With each passing day, Sherlock was finding it harder and harder to keep his patience. It had been three weeks - three whole weeks - since he and Ainsley had started their little investigation and they still had nothing. Logically, it made sense. He always knew Moriarty was virtually untraceable and he couldn't expect leads to start cropping up everywhere because an overall average girl offered to lend her limited intellect to his cause. It was stupid; the kind of stuff people like Lestrade did.

John used to say that Sherlock's intelligence did him a disservice and now he was finally beginning to see why that was true. The truth was, Sherlock now held himself to such high standards that nothing could ever please him. It didn't matter how complex or difficult the case was, he had a psychological need to prove that he was just as good as he thought he was. And in a situation like this, that was simply impossible. He didn't comprehend that it was normal to struggle with things like consulting criminals. All he knew was that this was the one time he really, really needed to know something, and he was failing.

That wasn't even mentioning Ainsley, who was quickly grating on his last nerve. No matter how smart he'd mistakenly believed her to be, she was nothing. She'd been of no use throughout the whole ordeal. Her story might have been helpful, but she was always missing the little things: the unclear motives to a major crime, the way the detectives addressed the press about the events. Why was it so hard for her to just notice these things? They were in plain sight! Yet, like every other human being alive, she chose to remain completely oblivious to her surroundings. It was confounding.

"Well, this has been fun, but I have to get home," she announced one day, getting up from her seat. The pair had decided to move their headquarters to the local internet cafe, where Elsa couldn't ambush them in the middle of a conversation.

"What? Why?" Sherlock demanded. "You can't have finished reading that article yet; you're not nearly quick enough." She chose to ignore the last comment.

"I know, I know, it's heartbreaking. But unfortunately, Lucinda won't feed herself," she said, sticking out her bottom lip sarcastically.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Sherlock fumed. "We're on the trail of the world's greatest criminal mastermind and you're concerned about your cat not receiving enough nourishment? What does that thing even do all day, other than lick it's unmentionables?" Ainsley rolled her eyes.

"We're hardly 'on the trail'," she contradicted. "You may spend your life dissecting newspaper articles and pretending to find clues, but that doesn't mean you're getting anywhere." He bristled.

"Don't be petty, Ainsley," he condescended. "You're simply using insults to make yourself feel better about me being so very much smarter than you; it's a classic case of the schoolyard bully."

"Wow, you got me to a tee, Sherlock," she huffed furiously. "Yup, every night I sit in bed and cry myself to sleep because I'm not some freakish detective who everyone thinks is crazy, hiding hundreds of miles away from home instead of facing the only people that could possibly ever care. I mean, you're living the dream, buddy."

"Compared to you? A penniless writer with virtually no parents, an insufferably stupid sister, an annoying cat, no degree, and little to no realistic job opportunities due your criminal record? Yes, I would say I am 'living the dream', thank you," he retorted. Her upper lip curled in disgust.

"Do you ever wonder why you never had any real friends?" she asked suddenly in a remarkably civil tone. "I bet you think it's because no one could keep up with your massive brain, don't you?" Sherlock stayed silent. "I bet you think everyone just thought you were a freak."

"I-I don't understand how this is relevant," he managed.

"Maybe it's not," Ainsley conceded. "It's only that I want you to know, people don't dislike you because you're weird." She smiled peacefully. "No, Sherlock. People dislike you because you're an arse."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, I think you heard me loud and clear," she snickered cruelly. "You're a dick to everyone you meet, and that's why you're sitting in a cafe in Scotland, rather than enjoying a quiet night in at 221B Baker Street."

"I don't try to be," he told her quietly. Her face softened.

"Maybe not. But you don't try not to be, either." Biting her lip, she sat down again and leaned across the table. "Have you ever just enjoyed something, Sherlock? Not because it was clever or new, but because you were having plain fun?"

"The human brain doesn't work that way," he countered. "No one can simply decide to have fun."

"You can decide to not have fun," she pointed out. "And I think that's what you do. I think everyday to wake up, and you look around at all these ordinary people living ordinary lives, and you think 'I can't be like them.' So you decide time and time again to be above it all. You don't see the good in silly things like going to the cinema because you don't want to. You want to see the stupidity, so you have an excuse to keep living your lonely little life. You're terrified that one day you might see how sweet it is to be happy for the sake of being happy, and then you'll realize that you've wasted your life being sad and bored. This whole 'consulting detective' persona is just your way of protecting yourself from that."

"That's absurd."

"Prove it," Ainsley challenged. "Let's have another game. For a whole entire week, we are going to do absolutely nothing about Moriarty. You're going to call in sick to work, because you hate it anyways, and you and I are going to go do everything so-called normal people consider fun. Then, at the end of the week, you are going to honestly tell me if you enjoyed yourself. If you did, I get to keep the £500 I won last time. If you didn't, I'll give it back to you, and I'll promise to never complain about this ever again."

"You might as well give back the 500 now," he scoffed.

"But wouldn't winning taste so much sweeter if you actually earned it?" she pressed. He hesitated and she grinned at him. "Come on. What better do you have to do? Whip disfigured bodies raw and read every article about ever criminal that's ever lived?"

"Yes, actually," Sherlock snapped.

"It's just a week!" she insisted. "Seven pathetic little days. And I saw your flat, I think you could use the 500 quid as much as me. What do you have to lose?"

"My dignity?" he suggested. She threw her head back, cackling.

"I promise I won't tell anyone," she swore. She stuck her hand out. "Live a little, Sherlock. Unless you want to spend the rest of your life in constant misery."

And that is how Ainsley Boyd convinced Sherlock Holmes to become really, truly ordinary.

A/N: I actually like this chapter. Do you? Review please!