Wall of Disclaimers is up.

Sherlock noticed little differences in everything because his world was black or white. It was or it wasn't.

His life ran that way. It was black tea or white tea. It was no sugar or sugar. John was happy or he wasn't. Either someone was dead or they weren't. They were murdered of they weren't.

Black or white.

That was it.

So when he was diagnosed, life had another take.

People knew.

Or they didn't.

For Sherlock, people were divided that way. People who knew were few. There was his mother, Mycroft, Mycroft's P.A., and Mrs. Hudson. The people who didn't know were more. They were Lestrade, Molly, Anderson, Donovan, Angelo, Sebastian, Trevor, and John.

Especially John.

So when Mycroft let the bomb drop, Sherlock reclassified everyone.

People changed when they knew. The forensics teams seemed a little less angry when he breezed in "contaminating" the scene. Anderson seemed a little more careful about his comments. They were snide, but never scathing. Donovan seemed to take a 180 turn. She doted on Sherlock as much as she could. Sherlock easily deduced that she had a nephew with the same condition. Lestrade wasn't sure what to do and seemed to awkward to deal with the matter.

The only one who didn't change was John. So much so, Sherlock had wondered if he hadn't heard, but that wasn't true. John heard. He had been there.

Except his manner didn't change.

There were a few web searches into his condition. None that were with how to deal with it but learning about what it was. Sherlock's interest was piqued.

Everyone changed when they processed more information. Sherlock was no different. His mind palace changed, rearranged for every new detail he learned. When they were deleted, the space was left empty.

Take for example, Mrs. Hudson. She hadn't always been like so. She had been one of the few people who had known from his teen years. She was his teacher in secondary school. She was the one who got him into all the advanced classes and made him think twice about not attending Uni. He did settle on Oxford with her advice.

But, John had not done anything. He treated Sherlock the way he always had. Bringing him tea, following him on chases through London, or cracking cases, John stood by him. John was the familiar constant.

And he had to know why. He started with discreet inquiries, which didn't turn up anything. Then he moved onto more direct methods, which also didn't turn up anything. Soon, Sherlock's list of failed attempts had expanded to include a bungee jumping adventure and his own row with a chip and pin machine. In both, John hadn't treated him any differently. He had to know.

"John, why is it you don't treat me any differently?"

John looked up from his chair, where he was compiling yet another sensational post. "Differently?"

"Yes." Sherlock nodded, steepling his fingers. John had appeared bemused. Inwardly, Sherlock knew, John was wondering if he had done something to offend his semi-tolerant flat mate.

John couldn't seem to wrap his mind around it. "What do you mean?"

"Last month, Mycroft told everyone about my… ahem, condition and you haven't treated me any differently." John looked bemused at the reason.

"Why should I?" John asked, tilting his head to one side.

Sherlock wondered about that though he hadn't expected John to ask HIM. Yes, there were many reasons. John had none? How very strange.

John must have mistaken his silence for dissent because he asked, "Do you like visiting crime scenes?"

To that Sherlock nodded. He hadn't an idea where this would go but, since it was John, he was willing to follow along.

"Do you like dissecting bodies?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Do you like your tea black with two sugars?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Do you like running through London with your collar turned up and your scarf trailing behind you?"

Sherlock nodded. Though, that wasn't the description he would have given of their rooftop adventures.

"Do you like annoying Anderson?"

Sherlock nodded with a little more gusto.

"Do you occupy the position of being the world's only consulting detective?"

Sherlock nodded.

John leaned forward and lowered his voice, a tactic to make Sherlock lean closer.

"Is your name Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock nodded.

John sat back upright. "Why should I treat you any differently? You are still you."

He thought for a moment. "So you don't care that I'm autistic?"

John shook his head. "Sherlock, you are one of the highest functioning people I know. Communication aside, that is." He looked at his flat mate fondly. "You can take care of yourself. And, you are one of the most intelligent people I know."

"The most intelligent person you know," Sherlock corrected.

"The most narcissistic," John replied, "But, yeah, the most intelligent too."

Sherlock settled back into the couch cushions. Just now he had encountered something new. His mind palace was rearranging. Even in their vibrant or dulled colors, a single on had always been missing.

"Is it really okay?"

John gave him a soft smile

"It's fine, Sherlock. It's all fine."

In Sherlock's mind, everything was black or white.

Or, perchance it was a single shade of grey.