Sherlock was curled on the sofa, facing the wall. The snow fluttered against the window, and the fire crackled gently. John had set the radio to festive tunes, and had set a mug of tea (still steaming) on the coffee table for Sherlock. How he resented the pleasant domesticity of it all.
He was in the throes of 'Post Case Funk', Stage 5. John had made up the childish term - he had actually catalogued Sherlock's disintegration into complete self-destructive boredom and divided it into stages (Sherlock had been equal parts peeved and impressed when John had revealed this to him - John's skills of observation and analysis were improving).
Stage 1 was the obsessive filing of case information into the neat compartments of his mind palace. This could take hours, if the case was a 7 or above.
Stage 2 saw Sherlock narcoleptic, as the adrenaline finally ran out. He was prone to fall asleep wherever he stood, and stay there for at least 12 hours. John had become very good at keeping an eye on him in this stage, after the near-disaster where Sherlock had almost fallen into the fireplace.
Stage 3 was the experimentation - be it at the Bart's mortuary, or - to John's vexation - the kitchen table.
Stage 4 saw the violin make its entrance; discordant mayhem if the case had been below a 6, and something more melodic if the case had been satisfying.
Stage 5 was resentment at the world for its lack of creative criminals. Shorter than usual temper, venomous sarcasm and general sulking characterised this phase.
Stage 6 was where the boredom became outwardly destructive, and objects around the flat began to suffer.
Stage 7, and Sherlock reached for the cigarettes by the tens - or anything, really, he wasn't fussy - to quieten the relentless noise in his head.
He was beginning to consider how angry John would be if he carved a portrait of Erwin Schrödinger into the bathroom mirror when his phone rang. It was Lestrade. "This one's right up your alley, Sherlock. In more than one way."
Sherlock got up and glanced out of the window, up the blustery street. He rolled his eyes before deigning to respond. "It's a street, Lestrade, not an alley."
He ended the call and slid his phone into his pocket before clapping with glee. The mirror was spared for now. "John! A case! Just up the street, number 202 by the looks of it. 21 ideas so far."
John emerged from his bedroom, already donning a jacket over the ridiculous red and navy jumper he kept specially for the festive season. "Oh, good. Nice juicy serial killer for you then?" he said, with only a hint of dry humour. "I was starting to worry for Mrs Hudson's walls if we didn't get one soon."
"No, kidnapping I think," Sherlock pulled his coat on, already halfway down the stairs. "No ambulances," He paused, frowning up at John. "I haven't damaged the walls in months!"
John feigned a chuckle. "Oh, of course, how could I forget? You moved on to the kitchen table last time."
Sherlock shrugged and continued down the stairs, too excited about the case to let John's resentment bother him.
The table had been ugly anyway.
