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All in all, nothing changed in the wake of their restaurant misadventure. Sherlock rebuffed all of John's many attempts to apologize for the restaurant incident, and if he noticed that his flatmate was especially solicitous in the weeks following the event he made no comment. Cases came and went. Days passed with near-complete silence from Sherlock, interspersed with fits of manic activity. He drank too much coffee and abused nicotine patches while frequently neglecting to attend to normal needs, like food and sleep.
Business as usual.
Tonight, Sherlock has something different in mind. Boredom is creeping up on him again. John is out, should be out for a while - pretty sure he said something about drinks with Stamford - so that leaves the detective free to indulge in one of his private pleasures.
In the past he's used a variety of drugs. Curiousity, experiments, research for a case - many reasons, all quite well justified in his mind. Nicotine and caffeine are the most harmless of his guilty pleasures, and his use of the two drugs has increased markedly in the past few weeks. He knows why. In a way, John is to blame. The doctor's reaction to the fake drug bust made his opinions on recreational drug use clear to the detective. He's repressed his desire to indulge more than once during the time they've lived together.
Sherlock removes his stash from the fake book, bouncing the small bag idly in one hand while he stares out the window. Evening. John shouldn't be back for a few hours. He's not an addict. He knows that his personality and predisposition to addiction makes this risky, but he's not an addict. A habitual user, at worst. He's hiding this from John to avoid disappointing him, worrying him over something harmless. No other reason.
Enough. He whirls about, scooping up the rest of his supplies, and settles himself on the couch. A small table is pulled over for his use. Pale hands move quickly, familiar with this ritual, laying out the mirror, the blade. Pouring out a small measure - it's been a long time, not too much, just enough to sharpen his mind and bring that euphoric clarity. Sherlock sighs quietly as he looks down at the lines he's cut, perfect and orderly.
This moment is almost as good as what comes directly after. Anticipation.
Stamford is a real clot at times, John thinks as he makes his way back to the flat. He's not the sort of bloke John would prefer to socialize with long term. Dry, and dull, and gone to seed a bit. Flaky, too, as John discovered when he'd already gotten in the cab only to have Stamford call and beg off their evening escapades (which would have involved hours of conversation that got less tedious the more they drank). But the dullness is exactly why John chooses to associate with him periodically. Because Stamford is normal. Normal with a capital N. And he knows just enough about Sherlock Holmes to understand John's periodic rants on the subject.
Still, John isn't particularly pleased with being ditched. He could go out to the pub anyway and try to find someone to talk to, but his recent luck on that front has been abysmal. Better, perhaps, to go home and finish writing up that last case for his blog. He'll make tea, put a robe on, and have a night in. With a sigh, he orders the cabby to take him back to the flat.
John is not normally an extremely quiet man, but he paces slowly and almost soundlessly up the stairs to 221b while distracted by re-reading some of the texts Sherlock sent to him during that particular case. It's only when he shoulders the door open that he starts to speak without looking up. "I can't remember, Sherlock-- did the man in the car know about the woman in the laundromat, or was it just coincidence?"
Panic. If John had been looking, he would have enjoyed a rare sight - the detective, completely surprised, his eyes wide. It only lasts a moment before his gaze is flicking about, taking stock of the situation. Bugger. Not enough time. Maybe John will just go to the kitchen and then to his room.
He rises, lurching to his feet and hastily pushing the small table to the side, one hand moving the false book to help block the worst of it from casual view. Was he quick enough to evade notice? Hard to tell. "Ah," Sherlock begins, straightening his shirt and looking around the flat, into the kitchen, out the window. Anywhere but directly at John, or the table he's just set aside.
"Yes. He knew." The detective makes his way towards the kitchen, ruffling his hair with one pale hand. "Not many coincidences in my line of work. We out of milk?" Come to the kitchen, John, don't stay out there, come on.
Glancing up, John watches Sherlock move through the room. "Right," he says, and starts to shoulder out of his jacket. "I wasn't sure. If you'll recall," he says somewhat peevishly, "I was trapped in a skip at the time." The jacket is hung up, and John follows Sherlock to the kitchen to lean against the doorframe, his phone still in his hand. He watches the taller man. Odd, seems a bit high strung. Not that 'high strung' is strange for Sherlock Holmes, but when John had left he'd seemed calm enough.
"And yes, we're out of milk, if you didn't get some like I asked you to this morning." They gave up on 'my milk' and 'your milk' not long after the Restaurant Incident. Now it's just themilk. Which Sherlock never, ever buys. Well, rarely.
