Bored.
He looked down at his hands, slender and pale and idle.
Boooored!
"John!" Sherlock peered around the flat. No one answered. Dammit, had he left again? Why does he always DO that? With an exasperated groan Sherlock flopped onto the couch and crossed his arms, melting into Sulk Mode.
Sherlock remained in that position for four hours, barely moving, until the flat door ushered John into the room.
"John, I was calling for you," Sherlock informed him crossly. John rolled his eyes and peeled his coat off.
"If I'm not mistaken, we've had this conversation before. I was out, Sherlock." John breezed into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to his fuming.
John began making tea without truly paying attention to what he was doing, focusing on the thoughts that randomly skated about his mind—bills, work, his new girlfriend Kelly, Sherlock.
Sherlock? Not usually one of John's tea-time subjects of contemplation. But as John heated the water, his mind abandoned other things and wrapped itself around Sherlock. Sherlock's bad moods, Sherlock's insensitivity, Sherlock's rude corrections of everything John said… Sherlock's midnight-colored curls, Sherlock's wit and intelligence, Sherlock's slender build and effortless elegance.
What?
"Joooohn," Sherlock called from upstairs, shattering John's train of thought. John looked down and saw a mug of hot tea in his hand and wondered vaguely just how it had gotten there. "John! Come here, will you?" John frowned.
"Just a moment, alright?" With a few mind-clearing shakes of his head, John went to Sherlock, who just so happened to be standing in John's room.
"What are you doing in here? Wh—are you going through my things?" Sherlock sat cross-legged on John's bed, carefully going through a box of John's things. John snatched a picture of himself in the army out of Sherlock's hands and proceeded to roughly confiscate the box as well. Sherlock looked up at John, obviously unabashed by John's anger.
"Bored."
This pushed John over the edge. He dropped the box and the picture and jumped at Sherlock, arms outstretched. Sherlock's face displayed barely registered shock before a flurry of not-as-solid-as-they-could-be blows showered him.
"Just-because-you-are-bored-does-not-give-you-permission-to-," John began, punctuating each word with a punch.
"Sorry!" came the muffled reply. Sherlock was trying desperately to cover his face with his forearms. John stopped, breathing hard.
"What?"
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, his pale eyes wide. John was straddling the other man and he only just noticed. With a heavy blush John removed himself from the bed entirely and sighed. "It-it's alright, Sherlock. Just… ah."
Sherlock's nose was bleeding gently. John could feel the guilt already knotting in his stomach. "Oh, come here," John said, taking Sherlock's hand and leading him to the bathroom.
"Johd, I cad take care ob byself," Sherlock mumbled through the blood, edging away from John and his fistful of tissues.
"No you can't." John held the back of Sherlock's head and pressed the tissues to his nose, angling Sherlock's head down over the sink. Sherlock didn't argue.
As John doctored London's only consulting detective, his mind drifted back to his tea-making thoughts. Essentially, Sherlock.
"John, I think it's done bleeding," Sherlock said, gently pulling John's hand from his face. John dampened a rag and wiped the dried blood off of Sherlock's nose and mouth. He found himself staring into Sherlock's eyes.
Sherlock found himself staring right back, taking in the careful, concerned look on John's face. The way John smelled—tea and mint and shampoo. Sherlock traced the light shadow that fell from John's chin to his collarbone with a single finger.
Abruptly John stood up and shifted his weight, looking down at the tiled floor. "Well, er, there. Sorry for, y'know, attacking you."
"John," Sherlock said, in an almost seductive whisper.
"Y-yes, Sherlock?"
"I'm still bored," he murmured, an evil smile tilting his lips.