They were strange things beetles, all black and shiny and staring up at John with their non-blinking black eyes and nonchalant expressions. They were the last things that John needed to find on the kitchen table, especially when half had been ground into powder, some had been examined and the rest were lying belly up on the kitchen table.
He had forgotten about these little quirks that Sherlock had; the experiments laid haphazardly over the kitchen table, the constant flow of body parts in the fridge, papers and diagrams pinned to the walls; and it all annoyed John to no end.
With an anguished yell he sent the beetles flying off the table.
He knew that it wasn't the beetles that were getting to him. It was Sherlock and the way he was acting. The last time he had been so distant was the week leading up to his first deployment and Sherlock thought that by distancing himself he wouldn't hurt so much when John left.
This distance was different. There was no communication. They were on their fourth week of late night returns and the first week and early morning leaving.
Deep down John had a feeling he knew what was happening but he didn't want to think about it and right now he needed to clean up the beetles.