Set in a Sobremesa AU, but really wherever you want to set this – London flat, Eobard's time, etc. – go right ahead. Non-specific circumstances.

"I'm bored."

The words rang out, harsh and clear, perpetuating from Eobard's lips off the walls and windows around him. What an announcement to occupany him as he entered the living room (not) – it was actually quite typical of him, as of late. Domestic life ran ill-suited through the veins of a speedster.

Eobard regarded the man in the armchair, his fingers steepled and stormy blue eyes fixated on a single point right in front of him. Eobard knew a look like that meant he wasn't looking at any physical object at all, instead lost in the mind palace, possibly searching for stimulation as well.

"Did you hear me? I said, I'm bored," the speedster persisted.

Sherlock Holmes lifted his head to catch the other set of blue eyes across the room. "I know something we can–."

"No," Eobard shut down, knowing where that was headed. It wasn't that he didn't like feeling close to his boyfriend, but it didn't satiate the innate desire to build or learn he harboured each and every day. "I need a challenge. An intellectual challenge."

That motivated Sherlock off the chair. "Yep," he said, popping the p in a way which made Eobard feel was transitionary. The detective's hands dropped to his sides, and he whisked over to the coat rack where his navy trench hung. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes," he said as he grabbed the coat and swung it over his shoulders.

"You're going to run out on me in my time of need?" asked Eobard, a look of disdain settling nicely upon his features.

"You're cute when you scrunch your nose."

Eobard scoffed, "Pandering." But his ears grew warm at the compliment.

"For your information, I'm not 'running out on you'. Give me fifteen minutes and I'll have something set up that will take your mind off the boredom."

Eobard glanced at his watch. "Fifteen," he stated sternly, incredulously. He could already feel his soul wither with impatience. "A millisecond to me is the same as a second of your time. That's fifteen-thousand minutes to each of your precious fifteen." He couldn't help the mocking tone which laced his calculations.

"Then, you should be an expert in patience."

A growl fluttered from the base of Eobard's throat.

"Or, perhaps not."

"Not a minute later," he cut over Sherlock's smug expression, holding a gloved finger out for emphasis. "I'll be counting."

"Of course. I wouldn't expect less."

With a wink, Sherlock careened around the door.

It shut with a snap.

"Perfect," the speedster muttered dryly, another wrinkle of his nose later. Fifteen more minutes. Fifteen human-standard minutes to fill and no idea what to fill it with.

Good job, Sherlock, he thought, you made a bored speedster even more bored. You are of no help, whatsoever.

—

Eobard probably spent two minutes – or two-thousand in the view of supersonic perception – tearing through the house in pursuit of anything denoting even mild intrigue. A man such as Holmes should have a collection of secrets. Perhaps a side room off the bedroom or a cellar beneath house sheltering range of scientific experiments. Any and all secrets he may have missed in the past month would soon be common knowledge. Shouldn't they?

He tore through the household twice, each time ending where he began: by the fridge, rummaging around for sustenance. He grabbed an apple after the first loop. After the second, he craved a fulfilment only carbs could deliver and ripped open the door to the pantry. He soon rendered a box of granola bars nothing but collapsed cardboard and empty wrappers. Chewing and consuming might have led him another minute into the future, but all the while, his mind remained unsatiated.

Minute four and five passed: he flashed into the library and read three books at random.

Minute six: he fled back to the living room, uncomfortably cavernous still.

Eobard raked his eyes across the room. In the back corner, a television stood atop a low-rising table, its screen black and posture so plain, he would have missed it had he not been looking so intently for anything to cure his predicament. He zipped over and took the entire case in his hands. Ripping it into the air, its power cord flew off the wall socket and followed the television like a puppy on a leash. A dejected puppy, Eobard should add. As there was nothing cute or animated about how listlessly the cord dragged.

Setting the television on the floor, Eobard turned around with hopes of giving himself some space to work. He lifted the coffee table from the centre of the floor and plopped it lengthwise on top of the couch's cushions. He stood back to admire his handiwork, now able to mutter 'perfect' with less mockery than the time before. With the living room thus opened up for a technological project, he felt a little bit of the cavern inside filling up.