"Turn the kettle on? I want to have a sit," John says, and turns back towards the living room. "Stamford, daft as he is, decided he'd rather have dinner with his ex."
He's following. Good. Think. "Did you ever get the stains out of those trousers?" Sherlock asks absently, his face buried in the refridgerator. No milk. He needs a distraction, John won't stay here long. Damnit. A sit? No, no, that's not good.
"Wait!" The exclaimation is perhaps a bit more vehement than he'd intended. He lets the fridge door fall shut with a dull thud, then reaches over to flick the kettle on. "Ah. Can I borrow your phone?" The detective holds out a hand, clearly expecting John to bring it to him. Now he's just getting desperate. Delaying the inevitable. Part of him is wondering why this matters. Rationally, it's not as if John has a say in what Sherlock chooses to do with his body. He's an adult, he can make these decisions for himself. So why does the idea of John discovering his habit bother him?
His grasping mind catches on something. Stamford ditched John for dinner with his ex. Maybe John hasn't eaten? "Dinner?"
"No, I did not-- they went out with the rubbish," John says, and he has the time to take precisely one step towards his chair before Sherlock's snapped "Wait!" brings him round on his heel so abruptly he almost slams himself into the door frame. "Wh-- what? My phone?" Both of John's eyebrows raise momentarily before his face settles into the same stoic-but-mildly irritated expression he wears whenever his flatmate forgets that he, in fact, has his own pair of legs. With his usual patience, John walks over and places his phone squarely in Sherlock's hand. And then he turns again.
Dinner. "What about it?" John asks, still flat, and only half-turning back towards the other man. Sherlock being Sherlock, the word and its inflection does not translate to John as'Shall we have dinner?' but rather as 'Are you going to make dinner (so I can eat some)?', which may explain the unamused expression on John's face.
"Thank you," He fiddles with the phone briefly --checking something, sending a text-- then hands it back. John's not pleased. A range of potential options flow through his mind. Get John to make something. No, he's definitely not likely to do that. Shame, would be perfect, give Sherlock enough time to clean up. Out, then, and hope that John goes straight to bed after?
"Fancy Chinese?" Sherlock asks, with a significant glance at the state of the kitchen. Fridge mostly empty, the results of his last experiment strewn across any flat surface. "Been cooped up in here all day. My treat."
Behind him, the kettle begins to boil.
That earns Sherlock a blink. The expressions that follow flick quickly over his face, but they're easily read by the master detective: confusion, followed by surprise, then cautious pleasure-- and then a sudden slow-dawning suspicion that brings out that familiar squint. "...Really?"
But John always wants to believe the best of people. For some reason, this is especially true of Sherlock. Perhaps it's because he spends a good portion of his time defending the other man to those who don't know him as well as he likes to think he does. The suspicion fades without prompting and is replaced by a genuine smile. John loves it when he's right. Look at that, Sherlock Holmes being a decent flatmate. "...Alright, then. Right. That sounds great. Forget the tea," he says.
And before Sherlock can stop him, John is heading back towards the living room. "Just give me a tick to make some notes, won't be five minutes." He steps around the couch, looking for his laptop. The sounds of rummaging are followed by sounds of footsteps, more rummaging, shifting a newspaper, more footsteps-- and then silence.
The silence lasts for perhaps ten seconds, and is broken by a single word. "Sherlock."
"Good." He grins, winks. "It's not a date."
The relief Sherlock feels when his frantic attempt seems to bear fruit is almost palpable, even if his expression hardly changes. An evening out with John will be nice. And hopefully less exciting than the first time they went for dinner (although he'll admit privately that it was an interesting night).
John's sincere smile is why he's doing this, why he has to hide the truth from him. That smile is why Sherlock almost grabs the doctor's arm just to stop him from going into the living room; he twitches towards John when he turns to leave, but manages to restrain himself. It would only make matters worse.
So he stands there in the kitchen, ramrod straight, eyes closed. Listening, following John's footsteps. Past the table, doesn't seem to have noticed. Over to the desk. Coming around.. no, back towards the couch. And then silence.
He releases breath he hadn't realized he was holding, opening his eyes. "John."
Out in the living room, John stares down at the empty book, the paraphernalia-- the lines of powder already neatly cut.
