Sherlock bristles as he hears the click of John's laptop pad and just knows that he's going to send replies. Polite replies. His eyes close slowly, an expression of frustration that goes unseen, but the sigh is heard loud and clear. He's so put out by John's decency, sometimes.

"Yes, but that's hardly worth it. If they aren't aware they're morons, I'd rather let natural selection take its course," he says, voice cold and irritable. John's typing, and Sherlock can only bear so much. His hand curls into a fist at his side and there's another heavy, long suffering sigh. Did John ever leave? He's insensible to the fact that he'd just come home and feels almost certain that he's been here the whole time, being subtly obnoxious the whole time. The trouble of it is that he doesn't really want him to go, either. When he's gone he might need him, but when he's here he's too much. There was no perfect amount of John.

"Must you?" he demands, voice hard and curt. He's talking about the typing.