Everyday Life In 221B

John sitting in his usual spot, updating his blog from the case that Sherlock had finished just two days ago. He had made an attempt at getting Sherlock to eat but as usual, his efforts were fruitless.

After a weekend of drifting around the house, John looked at his watch to see that it was approaching midnight and thought about heading to bed as he he was due in to work the next day. Sarah, the clinic manager, was known for not being thankful when doctors arrived looking like death warmed up. John powered down his laptop and stood to leave.

Sherlock lay sprawled out on the sofa, dressed in his dressing gown and pajamas per usual. His mop of black curls nearly covered his eyes as he stared intensely up at the ceiling. Not like he hoped to find anything interesting there. It was simply better than just looking over the general boredom that was the flat. Sure, it wasn't completely "neat" but it was organized. Organization was dull.

The man brought his violin up to his shoulder and played a series of discorded notes. God, how long could he go on like this? There hadn't been a case at all for the past four whole days! He soon decided that the violin was boring today. Everything was-- terribly, unbearably boring!

"JOHN!" He bellowed, groaning. He needed something to keep his brain from rotting; something to make him think!

John stopped in his tracks, breathed out steadily, reminding himself to stay calm. "Yes, Sherlock?" He forced a small smile and clenched his teeth. Sherlock was always at his worst when he hadn't had a case for days. This time was particularly bad for reasons that john could not fathom, but still had to put up with.

He pivoted round to face Sherlock as he waited for the response.

Sherlock took a deep breath of air through his nose, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He could simply feel that he was angering John, or annoying him, or whatever, and if he opened his eyes, he could deduce it in a second. Of course, that didn't matter. It was actually much more interesting that all this... nothingness going on.

The detective let go of the breath with a loud sigh, setting the violin down. "I'm bored, John," he mumbled as he opened his eyes to stare up at the ceiling. "So, so, so bored..." He rolled over to face him with a frustrated, and almost exhausted look.

John could't help but drop his head to look at Sherlock. Sympathy rocked through his body. Why did this man - this amazing man - have such an effect on him? And why this effect? He physically, and mentally, could not stay angry at him.

"And what do you want me to do about it? I'm due at work early tomorrow, and you know how Sarah is. I can't... I don't know how I can can help." John stared back at his, knowing he wasn't going to get to sleep for another few hours yet.

((Sorry. A friend popped over unexpectedly. I'm back now, though!))

Ah. So John wasn't going to be truly angry at him-- it was quite clear from his body language. No, he'd just be mostly annoyed. It was clear from his slight slouch and from his eyelids that he was tired, or, at least, not in the proper shape to waste too much energy on emotion. Boring. Just like everything else, it was boring. Sherlock felt like he wanted to tear out his hair.

"Bring me a case, and a good one! Or just-- just something to distract my mind!" He shouted, directing his voice back up at the ceiling. The man kicked his legs up and they fell back upon the sofa with a loud thud. It was soon accompanied by a loud groan. "Why do I care about your work of all things? Dull... dull, dull, dull... And Sarah-- why should she matter? They don't! They don't at all."

Whatever sympathy John had for Sherlock only moments ago was now completely gone. He moved his head back on his neck and headed for the door but stopped to respond.

"It's good to have insight to what you think of me and my life." John was nearly whispering, but the force of his words made up for it. "As for the case, I'll call Lestrade from work. I'm sure he can fix you up with a cold case or something.

"I said a good case!" Sherlock whined, not particularly caring about the hurt sort of tone to John's voice. Oh, he noticed, of course, but no sentiment or emotion was stirred. That would be uncalled for and stupid. But he... he didn't really want John to go. If he left, he'd have no chance of entertainment. He'd also have to deal with an unhappy John, too, which was never fun.

Sitting up, he brushed his long, tangled curls out of his eyes. "Don't bother with the case," he called out after the man. "Could... you, um, do something for me?"

John sighed again, but the thought of Sherlock owing him was tempting.

"I suppose. What do you want?" John lightened up ever so slightly, but not enough to make Sherlock think that everything was okay now. He returned to his seat so that the conversation could continue without him falling to the floor through tiredness.

Hmm. Well, at least John wasn't going to ignore him. That was always annoying. It was good to see that he wasn't leaving, still.

"Help me get some new bodies to do experiments on." Sherlock sat up completely and turned to him, a somewhat mad expression lighting up behind his eyes. A thousand and one ideas were already brewing in his brain.

John's eyes widened immediately at the idea of helping Sherlock drag a number of bodies up the stairs to 221B. This is when he realised that, in all the time he had lived with Sherlock Holmes, he had never seen him bringing a body into the flat. Of course he saw all the different parts of it dotted around. For example, fingers in the biscuit tin and eyeballs in the microwave, but he had never seen him physically drag a body through the door.

"I'm sorry wha..." He cleared his throat. "What? You want me to help you... get bodies.. to experiment on?" John put his hand to his forehead to while he thought though the idea. It wasn't the worst thing Sherlock had ever put to him and he doubted there would be worse ideas in the future.

Sherlock watched the doctor's reaction closely and was quite disappointed when the man didn't seem nearly as excited about the idea as he. It was clear from the way he was avoiding eye contact and having trouble speaking that he definitely would regret doing it. He wouldn't be any help at all, probably.

It didn't take long for the detective to immediately return to being bored. Bored and irritated.

"Well what would you suggest we do instead?" He asked, crossing his arms, obviously growing frustrated.

John was getting very obviously agitated now. He shifted his body around on the seat awkwardly.

"I don't know, Sherlock. Only you know what's going to satisfy this... need of yours. If you need bodies, get bodies, but I don't see why you need my help. You always have body parts lying around the place. Use them." John stood up and marched off to his bedroom while he cooled off.

"URGH!"

Sherlock threw himself back onto the sofa, giving up. For some reason, he lost all interest in bodies. He lost interest in anything. Why did John have to be so bloody difficult? The man buried his face into a pillow and let go of a very loud and heavy sigh. "Boooooooored!"

John could hear Sherlock's whining from his room. He listened as he trudged around the flat, picking things up and dropping them again. What was he up to? Why could he not entertain himself for five minutes like an ordinary person? The simple answer being: he's not simple person. Behind Sherlock's cool exterior is a complex web of intelligence and ignorance that John Watson was honoured to have slowly unraveled in front of his eyes, whether it be through deductions, experiments or music.

John returned to his laptop and opened up his blog to finish up that case from the other day. After five minutes it was done and he found himself staring at the ceiling in silence, thinking over the time he had spent with Sherlock.

For more than an hour, Sherlock lay there on the sofa. Eventually, though, he picked himself up, beginning to aimlessly pick up objects from recent cases (or "souvenirs" as John called them, always being much too sentimental.) He wondered to himself what made them so great, and found, as he went from miscellanea to miscellanea, that he couldn't quite... pin it down. Yes, they all had aspects of difficulty and mystery to them, but other than that... And they were different from the cases he solved by himself, too. That made it all the more troubling.

Already losing interest in whatever he was doing, the man flopped back into the arm chair. He needed a case and fast-- he could feel it. At least he needed something to do. With a loud huff, Sherlock got to his feet and went to fetch his coat, scarf, and shoes.

John could hear the scurrying of Sherlock's feet going down the stairs.

"I suppose he's off out, then."

John was reading a book at this point, but was struggling to stay focused. It was one that he had read a number of times before but loved to go back to. He chucked it onto the bedside table and laid down on his side, pushing his head into the pillows. As it had done with Sherlock, boredom filled his mind and now he didn't have Sherlock to look after for the rest of the evening.