Disclaimer: I own nothing. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

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Sherlock Holmes was not a man you could trust. John Watson knew this. The last time he'd trusted him, he'd ended up on a train with a bomb inside. Thinking he had only moments to live, he had told Sherlock that he forgave him for what he had done. Sherlock had had tears in his eyes, real tears. It was a display of raw emotion the likes of which John had only seen in Sherlock once before. And he'd been lying then too.

Yet, in spite of himself, John did trust him. Somehow he never stopped believing that Sherlock would make sure everything worked out in the end. And he always did, more or less.

Sherlock could see through everyone: he would decipher their motives, their personalities, everything – even their personal habits. But Sherlock had a blind spot, and John knew all about that. Sherlock could never do the same careful analysis, which he performed on everyone else, on himself. He really wasn't very self-aware.

Because of John's implicit, almost instinctive trust in Sherlock, he'd believed him when he'd said that he was a 'high functioning sociopath.' He knew of course that, technically, no such thing existed. After all, sociopathy was not a spectrum disorder, so there was no such thing as a 'high functioning' one. Nevertheless, he'd still believed, at first, that Sherlock was a sociopath. It was as though Sherlock just defined himself and knew himself better than anyone else.

Sometimes he still wondered if he were. Sherlock always said he cared for no one, and although John liked to believe that wasn't true, he didn't know. He remembered when Sherlock had thrown a man out of a window for hurting Mrs Hudson. Surely that meant something. That had been a man defending someone he truly cared about.

It could all have been an act of course (Sherlock had proved himself so capable of a stellar acting performance that he really deserved an Oscar), but there had seemed to be real, honest affection between them. One that had been borne out of seeing each other at their worst, that had survived real hardship. She was like a mother, Sherlock's surrogate parent.

Sherlock didn't seem very close to his own parents, which John thought was strange considering how warm and loving they were. He remembered, when he first met them, registering absolute amazement at how normal they were. He didn't know what he had been expecting – perhaps some sort of genetically enhanced cyborgs or cold, distant, academically brilliant robots. Certainly not what they were.

He'd actually felt a pang of jealousy when he'd gotten to know them more, and he was almost angry with Sherlock for not appreciating the loving family that had been handed to him on a plate. Thinking of his own family, he'd only wished things had been a fraction as happy.

Yet there was Sherlock, seeing them as little as he could help and seeming bored and not particularly happy when he was in their company. And he'd only see them when he didn't have much choice not to. In fact, he'd seen so little of them that John had presumed they were dead. Sherlock had never talked about them.

So perhaps he was a sociopath. He only saw his parents when he felt obligated to, he tricked and manipulated people – including John – and he never seemed to realise (possibly even to care) when he'd hurt people. The trouble was, John suspected that Sherlock did care about people. But then, that was the thing about sociopaths. They tricked you.

He often wondered why Sherlock, who seemed to generally dislike people, had wanted to rope him on their adventures in the first place. Maybe he had felt lonely and had wanted company. Maybe he wanted to bring along an idiot to prove how clever he was. Sherlock lived off other people's admiration. John wouldn't be surprised if one day that was the fatal flaw that ruined him: pride.

It wasn't as though he didn't care what people thought of him, whatever he said. If he didn't, the comment about his classmates at university not liking him wouldn't have bothered him so much, and he wouldn't always pull the collar of that ridiculous coat up around his neck just to look cool. He certainly wouldn't have been so offended when John had told him that no one read his blog.

Sherlock was something of a narcissist that way. He had a very fragile ego. It needed to be stroked, and it didn't like criticism. It was almost as though Sherlock really thought that he was descended from cyborgs or that he was a robot, because he seemed to think that he was some kind of superhuman who didn't have any flaws or weaknesses, and that everyone should admire him.

Or maybe he just wanted to be like that.

Thing was, he wasn't. And other people weren't just going to sit around and comment in awe at his intellect – certainly not when he insulted him the way he always did. Sometimes it seemed like he did deliberately, out of pure vindictiveness and spite. Maybe in some strange way, it was some kind of payback for them not treating him the way he wanted to be treated. Maybe he wanted them to hurt the way they'd hurt him.

This was all conjecture of course, but it was rather fun to psychoanalyse Sherlock. Having had therapy enough times himself, it was fun to play amateur armchair psychologist and try and pick him apart, attempt to figure out what made him tick.

John thought of when Sherlock had told Moriarty that he'd been 'reliably informed' that he didn't have a heart. He wondered if it were really that simple. Sometimes it seemed that Sherlock was truly heartless and cared for no one. Other times, it seemed like he loved John and Mrs Hudson and would do anything for them. Which side of him was the real one?

Had Sherlock ever actually been real with John? John had tried so hard to forgive him for all the tricks, all the lies. He'd managed it, but it hadn't been easy. And whenever he thought of it, it still made him want to punch someone – preferably Sherlock.

He was used to people lying to him. His wife had done it, for goodness' sake. When he thought of that, it made him so angry, how everyone had lied to him. Maybe Sherlock was right. Maybe he just picked people like that. Sherlock was a deceitful person, someone addicted to highs and John had just fallen into the web of lies.

He didn't really care anymore. If it was a spider's web of deceit, lies and false promises, John was willing to be the fly. Even if that were all Sherlock was, another fake, lying spider, he'd still be there for him, forgive him every time. There was no point in lying to himself about it; that was just how it was. He'd do the same for Mary; he'd do the same for anyone he loved.

Because whether sociopath, trickster and liar or misunderstood, vulnerable and loving, Sherlock Holmes was a man and, despite all the mystery surrounding him, John Watson was certain of one thing: he loved that man with all his heart.

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AN: I always welcome reviews! Please let me know what you think!