A/N Wow, I've managed to forget about updating every day for a whole week. xD Sorry about that, I'll try to be more consistent from now on.
Thanks to wrytingtyme and Sylvia Griffin3
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
XII. Insanity
Not many people understand just how necessary it is for Sherlock to, as constantly as possible, have a case. They assume that it's his entertainment or something of the like, a way to pass the time, and that the twitchy restlessness that plagues him in the absence of a good mystery is nothing more substantial than boredom.
They're all utter idiots, of course. They don't understand the complex, well-oiled gears of his mind, don't understand how, with no traction to slow them down, they'll run themselves faster and faster until his very skull seems to be approaching combustion. A case gives him something to unravel, a target at which to direct the furious energy which otherwise comes off him in electric waves and sparks. And when he has nothing on, the best he can do is curl on the couch and try, try as hard as he can to just make it all go away.
Smoking helped, back when he allowed himself access to that particular escape hatch. The soothing haze would settle over his mind like a fluffy carpet of dust, blurring and twisting his thoughts until they resembled the rainbow-hued gleam of oil in a parking lot puddle, delicately insubstantial and glinting under the foggy sun. That was always such a beautiful relief. But, of course, it had to be taken away—by a combination of himself, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and, of course, John.
John also does something to aid his exhausted, hyperactive mind on those days when it seems truly unbearable. There's something calming about just watching the easy, regular movements of the ex-soldier, following the contours of his body as he reads the paper, calls his sister, updates his blog, makes a cup of tea.
Those are his specific motions today, in that order, and Sherlock knows because he's been watching him in perfect silence for the past hour and a half now. It's some time past noon on a Sunday, and, judging by his furtive glances at the refrigerator, nearing lunchtime for John—and, if he's feeling particularly giving, perhaps Sherlock, as well. Of course, the blonde doctor currently has no cause to possess this attitude, considering that his flatmate has been notably lethargic for about six hours on end now. Blame it on the lack of clients.
In fact, Sherlock's so sure that John's suppressing irritation within him that he's only a degree short of blatant surprise when a cup of steaming tea thuds onto the coffee table before him.
He raises his eyes to where John stands, arms folded and face set as though he's preparing to extract information from a particularly nasty murderer.
"What's this?" Sherlock inquires. His voice flows remarkably well for not having been used all day.
"Tea."
"For me?"
"Who else?"
He lazily extends an arm and loops his thin fingers around the warm handle of the mug, bringing it to his lips and taking a shallow sip. It's surprisingly pleasant, not to strong and flavored subtly.
"Well, whatever might this be for? Some special occasion?"
John shrugs, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "I just thought you looked a bit stressed. Tea tends to help, in my experience."
"It does… thank you."
The words of gratitude are unusual to Sherlock's mouth, but absolutely worth it for the barely disguised smile that spreads over John's face at their mention.
"You're welcome."