Let me begin by thanking you all, again, for your wonderful reviews. You make me smile. This is the second to last chapter, as I'm sure you know. It's not quite right, as you might notice as you look at the title: Vanity, or Lack Thereof. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing, as per usual.

Vanity, n. excessive pride in or admiration of one's own appearance or achievements

John says I am beautiful. He tells me that every night. But as I look at myself in the mirror, I am forced to admit one thing: John is wrong.

Let me begin by stating I am not given to mooning over my reflection. I am not narcissistic about my physical appearance, though some may doubt it to look at me– my hair neatly combed and trimmed, my face clean-shaven, dressed in impeccable, well-fitting suits and expensive silk shirts. However, that's merely because people are more given to trusting you when you are well-dressed, and although no one would actually admit to trusting me, it is a subtle, subconscious reminder that there is at least a decent chance I am not going to kill anyone.

Now, John. John is the exception to every rule. John moved in with me, befriended me, accepted me, trusts me. Desires me. Fell in love with me. If anyone is beautiful it's him. He has such a good, kind heart, a loving nature, a level head on his shoulders. He's perfect when he wakes up in the morning, all tousled fair hair and warm, sure hands splayed across my skin.

But I can't waste my precious little time thinking about John. On a typical morning I wake up with enough time to shower and dress before he gets up. I've showered already and am staring at my reflection, desperately seeking answers. I run a hand through my hair, still damp and freshly scrubbed, and watch as the thick dark curls spring back into place. My eyes are curious, aren't they, too small for my face and a mix of blue, green, and an odd sheen of silvery-grey. I make quick note of the rest of my face: heavy brows, straight nose, wide, full lips. The lower one still has the sunken indentations of tooth marks from where John nipped at me last night.

My cheekbones really do jut out to an alarming degree, don't they? Long neck, broad shoulders, I'm built like a willow branch. Not like John, he might be short but he's so very strong. I might be too, but you wouldn't know it to look at me. Lanky and lean, all of me, legs too long and awkward for my body… Then in the middle my hips, sharp and twitchy, and John says he is thoroughly in love with my hips but I don't know why…

And I'm so pale, how have I never noticed that before? John likes that too, he says he can mark me as his, and I love inspecting my bruises every morning– the more there are the better the night was– but John is tan and lovely, not merely the same china-white as the bedsheets. My hands roam over every bit of my body they can reach, frantically mapping all the ways I am different from my beautiful John, because I am so, so very different from him but since he's just gorgeous that means I can't be, right, or–

John walks in. "Sherlock, what are you doing?" he asks, probably very confused. Normally at this time of morning I'd be dressed and in the living room, texting Lestrade about getting me another case. Instead I'm stark naked and inspecting myself in the mirror. "You're not usually one to stare at yourself. Are you feeling all right?"

"You think I'm beautiful, John, but you're wrong. I'm not. Look, look at my reflection." I point at the other Sherlock Holmes in the mirror. Goodness, he looks unhappy. I try to make my face impassive, but it fails. I'm perplexed and agitated. "There is nothing beautiful there, and I do not appreciate you lying to me."

John comes up behind me. "What do you mean, lying to you? I'm not lying when I tell you how gorgeous you are. Look at you. Tall and slim and angular. It suits you, and you have such a perfect expressive face. Soft skin. You're everything I never knew I wanted until I met you. And you, all of you, you fit so wonderfully around me, holding me, loving me… You're so, so beautiful, Sherlock."

I blink a few times, unsure of what to say. "But I don't fit any of the parameters for what normal people consider to be beautiful."

"Yeah, well, we're not really normal, are we? You're beautiful to me, isn't that all that matters? You don't have to stare into a mirror to know that."

"Then how do I know?"

"You're the most observant man in the world," he explains slowly, as though I am too dim to understand. He may be correct. "Look me in the eye. Am I lying?"

I examine him more closely. Either John Watson is the world's best liar or he is telling the truth. "I suppose you seem to be trustworthy."

He chuckles. "Get out of the bathroom, Sherlock. I have to shower before work. I'd invite you to stay, but we know how that would end up, and I'd be three hours late with a black eye." He gives me a pointed look and I remember the last time we took a shower together. John, er, managed to fall face-forward onto a bedpost (we were too worked up, we couldn't wait) and did in fact show up three hours late to work. With a black eye. I nearly got myself arrested for domestic abuse.

I give him a quick kiss, which he appreciates– I can hear the telltale rumble in his chest– and say, "I thought… You're beautiful, John, and I thought since I didn't look like you, I wasn't… Just thought you ought to know."

"Beautiful? Me?" As I leave, I get a quick glimpse of the last thing I expect to see: John leaning forward, carefully examining his own reflection.

Here we go again...