(Untitled)

[notapsychopath]

This is without a doubt one of the stupidest things Sherlock has ever experienced. He's sprawled in an armchair, a book lying open and unread in his lap, a nicotine patch on each arm, staring listlessly at the wall.

Stupid. His eyes flick down to the book and he concentrates on the words, reading for what must be half an hour, if not forty five

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[drpsychosomatic]

Sent home from Sarah's yet again, John's suffering an unshakeable feeling of discontent that can't be explained away entirely with how bloody cold it is outside. Frustration would be a more suitable word, but he can hardly feel that and be as gentlemanly as he likes to believe he is- so discontent it is. He trudges through the last remnants of last week's snowfall irritably, counting paces. Sherlock probably knows he does it- probably knows he's been counting paces from the underground station exit to the front door for the last week or so- if only because it's a remarkably stupid and pointless thing to do. Sherlock's an expert in pointless. The expert.

Hardly noticing that his thoughts have turned yet again to the pale, lanky bastard who's probably burned the kitchen down in his absence, John unlocks the door and makes his way up the stairs, stomping off ice on the rug outside the flat before making his way in.

"You're up," he mutters at Sherlock, unwrapping the scarf from his neck- Sarah's scarf. She didn't want him to freeze, after all. "Think it's going to refreeze tonight- not worth going out tomorrow until after lunch, at least."

[notapsychopath]

Sherlock notes everything- the scarf first. It receives a malevolent glare, and he wonders precisely what experiments he could do that would possibly involve a scarf and something explosive. He can, off the top of his head, come up with seven.

Tomorrow should be fun, then.

His eyes flick over John. Irritated, frustrated, unlikely to put up with much- and he's been counting paces again, too, probably, though that's hard to know for certain in this instance. He also- judging from his clothes, his state of mind, his expression- hasn't had sex.

Sherlock, satisfied, returns his gaze to his book. Blinks once. Goes over what has just gone through his head one more time, with a kind of surprise.

John hasn't had sex with Sarah...and this is a good thing. Because, Sherlock reasons- because, obviously, he'd have been detained for longer if they were- ugh. Sherlock's poked through more dead bodies and unsavoury things than most people see in their nightmares, but the thought of John and Sarah- no. How vile.

It's a good thing because it means he's home sooner, and because it means he's less distracted from important things like crime and Sherlock, and because it means that nothing vile has taken place and Sarah has kept her distance- and this reasoning is only going in circles.

"Not worth going out full stop, actually," he says, defaulting to pessimism and staring at the page.

[drpsychosomatic]

John makes a noncomittal noise, balling the scarf up and debating throwing it, because he is frustrated, dammit-- but relents and hangs it up, covering it with his jacket.

Enough. Thinking about Sarah and trying to work out what it is he's doing wrong will only frustrate him further. He forces a smile at Sherlock.

"You're not going to that auction after all, then?"

[notapsychopath]

"Ugh. No." His mouth works on autopilot as his brain struggles through the countless things about this situation that make no sense at all, trying and failing to label them and put them in their proper, logical place. "The police took the liberty of apprehending the thief- based on my deductions- before I could have any fun." He licks a finger and turns a page. "And they wonder why I don't share evidence with them."

He saw that hesitance with the scarf and analyses it, even as he tries to focus on the text. Sentimentality? Hardly. That was annoyance he'd seen in John's eyes.

Again; good.

[drpsychosomatic]

"So you've got a busy day of lounging around on the couch planned, then?"

It's not fair, really, being irritable with Sherlock when it isn't his fault- but right now John can't bring himself to care. He feels like a complete pillock for even bringing a condom. Can she tell he does that? Maybe she thinks it's like he's expecting--

Really, enough. He can't work out what to do with his hands, rubbing them together as if to warm them up- but they're not cold, they were in his pockets. Tea. He'll make tea. Maybe even grab a couple of hobnobs. He makes his way through to the kitchen without waiting for a response, knowing full well from experience that he'll be able to hear Sherlock's doubtlessly witty retort perfectly well while filling the kettle.

[notapsychopath]

"Hardly my fault the police hog all the interesting criminals." Hardly my fault you're in a bad mood because Sarah wouldn't sleep with you, he amends silently, smirking down at the book. Because Sarah's...

The word escapes him. Vile? No. Annoying? No. Boring? No. Well, she's all three, but that's not what he's trying to express right now. He gives up for the moment. It'll come easier to him with caffeine. "And tea would be lovely," he adds in a quieter, sardonic tone, sounding arch and reproachful, as if he deserves the moral high ground. "Thank you for offering."

[drpsychosomatic]

"Some detective you are," he hits back, getting two mugs out of the cupboard and letting them clink none too gently on the countertop, one-two. "Can't work out how much water I've put in the kettle from how long the tap was running?"

Where were those biscuits anyway? He doubts Sherlock's eaten them all, if he's eaten anything today. Idiotic man.