His first reaction is a doctor's anger. It's stupidity, pure and simple. Complete idiocy, especially combined with the way the detective steadfastly abuses his body in other ways. Lack of food, lack of sleep, the constant abuse of 'lesser vices' such as nicotine and caffeine. Time after time, John has warned him-- one way or another-- about his habits, and the consequences thereof. He knew, of course, that Sherlock had dabbled in harder substances periodically in the past, but he'd though the man was smarter than to continue with it.
His second reaction is a flatmate's disappointment. John spends so much of his time sharing with Sherlock that it seems like a violation of his own personal space. How did he not know about this? How did he not know it was here? What else does he have hidden around the flat. And it isn't to say that John himself is completely without vices, but he's a solider and a doctor and there are certain things he has no interest in putting into his body, or in letting other people put into theirs. This is one of them.
His third reaction is a friend's feeling of betrayal. It's this he wears as he straightens and walks back towards the kitchen in a measured pace, shoulders squared in military stance. The ramrod straight back, arms down at his sides, chin up-- he wears it like a mask, and his posture will communicate what he feels about the whole thing more clearly than his words will.
"That's why you wanted to go out, then," John says quietly. He's not stupid. He can follow Sherlock's methods. "To keep me from finding that?" He may be unhappy about the drugs, but the tendril of hurt that creeps into his question comes more from the fact that the other man had him fooled.
Back in the kitchen, Sherlock stares down at his hands-- pressed against each other, fidgeting restlessly.
Look at the bloody mess you've made now, Sherlock. He turns his head to the side, pale eyes narrow slightly. The silence from the living room is deafening. Part of him wants to go in there, to explain, but what? What could he say to justify any of this? He knows why he does it, why he sometimes needs it. But could John understand?
As a doctor, no. Sherlock is perfectly aware of the risks, he's done the research.. and several experiments with his best test subject. He knows what those years of medical school are saying to John right now. And what's worse is that he knows John already knows all of this as well; he knows that Sherlock is willingly and knowingly taking this risk.
As a... er, colleague? Maybe. Maybe Sherlock could make his habit(s) clear, find a way to make it okay with his flatmate. It's not as if he shoots up nightly, after all. He doesn't even smoke! The flames of righteous indignation and self-justification begin to fan deep within the detective. It's his body, he can do what he wants with it. A flatmate has a right to ask that he not do it in shared space, that's fair, but really, that's all John could possibly ask--
The little involuntary twitch of his eyebrows at John's appearance reveals his surprise. He expected... anger, perhaps? Not this crisp facade. Not distance. His gut twists at the doctor's quiet question, the hurt behind it-- it's frightening. Any chance of a clever reply is lost, he's too caught up his own reaction, brow furrowed as if John has just posed a riddle instead of a simple yes/no question.
"I..." Sherlock seems like he's at a loss for words, his thoughts distant, and then he takes a deep breath and settles his pale gaze upon the ex-soldier. "I didn't want to disappoint you."
John is generally an open book... but that book is now closed tight, and the cover is wrapped with a steel band and padlocked. His face doesn't change at Sherlock's words, though a spark of something-- anger, perhaps-- flickers momentarily before it is extinguished. It may not have been there at all. He's silent as he stands there, considering the situation.
If Sherlock was expecting anger, John, truth be told, was expecting Sherlock's usual habit of underplaying these sorts of things. A dismissive wave; it's not important to me therefore it cannot be important to you, what -are- you so upset about John? He's not entirely certain how to take what seems to be a genuine admission on the other man's part. It stops his gut reaction in its tracks, pushing him towards a level of analysis he's not accustomed to.
But not five minutes ago, he believed in the human side of Sherlock, and was immediately disappointed.
Seconds tick by, while the solder and the detective square off. But in reality, the silent struggle is not between the two flatmates, but within John himself. He cares-- he's not sure whyhe cares-- about Sherlock's health and well-being. Cares to the point that part of him wants to hit Sherlock right now. And in turn, Sherlock seems to care about 'disappointing' him (he will think about the whys and hows in depth at another time, but for now tries to take it at face value), but may well be lying to turn the situation to his advantage. The drugs themselves... that's a larger discussion; addiction, necessity, risk, personal opinion, and what should or shouldn't be done in shared space. And, of course, Sherlock trying to trick him, offering dinner in exchange for a fight. All of this information chases itself over, around, and through John's head while he remains standing at attention in the kitchen door, staring at Sherlock Holmes.
