Alright, here's a general warning for you all: I generally don't have more than a vague plot idea in mind before I start to write a fic. Because of this, I don't know what tags to include until I write something and think that it might be important to include a tag for it, just in case. So... sorry about that. I'll update the tags as I go along!

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To tell Sherlock Holmes that he was vain would be a gross understatement.

When he got dressed, he chose only the finest clothes to put on. His suits were tailored to show off his long, lean figure, always dark so they accentuated his pale skin. His dark curls were always an organized disaster, done in a way that made him consistently look just this side of debauched. He could do things with his eyes that made it seem as though he was looking into your very soul.

And in his own way, that's precisely what he was doing. In a single glance, he could tell who you were sleeping with, what kind of job you held, what kind of house you lived in, if you had any animals, and- more importantly- whether or not you were the latest criminal he was hunting. He knew everyone's dirty secrets, especially the ones they wanted to hide the most. He was rarely ever wrong.

Everyone else was almost always wrong.

When John Watson walked into the lab at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, Sherlock did his usual round of deductions. Military. Doctor. Invalided. Psychosomatic limp. No connections. No real ties to the world. In need of a flat mate. Stubborn. Kind to a fault. Attractive-.

Well, that wasn't something that usually popped up into Sherlock's examination of an individual.

He shrugged it off and asked, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

It was all there in the stubborn set of the man's shoulders, the way he stood as though he forgot about his limp, the veiled look of awe, confusion, and... fear? Yes, fear. How long had it been since someone had looked at John H. Watson? Really looked at him?

He'd be perfect for Sherlock. A wonderful distraction. His military service and medical knowledge may even come in handy. He would only last a short while, of course. He was so plain, so obvious to read, hardly challenging at all. Two weeks maximum would be all it would take.

He gave the man the address anyway, knowing without a doubt that he had piqued enough curiosity to guarantee he would at least take a look at the place.

And he did show up, right on time. Punctual, to be expected from his time in the military and as a surgeon where time was of the essence. Neat, as well, from his comments about the flat. Sherlock decided tidying up his chaos wasn't an unruly compromise.

But it would have to wait because there were police lights flashing on the living room ceiling. A fourth suicide. Just in time to keep him from crawling up the walls with boredom, perhaps utilizing the contacts he still kept in touch with who knew precisely how to mix his cocaine in order to give him the best high. Only the finest quality, of course, the cleanest needles slipping into his skin-.

He shook himself slightly, just as Lestrade came up the steps.

"What's different about this one?"

"She left a note."

"Text me the address."

Three sentences, and the detective was gone and Sherlock was jumping about, ranting about how it was like Christmas and pulling on his unnecessarily long coat and that dark blue scarf he knew made his eyes look just a bit more mysterious and then he was half way down the stairs while Mrs. Hudson made John a cuppa...

John.

The doctor. The soldier. The one with the psychosomatic limp that was begging for some action just so it could find its purpose and be useful again instead of just being a prop to drag the man from one useless therapist appointment to another.

Of course he was good at what he does. Of course he had seen violence and death. More than enough for a lifetime, as he said, of course, but...

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh, God yes."

Yes, he was going to provide a nice distraction.

Or, at least, Sherlock had hoped so. Turns out, John Watson was just as boring as everyone else. He didn't really look at things, not in the important ways. He asked permission from Lestrade, looked offended when Sherlock dragged peoples' personal lives through the mud, and still limped about with his cane and didn't seem any closer to relinquishing it. The only interesting thing was the fact that Sherlock was wrong about Harry, calling her John's brother instead of sister. Sherlock was rarely wrong, and the blow had him bustling about the crime scene with more vigor and authority than usual, trying to make up for it. He was convinced that was the end of John's ability to entertain him.

"That's fantastic," John said, seemingly unaware that he was doing so.

It... amused Sherlock.

"Do you know you do that out loud?"

"Sorry. I'll just shut up then..." he said, ducking his head.

"No... It's fine."

