John is teasing him again. But Sherlock closes his eyes even so, because he can picture himself invading something this very instant, can see himself walking right into Dr. John Watson’s mind and on every separate cell—no, every neuron, then later cell by cell, and then atom by atom, skipping the molecules because that would be redundant—writing his own name on John’s brain. He would be able to muse upon nothing but Sherlock. All the time. And when all is said and done, Sherlock thinks, am I not the most interesting thing he could possibly be preoccupied with? Am I not unique? Am I not burning so much more brightly than the others that it’s like being tied to a stake with fiery faggots at my feet even to wake up in the morning? Could John ever, if he looked, find a finer obsession? It wouldn’t hurt him, might even be an act of charity.
No. It would not. Be. Charitable, Sherlock thinks with positively bestial fury at himself.
“Right. You’re going to … tell me about it, then?” John wonders in that wandering, direct, impossible-to-chart way of his.
And suddenly Sherlock knows exactly what to do. It all clicks in his head. This was a problem, and he hadn’t even realized it—a five-patch problem, maybe, but that’s over now, he’s solved it, and he sits up very quick, pulling his legs out from behind John and setting his feet on the floor. They ought to vacuum, he thinks. Cat, dirt, crisp crumb, dried beer—
“You have to get out of here,” Sherlock says very seriously.