And then the struggle is abruptly over. John's shoulders relax, and his posture loses some of its stiffness. "Sherlock," he says again, and stops.
Suddenly, he raises a hand to his eyes and rubs briskly. "Why don't we get a takeaway instead."
Not being able to read John is a very uncomfortable experience for the great detective. He's never realized just how much he relies on the other man's openness, his honesty. So right now, with the doctor closed to him, he finds himself oddly exposed.
Action, reaction, consequences. Worst to best, then.
Worst. John could choose to move out, to terminate their... arrangement. This would pose a financial problem, but nothing he couldn't overcome if he actually accepted payment for his services. But more importantly, it would make Sherlock... unhappy. And it would be bad for John too, Sherlock certainly isn't modest enough to downplay how much better John's life is now because of him.
Still bad. John could choose to stay, but deliver an ultimatum regarding drug use. This would make things difficult, as he has no intention of stopping. And, apparently, he suffers from some measure of difficulty lying to John about such things.
Workable. John could choose to stay, and they could work out some form of compromise.
He double-takes, snapping to attention when John's posture abruptly changes. And then, unexpectedly... is the doctor handing him exactly what he couldn't dare to hope for?
Best. John could choose to stay, and they just pretend nothing happened and never talk about it.
A tentative smile twitches at the corner of his lips. "What shall we get? I'll place the call."
With an addendum to 'best' being, hopefully, that Sherlock becomes considerably more discreet about his habits if he doesn't want this sort of thing to happen in the future. It might also be noted that 'never talking about it' may be a bit optimistic. The look on John's face, now that he's opened up again, suggests that this is a temporary tactical retreat and a conversation of some sort will still have to occur sooner or later. But for now, yes, it looks like the doctor is willing to let this go. The hand drops from his face.
"Curry," he says decisively. Because he wants it, that's why. "I'm, ah... going to go shower." And without saying anything else, John turns and heads up the stairs to his bedroom. He's not going out again tonight, and though he doesn't want to fight with Sherlock, there's a part of him doesn't really want to look at him for a little while, either. A shower will reset his brain. And if Sherlock times it right, there will be curry when he comes back down stairs, and all will be right in the universe.
So long as he puts that mess by the couch away.
The scent of the curry is filtering through the flat by the time John has finished his shower. It didn't take Sherlock long to find the best curry takeaway that would deliver to Baker Street, and after that was settled he was able to devote his attention to... tidying up.
A moment of temporary insanity grips him when he looks down at those perfect lines, but then he carefully scrapes them back into the bag. He usually prefers injection, to be honest, but picked up the powder instead after moving in with John. The doctor may not be as observant as Sherlock, but there's no sense risking his notice. The lack of marks on his arm makes it easier to prove his 'cleanliness' to Lestrade when required, as well.
When John returns to the living room he'll notice that it's considerably tidier, and that a handful of decorative items appear to be missing. Temporarily relocated to Sherlock's room, no doubt, until he has a chance to re-organize his stashes.
"Place I ordered from is said to be quite good," Sherlock calls from the kitchen, then appears with a bag in one hand and plates in the other.
John is in his well-worn old striped robe, hair still damp and somewhat mussed, and he settles comfortably in his chair with a grunt of contentment. Yes, that feels better. Slippers, a 'clean' flat (the tidiness isn't lost on John, though he doesn't comment on it), and the wonderful smell of dinner. He glances over the back of his chair to watch Sherlock enter. "I'm starved," he says, "C'mere, then."
And then their time is devoted to the usual complications of eating take-out-- plates and utensils, balancing things awkwardly on knees, figuring out what is stored in what, opening containers, doling out the food, "Mmh, we'll have to stick with this place," John says between mouthfuls, and it seems all is forgotten.
But it isn't, quite. There's a tightness around John's eyes that becomes more apparent as they eat-- the sort of tightness that usually appears when something is bothering him, and doesn't go away until he's talked about it.
"Number's in your phone." Of course it is, why would Sherlock go to find his own phone. It's all the way over there, on the desk. He appears to be enjoying the meal in his own erratic way, taking bits and pieces of various dishes. By the end of it he may have managed to consume enough to meet basic nutritional needs, but it's hard to tell given the state of his plate.
He's finished 'eating' well before John is, and unfortunately his keen observation skills have been hard at work the entire time. It was probably too much to hope that he could get out of that mess without a Serious Conversation.
