What Watson sees.

Another day in London, I could hear the congestion snaking its way past the window of 221B Baker Street as I turned to stare out of it, and marvelled at just how extraordinarily grey a day could be. And how boring. Since 'A Study in Pink', there had been no more frantic scuffles out the door, no more unexpected texts and nothing more for Sherlock to deduce. This of course had set his mind on edge, teetering on the precipice that would send him into an almost catatonic state.

Recently, I had observed him spending stupendous amounts of time languishing on the couch in our living room, staring at the ceiling as if hoping a cryptic puzzle would miraculously materialise out of the airtex there and give his mind something, ANYTHING to work over. After witnessing many weeks of his half lidded eyes and Nicotined arms, I had come to the conclusion that his mind must be like a clock. A huge, magnificent time piece that keeps ticking over, and over and over, whether the owner of the timepiece wishes it to or not. But all these cogs and wheels need oiling, and for Sherlock this oil was the rush of adrenaline that accompanies 'The Game'.

I had tried desperately to interest him in something else, even going so far as deliberately sneaking out without telling him, in the hopes that he would jump up from the settee, and proclaim loudly that he knew exactly where I had been by the mud on my shoe, or why I had been by the ink on my thumb or the state of our fridge. But no, these were too trivial matters. He did, of course, observe that I was gone, but revealing how he knew I had nipped to the shop for a pint of milk held no relish. So the wheels had started to grind, and the number of patches had started to increase. Until that day.

As I lay there peering idly out my window, the dull thunder of cars was broke by a loud crack. A horribly familiar shot that echoed of the walls, in a panic I reached for my gun, and found it wasn't in the side draw where I kept it – paranoid. Leaping out of my bed like a mad man, with my thick jumper pulled over my head and my blond bed hair of no concern, I constrained myself enough to stop at the door of our living quarters, only to find Sherlock. With my revolver. Shooting at Mrs. Hudson's wall.

"Sherlock? What the devil do you think you are doing?" I placed my hands over my ears and scrunched my face up against the hideous noise the crumbling plaster was making.

He was sitting in my favourite chair; blue dressing gown flung open, long legs crossed at the ankle and pale arm extended. As he turned his black curls in my direction I saw the sneer in his plump lips and the glittering of his eyes.

"Bored!" He shouted, his deep baritone several octaves higher. "Bored, bored, BORED!"

As he yelled, he sprung to his feet; stood tall and twisted his back so as to shoot from behind it. Another vicious twist and he was standing front-on to the wall, and at this point I must admit I was scared he would do an injury to himself. So I did the first rational thing that came into my mind and rugby tackled him to the ground.

"Mrs. Hudson is going to kill me!"I huffed, and with this, we landed in a tangled on the floor- the gun having spun several feet away and landed on the floorboards like a stranded fish.

"Oh John do get off me!"He said, dryly. "You are rather heavy and I don't want to give Mrs. Hudson ideas" I blushed as he wriggled out from beneath me and stalked off, back to his sofa which I was sure by now had a Sherlock shaped dent in it.

"Tea?" I asked, turning my face away and heading for the kitchen, studiously ignoring the floating eyeball and dismembered finger in the margarine tub that he had yet to get round to processing.

I boiled the kettle with my back to him, busying my work roughened hands with teabags and milk.

"John?" I couldn't decipher his baritone.

Sigh. "Yes? What did I do wrong now? Stop you from demolishing the very nice wall, of the very nice room, that the very nice Mrs. Hudson rents to us?" I was growing a little weary of his childish ways, as no matter how much I studied him I had no propensity for predicting What Would Be Next.

"You're annoyed I took your revolver" He hadn't lost the ability to surprise me with his astounding facility to point out the obvious; of course I was annoyed. He had gone from being a coma patient to a mental man in less time than it takes to say "sociopath". But of course. That was why he didn't understand – it wasn't that he didn't want to, he couldn't.

"A bit. Yes." Tea complete, I shuffled over to the coffee table and placed his drink before him. As I settled back into the depths of my chair he whipped round, facing me, his long nervous fingers placed against his lips as if in prayer.

"You'll never understand. You simply couldn't. Not with a mind like yours"

I had the good grace to look offended.

"You're a soldier" he admonished, screwing up his nose in thought. Oh well that's alright then. I didn't say anything.

He sulked as I sipped my tea – eyebrows raised. His own eyebrows frowned as he sorted bits of unnecessary information out of head. I didn't know for the life of me what he was trying to say.

