Disclaimer: Own nothing, making no money, just playing in Arthur's 'verse.

Illogical

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

Sherlock had lived by that rule for as long as he could remember. It had never let him down. Except now, in this one decidedly unique case, what it was telling him made him wonder…

Sherlock was used to being tolerated, to varying degrees, by those around him. He was aware that he was far from normal; in fact he gloried in it, flaunted his superiority over others at every opportunity. They generally responded by avoiding him as much as possible, frequently with insults and often attempted violence on their way out. This had never bothered him overmuch; people were puzzles, each one a mental exercise to be deciphered, deconstructed and extrapolated upon until he knew everything they didn't want him to know. Once the puzzle was solved, the person it was attached to became unbearably dull; Sherlock could already predict what they'd do or say in response to any given situation and therefore had no further interest in them.

The only people he had regular contact with over extended periods of time were those that could not avoid him; and most were very honest about their lack of appreciation for his near non-existent social skills. Lestrade, for example, put up with Sherlock's presence for a clear and obvious reason; he desperately needed the consulting detective's help. Donovan, Anderson and the rest put up with him, barely, because Lestrade made them.

This was neat, and logical; the arrangement provided him with access to interesting crimes, regular interaction with other humans which he was otherwise lacking, and it worked out equitably for all parties. The police got their crimes solved, and Sherlock got distracted from his ever-threatening boredom, with some quality insult-throwing opportunities for good measure.

Then there were people like Angelo and Mrs Hudson. Again, relationships that made sense. The people he had helped often felt obliged to him, even after money had changed hands. Sherlock understood gratitude; granted, it wasn't something he felt or expressed often but it was deductible.

Mycroft, who turned up seemingly at random to 'check' on his wayward younger brother, was a category by himself. As if Sherlock didn't know his activities were closely monitored by Mycroft's people. Those exchanges were always tense, every word, every slightest change of facial expression speaking volumes to both of them. His brother had always come the closest to actually understanding what went on in Sherlock's head; something he found extremely unnerving. But Mycroft's reasons for his attention were equally logical; partly because he felt obligated to look after his much younger brother, and partly because he was aware that said brother could be an extremely dangerous individual when he put his mind to it.

And now, suddenly, there was John Watson. John who was not a blood relative, who owed Sherlock Holmes nothing, who needed nothing from him… and yet there he was.

His usual logic was confounded. Yes, John enjoyed the thrill of the chase, of danger and excitement and never knowing when a severed head was going to appear in the fridge next to last night's leftover Chinese. But he didn't need Sherlock to encounter danger; there were plenty of less difficult ways to do that. So why was he here? Why did he tolerate all the things normal people hated about him?

The only conclusion the great detective had managed to draw was that John Watson liked him.

Actually, honestly liked him as a person, not out of self interest or what Sherlock could do for him.

But surely, that was impossible, wasn't it? No one liked Sherlock Holmes. Certainly no one like John, who was so perfectly normal and average and extraordinary at the same time.

The matter defied resolution. No army doctor pensioned home from Afghanistan should be patient enough to sift through crates of books all night. He shouldn't be brave enough to defy authority (in the form of Mycroft) for the sake of a man he'd just met. He shouldn't be able to make a joke funny enough to make a self-confessed sociopath genuinely laugh out loud for the first time since… well, ever. He shouldn't be clever enough to sense when Sherlock was feeling particularly morbid and attempt to distract him with endearingly domestic little arguments about milk and the state of the kitchen. Sherlock had not yet deduced why this worked; the unfamiliar warm sensation it conjured in his abdomen was quite unlike any he had previously experienced. Next time he was bored he planned to rig up some kind of thermometer to measure the effect.

John Watson shouldn't care enough about Sherlock Holmes's life that he would chase him halfway across the city and shoot a man dead to protect him from himself… but he had. And even after that, there was no way on Earth that someone so thoroughly unremarkable should have worked something out that had eluded even Sherlock himself.

"So this is how you get your kicks, is it? You risk your life to prove you're clever?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot."

Brilliant. Genius. Insane. Psychopath. Crazy. Hyperactive. Dangerous. Unbalanced. Sociopath. Freak. Weird. Cold. Inhuman. Sherlock had heard them all before. But never, in his entire life, had he ever been described as an idiot. As if he were a normal, ordinary human being, not someone to be distrusted or suspected or suffered through like a really thorough tax audit. A real person instead of a brain attached inconveniently to a body. Someone who did what he did because he loved it; because it made him feel alive. In that one single aspect of his life, he was ruled by emotion, like all the other members of the species he had dedicated his life to studying but rarely felt a part of.

And the doctor was also quite correct; because John Watson was a puzzle even the world's first consulting detective couldn't solve.

There was simply no logic in his actions.

I know it's been done before, but I couldn't get that little short exchange at the end of ASIP out of my head. I mean, how many times in his life can Sherlock Holmes have been told he's an idiot?

(If anyone wants to do a five times fic off that idea, I for one would love to read it.)

All comments welcome, good or bad.