Yes, well. He can at least delay it briefly. Restless energy and a touch of nerves urges the detective into motion. Unlikely motion, no less - he takes his plate to the kitchen, deposits it somewhere in the general vicinity of the sink, and puts the leftovers in the fridge. Next to the jar of kidneys.
"Problem?" Sherlock asks, as he returns to his seat.
John is taking his time with the last bit of his supper-- he's enjoyed it, and he hasn't eaten much all day, but Sherlock's question comes just as he's started shoving rice around from one side of his plate to the other in a casual effort to soak up the last of the sauce. He glances up at the other man, mouth set in a line. "No," he says slowly, having lived in 221b for long enough that he's not even vaguely surprised that Sherlock has read him so well. "Not a problem, exactly. More of a question."
Sherlock is then forced to wait while John takes that final bite of rice and puts his plate down on the table beside him. He frowns, lifting a hand to scratch at the damp hair over his left ear. "Is there-- is there, honestly, anything I can do to prevent you from doing stupid things that may well lead to your untimely death?" Blinking, John drops his hand to his lap and looks at his flatmate with complete candor. He's not being sarcastic. "I mean, truly?" He actually, if anything, sounds a little hopeless. "Because if there is, and you could tell me, I would appreciate it."
This has been a very odd evening for the master detective.
His life is filled with people who don't matter in the slightest - he can count on one hand the number of individuals who are exceptions to that rule. For the most part, that number has remained constant through his formative year into the present. Mummy. Mycroft, although he'll never admit that out loud. Lestrade is a more recent addition, but more of a practical one. It's convenient to have a Detective Inspector who doesn't hate him, after all.
But Dr. John Watson-- he's in a different category entirely. He looks at Sherlock and he sees something the detective can't even see in himself. And he needs that, he's realized. He needs to see the reflection of himself in John's honest, good eyes.
So Sherlock finds himself in the unique (and somewhat painful) position of self-revelation. He's always been a private person by nature. And now, here's John asking for something he's never shared with anyone. Because he genuinely wants to help. Still, he's going to talk around the issue as much as he can, if John will let him.
"You already have," he confesses, his brows furrowed, and he stares down at his steepled fingers. "This was the first time I've tried. Since you moved in."
And John blinks at him, shuffling in his chair with his short sandy hair sticking in all directions and his robe tucked comfortably around him. "Oh. Well, that's-- that's good, then." There is another pause, and the doctor drops his gaze for the first time, apparently finding the carpet pattern absolutely riveting for the first time since he's lived here. "I'm glad." He means that more than Sherlock could possibly know.
The desire to protect this strange lanky man from the damage he is so clearly capable of doing himself is, at times, overwhelming. His Hippocratic oath has certainly (specifically in Afghanistan) been compromised by other oaths he's taken in his life-- be they military or otherwise-- but nobody has forced him to feel less relevant as a healer on a regular basis than the man sitting before him right now. It's particularly heart-wrenching, considering that John, despite his best intentions, has come to rely on him as the chaotic constant in his life. John's not sure what he'd do without him.
Perhaps that's what makes him clear his throat and raise his eyes to watch Sherlock again. "Er, then... then why tonight?"
For an individual who holds the rest of humanity in such low esteem, Sherlock certainly doesn't possess nearly a healthy enough instinct for self-preservation. He's never given a second thought to putting himself in danger, and frequently scoffs at those who suggest he should be less reckless.
He's tempted to protest, to explain how careful he is, how he knows exactly what he's doing. But John doesn't want to hear that. There's no point. The idea of upsetting his... colleague by continuing this behaviour is unpleasant. The thought of never feeling that again, however, is more unpleasant. It's not something Sherlock is able to give up. Yet.
And now John's asking the question he really didn't want to answer.
"Chemistry," he replies simply, hiding behind the shield of science. "It fulfills certain..." And his eyes narrow briefly, considering his words. "Needs. Certain needs." It makes me feel happy, John. "Helps me think, better than the patches." Just not as easy to use around Lestrade.
John tries to understand. He really does. The effort he takes to do so creases his forehead as he studies Sherlock intently. But the gulf between their two points of view is too wide for that kind of empathy as it relates to drug use, and John's short and quietly frustrated sigh make it clear that he still does not approve. Yes, Sherlock. He rather figured it fulfilled 'certain needs'. Getting high does that. It fulfils the need to be high, you great prat.
"I don't see that you need all that much help thinking," John says almost petulantly, but it's clear that he's already conceded this round to Sherlock. John is not going to pry further into Sherlock's psyche, especially considering the detective has been surprisingly forthcoming so far.
