The placid mind

Danger night

{Hey everyone, welcome to the first chapter of this story. I finally decided after a year to make another fanfiction, so I hope you enjoy this.}
Quick note: English is not my first language so forgive me for some spelling mistakes I may have made.
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When Sherlock is working, work is the most important thing in the world. And when he's not working, it still is. He doesn't fill his head with unnecessary nonsense that will never be used anyway. For example, John often rambles about certain celebrities dating. Sherlock couldn't care less about that but when John speaks, he tries to listen. And when he says try, he really means try but often it is unbearable to listen to. Now is one of those times, he's been going on about a certain Brad Pitt for four hours. FOUR HOURS. Sherlock has told him multiple times to shut up, but of course him being on every news channel really does not help.

Sherlock does admire John, he finds his mind so placid. Often he wonders what it's like in there. How does he get through a full day of doing nothing without wanting to kill himself? That is one of the few mysteries he hasn't solved, and that says a lot.

"Sherlock, are you even listening?" This sentence pulled him out of his train of thought.

"Of course"

"So, tell me what was I telling you the last 10 minutes?"

John watches him with patience, waiting for a response. He has his cup of tea in hand and once in a while he takes a small sip, since the tea is still hot. Sherlock has no idea when he made that tea, another mystery. It's probably due to the inner dialogue he was having with himself. To John's relieve, Sherlock finally broke the silence.

"Brad Pitt. Dating. Love. The usual stuff."

Sherlock can feel the atmosphere in the room changing. John clenches his fist and puts down his cup of tea, then proceeds to clench both fists.

"I was done talking about that about an hour ago." he says surprisingly calm. Either fix this now, or be stuck with a whiny John for the rest of this dreadful week, he thinks to himself.

"I apologize." Sherlock says quickly.

"Really? You apologize?"

John groans and then stands up from the couch, walking towards the kitchen. In the past few years of living with him, Sherlock has observed how he walks when he's angry. Slightly bigger steps, his heels only touching the floor for a brief second, his fists clenched and just overall faster.

He leaves his teacup, which he drank surprisingly fast, in the sink and reaches for the cupboard. This is where they store all the alcohol. Sherlock never drinks. He does have alcohol but that's almost pure ethanol so drinking that wouldn't be the smartest plan. If you consume a fairly large amount of it you'd probably die, but that is basically the case with every alcohol. It'll certainly burn your throat.

"Do you want some?" he says while holding up a bottle of scotch.

"No."

"Right, because you're damn machine Sherlock. If you'd drink your insides would fail."

Sherlock looked at John, walking back with two glasses in his hand.

"I am not a machine, John."

"Then prove it, I haven't seen any proof."

John falls back into the couch and hands one of the glasses to Sherlock.

"Contrary to popular belief, I do have feelings John."

Sherlock tries to hold it together. But he can't keep that up for long, so his first response is to  start drinking. The warm, burning sensation of alcohol running down his throat gives him some sort of relief.  It doesn't last long before John starts talking again.