The sound of his fingers, tired and unusually uncoordinated, filled the silence as they clinked small pieces of china together. He performed this small ritual many times a day, always clinking the cups together as he moved them around the counter, clinking as though he was unaware of the agitation the minute sound caused his roommate. But then again, with his inferior, dull mind, he probably was.
Sherlock closed his eyes, laying back against the couch with his head on the cushion and his feet propped up on the opposite arm. His long frame stretched, his fingers thrummed impatiently on his abdomen, his right foot twitched as it rested on top of the other. It was quiet, too quiet. Minus, of course, the horrid sound of small china cups crashing together with a force that must have been intended to cause him intense vexation.
Unable to stop himself, he watched out the corner of his eye as John completed his task, carrying the two cups on their saucers into the sitting room, placing one of them on the table just next to Sherlock's lax left arm. Before he turned, he stood up straight and turned sharply on his heels, an ingrained action left over from his military days.
Sherlock ignored the cup, focusing instead on the ceiling as John sat in the armchair only a few feet away.
"Had a bad night, have you?" Sherlock drawled, his tone suggesting that he was completely uninterested in his question being answered, when in fact the truth couldn't be further. He was very much interested, which was not unusual when it came to the habits of his flatmate. There was always something about John's too easily read expressions, his stuttering indignation, his unconscious and unwavering loyalty, that simply fascinated him, though he would never utter it aloud.
"Well, yes, actually. How did you-" Sherlock could just hear his confusion, even his secret interest.
"You neglected to go through your usual routine of washing and brushing your teeth, instead you skipped straight to the coffee. In fact, you didn't even look in the mirror after you relieved yourself. Your hair is sticking up magnificently, because you've run your fingers through it repeatedly. You were obviously up most of the night, if the state of our living space is to be counted as evidence. I am quite certain that I left an empty plate on this table, and my coat was draped over the desk on top of your computer. I have observed over the last few months that you have a habit of straightening up when you're stressed, and I can always tell your state of mind by how tidy the apartment is. It happens to be very tidy this morning. That along with the lack of the usual toothpaste residue on your lips and your incredibly unruly hair, I assume that you've had some trouble sleeping." Sherlock finished, not bothering to turn to his flatmate to witness his reaction. He could already see the frown on his face.
"You haven't even looked at me yet, how did you know about my hair? And what do you mean usual toothpaste residue? There is never any toothpaste residue on my-"
"Hand me my case, would you?" Sherlock interrupted smoothly. Not that he didn't enjoy listening to John's amazed frustration, but he had other matters to think of.
He listened, unsmiling as John paused, opened his mouth as if to speak again, then thought better of it and closed it again, shaking his head in annoyance as he reached over and grabbed the violin case. Sherlock took it wordlessly, fondling it almost lovingly while he laid on the sofa, his right foot still twitching. Days. It had been days.
Sherlock was an amazingly self aware person, he knew he was simply not able to just sit around the house lazing about without purpose. He needed stimulation, the mind must have continuous use, it needs to be stretched and tested regularly if it is expected to remain in perfect working order, especially one as exceptionally brilliant as his own. Surely there was someone out there who had the urge, who felt the pull to the dark, the need to sink into depraved behavior, to kill, to commit a crime. Something. Nearly anything, at this point. He was so bored! He needed something! Something to chase, to hunt! He sighed, a scowl pulling at his features. John's quiet calm, only a few feet away, only made him more desperate for action.
His violin case forgotten on the cushion, Sherlock stood swiftly, pacing around the room, circling around behind John's chair as the smaller man sipped his coffee. His robe fluttered behind him, chasing him, clinging to his frame as he walked.
"What's got you so worked up?" John asked, the breath in his voice hinting at his fatigue.
"Nothing, John, that's the point. Absolutely nothing." He groaned, sweeping his hand through the air as he spoke. "I can't just sit around drinking coffee John, I'm bored! I need something to do!"
"Well you could always have a go at bathing. How long has it been since you've showered? Two, three days? Then there is the state of the kitchen. Have you looked in the fridge? I'm not sure about you, but I can not live off of bat intestines and spoiled milk. Would it kill you to do a bit of shopping?" John accused, taking another sip of his coffee.
"It very well might, yes." Sherlock mumbled, suddenly preoccupied with a flash of yellow out of the window. Some woman walking down the sidewalk, what an awful color she was wearing. It looked like a cross between too ripe bananas and an infants puke.
"Yes well you might as well give it a go, seeing as you've got nothing else to do." John voiced from behind him. Sherlock turned away from the window and it's distractions and walked briskly around to the front of John's chair, leaning down quickly to place his hands on each of the chairs arms. John's eyes widened, the back of his head pressed firmly against the back of the chair in attempt to gain some distance from his sudden proximity.
"And I suppose that you have more important things to do today?" Sherlock asked, his low voice showing more interest than he had intended. He watched John's throat convulse as he swallowed before he answered.
"Sherlock, remember that conversation we had about personal space?"
"You must have something important to do today, maybe that is the reason you had trouble sleeping last night. Is it? Do you have an appointment? You don't have to work today, so it's something else. We have no cases, your therapist appointment isn't until next tuesday. None of these would cause your current level of stress anyway. What is it John? Tell me." Sherlock ordered, studying John's flushed face from only inches away. He could see his pulse beating in his neck, quickly, too quickly.
