Sherlock, for the most part, is blind to John's introverted agitations. Every so often, John will speak up and sometimes they have a tiff right there in the main room or the kitchen or wherever it is that they both happened to be occupying at the same time. Stupid things, mostly. Things like leaving the milk out or running lab equipment through the dishwasher with food dishes. Okay, so there was one time that he'd ran a bleached femur through as well. Who cares? It was just a femur.
The fights and tiffs are familiar ground. They'd always had them, but Sherlock doesn't recall them being quite this frequent or this unpredictable.
He refuses to correct any behaviour John deems inappropriate on the principle that John had dealt with it when they lived together before so he could deal with it now. It's how he'd always been and how he would always be. Changing for someone else, even for the person he regards as his first and best friend, is completely out of the question as is apologising for being the person he is.
The level of tension between the two of them leaves him feeling edgy. Twitchy. Fidgety. Usually those moods are reserved for when he's bored or mentally unfocused (a side-effect of the boredom most of the time), but it's starting to leak into his work. At least, when he's working on non-life-threatening cases with John. That's why Sherlock stops bringing him along on those cases. Blackmail, con artistry, identity theft, property damage. All of those things aren't enough to pump enough adrenaline through their systems to distract from whatever unspoken thorn is working its way deeper between their friendship. If left untreated, it may fester, but Sherlock's not the type to broach the subject nor is he one to realise the danger of it.
He goes on one of those cases tonight. An odd little situation with a private client he'd found through hacking John's blog where a young woman named Violet Hunter is hired as a live-in nanny and tutor to a very strange and suspicious couple. He'd been asked to meet with her at a neutral location between London and the estate in Hampshire to discuss the updates in her situation privately. As it turns out, he may have to make one of those life-threatening trips over there in the next couple of days.
As soon as he arrives to Baker Street and lets himself in from downstairs, he calls up for John. No answer, but John's clearly home and in the main room judging by the light on upstairs. "John, didn't you hear me call?" He asks, frustrated as he goes through the landing doorway.
He stops dead in his tracks when he sees John slumped over on his armchair with a half-spilled bourbon class in one hand and a bottle of scotch on the table next to him. New bottle, he hadn't seen it before. Half finished, probably within the time frame of a couple of hours. A bourbon glass? Really, John? Was he already drunk when he forewent the scotch glasses or did he just not know the difference?
Seeing him like this reminds him of the dozen times he'd walked in on this exact situation over the last two months. He shuts and locks the landing door thinking it would probably be best not to worry Mrs. Hudson over his flatmate's unrivalled stupidity. His thoughts drift to Harry and her habits as he hangs his coat and scarf before making his way to the armchair. He kneels down, holding two fingers just a short ways from John's nose and then pressing them up under his chin to check his pulse. If he had to predict John's blood-alcohol level from the evidence in front of him, he would come up with a troubling 0.15%-0.17% possible range. At the peak of his intoxication, it must have been upwards of 0.25%.
If this were the first time, he wouldn't be so worried. Heck, if it were the third time, that wouldn't be so bad. No, this is the fourteenth time in two months. The pattern is evident. Whenever he's away for too long, in the evenings mostly. So, it's either bring John along and feel off, agitated, fidgety, distracted, and altogether unfocused on his work or leave him home and come back to find this.
He kneels there next to the armchair, hands steepling under his chin for almost half an hour before he picks up his friend and carries him over to the sofa to lie him down on his side.
no subject
The fights and tiffs are familiar ground. They'd always had them, but Sherlock doesn't recall them being quite this frequent or this unpredictable.
He refuses to correct any behaviour John deems inappropriate on the principle that John had dealt with it when they lived together before so he could deal with it now. It's how he'd always been and how he would always be. Changing for someone else, even for the person he regards as his first and best friend, is completely out of the question as is apologising for being the person he is.
The level of tension between the two of them leaves him feeling edgy. Twitchy. Fidgety. Usually those moods are reserved for when he's bored or mentally unfocused (a side-effect of the boredom most of the time), but it's starting to leak into his work. At least, when he's working on non-life-threatening cases with John. That's why Sherlock stops bringing him along on those cases. Blackmail, con artistry, identity theft, property damage. All of those things aren't enough to pump enough adrenaline through their systems to distract from whatever unspoken thorn is working its way deeper between their friendship. If left untreated, it may fester, but Sherlock's not the type to broach the subject nor is he one to realise the danger of it.
He goes on one of those cases tonight. An odd little situation with a private client he'd found through hacking John's blog where a young woman named Violet Hunter is hired as a live-in nanny and tutor to a very strange and suspicious couple. He'd been asked to meet with her at a neutral location between London and the estate in Hampshire to discuss the updates in her situation privately. As it turns out, he may have to make one of those life-threatening trips over there in the next couple of days.
As soon as he arrives to Baker Street and lets himself in from downstairs, he calls up for John. No answer, but John's clearly home and in the main room judging by the light on upstairs. "John, didn't you hear me call?" He asks, frustrated as he goes through the landing doorway.
He stops dead in his tracks when he sees John slumped over on his armchair with a half-spilled bourbon class in one hand and a bottle of scotch on the table next to him. New bottle, he hadn't seen it before. Half finished, probably within the time frame of a couple of hours. A bourbon glass? Really, John? Was he already drunk when he forewent the scotch glasses or did he just not know the difference?
Seeing him like this reminds him of the dozen times he'd walked in on this exact situation over the last two months. He shuts and locks the landing door thinking it would probably be best not to worry Mrs. Hudson over his flatmate's unrivalled stupidity. His thoughts drift to Harry and her habits as he hangs his coat and scarf before making his way to the armchair. He kneels down, holding two fingers just a short ways from John's nose and then pressing them up under his chin to check his pulse. If he had to predict John's blood-alcohol level from the evidence in front of him, he would come up with a troubling 0.15%-0.17% possible range. At the peak of his intoxication, it must have been upwards of 0.25%.
If this were the first time, he wouldn't be so worried. Heck, if it were the third time, that wouldn't be so bad. No, this is the fourteenth time in two months. The pattern is evident. Whenever he's away for too long, in the evenings mostly. So, it's either bring John along and feel off, agitated, fidgety, distracted, and altogether unfocused on his work or leave him home and come back to find this.
He kneels there next to the armchair, hands steepling under his chin for almost half an hour before he picks up his friend and carries him over to the sofa to lie him down on his side.