Heels of his hands pressed firmly into the eye sockets.
Deep sigh.
Sherlock had seen it hundreds of times. He could almost see Gregory's hair turning greyer by the minute. It had been a long week. Even Lestrade, the one member of the Yard that Sherlock didn't make a point to sharpen his wit to a puncturing point for, couldn't get it. Was he really as dull, as thick, as boring as the others? But it was so simple! Sherlock could see the facts through the dust and the clutter and the lies, easy as if it was typed neatly in front of him. Clear as the colour of lipstick on the third teacup, clear as it obviously wasn't the murderer on tape, but her brother, because there was no murder in the first place.
Lestrade, he thought, why can't you observe?
Tongue flitting across lips.
Jaw muscles tensing.
Lestrade recognised that look. He knew well enough to cease and desist when he saw that glint in John's eye. "Psycho" was the nickname of the week, and John was about five steps and six seconds away from putting Anderson in a choke hold. There was a running bet at the Yard at how long it would be until the Freak and the Doctor shacked up, but Lestrade understood what they did not. There was a different kind of love, an endearment, a loyalty, an emotion that Sherlock thoroughly missed. It was obvious that, to John, Sherlock was everything. And it was obvious to everyone but the man himself that Sherlock felt the same. Lestrade could see it plain as day. In their dialogue, volleying back and forth like tabletop tennis, in the glances that spoke louder than either man yelling at the top of his lungs. It was love, as they said. But the man with the biggest brain in all of London, who could notice a shade of lipstick that matched a teacup he had seen three weeks earlier, somehow remained oblivious to the man who had laid his life on the line, and would gladly do it again.
Sherlock, he thought, why can't you see?