"If you must know, I have, well, I have a date." John said, after his gaze flickered down in a brief moments hesitation before he stared at Sherlock in what could have only been defiance. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but didn't move away.
"A date? Yes that would explain it. With who? Some little twit from the hospital?" He asked, unable to disguise his irritation.
"She is not a twit and yes, from the hospital. Not that it is any concern of yours." John added sternly. His assumption nearly made Sherlock smile.
The urge was smothered by another thought, sneaking unbidden into his superior mind. John was always so preoccupied when he was, Sherlock nearly gagged at the mere thought of the word, dating someone. As someone who admittedly needed attention and admiration to thrive, he had come to dislike John's relationships. John was the only human on the face of the earth who found Sherlock's gifts as impressive rather than haughty and threatening, and he voiced his awed delight often, praise that Sherlock had unintentionally come to depend on. He couldn't have John pulling away again, not now when he needed the attention the most. No, of course not. Something would have to be done.
"How are you going to have time for a date if you're supposed to be taking me shopping?" Sherlock inquired, his face still only inches away from Johns.
"Nice try Sherlock, but you can go shopping on your own. I am not cancelling my plans."
"No you can't, I need your help. I have no idea which peanut butter to buy, and there is the slight possibility that I might get lost on the way." He insisted, his eyes boring into John's. He watched as John fidgeted, enjoying his obvious discomfort. He was so easily bothered.
"You can't possibly be serious. It is impossible to buy the wrong kind of peanut butter. And what do you mean you might get lost? Surely you've been to the market before." John said, his tone disbelieving.
"Quite wrong you are, as usual. Really, how do you stand it? There are precisely twenty seven different kinds of peanut butter, and no. Could you imagine? How mundane."
Sherlock sighed with frustration, letting his head fall forward and to the side, resting against the side of the chair, a mere breath away from John's face. He sensed rather than saw John squirm again, but he was too distracted to care.
"I love when you insult me. Please, do it again. Do we have to be so close to have this conversation?" He asked, trying unsuccessfully to clear his throat. Sherlock could feel the tickle of his breath on the side of his face. He jerked away suddenly, as if he only just realized indeed how close they had become. He stood ramrod straight, tugging at the lapels of his striped silk dressing gown.
"John, you simply can't leave. I need you here tonight." He insisted and he stepped away from John to pace around the back of his chair again, but not before he noticed the red flush on his flatmates cheeks and neck that still hadn't faded.
It was unnerving to see the physical proof of how much John was affected by him. Unnerving, and strangely flattering. Sherlock had no romantic notions towards his flatmate, his only friend. But then again, Sherlock had never had romantic notions about anyone. He regarded himself to be above such vular needs. Sex was only a distraction from the work, and a very temporary distraction at that.
Not to say that he had never thought about it, had never considered it. Of course he had seen people that he considered to be beautiful, both men and women, but not had ever appealed to him on that level. John was interesting to him, yes. Of course he had considered it, yes, the first moment that he laid eyes on the man. Attractive, but in a more rugged, distinguished way. Short, very short for a man, but well shaped. His face was appealing, but that was about the end of it. He was completely ordinary.
And yet, the flush of his skin fascinated Sherlock, more so now than it would have when they first met only three months ago. He had the strangest urge to lean back down, to close the distance again, to see if he could reignite the now fading blush. But of course, he was well controlled, and he had no intention of acting on such an idiotic and useless compulsion.
In the seconds that had passed as he contemplated this, John had sighed, running a hand over his haggard face.
"I think you can manage one night on your own Sherlock. If you're feeling that wrong about it, call up Mrs. Hudson to keep you company." He stood and nodded with a finality that said the discussion was closed. Sherlock huffed, glaring at him while he briefly contemplated violence. John stood his ground, looking up at him expectantly. His sandy hair was indeed a mess, sticking up in every direction. Sherlock had a sudden sensory image of running his hand through it, pulling it up and away from his scalp. Not quite so pure scientific curiosity had him wondering what kind of expression John would make as he tugged at it, perhaps pulling his head back so that Sherlock could see his face properly.
Had his mind suddenly become addled this morning? Was this how his superior encephalon had unconsciously, since he had obviously not purposefully chosen to do so, decided to deal with his exceptional ennui, by fantasizing about John? The idea certainly had possibilities, but he wasn't going to act on it, despite his suspicions that John might not be completely put off by the idea, if he was being honest with himself.
Sherlock let his gaze flicker down, taking in his disgruntled roommates appearance, his flannels misbuttoned in his haste, unwrinkled even though Sherlock knew he had gone to bed sometime early this morning. If he had slept in them, they would be wrinkled, but since they were obviously not, it must mean that John had slept in the nude, or at the very least in only his underwear.
"Sherlock? Are you feeling well?" John asked, the tone of his voice now concerned. Sherlock snapped his eyes back up to Johns face, realizing that he had disappeared inside of his mind for more than a few moments. They both knew that that kind of behavior was not exactly abnormal for him, but John still showed concern nonetheless. How emotional of him.
"I'm fine." He replied, gathering his wits. He suddenly had the urge to shower. He needed to be alone, away from John. "I am going to take your advice and go clean up a bit. Have fun on your date." He said, tugging at his lapels again. Before John could manage a response, he stepped around him and out of the room.