured calmly.

"No. I mean, you're watching me. Closely. Closer than normal."

"Because you look crazier than normal." John retorted, because cruelty was always easier than the truth. And this sort of ironic cruelty was a kind of currency between them.

"Ha. Ha. Ha. Your humour absolutely kills me. Now, the page has loaded- I can see the reflection off your watch." John opened his mouth to read out the hits but Sherlock just gasped and headed straight for the door. He had already read them, presumably off John's watch, or at least enough of them to recollect whatever thought he had once tucked away pertaining to this subject.

John headed after him with a quickened gate. But he walked stricter, straighter. Just like heading into war.

Two bodies in twenty-four hours. The night was just getting good for Sherlock, John thought. He watched the man- all height, all dark lines- lean over the corpse in the alley. He was rattling off, probably to John, though he wasn't close enough to hear. So, it was Lestrade that tried to listen and take note as John stood just in front of the yellow tape, watching from afar.

"There's something wrong in the way he likes finding bodies." Donovan noted, her eyes following John's. "He's completely psycho. You know that?" John just made an ambiguous noise. "It never fazes him: the idea that getting excited over a corpse is not normal at all."

"I don't think Sherlock is under any misconception that he's normal. He simply doesn't care." He knew that Donavon would never really understand that- not the way he did. The idea that Sherlock liked murders, liked examining bodies, even waited for a crime to crop up so that he would have some entertain him- it was becoming just as natural to John as any accepted truth. "What's the harm in him enjoying it? This is London, there's at least one murder by the time the sun goes down. He catches killers. It doesn't matter why he does it."

"When he gets bored with solving murders and starts planning them, then he won't seem so harmless. You think that, don't you? He's harmless. He's just a little eccentric. I'm sure you tell yourself he cares about you underneath it all- that he just acts this way. Let me tell you, John. He's not acting. He is this way. He doesn't care- and that's because he doesn't really feel anything."

John swallowed. He didn't want to admit he lost composure. He gave her a dead look (one he perfected by watching Sherlock). "I don't think he cares about me. I've only known him two weeks." Had it only been that long? He tended to measure his life in only two periods: Before Sherlock and After Sherlock. The A.S Period seemed to have little recognition of time- it felt as though it went on indefinitely, that it had always existed.

"Alright, John. I've seen enough, let's go." Sherlock had approached unnoticed, though John wasn't sure how he had managed it.

"What about the woman?" He nodded to the body on the cement being covered by the sheet. The edges of her bohemian gown were the last part of her visible under the covering of white.

"What about her? Had a pre-existing heart condition. Heartbeat irregularity. Just dropped dead, it happens. Boring." Donavon looked at John as if her point had been proved, but John had never doubted what she said was true. He just shrugged and trailed behind the black coat until the slid into a cab. "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing. Just- work." The second the words escaped his mouth, he regretted them. Sherlock would see right through that lie. That wasn't even a challenge, John. He'd say-mock. He'd mock. Sherlock never simply said anything.

To his surprise, Sherlock didn't even question. He just nodded, staring distractedly out the window at rolling greyness. When they arrived back at the flat, Sherlock left him to his own devices. That felt strange. Usually, Sherlock would hang around, an unwanted spirit. He wouldn't speak, only mutter to himself (or at John, but not to him) or run his bow over the violin absently. But, tonight, he just picked up a few books and retired to his bedroom, leaving John with the entire living room and his thoughts.

To think that Sherlock didn't care about him: that wasn't hard to imagine. Sherlock only just cared about Mrs Hudson, whom he had clearly known for years (neither of them had let on how many). Just cared enough to force niceties and not leave human organs in her fridge more than necessary. No, the idea did ring true. What really irked John was that he already cared about Sherlock.

He watched- watched to make sure the detective ate (because he quickly realized that eating was boring and not in the Hierarchy of Sherlockian Needs), that he didn't take himself out with the gun, that he didn't try to off himself from utter boredom just to see what it felt like. He liked to chalk it up to the doctor in him, but he knew that wasn't it. The doctor in John was detached- a war doctor. He saw death all the time. His role was to give recommendation in regards to one's health and then let them make their own decisions. But, he wasn't about to let Sherlock make his own decisions.

He was already thoroughly attached to Sherlock. The bastard had wriggled his way into every aspect of John's life in a matter of weeks, making him completely dependent, while the other man was completely self-sufficient. He didn't need John Watson. Sherlock Holmes didn't need anyone. That made John even angrier. He let himself boil over with rage, silently until he was spent. Then, he just curled up on the sofa in the dark.

