Everyone says you bring out the worst in me like that's a bad thing.

[clueingforlooks]

Ten days without a case. Ten days. Sherlock was out of his mind for it. Dozens of would-be cases had come in to his inbox and been dismissed quickly for one reason or another, solved, puerile, boring. It was past the phase where he'd likely blow holes in the walls of the flat, save for the fact that John's taken fresh measures at locking the firearms away from him, damn him. 

It would seem that everything about Sherlock is building to a crescendo in the absence of work, even if realistically he's always on an ever escalating path to some madness or other. At least, though, when he's got a case, all this energy is focused in one direction. The past week and a half have been spent tearing through the flat. It's left his bedroom in wild disarray and the kitchen sink half out of commission. Which is to say that one basin is being used to test post-mortem bloat and skin slippage of something that's held submerged at the bottom tied to a weight - what that is, God only knows. There were a string of days in there where Sherlock hadn't bathed, hadn't checked in on his various experiments all over the flat - thankfully that string has been broken today with a long hot shower followed with more of the same. Pacing, staring, checking the website, and pestering John as if he has some kind of answer. As if he's holding out on him. 

There's two emails he's just read not long ago, and he's not even going to bother writing them back right now. They barely had cause to write - it ought to be obvious, the answer - and so he's perched the laptop on a nearby pile of books and is sitting, staring into the fireplace, apparently lost in thought. 

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[clueingforlooks]

Sherlock may look as though nothing has just happened, but inside he's a turmoil of confused and racing thoughts. He's ignoring his lingering erection as though the possibility of going to his room to take care of it wasn't one he'd considered, because it wasn't. More often than not he just ignores this particular bodily urge, but even if that wasn't his norm, he would still be ignoring it now. He'd been so certain that he was right, so sure that what he noticed in John had been interest that the jarring assertion that he was wrong, that John didn't in fact want him, it hurt and left him disinterested in it entirely. His body was a different story, but it was easy enough to control that now. Still, he's careful in how he sits so as not to let on that ignoring it hasn't quite worked yet.

By the time John is cleaning up the coffee, Sherlock's settled down to lay on his side on the sofa, facing away from the room. He's upset with himself for being wrong, for missing something, and his posture is tense, even though he's reclining. He wants to retreat into himself and explore what he'd overlooked, but John is everywhere. He can hear him moving around the room, clinking bits of broken mug together as he cleans up the floor... Sherlock doesn't say anything, but at great length, he does allow himself a sigh, as though he's really quite put out by John now.

If Sherlock had any insight into what he was feeling, he'd know he was ashamed of himself and his mistake and wanted to be alone, but too stubborn to actually leave.

The tension stayed with them over the rest of the day and into the next. Very few words were said between them, but at least the issue that remained unspoken was occupying all of Sherlock's attention and energy, distracting him from the lack of a case. By the following evening, he had exhausted the possibilities and felt prepared to confront John with his conclusions to find out which of the possibilities were true. This evening, he's in pajamas and a robe and laying more comfortably on the sofa, on his back, eyes closed as he considers everything. Senseless as to whether or not John was actually there, but assuming he was, he calls out, "John."