Sherlock had woken up early again. He glugged orange juice and devoured toast as a distraction. Today was different. Like his youth. Nothing could sate him. Something was bothering him, but he couldn't deduce himself. The carriage clock resounded with wasted time.

Sherlock tapped his feet, hands grasping the scrolled arms of his chair like a vice. The tapping got faster. The silent pained face gruffly sighed and leapt up. He looked around the room. Nothing beckoned to be picked up. He looked out of the window. Nature was along on its merry way. Birds sang and trees displayed emerald flecks of leaves. Sherlock slammed the window open. He peered out, gripped the frame and extended his own frame dangerously far out. He craned his head and looked around. He deftly flicked his arms up and back into the flat, rocking on his heels. He paced. He paced different courses around the rooms. He stopped at John's bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, as it always was. He couldn't bother John. He stopped at the front door. He couldn't leave the flat. Too many people, too much stupidity. Answers everywhere he looked, to questions he didn't care about. Every day the same. He pounded the door with a fist. The impact bang shook the door. Sherlock placed a flat palm on it to cease the movement. He launched up the stairs, running on all fours and hovered over his desk. He wanted to throw the contents to the ground, but some of the belongings were John's, so he resisted.

John emerged from his cave of a room, yawning as he said "Yerro" and half-heartedly waved. He started to shuffle over to the kitchen. Sherlock turned and pointed at John.

"You" he barked.

"Eh? Me?"

"You."

They stared at one another, John blearily as he yawned again.

"What are you doing up this early, hm?" Sherlock grimaced. "Hiding something? Planning something? Doing something?" Sherlock strode up to the listless form and leaned over into his face. "Hm? HMMM?" Sherlock froze for an answer.

John yawned. "You're in one of your moods again."

"Moods? What moods? I'm not in a mood."

"Sure you're not Sherlock. Don't mind me." John walked into the kitchen.

"What moods?" Sherlock shouted over.

"Oy, don't be too loud, you'll wake up Mrs Hudson."

"What moods?" Sherlock whispered visciously.

John looked out at Sherlock and put up a finger. Sherlock angrily marched into the kitchen, measuring every step. John turned to look at him, sipping a coffee from Sherlock's machine.

"Ahh." He savoured the coffee and swished a little in his mouth before swallowing. "Ok. I'm ready." John smiled pleasantly.

"For what."

"The mood. Bring it."

"I'm not in a mood."

"You're fully dressed, well-kempt for once, and from the completed washing up you've been awake for a while now."

"Don't do that."

"What?"

"Deduce me."

"Why? You do it to everyone else."

"It's different when I do it."

"Sure it is."

"What." Sherlock asked tetchily.

"What." John replied calmly.

Sherlock threw his arms in the air. "Enough. I'm…. argh!"

John drank more coffee. "One of those days, huh?"

"I don't know what I am!"

"I do."

"What? Do enlighten me with your blogging veteran intellect."

"I read about this, it's a mixed episode."

Sherlock's eyes widened, nostrils flared and lips thinned. He drew himself up to full height from a slump but John didn't move a muscle.

"Are you calling me bipolar?"

"I'm calling this" John pointed up at Sherlock "a mixed episode."

"There's nothing wrong with me."

"Says what? Reason? What are your feelings telling you?"

"Feelings don't matter."

"You're a slave to yours - right now." John poked Sherlock's chest jokily.

"There's nothing wrong with me. I've been tested." Sherlock replied testily.

"Oh sure, you were tested, but those things are easy to fool. A clever clogs like you would have no trouble."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because you're too proud to admit it when something's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong" Sherlock growled.

"Then what's going on." John grinned tauntingly.

"I'm…" Sherlock searched his lexicon for a suitable word, but his growing anger was blotting out his rational mind like smog, "BORED."

"You shouldn't be. You've got a to-do list the size of, well, you." John looked Sherlock up and down.

"It's not that, it's-" Sherlock placed his palms together, at his mouth to suppress incoherent thoughts. The wind from the window blew his hair around his face menacingly. "The existentialism in ennui. Even thinking is boring me." His hands spread and flailed out.

"Let me guess. You've got all this energy and can't find anything to do with it."

"Exactly!"

"That's a mixed episode."

Sherlock folded his arms and dropped into his chair.

John perched himself comfortably, standing behind his own chair. "Maybe you should see a Doctor."

"Maybe you should see tomorrow." Sherlock sulked.

"Is that a threat?"

"It's whatever you want it to be" Sherlock shrugged.

"What do you want to do?"

"Nothing. Something."

"You don't know do you?"

"No!"

"But Sherlock Holmes nev-er admits when he doesn't know something, so we're just going to sit here then are we? Until you've stopped sulking?"

Sherlock reached over for a blanket and threw it over his head. "Go away."

John said nothing.

"Are you still there?"

John said nothing.

"…John?"

"I thought you wanted me to go away."

"Argh!" Sherlock stood up, like a Halloween ghost and went to his room, arms outstretched so he didn't hit a wall on the way.

Sherlock emerged again about an hour later, as John was reading the paper. Sherlock pulled it out of his hands and threw it out the window. A car horn blared.

"I was reading that!"

"And now you're not."

"You're never happy."

Sherlock scoffed. "I should hope not! Contentment is the beginning of the end. The higher mind needs purpose to thrive. That's why the elderly often die within months of retirement. Without a strong mind fixed on the horizon, the promise of something more, the body withers."

"And what's your purpose, oh great one?"

"I'm still figuring that one out."

"Which means you don't know."

"It doesn't mean I don't know, it just means that I haven't figured it out yet."

"Dunno."

"Yet."

"Not a fuckin' clue." John drew out the words and smiled.

"Don't you tell me about clues, Mister" Sherlock nodded to the smiley face on the wall.

"Are you ever not focused? Didn't you play with toys as a kid?"

"Somewhat. But I preferred to toy with the nannies. Poor dears, never lasted very long."

"Didn't you ever, you know, switch off? Be a kid?"

"I don't switch off, I have a sleep mode."

"How can you do that? Isn't it tiring?"

"What? No!" Sherlock put down like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "It's the only life worth living" his words and face saddened as he finished the sentence.

"That makes no sense, you know."

"You make no sense."

"I'm normal, I'm not supposed to make sense. You're the freak."

"Ouch."

"C'mon, you think it."

"Yes, but you said it."

"How do you understand criminals and not normal people?"

"They're predictable. And I do understand normal people, the reasons, I just don't agree with them."

"There isn't an opt-in terms and conditions for humanity, Sherlock." He was ignored.

"I have been trying this attribution technique lately. If it makes no sense, I assume normal people think that way."

"So you're turning normal? That's why you're bothered? That's insulting."

"That's heuristics."

"Alright. Explain the skull on the wall."

"That's art."

"What's it meant to be?"

"It's me."

"You?"

"Yes, a self-portrait. In depth. Deep down."

"Okay, first how and second why? But especially why."

"First, structural MRI. Second, thought it might be nice. Brightens up the room."

"A nice skull? Not a flower or a landscape or heaven forbid a naked lady."

Sherlock sat at the table and John winced at the screech on the floor.

"I wanted a painting. A personal one. Hence, a self-portrait seemed the obvious choice. But looks change with age, I wanted something unusual. We decay into our true face anyway, and I do like my skull arrangement most out of all my bones." Sherlock mused.

"I'm afraid to ask."

"Because it houses this brain." His fingers rested on his temples.

"I don't know what I expected from that answer. On one hand, not narcissistic and on the other, so much…"

"It's modern art, John. That's always subjective and open to interpretation."

"I don't know what to think."

"Welcome to the club."