The Emotional Children

IV

~ One week after The Final Problem ~

"Your move, John," Sherlock yawned, rubbing his eyes sleepily. It was one o'clock in the morning, and he was playing chess with his best friend, John Watson.

"Yeah, I know. You said that already. I heard you the first ten bloody times," John replied, insanely irritated. It was hard playing chess against a mind like Sherlock's. John had nearly wasted five minutes just sitting and staring at the board and sweating. It looked like checkmate. Again.

He saw Sherlock's bishop in position to take out his own queen, but if he moved his queen, Sherlock's rook could take out his king, which was checkmate. He decided he was bored with the fourth round of chess, so he let Sherlock end the game.

"Why do you always let me win, John? It's no fun," Sherlock complained, grabbing his rook and smashing John's king off the board with an exaggerated swing.

John watched the king roll around on the floor and vanish under a chair.

"I'll get it, shall I?" John sputtered with annoyance, squatting and feeling around under the chair for the missing piece.

"And I don't always let you win. Most of the time you let me win," John said, answering Sherlock's question.

"Oh my Gooood, I'm so BORED!" Sherlock whined as he leaned back in his chair, let his neck hang down the other side, and put both hands on his head as only an exasperated genius can. John watched the melodramatic performance with laughing thoughts. Only Sherlock could make boredom look like Shakespeare.

John sniffed.

"Not to worry, Sherlock. I'm sure a case'll turn up soon. Fancy a cuppa?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"No, no, no, I don't want anything! I need a case! Something! A cigarette, John! I need a cigarette. Have you got any on you?"

John eyed him sarcastically.

"You really are bored, aren't you? D'you forget I don't smoke?" he asked, knowing he was pushing a few of the detective's buttons.

"Ugh!" Sherlock groaned again. He slouched so much in his chair that he slid off it and landed on the ground between his chair and the table on which they had been playing chess.

"Why are you even here?" Sherlock demanded to know, getting angry now. John checked his watch. One-thirty. Damn. Rosie was asleep in a crib upstairs, which was made in case John was ever needed at 221B. 

"Maybe you'd better get to bed, eh, Sherlock? Go to sleep, dream about something good, and wake up tomorrow. Who knows? Maybe there'll be a case when you wake up." 

John was trying to be optimistic, but Sherlock saw right through his phony attempts to cheer him up.

"Don't be an optimist, John, it never did suit you."

"Then don't be bored. It never suited you," he parried.

Sherlock squinted ever so slightly at him.

"Find something to do, Sherlock, and don't let it be nicotine. You're doing really well. I'm off to sleep. Text me if anything turns up."

"Yes, yes. You know I will," Sherlock responded, waving his hands at John as he closed the door behind him.

He picked up a pistol, trying to decide whether or not to shoot the wall. That stupid yellow smiley. What right had it to smile so unflinchingly at him when he was bored? He should shoot it. Right between the eyes. The nerve of it to smile at him!