"Sherlock what are you doing?" John hissed – though there was no way that Mia could hear the two of them, he was speaking in a low whisper.
"I told you John, I'm doing the laundry," Sherlock said nonchalantly.
"You never do laundry, NEVER. Now, what the hell is this really about?"
"I told you that I was going to start helping-out around the flat."
"Yes, but now? And why the washing? You have not ever touched the laundry since I've known you."
"Honestly John, I don't understand you," Sherlock said as he began meticulously folding a pair of trousers, "Most of the time you're complaining because I've lumped all my washing in with yours and now you're complaining because I'm doing my own laundry."
John watched in partial fascination as Sherlock's long, intelligent, fingers found all the right seams and folded each article he touched with surgical precision. "My girlfriend is sitting in our living room and you've chosen to do the laundry at this very moment?"
"Why aren't you up with her if you're so concerned about her being alone? She's not my girlfriend."
"Sherlock," John growled the name in warning, "Get back upstairs now." He ordered. "We'll talk about this later."
"I will be up once I've finished," the young man replied stubbornly.
John took a deep steadying breath to keep himself from exploding. Sherlock could be so infuriating sometimes! He turned abruptly and headed for the stairs. "Hold on," he said aloud when he noticed something strange on the floor. He leaned down to pick it up: it was a single cigarette which had somehow rolled into a crack between the floorboard and the bottom stair. "Sherlock?"
"Hm?" he said absently.
"What is this?" John approached and shoved it into the tall man's hand.
"It would appear to be a cigarette," he said flatly.
"Yah, I got that bit," John said darkly, "Where did it come from? And who does it belong to?" Though he already knew the answer to both of those questions, he wanted to give Sherlock a chance to explain himself.
"How should I know that?" Sherlock asked innocently.
"I thought you'd quit," John accused in the steadiest voice he could manage.
"I had."
"For good this time, Sherlock," John said in anger, "I thought you'd finally done it! When did you pick it up again? Hm? How long have you been smoking?"
"I really don't see how that's any of your business, John. As long as I don't do it in the flat, it really makes no difference to you."
"No difference? No difference? Sherlock, have you ever heard of cancer before?"
"I am well aware of the potential health risks involved."
"This is why you're doing the laundry isn't it? You didn't want me to smell it on your clothes! I've always known that you've had problems with addiction, but why hide it? Why is this time different? Are you only smoking cigarettes? Or am I going to find you overdosed somewhere?" John was near hysterics; Sherlock had not been expecting this kind of reaction.
"Of course not! And YES it is only the cigarettes," he snapped back.
"How many? How often?" he asked, trying desperately to moderate his voice.
"One or two a day... I've been rationing them."
"Why did you hide it from me?"
"Perhaps because I knew you'd react badly," Sherlock replied flatly and continued folding articles of clothing.
"React badly?" John felt anger creeping up on him again, "How am I supposed to react?"
"Besides, John – other than the laundry – I really didn't go to any great lengths to hide it from you."
"Oh no?" John asked, waiting to hear from Sherlock what 'obvious' signs he'd missed this time.
"I bought a packet the morning you and Mia were going to go on your first official lunch date... the day after you met her."
"Why?"
"Because I was bored. I'd called Lestrade and he'd had nothing... again... and I just decided to go for a walk. Picked them up on the way home. You didn't even notice the smell when I came in. I thought for sure you'd catch me right away, but you didn't... too preoccupied I suppose. I've had one or two every morning since."
John was shaking. "So this was some sort of game? See how long you could go without me catching you?"
"No, don't you see?" he said dropping a shirt back into the basket and turning his full attention on John, "It has nothing at all to do with you – except that I knew it would upset you, so I didn't bother to mention it."
"But WHY, Sherlock?"
"BECAUSE I'M BLOODY BORED!" He roared suddenly. John started in surprise – he couldn't remember the last time Sherlock had lost his temper. "I'm sick and tired of doing NOTHING of importance!" he continued, "I feel like I'm going mad, John! That's why! Cold cases, the occasional simple case which is solvable in less than a day... You're always so busy between your work and your girlfriend that you don't notice the tedium when you get home. You actually enjoy it because it's a break for you; well it's not a break for me! It's the only bloody time of day when I actually get a bit of intellectual stimulation!"
"Ok, ok... I get it... it's a way to relax... it's just a habit that you're used to reverting back to... it makes sense, I guess... just calm down Sherlock." John was concerned; the man's entire body was trembling and John had no idea what to do to make this better.
"Just go back upstairs," Sherlock said quietly.
"But we should talk about this..."
"Later, John," Sherlock said, sounding completely exhausted. "We will talk about it later." He picked up the shirt he had been folding previously and began working on it again.
John hesitated. He wanted to talk more about this... Sherlock obviously had some things he needed to get off his chest... but now really wasn't a good time... Mia would be waiting... Oh no, Mia!
John sincerely hoped that she hadn't heard anything that had happened, and that she wasn't too upset – or that she hadn't gotten sick of waiting on them and left altogether. What would he say to her? "Ok, Sherlock, we'll discuss it later," he said and headed upstairs. Once on the main level, he took the stairs of the final flight up to the flat two at a time.
Sherlock stood motionless and listened to John's retreating footsteps. Damn it. He thought to himself; this was not supposed to have happened.
