Disclaimer: BBC and Conan Doyle share the characters I play with them.

A.N. Today's trope – it's love, not pity. Bit of teenlock, I hope you enjoy.

Why?

It had taken him a shamefully long time to find an answer – a long time to start questioning it, even, because it was simply too good to risk ruining it – but now Sherlock knew. Why would John be his friend when all the others called him freak, acted like he had the plague and generally hated him? He didn't like the answer he found, but – it made sense.

And now his own over-inquisitive brain had soured their relationship beyond remedy for him, like Sherlock knew it would, but he just couldn't help himself.

So, when John came by in the afternoon – as usual – asking what Sherlock had planned for the day, he'd bitterly answered, "You don't have to be my friend anymore. I'd really rather you didn't."

"Why?" John had whined, wounded. "What did I do now?"

"I'm not one of your strays, wounded birds, or some such. No matter your ambitions in the medical field, you don't need to be my friend out of pity. Yes, I wouldn't have anyone else. But your Florence Nightingale instincts needn't extend so far."

"What?" John uttered, dumbfounded.

"You know that I don't like to repeat myself," the raven haired stated haughtily.

"Who told you that we're friends because I pity you? Mycroft?" John asked, incensed.

"No one. But it's the only thing that makes sense, since you can make friends with everyone you want and I'm...well, me. I get us in trouble, I am rude...don't make me say what you know," Sherlock replied, awkward.

"You want to know why we're friends? Fine. I didn't mean to tell you so soon..." John said.

Oh. Perhaps it was a bet, after all. But a really hefty sum must be involved, to make him stick till now, Sherlock thought.

"...but when you're so daft I have no other choice. I love you, you amazing idiot, and I'd give anything for the privilege to be by your side," the blond concluded.

Sherlock blinked. And blinked. And blinked some more.

"Sherlock? I've not broken you, have I?" John queried, growing concerned.

"This doesn't make sense," his friend eventually replied.

"Since when love does?" John countered cheekily. "Look, I'm not asking you to reciprocate, just... let me be around. Please."

"But can I?" Sherlock asked.

"What?"

"Reciprocate. Can I? If I want?" he explained, sounding unreasonably unsure.

"God yes!"