After the eventual arrest of the American wannabe pimp, we were situated back in Baker St, taking our usual positions in our respective chairs. Silence filled the room as it had done earlier this morning, Sherlock looking slightly less depressed as he had done before we got the call. I continued to read the paper, and Sherlock sat in silence, looking at the ceiling.
'John… I'm bored. Again' he muttered after some time. I almost fell out of my chair with shock, and – perhaps, admittedly – wanting to hit him.
'What did you say about an hour ago? 'Lestrade, call in your friends, I've just solved this case'? We left here at about half eleven, and it's now, what, 1:30? How in God's name can you still be bored?' I cried. Sherlock sniggered.
'That was ages ago' he whined through a sniggering grin, clearly trying to wind me up. I sighed loudly, and decided to drop the matter.
'Cup of tea, John?' he offered, politely.
'I'd love one' I said, peering over the top of my paper. He leaned back in his chair and smiled.
'That's great. I'll have my usual, thank you'
'…'