He does, however, have a request. Or maybe it's an order? "Right, well-- next time you need to experiment with... with chemistry," the way he says it makes it sound like Sherlock has been doing lines off a prostitute's backside, "At least let me know. Yes? If there isn't an alternative to-- uh-- fulfil your needs--" you know, like going out, or talking, or something, "-- then at least I'll be around in case something happens."
This offer is made almost briskly, but the shorter man stares squarely at the detective. "I won't talk," he adds, just in case Sherlock would disagree to this on the basis of John interrupting his thinking process under the influence.
He breathes a heavy sigh of relief when John doesn't pursue this line of questioning any further. It's a concept the detective finds difficult enough to understand himself, so trying to explain it to someone else... the irony, of course, is that John would probably understand better than the emotionally-retarded genius.
"Helped me solve a few cases," he shrugs, and there's the casual dismissal that John had expected earlier. It's true, certain highs help crystallize his thoughts. Form patterns. See from a new perspective. Sherlock quirks a little smile. A new perspective, like what John brings to a case. Interesting.
The bomb John drops next, however, is frankly astonishing. His pale stare is... confused. Honestly, truly confused. The good doctor has indeed managed to baffle the detective. He'd already removed his paraphernalia to his room, planned to minimize John's exposure to an activity he clearly found distasteful. And now, to have him offer --no, demand-- to be there when he indulges?
"What?"
The Great Sherlock Holmes, the man who hates to repeat himself and hates it when John repeats himself is now asking for repetition? It would probably be a moment to cherish, if John wasn't already getting defensive about Sherlock's reaction. He shifts in his chair, watching the other man out of the corner of one eye, and frowns. "Yes, well. For safety's sake," he says gruffly. "In case something... went wrong." I know I can't stop you, his expression betrays him by saying, but maybe I could help if you let me.
Were it something else, something safer-- for instance, the nicotine-- that he found objectionable, the 'out of sight, out of mind' approach would work wonders. This is different. Dangerous. John picks irritably at some lint on his robe, feeling somehow exposed. "Don't-- don't do that. That stare of yours. Stop it," he says, then stands abruptly. "In fact, you know what? Just forget I said anything. Tea?" And off he starts, towards the kitchen. "I think we still have some biscuits."
Sherlock was able to tell the moment he met John that this was a stereotypical 'good man' before him. Honest. Moral. Kind. Caring. Honourable. Loyal, as well - he turned down Mycroft's offer after having only known Sherlock for a few hours, an offer delivered with considerable wealth and intimidation. John embodies everything that Sherlock isn't, when it gets right down to it.
And the detective still has absolutely no idea how a man like John could possibly care for him.
He seems ignorant of the distress his stare is causing. The entire concept of the doctor willingly exposing himself to Sherlock's habit just to keep him safe is so deliciously novel, he can't help it. It's only when John rises that he realizes what he was doing.
Bounding out of his chair, moving more swiftly than he has any right to, the detective catches up to John. He rests a hand on the other man's wounded shoulder, pale fingers curling gently over it, and gives it the faintest squeeze. "Thank you." Quietly, under his breath.
Then he's off, past the doctor and into the kitchen, voice back to its normal volume and tone. "Tea. Marvelous."
John is sure of two things in the moment that Sherlock's quiet gratitude makes itself known:
The first is the sudden realization that he will never truly understand this odd, compelling creature with which he shares his life. He may in time get better at seeing cause and effect and extrapolating how it relates to Sherlock. He may, one day, be able to accurately translate 'Sherlockian' to the untrained masses. He may even find that he'll be able to truly predict Sherlock's manic fits and starts, and even accurately determine what causes them... but the detective has depths too deep to ever be fully explored by a man as 'normal' as John H. Watson, MD.
The second fact follows hard on the first: that his knowledge of the first fact makes John deeply, deeply happy on some unreachable level of his psyche, as though some constant he's been searching for has been found and has clicked resolutely into place. John makes a short noise, deep in his throat, and finds himself smiling slightly at Sherlock's retreating back. He isn't quite sure why.
Pausing a moment, John returns to grab his plate before following the detective into the kitchen and going to the sink to start the washing-up. The stress-lines near his eyes have faded. His shoulders are relaxed. He may be humming quietly under his breath. All is well in his universe.
...Well done, Sherlock Holmes.