It was a gloomy Sunday morning in Baker St, and within 221B loomed an even gloomier atmosphere. It had been four days since Sherlock had solved a case, and I was feeling the full brunt of his frustration. His boredom took effect in numerous forms; from annoying habits – like picking his teeth – to, on one very recent occasion, playing Russian roulette with an old-style revolver, at the time I was returning with the weekly shopping. I had even called in Detective Inspector Lestrade and begged him to stop. He then told me he ran out of bullets after shooting the couch cushions, and pointed to a pair of mutilated cushions, with stuffing exploding from every singeing bullet hole. Shame, I liked those – they might have been able to hide my red face of embarrassment. Right now, he's perched on his armchair with his feet tucked up close to him, resting his head on his knee caps. His iPhone sat on the coffee table between us, his usually piercing blue eyes staring listlessly into the screen. The flat was eerily silent as he willed the phone to ring by gazing into it, while I flicked through last week's Sunday paper, trying not to invoke a sullen complaint from Sherlock.

'John… I'm bored' he muttered, probably more to himself than to me.

'You know you solved a case less than a week ago?' I responded. He sat up and wore a frown across his sharp, angular face.

'Oh, it was hardly a case, John. How did no one notice the relationship between the screwdriver and the chocolate biscuits? God, you haven't even written a blog about it yet – even you, on some subconscious level, think it's stupidly obvious, too!' he retorted, exasperated at the level of 'stupid' to which he felt subjected. I rolled my eyes and let my paper crumple beneath my arms.

'How could someone POSSIBLY make a connection between those? I mean, honestly! How does someone identify a brand of chocolate biscuit from a few little crumbs found near the point of entry? And the exact brand and serial number of a screwdriver that was used to jimmy the back door open?' I asked in desperation, straining myself to try and see from Sherlock's super-computer perspective. He ruffled his curly locks with his long fingers and head-butted his knee caps in sheer frustration.

'The hell does it matter? I'm bored, people are stupid and I want a case!' he shouted through his bared teeth, slamming his fist onto the arm of his chair. Suddenly, the silent iPhone bleeped and whirred on the coffee table. I will say at this point that this is the first time I have ever seen Sherlock dive from his armchair to answer his phone. He didn't even stop to listen to the ringtone.

'Lestrade?' he asked, hopefully. I looked on, wondering who was on the other end. Judging by Sherlock's expression, Lestrade is asking for Sherlock's opinion on a new and difficult case. Wow, I thought, maybe even I can do the whole deduction thing, too. He looked at me with an encouraging smile. I smiled back and nodded, hoping his mood wouldn't become even more sour if this case proved as 'obvious' as the last. I'm still trying to figure out how a screwdriver and biscuit crumbs convicted a man, but regardless, Sherlock solved that case in a matter of days. He ended his call, and looked back at me. I blinked, not really knowing what to say.

'Good news?' I asked. He tilted his head on the side and winced, as if he didn't know whether it was.

'Someone's dead in Trafalgar Square. Can that be considered a good thing or not?' he asked as he walked to the table to grab his coat and slip it on. I nodded enthusiastically.

'Whatever stops you from shooting pillows and picking your teeth' I smirked, as I jumped to my feet. Sherlock gave me a sardonic glare and slipped his favourite scarf around his slender neck and we headed out towards another case, which hopefully won't be as 'obvious' and 'stupid' as the last.