"You know, nobody ever died of laugher."
"Thank you for deigning to impart such wisdom to me, John," Sherlock drawled sardonically. "I can certainly see why you received your medical degree."
John sighed imperceptibly and started to backtrack. "What I mean is that there's nothing wrong with showing your feelings once in a while. Laugher is the best medicine and all that lot."
Sherlock looked at him quizzically. It was one of the rare times that John saw the consulting detective look truly confused; of course, anything involving the complexity of human emotions – especially his own – was essentially foreign to the man, so it wasn't entirely unexpected.
"I'm a high functioning sociopath who does not care about the norms and social propriety that govern human interactions. Furthermore, I have had years to learn that caring is not an advantage and that showing your emotions inevitably leads to getting hurt."
Sherlock paused, turning his attention to John only to give him the belittling stare that had been turned many a time on Anderson. "As a medical professional, I had expected you to be intelligent enough to refrain from subscribing to such colloquialisms."
"Actually, it's scientifically proven that laughter boosts the immune system, improving resistance to disease, and increases circulation which decreases the risk of a heart attack," John interjected. "It also generally makes people more pleasant to be around, although you don't seem to be very concerned about that."
Fortunately, the clicking sounds that emanated from Sherlock's long fingers typing fervently on his laptop's keyboard drowned out that last, rather uncharitable comment.
"Interesting. The American Medical Journal endorses your clichéd view on the importance of laughter. Very well, Doctor Watson, what do you prescribe?"
"I'm sorry, what?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes heavenwards, as if to beseech the powers that be to grant his companion with an intellect that rivals his own – if only for a moment – so that he could be spared the pains of rephrasing such an easily comprehensible statement.
"Honestly, John," Sherlock began in that intentionally slow, condescending tone of voice that John had grown accustomed to hearing during their acquaintance but despised nonetheless. "Both yourself and Dr. Jackson of the American Medical Journal liken laughter to a medicinal drug intended to cure common ailments. Despite my knowledge in the pharmaceutical field, we can assume that you are more qualified to recommend a suitable remedy than I. So, what would you suggest?"
"Um, well, there's a movie playing that's supposed to be really good? It's called Dinner for Schmucks? I've heard it's hilarious…" John trailed off uncertainly.
"Alright, then. Grab your coat."
And that's how John ended up sitting beside Sherlock – who was not his date, regardless of what the man at the concession stand thought after Sherlock paid for both of their tickets and a bag of popcorn – in a semi-darkened, reasonably filled movie theater watching what could only be described as a comedy. Not an action movie with car chases and explosions. Not a horror movie with psychopathic killers, crimes to be solved, and an abundance of dead bodies. A comedy.
Toward the end of the movie, John was startled by the way that his chair had started vibrating slightly. Given that there was no one behind him, the only possible origin for the tremor would be directly beside him. He turned his head slightly, only to see that Sherlock was smiling – not his trademark patronizing smirk, but a genuinely amused smile – and shaking with silent laughter.
"So, I gather you enjoyed it, then?" John asked as the theater lights turned back on and the credits rolled. "Given that I saw you laughing at it and all."
"It was horribly mundane, although I couldn't help but picture Anderson at the dinner. He would fit in perfectly." Sherlock replied dryly, causing John to start with laughter.
Apparently Sherlock Holmes found entertainment in the exploitation of those deemed to have lesser intellects; somehow this wasn't surprising.
"It was less tedious than I expected," Sherlock intoned quietly after a brief moment. "Utilizing laughter as a treatment, that is. I suppose you are a fairly competent doctor, after all."
Having grown accustomed to Sherlock's brusque manner, John knew to accept this backhanded compliment as it was intended – a peculiar way of saying thank you. He spent the entire walk back to 221B Baker Street lost in thought and contemplating various ways to treat his new patient; after all, this was an assignment that he intended to take very seriously.