The crime was solved, and John was almost as disappointed as Sherlock. The case hadn't even been any fun–Sherlock had barely walked onto the field where the body had been found and somehow knew that the killer was a swim coach.

John hadn't really been listening to Sherlock's no-doubt brilliant analysis of why it could be no one but a swim coach—and Lestrade had, with a few calls, determined the woman's ex-husband was a swim coach—but John could tell Sherlock was annoyed with him for his lack of enthusiasm.

Of course Sherlock pretended to find John's amazement at his abilities stupid and boring, but John sometimes thought that being a good audience for Sherlock's genius was at least sixty percent of his (unspoken) job description. Sherlock had once described genius's need for an audience as the inherent "frailty of genius"—but John wondered if he realized it applied to himself. The other forty percent of the job was more fun, and included solving mysteries, fist fights with villains, foot chases around London, and making good use of his trusted Browning.

As much as John had been pleased at the prospect of a new case to keep Sherlock entertained, and maybe bring some excitement into his own life, John had had a long week. Since "the work" had been slow, he'd picked up several shifts at the clinic. He hadn't had dinner yet, and turned to Sherlock and asked if he wanted to get take away and go home.

It was the yawn that set Sherlock off, John realized. But he couldn't help yawning when he was tired, even if it let loose the insecurity Sherlock tried to hide behind his arrogant facade.

"John, I've always wondered, do you actively try to be boring, or is it just a consequence of all the boring people you associate with and boring things you choose to do with your time?" Sherlock asked.

Not one to get upset in public, (in fact, he'd been called unflappable more than once), John nevertheless wasn't about to let Sherlock tear him down in front of the Yard, who already seemed to think John was some kind of doormat who only followed Sherlock around because he was in love with him or something. So he said something he probably shouldn't have, but had always wondered about.

"Do tell, just how boring am I? You'd know after all. You go through my things, hack and read my emails, listen to my voice mail, interrogate me constantly about my every move and motivation, turn up in places you could only be if you were following me...I don't think you find me boring at all. Actually, the fact that you've known me for years and still maintain this level of surveillance would lead me to deduce (assuming I knew anything at all about the science of deduction), that you actually find me rather endlessly fascinating," John drawled.

"Fascinating? You? Don't flatter yourself," Sherlock sneered. "You're just the closest person around to practice my deductions on."

"Oh, I see. And that's why you didn't even bother to learn anything about Lestrade, even his first name, after literally years of close association with him?" John asked.

The DI looked up from the corpse, grinning. "He's got a point, Sherlock."

"I probably knew all about him at some point, I just deleted it," Sherlock muttered.

John laughed, feeling that he had gotten his own back without ridiculing Sherlock unduly, which he was fully capable of, had plenty of ammunition for, and completely refused to do. He didn't want to give Donovan anymore reason to call Sherlock freak, and he didn't want Sherlock to ever think John would make fun of him. He didn't feel at all guilty for standing up for himself, though, especially since Sherlock was about as far from sensitive as you could get.

Nevertheless, he had a feeling that Sherlock had rarely been teased or engaged in any friendly banter in his life, which was a shame because he absolutely loved it. So he made his voice sound gently teasing and elbowed his friend jocularly in his ribs. "Relax, would you? Just taking the piss. Let's get out of here. I'm dead on my feet."

Sherlock smiled and followed John, all good humour apparently restored, but was uncharacteristically quiet on the cab ride home. John wondered vaguely what he was thinking about, but knew from experience it was better not to ask.

Sherlock was trying desperately to find a flaw in John's logic.

Did he really find John "endlessly fascinating"?

Boring old jumper-wearing John?

Sure, John was tolerant of Sherlock's eccentricities, and respected the work, and even considered Sherlock his best friend—which no one had ever done before—but that only made him bearable, not fascinating.

John was the only person who didn't really annoy Sherlock too much. He was an idiot, but he was unobtrusive about it. He didn't feel the need to try (and fail) to one-up Sherlock and find a way to get the better of him (which was good because, aside from the odd flash of brilliance, John never would); he allowed Sherlock to dominate conversations, situations, his whole life, and yet he wasn't diminished by it at all.

"Are you going to eat that?" John asked.

Sherlock looked around. Apparently they'd made it back to the flat, John had ordered food, and he'd already eaten most of it. Sherlock had been too busy thinking to touch his food much, and, even though he didn't really want it, Sherlock pulled the spring roll closer to himself possessively. "I'll eat it. Give me a minute," he said.

