John sat across from Sherlock in their two bedroom flat. Sherlock sat with his hands pressed together up against his lips. Why did he do that when he was thinking? Nevertheless John didn't mind. At least right now he was being quiet. The only sound was the pattern of their breathing intertwining with one another.
Suddenly Sherlock stood up.
"It was the doorman." He said.
"Don't be so cliché, Sherlock."
"That's why its right!"
"Come again?"
"Its reverse phycology John! The doorman was the perfect suspect BECAUSE he was a cliché one. You would eventually- well maybe not you- but I would have come to the conclusion eventually that the suspect was the doorman. BUT because it is such a cliché conclusion he knew I would second guess myself. HOWEVER, beca-"
"Alright, alright you lost me already. Just catch the bloody man."
John felt the breeze of Sherlocks passing by just after he watched him run swiftly past.
This was it, John and Sherlock against the world again. He need only walk past his chair and into the foyer and he'd be on his way.
But did he want to.
Of course he did.
But…
Stop it John. He thought to himself. This has been happening a lot lately, he'd been… second guessing himself. Why? He didn't know, and he dare not tell Sherlock. Sherlock would only say it was some sort of mental disorder he had developed on the battlefield. Just like the other doctors had. But John knew that this wasn't a mental issue, he knew he needed to figure this little problem out. He knew that if he didn't correct his second guessing he'd have it far longer than he wanted to.
So why was he second guessing himself? Why didn't he just pick up his jacket and run happily alongside his companion?
Because… Because maybe he … He couldn't place it.
He picked up his coat and walked out the door.