Use for John Watson Number One: Reinforcement of Internalized God-Complex.

Maybe he wouldn't be so boring after all.

His moral compass might get in the way, though. He was strong enough to survive a visit with Mycroft, but too loyal to take the money. Unfortunate, really, since they could use it while Sherlock's trust fund was still being held out of his reach. He was also rather adverse to the idea of using more than once nicotine patch, but Sherlock supposed the doctor would frown upon the idea of tourniquets being involved more than a slight nicotine overdose. Compromise. That was the key to successful interactions, right?

John didn't ask many questions. He sent a text without asking why. He didn't ask whether or not Sherlock was the killer when he saw the pink case set out on a chair. He didn't push the question of contacting the police. He didn't even ask where they were going.

He did ask about things like girlfriends and boyfriends, which was so dull that Sherlock thought about just leaving him there until he realized that the man was probably hitting on him.

He quashed down the panic that rose in his throat at the thought and told him the truth. Sherlock Holmes was married to his work. Nothing would change that.

John accepted it with aplomb.

Why did Sherlock still want to take the candle- with all its cast shadows and romance in spades- and toss it at something?

But there was no time for thoughts like that.

They were off, chasing the taxi through the streets of London. John hesitated only a moment before jumping between the roofs, before darting through traffic, before following a madman on what turned out to be a wild goose chase. A tourist. Pathetic. More running, away from the police this time, and back to Baker Street.

The cane, once it was returned, never quite made it past the downstairs landing. There was no longer a need for it.

Sherlock smiled triumphantly.

But then there was that drugs bust and he had to watch the image of himself that John had slowly been building up in his mind shatter upon the discovery that drugs were more than a valid reason to search the place. A pain, sharp and hot, wove through Sherlock's chest and tasted bitter on his tongue with all the words and reassurances he wanted to say.

Well, that never happened to him.

Guilt? How pedestrian.

Pedestrian.

"Shut up! Everyone, just shut up!"

The pieces were there, right there, just one more connection...

Ah-hah!

Pedestrian. Walking. Who would want to walk through London in a rainstorm? Why would a business man walk to the tube? Why would a drunk woman be allowed to keep her car keys? What would get you from point A to point B without seeming out of place?

Hadn't Mrs. Hudson said something about a taxi?

Yes, Sherlock Holmes was a proud man. He was arrogant, cocky, vicious about it. He was a genius, after all, so it wasn't unfounded.

Listening to this man, this imposter, comparing himself to the great Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, was disgusting.

But, oh, there was a sponsor, a fan. Someone willing to put together a game meant to lure in Sherlock Holmes. A game designed just for him. Someone who might just be clever enough to play on the same field as him.

There was just the matter of the pills to take care of first.

The pill was raised to his mouth, almost pressing against his lips. This would be it. He was right, of course he was right. There was no way he could lose now. He was clever. Smart. Smarter than everyone else and he fucking knew it. There was no way this... piteous, feeble-minded, poor excuse for a criminal could ever outsmart him.

Right?

There wasn't a lot of time to contemplate the idea because, just before he placed the pill on his tongue, there was a gunshot. It quite obviously clipped the brachial artery. The cabbie would die.

So a bit of torture wouldn't be too terrible, now would it?

It worked, of course. Sherlock got a name. Between Moriarty and the mystery of the shooter, he should be kept busy for quite some time.

Or rather, between Moriarty and John Watson, he should be kept busy for a while.

John Watson, the doctor, the soldier, the man who had an infernal affection for jumpers and doing what's right and a moral compass that guided the way he breathed, had just killed someone for a man he had known for just over 24 hours.

Interesting.

And then they laughed at a crime scene and had a run in with Mycroft and recovered John's gun from the alley where he had stashed it before the police arrived and got Chinese food to take back to Baker Street, back to their flat.

John Watson was a challenge.

But Sherlock Holmes was a proud man and would do whatever it took to unravel all the mysteries that he contained.

He did love a good game.