He woke to the kettle hissing. He barely stirred at first, giving the sunlight recognition through his closed eyelids, the sound of heavy footsteps in the kitchen taking up occupation with all the other unnoticeable sounds. "Tea is only worth anything when it's hot. So, you ought to drink it, now, before I go back on my friendly gesture and drink both cups myself."

"You can drink tea cold. It's called iced tea." John mumbled through his sleep. He heard a typical Sherlock scoff.

"People who drink iced tea are imbeciles. Now, get up." John rested in the upright position, opening his eyes. The curtains were open, allowing for that offending sunlight the come streaming into the windows, illuminating Sherlock's pale face in a way that left little sinister in it. "Honestly, I don't know how you can sleep so much."

"Well, it appears you never sleep at all." John retorted, which was true. He'd lived with Sherlock for two weeks and had never once caught the man asleep. He'd come in at any odd hour to find Sherlock pacing the living room, grumbling to himself. He was starting to believe the man had evolved beyond the need to rest (which, John knew, was physically impossible. But, this was Sherlock Holmes- the line between the probable and the improbable was always so blurred it was barely there at all).

"That would be because sleep is boring. I'd much rather be conscious- thinking, getting work done. Like we ought to be doing now. I just received a call from Lestrade. There is a body in Trafalgar Square."

John wanted to ask Sherlock if he even had dreams- but he didn't. Instead, he asked, "How'd a killer manage to murder someone in the middle of Trafalgar Square?"

"Most likely, he didn't. It's far more probable that the body was dumped there- possibly between the hours of two to three in the morning. There may still have been witnesses, but there'd be far less than during the early evening, or the beginnings of the morning rush around five. He's probably skilled, killed before, I'd imagine. Confident. But, that's about all I can figure without actually seeing the body- which we can't do until you stop being useless."

Sherlock had abandoned the tea, grabbed his coat, and had one foot out the door. "Jesus. Can't I shower? Or, at least, drink this bloody tea? The body's not going to walk away", John called after him, but it was useless. So, he just threw his hands up and followed Sherlock into an awaiting cab, still in last night's clothes.

They spent a few minutes in silence, Sherlock tapping his fingers in a rhythm against his knee. John could hear his own breathing a bit too loudly. He wondered if the detective knew how awkward the backseat felt, or if he even noticed such things. "Something Donavon said has shaken you." It was more of an accusation, proof he had picked up on the unconscious agitation. "About me. Something about me. What? That I'm a serial killer, perhaps? How many bodies do you think I have under my belt, John?"

John should have seen this coming. He knew Sherlock's observation skills hadn't failed him last night, he should've expected this. As per usual, Sherlock had just been biding time. "Christ, I don't think you've killed anyone. Don't be an idiot."

"I believe you mean: I haven't killed anyone yet. It's only a matter of time, I'm sure she told you. Until I stop solving murders-"

"-And start planning them. Yes, that's what she said. But I don't believe that bullshit." He finally plucked up the courage to look at his companion. He was staring back, emotionless.

"What do you believe?"

John didn't really know how to answer. But, leaving the silence gave Sherlock more room to deduce and that wouldn't help his case. So, the truth would have to do. "I think- I think you're a sociopath. You don't feel much- except maybe annoyance- and put up with people only until they no longer have use value. You solve murders only because you're bored. You have no interest in any humanitarian aspect. You don't care about helping people. I'd say you're selfish, but that's not even it. You don't care about yourself, either. You live for a chase, for a challenge. That's it."

He watched Sherlock. The man's eyes narrowed- not with anger, but with interest. Like the outburst had given him something else to study; a new challenge. Finally, he just smirked, "Very astute of you, John. You're absolutely right. But, let me ask you this: does that change anything?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you want to leave? Does my immorality bother you that much? I can answer that for you, I believe. It doesn't change a thing, because this truth doesn't affect you. You've always known what I was- you've never expected anything more. You're going to stay because you love the chase just as much as I do, if not more. You need it. What does that make you, John?" Surprisingly, there was no animosity there. Just a vacant voice, a lull. Sherlock did not even feign upset, which he normally did. He just spoke and then grew silent. John opened his mouth to speak, but he held up his hand. "Enough. I'm thinking- the murder. We're still in the chase."