He surprises you again, later, in much the same way. You aren't used to surprises. They come as jolting shocks to the system, half-pleasant and exciting but also half-utterly dreadful and leaving you feeling off-kilter, not in control of the situation. You don't know how to react to being astonished. This must be how most people live their lives every day, you suppose. You don't know how they tolerate it.

You are examining a body of a woman in pink at the crime scene. Suicide, or at least that's what it looks like at first glance. It isn't difficult to draw your conclusions from her attire, her accessories, her position. You can see the narrative clearly, painted on her face, in her spread-eagled limbs; as clearly as though you'd sat down and watched a documentary on the event. It's all so obvious that it's mundane.

"That's fantastic!" John exclaims, as you come to the end of your explanation, and again you're taken aback by his reaction. Yes, you know it's fantastic, but most people tend to describe your powers of deduction as "creepy" or "freakish"; most people don't stand there staring at you intently with their eyes full of admiration. You feel an odd warmth rising up through your chest, something you aren't sure what to do with or label as.

"Do you know you do that out loud?" you ask, curiously.

"Sorry, I'll shut up," he replies, looking abashed.

"No, it's... fine."

And it absolutely is fine. Suddenly you want to do more things that are fantastic and extraordinary, more things that will make this odd little man exclaim and wonder at you. You feel reckless, as though you'd do almost anything just for a few more words of his praise.