Inventory: Sherlock is always leaving John behind, miles away in observations and inferences, rushing out of cabs and restaurants whenever neurons fire, tracking leads from crime scenes to investigations. He peels back the layers of everyone he meets, exposing every weakness, and hands back egos in tatters. He soars on manic highs, then, crashing, sinks into melancholy lows. He sulks petulantly when he doesn't get his way and he compels punishing tantrums from his violin. He never buys the milk, or anything for that matter, and John never knows what biohazards he will find in the refrigerator next to the risotto. He always expects John to make the tea and - even worse - bring it to him. He sees no problem with demanding John's presence at a moment's notice, sending haughty commands by text whether or not it is convenient. He insults John's intelligence from a pedestal and his scathing sarcasm leaves searing flesh wounds.

They came to tell your faults to me,

They named them over one by one.

People sometimes ask John how he can stand being with someone so arrogant and dramatic and critical and impossible and discourteous and socially inept. John sighs, bites his lip, thinks about: life with Sherlock so far from mundane and ordinary; the excitement of the chase terminating in ardent kisses in their entranceway; the brief interludes Sherlock works in to ensure that John doesn't go hungry (while eschewing any nourishment for himself); episodes of fervently protecting John's life against scheming criminals, usually at his own peril; quiet times where John doesn't have to bother with speech because Sherlock already knows; the occasional graceless attempts at romance, knowing how difficult it must be for the man of logic; hours lazing in bed after passion, those long thin fingers tickling chords on John's back and eyes smiling a love that comes from a previously untapped vein; beyond-beautiful violin sonatas that express sentiment when words fail; how he's glimpsed both the great brain and the great heart; and how fortunate he is to have touched that heart when no one else made it past the brittle shell. Sherlock's brain is for the world; his heart is for John and John alone, and that makes it more precious than rubies.

I laughed aloud when they were done,

I knew them all so well before, -

John just shrugs his shoulders, treasures his secret, and leaves the wondering to everyone else. They may pity him, they may even try to martyr him by pressing thorns into his long-suffering skin, but he refuses because he knows better. One thing about Sherlock: he is as honest about his shortcomings as he is immodest about his gifts. There were no surprises; John knew it all in advance, going in.

A whisper in his ear as he drifts asleep: "There is more than just transport... I see it now. Whatever did I do before you, John? You are my conduit, my connection to everything I never understood."

Sherlock's a great man; someone once pointed that out. But having John makes Sherlock strive to be a good man. Good enough to deserve the one he's been given.

Question: Is it worth it, tolerating the bad to live for the good?

Inevitably, there are days when the scale tips to one side, and John grabs his jacket and storms out the front door (often giving it a satisfying slam, just in case), wanders aimlessly with fists in pockets thinking angry thoughts in circles until his rage has tempered, but eventually he comes back. It must be worth it; John always comes back, and Sherlock's always waiting. Sherlock always will be waiting, beginning with the laboratory at Bart's and ending with bees and honey in Sussex, and the years of beauty in between.

The world can have the great brain; John possesses the great heart and its imperfect splendor, all the frailty the human condition implies.

Oh, they were blind, too blind to see,

Your faults had made me love you more.*

Tolerating the bad to live for the good? It's all we can do, John concludes, because everyone's made of sums and differences.

*Faults by Sara Teasdale