"D'you want any tea?"

"No."

"Do you want anything at all?"

"No."

"Can we talk, then?"

"No."

"Can you say anything other than 'no'?"

Sherlock rolled over on the couch to look at him, and spoke slowly. "No."

"Well, thank god we got that sorted." John raised his eyebrows and went back to trying to read. "Real mystery, that was…"

He could feel Sherlock's eyes lingering on him, but he decided to ignore it.

Two could play at this game.

A few minutes later the couch cushions shifted, and he could hear the rustle of the detective's dressing gown as he got up.

Not going to lift his eyes…

John nearly jumped out of his skin and jerked upright in his chair as the first shrieking note was drawn out on the violin.

As the next uncoordinated chords squealed their way off the strings John found himself gritting his teeth and gripping his book tighter.

This was all just to annoy him.

It was supposed to be payback.

Mustn't give in.

Mustn't.

If he kept reading, and didn't pay him any mind, he'd get bored and stop.

'Chapter three: The Recognition'

Another mangled screech from the strings.

'From this intense consciousness of being the object of severe and universal observation, the wearer—'

That was almost a tune, there.

Almost.

'The wearer…'

If Satan composed music.

'Chapter…'

Where was he again…?

'Chapt—GOD, SHERLOCK, D'YOU MIND?!"

He'd half thought nobody would be able to hear him over the racket, but the silence that followed was quick and most definitely for him.

Sherlock observed him serenely over the instrument, bow still poised. "Oh, do pardon me. Did I… make you uncomfortable?"

"You… Well you've…" John shut the book and tossed it onto the table, sitting back and setting his jaw. "Yeah. Yeah you've pretty well done that."

"Mm." He shrugged absently. "That was… easier than expected. Oh well…"

"This is about the hug, isn't it? Be straight with me here. It is, isn't it?"

"Why should I affirm it? You don't need that. You seemed to be doing pretty well on deductions yourself, yesterday."

"Sherlock, don't…" John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Don't what? I'm conversing."

"No, you're arguing."

"Oh, well of course you'd be able to tell, wouldn't you? You're the master of human interaction, a great judge of motive and conversation—"

"Sherlock."

"—Ex army doctor and personal psychiatrist, healer of all wounds, peace-maker between warring nations—"

"Sherlock."

"—So of course, there's no use at all trying to hide anything from you."

"Stop. Just stop." John sighed heavily. "Look... I'm sorry it was that big a deal to you. I know it was uncomfortable, but I really just wanted to help, so I thought..."

"Don't try that."

"Try what?"

"Think."

"You know what?" John pushed himself up from his chair and stomped across the room to the stairs. "I have better things to do than listen to you mock me. I said I was sorry, and I am, but you're… you're just…"

Sherlock tilted his head inquiringly.

"You're a real dickhead, sometimes."

"Oh, that's a new one." Sherlock feigned interest and leaned back on the sofa, where he'd settled again.

"I said sorry. Now shut up."