On most occasions, Holmes is desolate.
His supercilious attitude drains away, leaving him dull and placid on the couch for days. When left without a case, he is made languid- his mind goes elsewhere to occupy the time, and I am left with not much more than a corpse to tend to.
Other times, Holmes takes great pleasure in bantering with me at the most inconvenient of times, striking up a tease whilst I am with a patient, or even while I am attempting to bathe.
He fluently merges from states of ecstatic energy and excitement to periods of disdainful boredom and sadness. Sometimes, during one of these darker spells, I wake up in the night to find him contiguous to me in my bed, head propped up on bent arm, staring at me with a look of the most pitiful despair.
Some would say Holmes is indifferent to the societal expectations of this day, and I would agree, were it not for my belief that he simply does not understand them.
Mr. Holmes has a facade of hauteur that he projects when in the company of strangers; however, I know him better. His countenance of self worth and pride is a (nearly) impenetrable shield he has built up to protect himself from a world that does not understand, and simply hasn't tried to.
Because of this, Sherlock has exempted himself from the troubles of an everyman's day-job, and fills his hours with whatever caters his fancy or serves his bizarre purposes, more often than not performing gruesome experiments on our dining table, seldom taking the time to tidy up the aftermath.
He is immoderate, but I tolerate him for those days when he is perfectly himself, and I live for the smile he unknowingly wears after solving a case- it is when he is truly most happy. I can often throw in an epigram that makes him chuckle, and I find that however audacious and pompous he may be, Holmes is worth the trouble.
However, his fractiousness can sometimes last for weeks, only being dissolved at the prospect of a fresh new crime or scandal.
He often feigns interest in even the smallest of cases, if only to remain sane until a larger and more complicated opportunity presents itself.
During the patches of boredom, when not sulking in the sitting room, he has an air of complacency that, to the untrained eye of someone who does not know better, would give even the most menial of tasks Sherlock could perform an aura of grave importance.
When finally a case does present itself, he gives me the smallest intimations into his plans and doings, only enough to peak my interest until the big reveal, during which Sherlock's insufferably can be traced to his lack if credulity; he trusts no one but himself in times of great pressure and even my own advice is often cast aside by him as balderdash on most occasions.
He may extemporize the majority of his plans, leading to injury and ill fated events, but he is still a genius, if not a reckless one, and above all,
he is my friend.