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Dopamine; Or, How Lestrade Somehow Manages To Put Up With The Most Insufferable Consulting Detective Alive (Or Dead)

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“Could you hurry it up a bit?” Lestrade grumbled, arms crossed.

“Genius cannot be rushed.” Sherlock bit back, scowling over his shoulder.

Lestrade was glad that his irritability could be blamed on the case, which had been dragging on for quite some time. If Sherlock had known his real reason for his impatience, he might have died from embarrassment.

Because, the fortunate thing about having a mind like Sherlock’s is it’s addictive nature. The rush of dopamine that hit his system the moment he solved a puzzle meant that he also, well, felt like sharing some of the goodwill.

In layman’s terms, the last time Sherlock solved a case (a serial killer who had used old ethernet cables as a murder weapon) it had lead to him getting a truly spectacular blowjob in the men’s room.

So he waited, patient, for the first hour.

Then the second.

Then the third.

By that time, Sherlock had forgotten completely about Lestrade’s presence, and was pacing frantically, alternately staring at the carpet as he wore a hole in it, or at the confetti of evidence littering the wall of the flat.

Sherlock’s gasp woke Lestrade out of his tired glaring. In a moment, he shot out of his chair and was peering at the wall where Sherlock was gaping.

“What is it?” Lestrade queried, running a tired hand through his hair, leaving it ruffled up. He didn’t bother trying to smooth it. (He hoped to have a better reason to have it ruffled in a few moments.)

“Don’t you see?!” Sherlock was practically quivering with excitement, eyes alight. He frantically pointed to the large map on the wall. “The killings centered around the first victim’s favorite restaurant!”

Lestrade was far too gone to care at this point, and struggled to get his mind to focus (‘God, those hands...’) on the matter at hand. “So..?”

“So?!” Sherlock spun to face him, and gripped his shoulders. For a brief moment, Lestrade’s hope for more skyrocketed. “It means we have a murderer to catch!” Sherlock practically ripped his coat off the back of the door as he sprinted down the stairs. “Hurry!”

He could have cried. He settled for a groan of frustration as he launched after Sherlock, trying to content himself with the idea that maybe after they caught the man, he might get a little dopamine himself.

Maybe this was the reason John followed Sherlock so loyally.