Within no time, he had pried up the entire back cover of the TV off its inner workings. Inside was where the real magic began (not that it was literal magic, for Eobard thoroughly understood the science behind each of the components). The technology was archaic – no one in the twenty-fourth century used shimmering circuit boards of green anymore; it was all metal filaments and plexiglass, so small one could hardly believe the sheer power it handled – but that old factor made this all the more interesting. It posed to him a problem akin to a jigsaw puzzle, one which he could actually win. His goal: to streamline this television's innerworkings, ensuring it can handle more power with fewer pieces – just like he was used to from where he once hailed.

Just like that, he had a purpose again.

(And it certainly helped that the intricate landscape of silver, green, blue, and red formed a beautiful image when joined together.)

—

By the time he lifted his attention off the jigsaw puzzle of television workings, the windows had turned a dark blue, and a warm, yellow glow emanated from the surrounding interior lamps. Eobard severed his bond with the project with a round of blinks. Secular focus certainly helped in passing the time, but it came unexpectedly and left the user disoriented by the end of its hold, adrift in a mental fog.

"What time is it?" he mused aloud. He ducked his head to check his watch.

"Eight," a voice joined him from the right.

He jolted upright and swung his head wildly to the right, following the tonality. There, as if he never left in the first place, sat Sherlock Holmes: hands steepled, gaze as coldly inquisitive as one remembered.

"And you've been–?"

"Since seven."

Eobard rose to his feet. How had he missed the development of another being opening the door, closing the door, hanging his coat, and settling barely three yards away? A scientist should be highly observant, yet today his senses had failed him.

"And you didn't bother to–?"

"Why would I? You weren't bored anymore," Sherlock interrupted to state, matter-of-fact.

"So, you've been watching me this whole time," the speedster summarised while stalking over to the armchair. Perhaps his sense hadn't failed, he convinced himself, perhaps they had merely been far too absorbed in his project to care about the comings and goings of the Holmes' household. When passion turns to tunnel-vision.

"Yes." Narrow eyes – calculating eyes – tracked Eobard's motion by never unlocking their gazes. "Does that bother you?"

Eobard placed one hand on each armrest and leaned into Sherlock's space, electrifying the air between them. The space they shared was never dull, he should have it realised sooner. There was always something new, something untapped begging for the other at which to poke and pry. Even when he spent the days whining out his plight of boredom, all he needed was a point toward the latest addition to his life: brilliance and black curls. A genius mind needed a genius challenge, and Sherlock Holmes was Eobard's greatest one yet.

"You weren't doing anything during those 'fifteen minutes', were you."

Sherlock responded with a smirk. He lowered his hands which joined the speedster's on each armrest. "Forcing you to do anything is a futile game. The best way to cure your boredom is to get you to find it yourself."

"Admit it, then," Eobard pushed. He pivoted deeper into the space before the detective, "you didn't have any ideas."

"That would simply be untrue."

The distance holding between them (or near lack thereof) provided no reason to continue at a regular volume: "You're not fooling anyone."

All Sherlock replied to that with was a knowing cock of the eyebrows.

And a very articulate magnetism pulled Eobard's lips to Sherlock's. A satisfaction like none other spread from the point of contact. He pressed himself deeper, a burst of cold thrill – like frozen wildfire – shot through his lungs. Sherlock's air was Eobard's, and vice versa. The globe in which they existed grew smaller and smaller until all that it contained were their two bodies and an armchair on a patch of hardwood floor. A rageaholic speedster and a cunning private eye. The rest sank into shadow, into nothing. Into void.

Eobard steadied himself with the heel of his palm against the back of the chair before breaking an inch apart. Far enough he was to temporarily quell Sherlock, and long enough to evaluate what he was doing; kissing Sherlock, yes, but how. How was he doing it: standing. But standing grew awkward by the second, and so distant. All his muscles told him to lean closer, press inwards, absorb himself into the cushions and the gangly man they supported.

"Had enough?" Sherlock challenged.

Eobard couldn't tear his gaze from the tremor of the seated man's lips as he spoke.

"Not even," the speedster confirmed.

He pushed himself onto Sherlock's lap and curled his legs up, one to stretch over the opposing armrest, the other shoving its knee into the space between Sherlock's side and the chair's backing cushion. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, using the new hold to pull himself closer, all the way closer, in order to lean his forehead against the other man's temple.

He never liked sitting still. To be motionless meant to be weak. Yet, somehow, around one single other, Eobard found himself capable of changing his inertia. An object in motion can be forced, if by the right force only, to take a rest.

He curled himself tighter around Sherlock Holmes.

Hope you enjoyed! Once again, I am asking you to leave a review on my story because I worked hard and I want validation. :D