The irony that he was secretly obsessing over John's character directly after denying doing that very thing was not lost on him. He resented John for starting him on such a useless train of thought, and took the only petty revenge at hand, stuffing the spring roll in his mouth with visible satisfaction.

John shrugged his shoulders, apparently unaffected, as usual. Sometimes John's calm demeanour was a balm for Sherlock's restless energy, but more often it was a source of unending annoyance to Sherlock. How could anyone have such a placid mind? It was ridiculous.

It was a tiny bit admirable, though. Although Sherlock recognized that he would never waste his valuable mental resources on something as useless as self-discipline, he didn't exactly feel that John had wasted his effort. His even temper was actually impressive, and forced people who would otherwise care nothing for his opinion to stop and listen to him.

Like Sherlock, apparently.

Sherlock had said something to John, which most people would find hurtful. John had retaliated with a gentle ribbing that had cut close enough to home to make him stop and think about what he said to John in the future. John had thus proven he could have the upper hand if he wanted to without descending into meanness or ridicule.

Was this just because John was older and more mature? As a veteran he had to have seen a lot of horrible things, which could put a lot of petty annoyances into perspective. Sometimes John even made Mycroft seem immature, which was bloody brilliant.

Without that maturity, John, Sherlock realized, would be even less able to deal with the banal, repetitive horrors of daily life than Sherlock was. For god's sake, the man could hardly use a chip and pin machine without breaking down.

Was this the reason Sherlock seemed to want to impress John, all the time? Was this why he still liked John's praise, even though it was unnecessary because Sherlock knew he was brilliant and he knew by now that John knew it, too?

And how could John, just by telling Sherlock he was "taking the piss", make Sherlock forgive a comment which would have sent him into a royal snit if Mycroft, for instance, had said it?

Sherlock knew the answer, of course. John was like the popular boys in school—normal, socially brilliant, relaxed in his own skin, successful in all the acceptable pursuits such as sports and coming onto women—who had always thought he was too smart, or too weird, or too tall, well, really, just too different to associate with. Sherlock had pretended not to care, and in a way he really hadn't cared, because he was self-aware enough to know that he made them feel inferior but not socially motivated enough to make an effort to stop making them feel inferior. But now that he had John as a friend he wanted to hunt down all those pretty things who had rejected his friendship and point to John and say—"look, I have him, and he's worth ten of you". In fact, he'd come dangerously close to saying this to Sebastian, which John had apparently disapproved of, although possibly that had been because John had been trying to con the banker into giving him money at the time.

The best thing about the way John treated Sherlock, strangely enough, was not killing someone to save his life. It was not taking him too seriously. How is it that he had demanded that everyone from his mother to the principal of his secondary school to the police authorities take him seriously, and the one person who didn't was the one whose opinion somehow meant the most?

Was Sherlock just contrary?

Maybe it was just the fact that John was the only person Sherlock had ever met (who wasn't a psychopathic master criminal) who Sherlock could share a laugh with, and know, he gets me.

He's laughing for the same reason I am.

He likes it when the world goes off kilter and things get dangerous, just like I do.

Sherlock watched John putter around the kitchen making a midnight snack—or was it breakfast? Yes, it was breakfast. He'd thought about the man all night. Hopefully he'd slept without realizing it. It would be less humiliating that way.

"I don't find you endlessly fascinating," Sherlock called to him.

"Sherlock, you can't really still be thinking about that," John said. He came and leaned against the kitchen wall, smiling in a gentle way that led Sherlock to believe he was still half asleep. "I didn't mean anything by it."

"It's more interesting than the case I don't have," Sherlock said.

"So if you don't find me endlessly fascinating, why are you so interested in me?" John asked. "What about me could lead you to think about me all night long—that sounded a bit wrong, didn't it?"

"You're my friend," Sherlock said simply.

Sherlock was a little shocked that that answer seemed to satisfy John as well as any of the myriad he had come up with.

"I'm going out this afternoon," John called.

"Why? What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing that should concern you," John said. "After all, I'm not in the least bit fascinating. I'm going to shower, unless you need in the loo for anything."

"No, no, go ahead," Sherlock said mildly.

He wondered if there was any clue as to John's plans in his email.

Only one way to find out…