John remembered the occasion, much later. It had been the smallest of moments, after a particularly insightful series of deductions on Sherlock's part led to the arrests of a high-profile gang of smugglers. This group had been posing as a gentleman's club in one of London's finer neighborhoods. It was one of the 'ongoing' cases, requiring a certain subtlety in pursuit, and Sherlock had been on the trail for several months. Earlier that day he had made the final connection ("…one of those petals was from an Albertine, John, slightly different strain, how could I not have seen it?") It was a good day for official members of the force and irregulars alike, and the Yarders were noticeably gleeful as they made the arrests.

Ordinarily, Lestrade was scrupulously careful about not "feeding Sherlock's already overlarge ego," as he put it. John attributed the lapse to elation and waning adrenaline.

On this particular evening, the silver-haired detective inspector oversaw the arrests, and then found himself staring at Sherlock as the last of the gang was escorted away in a police car. He was turning away when the words poured unbidden from his mouth.

"I am so bloody glad you're on our side."

Sherlock had been scanning the side of a rather ostentatious brick building, no doubt updating his mental map of London, but his eyes snapped immediately to Lestrade's face. In the pause John could imagine what was coming, was already envisioning the tilt of the eyebrows and the arrogance bleeding through the posh tone as Sherlock replied "Count your blessings" or "You should be" or something much wittier in the same vein. By the look on his face, Lestrade knew it too.

The actual reply was the last thing either of them was expecting.

"So am I," Sherlock murmured, almost to himself, and then he spun on his heel and strode across the darkening street to hail a cab.


John didn't ask until they were halfway home.

Sherlock had been in a strangely pensive mood ever since they left the crime scene. He had instructed the cabbie to wait for John, at least, which the doctor supposed was something, although by the time John slid into the leather interior Sherlock was drumming his fingers impatiently on the window. This was a habit of his, one John recognized as a flare of unspoken yearning for his violin, and nearly always meant that John wouldn't get another word out of his flatmate that night. Sure enough, Sherlock turned up his coat collar and his nose at John's halfhearted attempts at conversation, preferring to spend the ride in meditative silence. His eyes, locked on the window, roved freely over the darkening streets. Probably tracing out the life stories of every pedestrian who passed.

John frowned. These moods were hardly uncommon—Sherlock had, after all, warned him from the start. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end.

But…

But not like this. Never after a case.

The brief interval following a successful case was the only time John ever knew his friend to genuinely relax. It didn't last long, of course; by the next morning the detective was always champing at the bit for a new distraction to come along—but the journeys home were lighthearted, almost jovial, usually culminating in an evening of takeout and (at John's insistence) Muggle movies, and even (on one memorable occasion) a pillow fight. All in all it was a far cry from this pin-drop quiet that even the cabbie didn't dare to break.

So John wasn't quite sure what made him say it.

"What was that about?"

He cringed as soon as the words left his mouth. John knew perfectly well that there was no communicating with Sherlock in this mood. But Sherlock surprised him for the second time that night. He didn't seem irritated. Just…thoughtful.

"Mmm?"

John decided to press his advantage.

"That…what you said just now. To Lestrade."

The detective had been gazing out the window with a slight furrow in his brow, still as stone. He appeared, in fact, not so much a living human as something carved out of marble (not unlike the bust of Pericles beneath which John had more than once narrowly escaped being smashed by Peeves.) Amazingly, however, Sherlock roused himself properly at John's words and went so far as to turn his head, eyelids fluttering in the way that they did whenever he suppressed a sigh.

"Nothing. It was nothing. Forget it."

"It's not a big deal, Sherlock," said John as gently as he could, badly failing to mask his bewilderment. "I'm just…curious, is all. Seems like an odd thing to say."

John had given up by the time Sherlock spoke again.

"Not really."

"Er…How d'you mean?"

"I mean he has a point. Lestrade. Sally too, I suppose." Sherlock's fingers beat an unconscious rhythm against the window again.

"I am a sociopath. It's not…inconceivable that I could have gone the other way."

It was John's turn to sit, stunned into silence. At what, he didn't know. Sherlock's candor, perhaps. The fact that he had given this any thought. The fact that he cared.

It shouldn't have surprised him, reflected John, it really, really shouldn't, that Sherlock was aware of what was said behind his back. John had even repeated a bit to him, that first night.

"She said you get off on this. You enjoy it."

Sherlock had deflected the accusation without refuting it, and they never revisited the conversation. But Sally had said other things, too. Things John hadn't repeated. Now he wondered why it surprised him that Sherlock knew them anyway.

Sherlock's attention had wandered back to the window by the time John quietly said the three words burning on his tongue.

"Yes, it is."


A/N: Apologies for the short chapter, it was a good stopping place. However, I will be posting regularly...super regularly. I have much of this story written.