[notapsychopath]

"You have a tendency towards over-filling it anyway," lies Sherlock, who had been far to wrapped up in thoughts of appropriately cruel adjectives for Sarah to concentrate on the sound of water flowing in the kitchen. Noting the rattle of cupboard doors opening, doubtless due to John searching for the biscuits, he adds, "Under the sink, next to the drain cleaner."

Yes, Sherlock does know what drain cleaner is and knows where in the kitchen it resides. This is more of a fluke than anything, however; he hasn't grasped the concept of things having proper places, hence why the cupboard under the sink houses the hobnobs he removed from the counter earlier to make way for a microscope and assorted bits of scientific paraphernalia. It was closest.

[drpsychosomatic]

"What the hell are they doing there? In the packet still, I hope..."

He shakes his head and retrieves the (mostly full) packet, putting it aside as he pulls out a couple teabags and dumps them in the mugs. They need a biscuit jar. Maybe one of those sets for tea, coffee and biscuits.
God, but he's thinking about ceramics. That's what the unholy tag team of Sarah's inexplicable reluctance to let him into the bedroom and Sherlock's superior wit has reduced him to. He pours out the kettle and dunks the teabags moodily.

"We're out of assam," he notes. "You like that one or the lady grey better?"

[notapsychopath]

"Assam," Sherlock informs him shortly, worrying a corner of one page until a tiny triangle of the paper rips off. He glares at it and flicks it away. He keeps fidgeting. Not a good sign. What is wrong with his ability to concentrate today?

[drpsychosomatic]

The mug with the Assam in for Sherlock, then- as tempted as he is to have it himself. Even though he prefers Lady Grey. Carrying the packet of biscuits in under his arm, he places Sherlock's tea on the coffee table, not quite setting his own down yet- he's considering taking his mug up to bed, where his irritable mood will only affect himself.

"I'll get some more tomorrow after lunch. You want anything else?"

[notapsychopath]

"I'm going to need at least three cups between now and then," Sherlock says, though his voice sounds too detached to be really annoyed. He'll beg, borrow and steal from Mrs Hudson if necessary. He turns his thoughts to the question- what does he want?- and the word for Sarah arrives unbidden in his mind, turning up, as these things do, the instant he stops searching for it.

Lucky.

Oh.

Well.

Well.

"That's new," Sherlock murmurs, more to the book than to John, in a tone of slight shell-shock.

[drpsychosomatic]

John's halfway through crafting a biting response to Sherlock's demand that he drag himself out to buy more bloody assam right there and then-- but Sherlock's half-whispered words distract him.

"What is?" he asks, putting the mug down on the coffee table with a soft clink of finality. Sounds like Sherlock's got a case.

[notapsychopath]

Sherlock glances up from the book, as if he's just been reminded that John is there. This is, of course, absolutely not the case.

"What? Oh. Nothing." While he's usually pale, 'waxy' might be a more appropriate word now, but he can manage an approximation of being fine aside from that. He is, after all, an excellent actor. "Reading." The book is entitled The Ancient Art of Strangulation, because Sherlock thinks fiction is just what people read when they've run out of interesting non-fiction, and in his world, 'interesting non-fiction' tends to involve death. Death or bees.

His head is spinning, and intellectually, he's fairly sure he knows this can't be right. For goodness' sake, he is not a teenager. In fact, even as a teenager, nothing this ridiculous happened to him. He's making facts fit theories rather than the other way around.

Lucky, he thinks again. Notes the lack of sex, the condom John had taken and then also returned home with, John's relative mood. Wonders if perhaps he should amend that to ungrateful, though he's not sure if sex interests him or not. It's certainly never been anything but boring before- not that he's had any particularly wide experience. Not even that he's had a normal level of experience, whatever a normal level is. Another licked finger. Another page turn. John isn't ever boring, despite what Sherlock frequently claims.

It's with quite a detached air that he calmly comments to himself, I'm entirely doomed.

[drpsychosomatic]

John forces a smile and sits down in his chair with a soft groan. He's sore from walking too fast in the cold- from walking an extra tube station's distance to try and work off the irritation. He sips his tea.

"Strangulation? Would have thought we'd done enough of that recently. How are those rope burns healing?"

[notapsychopath]

"Hm? Fine." He has, of course, been paying no attention at all to John's medical advice, but for a drama queen he's good at ignoring pain. It's all just transport, after all.

Just transport.

He's still nervously fidgeting with the corner of the page, the fingers of his other hand drumming on the book as he glances up, giving John another long look.

"Sarah was her usual..." A word, a word, a word, why must he spent so much time looking for adjectives for that damned woman? "...charming self, I see," he drawls. He can't help himself. Best to needle a little. Gather information. Familiarise himself with the basics of the situation before getting too closely involved. Not that he intends to get involved in any way which could be...messy. No, if it comes to that, it would be better to simply cut ties altogether.

He can't seem to stop tapping his fingers. He clenches his hand into a fist in an attempt to stop himself.