Self-absorption paradox: The contradictory association whereby higher levels of self-awareness are simultaneously associated with higher levels of psychological distress and with psychological well-being.
Sherlock groaned into a pillow from where he lay, face down on the couch.
"What is it now?" John snapped, rather fed up with Sherlock's moaning and groaning and general unpleasantness.
"Everything is so dull..." he mumured. He turned his head to face John. "Is it nice not being me?" he demanded.
"Oh yes," John replied, rolling his eyes. "It's a dream. Although," he said thoughtfully, "the only thing that may be harder than being you, is living with you."
Sherlock growled into the pillow, which John assumed was meant for him.
"I'm too clever for my own good," Sherlock muttered some time later, after having been mostly silent. There was no chance John was going to indulge him this time, but Sherlock continued even without a response. "It's well known that the most brilliant of people have been prone to the most... what's the word I'm looking for? The most... fickle of brains." He sat up, hair crazed and glared at John. "You made me watch that movie. The one with the robot. He had a brain the size of a planet and was reduced to menial tasks. Don't you get it?!" Sherlock looked rather mad now, and John was watching him with concern. "I'm the robot! I'm the robot! My enormous brain is reduced to solving homicides that toddlers could figure out." Sherlock flopped his face back into the pillow and moaned. "I'm the bloody robot, John."
Sherlock mumbled into the cushion a little longer, but John couldn't make any of it out.
When he finally stopped, John sighed, and told him entirely seriously, "That's the price of being brilliant Sherlock. It's dull and boring and tedious to deal with the mortals, but someone has to do it. And you are burdened with the sole task of being brilliant in a world full of idiots."
Sherlock pushed the pillow aside to peek at John. He looked suspicious, but John kept a straight face.
"Yes... I suppose you're right," Sherlock said slowly.
John figured that would be that, at least for a while, but Sherlock nixed that notion by falling off the couch.
"We're going out John," he announced, springing back up and recovering as if nothing happened. "My brain is going to rot if we just stay in here all day." He grabbed his coat off the hook and pulled his scarf around his neck.
"Are you going to do... something with your hair?" John asked, smirking as it stood up particularly oddly in one spot.
"Oh John," Sherlock sighed. "Have you not seen pictures of Einstein's hair?" He hopped down the top steps. "Us brilliant men must stick together!" he called, and continued down the rest.
John only smirked and followed Sherlock out the door.