It was the boredom.
It was driving Sherlock crazy.
Well, crazy-er.
For a while John attempted to ignore the frustrated sighing and the irritated muttering—because what could he possibly do about it? It wasn't his responsibility. If Sherlock was bored, he needed to find something to do.
Plain and simple.
But not something destructive.
"John."
"Mm..."
"John."
"Hm?"
"John."
"WHAT?" John finally looked up from his book and glared at the detective, who was languishing half on, half off his chair. "I've been saying 'what'!"
"No you haven't. You've just been making little grunting noises."
"It's the same thing!"
"No it isn—"
"Oh, shut up!" John purposely hid behind his book, determined to ignore him.
"John..." Sherlock let himself slide even lower down in the chair. "I'm bored..."
"Hmm."
"I need a case, John... Get me a case..."
"You already have a case. Finish the Anonymous one first if you're bored." John didn't even bother to look up this time.
Sherlock only groaned again, supremely frustrated. "No, I meant a case. Something interesting."
"Your case is pretty interesting."
"What?" The detective turned his head to look at him inquisitively.
"Uh... nothing. Check the blog, maybe."
Sherlock frowned and settled back into his chair, but fairly soon he heaved himself up and started pacing the room agitatedly. John did his best to ignore it for as long as he could, but finally he had to put the book down again.
"Okay. Either you have lost your mind, or you're going through some kind of withdrawal."
"I told you, I'm BORED. B-O-R-E-D, understand?" Sherlock stopped pacing just long enough to glare into the empty eye sockets of the skull on the mantelpiece, as if daring it to say something even more stupid than his blogger had.
"Yup…" John bent over his book yet again, shaking his head. "Lost your mind… Oh well…"
"John. Get me a case."
"Get your own damn case. I'm busy doing nothing, for once. Look, I've got a book." He held it up for the detective to see, as if it were some sort of anti-work talisman.
"It's upside-down." Sherlock watched him through the mirror as John fumbled about with the book for a second, turning it right side up again. "You haven't been able to concentrate, either. We both need a case. You do get so very dull when you're normal. And, really, John—a sweater-vest?"
John frowned down at himself, but the detective wasn't listening. "I thought it looked alright..."
Sherlock probably would have gone on ranting had the phone not rang, making John jump slightly. When he picked it up he cleared his throat and did his best to tune Sherlock out for just another moment, which turned out to be slightly difficult.
"Hello?"
"It's Greg. Turn on the TV, now."
"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN, HE'S BACK?!" John's voice rose several decibels and he stared at the blank TV screen, which Sherlock had just switched off again—but the mocking chorus of 'did you miss me? Did you miss me?' still rang in his ears.
"I don't know either—" Even over the phone John could tell that Greg was panicking. "It could be a hoax, we don't know—"
"HE SHOT HIMSELF IN THE HEAD! HE'S DEAD!"
"So was Sherlock! Look, I'm just saying—we don't know! This is happening everywhere—somebody's hacked the system—"
John let the phone slip from his fingers and clatter to the floor, and he looked up at Sherlock with wide eyes. The detective was standing quite still, seemingly mesmerised.
"Sherlock."
Not even a blink.
"Sherlock." He swallowed hard. "You know what this means."
He finally appeared to live again, turning his intense gaze on John. "...Yes. Jim Moriarty is back in business. And that means..."
"He's still after you."
"The Game is still on."