Sherlock's self deduction

There was nothing for me to do. John wandered through his dreary existence as if he hadn't a care in the world. But I couldn't. I can't. There is always a problem out there – a mystery – a question begging for me to unravel it's weave and find the answer nestled within its fabric.

I can't think trivial things. One's mind is like a room, only fit to be furnished with appropriate furniture for the user's intent. One must refurbish it often with nothing but the most important items, like an intense study of footprints and the men that create them.

So when it's quiet, and nothing presents itself, I crave. I crave the feeling that I get from solving something, entertaining my mind, putting it to use, the ability to walk about my head and pick up the pieces I need. I cannot do this if nothing presents itself, however, if I were to stimulate my senses in a less conventional manner, then the feeling can be achieved. Heroin. Cocaine. Two substances perfect for occupying the mind during lonely days. Once decanted into the bloodstream they make their way quickly to the neurones and allow the brain to be free. Floating on a cloud of euphoria; clear, transcended thought.

But I had promised Lestrade that I wouldn't, and although promises mean nothing to me I know that he values them, as child does their parents word. So instead I lay there; what was the point? Everything was so easy. There was nothing scintillating about John's whereabouts- even he could have told himself where he was going, it was that obvious.

I needed a rush, and I know after many years the sound of gunfire has always provided it. When out on a particularly nasty case with Lestrade, one nuisance petty thief decided his best option was to shoot. He was wrong. If he had considered the proximity and number of the surrounding police officers he would have lain down and forgot all about his fire arm. As it was, he was a foul shot. Two feet to the right and he might have just clipped my earlobe. This did not, however, stop me pressing Lestrade to let me immediately know how to hold and work a weapon; one session was all I was allowed as Anderson had me reported for 'threatening' him.

After exceeding my monthly allowance of nicotine patches (what do they know anyway? They're all so stupid) I snuck into John's bedroom, his curtain was open, and the lamp light lit his profile. I could see by his softly parted lips and scrunched eyes that he was sleeping; one hand thrown carelessly up beside his head and the other resting protectively across his chest – he looked to be dreaming, and not a pleasant one judging by the quick REM I was observing.

That was not my main concern.

I had observed him place his revolver in the top draw of his bedside table, and I know from listening to all available sounds that the second floorboard to the right creaks- this allowed me to obtain the weapon. With a silent two footed leap I backed out of the room, knowing of course that the silence was pointless as I would be violently disrupting it in a few precious moments. I wanted to prove that I could do it.

I collapsed into his chair. It smelt of him, a scent of cologne but a more pungent smell of soap and (Earl Grey?) tea. Taking careful aim at a pre-drawn 'smiley' face, I took off the safety and placed my finger on the trigger. The first shot was nothing, as John had of course kept one empty barrel for safety purposes. Nevertheless, the second, being the calibre it was, was deafening. Crossing my legs lazily, I proceeded to let of another round, trying to empty it before Watson took action. I could see him standing in the door way, a look of what can only be described as pure confusion on his features. Then, in an instant, he made a decision. It was clear in his posture – it changed from that of a man half asleep to a tense, crouched pose. I took advantage of his uncertainty to spring up and attack the wall anew.

But I fully relaxed as I glimpsed him barrelling towards me, muttering something inane about Mrs. Hudson, in the hopes that I would do less damage as I fell. We tumbled through the air in an inconvenient heap of limbs and landed with what, considering our relative masses, must have been a considerable thump.

"Oh John do get off me!"

This was unexpected; as his body made contact with mine the rush didn't dissipate.

"You are rather heavy and I don't want to give Mrs. Hudson ideas"

This was a lie. Mrs. Hudson was out for the night. She had informed me the evening before. The thing was, the rush didn't only sustain its heady wave, but built and coalesced into a point where his torso brushed with mine. An unfamiliar sensation pulsed at all our contact points; this was too much. As he blushed without realising, I wriggled out between his arms, away from his face and headed quickly to the sofa to think. He, obviously, made tea.

And that was how I found myself staring into the depths of a light brown liquid that smelt of just the right amount of sugar, telling him he wouldn't understand. Which he couldn't, but it was not until after my statement that I got the feeling that it was not something he wanted to hear.

I wanted that feeling again. It was like heroin, but stronger. Like cocaine, but more potent. I had been unfortunate enough in my life to be spontaneously hugged by silly but grateful patrons, and not one of them, male or female, had elicited the feeling that Dr. John Watson just did.

This called for a rearrangement of the furniture inside my mind.