"Sherlock? Are you even listening to me?"
"Yes."
"Then you could at least look at me when I'm talking to you?"
Sherlock sighed and rolled over on the couch to face John. Jaw slightly clenched. Arms rigid. He could see the anger stirring in the army doctor's eyes. Sherlock had been trying to tune them out, he'd been going on about how he acted while on their most recent case.
"What, John?"
He sighed and muttered something.
"Of course you didn't hear me... I said 'Do you really think it's okay to treat people like that?' Her husband was killed, Sherlock! You couldn't at least pretend to be sympathetic?"
Sherlock continued his memorization of the wallpaper pattern.
"I had to get the information we needed."
John raised his hands in what appeared to be defeat.
Sherlock continued his explanation.
"Being sympathetic would have just made the process longer and would have given results I don't need. I just went around all the rubbish to get to what matters. It's simple. Do you see?"
John shook his head and grabbed his coat off the chair.
"Sherlock. Do you...do you ever care about anyone but yourself?"
Sherlock sank back into the couch. Did he care? Of course he cared. He spared the woman a public upset and got what he wanted. Wasn't that good? He had no reason to stand there and listen to her wailing, it put the case on hold and the longer the girl was missing the higher the chance she would turn up dead.
Ever since they met Moriarty and played his game, John had grown more frustrated with Sherlock's detachment. Caring isn't an advantage. It clouded judgement. Becoming emotionally attached to every little person they came across would not help anyone. It would just make his work more difficult. But that wasn't what John meant was it. Maybe he was referring to himself? It didn't seem very like him, but maybe Sherlock had been a bit too ...Sherlock recently.
"John"
There was no response. The flat was empty. Glancing at the clock, Sherlock realized he had been alone for the last 3 hours. Where did the time go?
It had been days since they had a case. Sherlock was beginning to feel the itch. Anticipating this, he had a nicotine patch on the table beside him. Before picking it up, he had a thought. Why do I need this? Aside from the obvious addiction. What was the behind the addiction was the question.
The Cab Drivers words replied, "You'll do anything, anything at all, to stop being bored".
It was a disease. It ate away at his mind. He became very frustrated over small problems. It didn't always bother him if he and John didn't see eye-to-eye, but sometimes he wanted to shout when he failed to notice the obvious answers. How could he even see?
Sitting still was out of the question while he was pumped full of energy. An energy that began as a pooling in his chest. It was uncomfortable and an inconvinece. Pacing back and forth. Fiddling with the objects closest to him. All it did was force him to notice the unwanted energy.
He was bored.
How could he stop it? It wasn't the physical exercize he needed as much as the mental stimulation. Put his mind to good use. Sift through the layers and see how people tick. It was simple. Take in the enviroment, their demeanor, clothes say a lot as do most persona choices, how they carry themselves. All quite simple. It made the world easier to deal with. He needed a case.
But it wasn't always enough.
The cravings still came for more. The energy dispersed and he felt the hole in his chest. The same hole he had been trying to fill his whole life. First as a child with his fantasies of adventure and piracy, then older when he turned to drugs, and finally sober with cigarettes and crime scenes.
People thought he was strange, to put it lightly. He had a reputation for being rude and arrogant. What people failed to understand was Sherlock did not feel the need to tread lightly in conversation, not all the time. There wasn't a point in wading through a pointless conversation to get to what mattered when there was a simpler way. He was saving time. That's all others complained about, never having enough time.
A slave to dopamine. What was the point to living this way?
There was a tap on his shoulder.
"Are you just going to stare at it all day? It's kind of creepy"
The room came back into focus and Sherlock applied the patch, mentally tracing the path of the nicotine in his veins. The rush in his brain subsided and was replaced with a calm.
"Do you want any coffee?"
"Two sugars."
This was the point. Not the release, but the moments of the mundane where he really didn't mind.
Sherlock sat up and took the mug from John, who sat down next to him..
"Thank you, John"
John made a choking noise and look to Sherlock startled.
"Did you just say 'thank you'?"
Sherlock smiled and watched the steam from his coffee dissapear into the air. He felt the hole in his chest began to close. It was little moments like this he enjoyed. The world outside was a bustle of movement and excitement but the stillness of sitting in 221B with John was enough.
"Don't spoil it"