(Untitled)

[notapsychopath]

This is without a doubt one of the stupidest things Sherlock has ever experienced. He's sprawled in an armchair, a book lying open and unread in his lap, a nicotine patch on each arm, staring listlessly at the wall.

Stupid. His eyes flick down to the book and he concentrates on the words, reading for what must be half an hour, if not forty five

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[drpsychosomatic]

Sent home from Sarah's yet again, John's suffering an unshakeable feeling of discontent that can't be explained away entirely with how bloody cold it is outside. Frustration would be a more suitable word, but he can hardly feel that and be as gentlemanly as he likes to believe he is- so discontent it is. He trudges through the last remnants of last week's snowfall irritably, counting paces. Sherlock probably knows he does it- probably knows he's been counting paces from the underground station exit to the front door for the last week or so- if only because it's a remarkably stupid and pointless thing to do. Sherlock's an expert in pointless. The expert

[notapsychopath]

Sherlock notes everything- the scarf first. It receives a malevolent glare, and he wonders precisely what experiments he could do that would possibly involve a scarf and something explosive. He can, off the top of his head, come up with seven.

Tomorrow should be fun, then.

His eyes flick over John. Irritated, frustrated, unlikely to put up with much- and he's been counting paces again, too, probably, though that's hard to know for certain in this instance. He also- judging from his clothes, his state of mind, his expression- hasn't had sex.

Sherlock, satisfied, returns his gaze to his book. Blinks once. Goes over what has just gone through his head one more time, with a kind of surprise.

John hasn't had sex with Sarah...and this is a good thing. Because, Sherlock reasons- because, obviously, he'd have been detained for longer if they were- ugh. Sherlock's poked through more dead bodies and unsavoury things than most people see in their nightmares, but the thought of John and Sarah- no. How vile

[drpsychosomatic]

John makes a noncomittal noise, balling the scarf up and debating throwing it, because he is frustrated, dammit-- but relents and hangs it up, covering it with his jacket.

Enough. Thinking about Sarah and trying to work out what it is he's doing wrong will only frustrate him further. He forces a smile at Sherlock.

"You're not going to that auction after all, then?"

[notapsychopath]

"Ugh. No." His mouth works on autopilot as his brain struggles through the countless things about this situation that make no sense at all, trying and failing to label them and put them in their proper, logical place. "The police took the liberty of apprehending the thief- based on my deductions- before I could have any fun." He licks a finger and turns a page. "And they wonder why I don't share evidence with them."

He saw that hesitance with the scarf and analyses it, even as he tries to focus on the text. Sentimentality? Hardly. That was annoyance he'd seen in John's eyes.

Again; good.