AN: Just a bit of fun with the characters, no seriousness involved :P I entertained myself writing this late at night when I couldn't sleep, so it's likely to be awful, but enjoy anyway!
John Watson had learned to recognise the signs. The eyes, unable to focus, darting from side to side, the slender fingers drumming impatiently on the arm of a chair, the same violin concerto played backwards again and again at double speed, bullet holes in the wall... Sherlock Holmes was bored. Although, when he said it, he called it Bored.
"This city is so Dull!" The capital letter was evident here as well, as John's restless flatmate paced about the room. "I could cry! I really could. Nothing ever happens! Nothing!"
"I resent that," John remarked drily from his armchair. "I fought the self serve machine again today, and this time I won. The new milk is on the left of George's head, although I do wish you'd tell me why you're keeping the old one. It's been off for days."
"Experiment," came the muffled voice of the world's only consulting detective from behind the cushion he'd now buried his face in.
"How can..." John rolled his eyes. "Never mind."
"And," the cushion went flying through the air, "technically speaking, it's not 'George's head'. George is the head. His owner's name was Harrison. So what you meant was, the new milk's on the right of George."
"See! It's the Dullness! It's numbing my senses. My brain has forgotten how to function."
"Oh, really, that's tragic. Poor you."
"And now you're mocking me. I'd have thought you of all people would be a bit more sympathetic."
"Really. And why's that?"
"Because..." Sherlock spluttered. "Just because! Semantically null statement aside, just look at me! I'm pathetic! Poor me. Poor Sherlock. Sympathy, look, I can see it in your eyes."
"My eyes are closed. Because I am growing weary of you and your boredom."
Sherlock leapt up and grabbed the skull from the mantlepiece, holding it up to his face and gazing soulfully into the spaces where its eyes had been. "Oh, Xavier, why does no-one understand me but you."
John raised his eyebrows. "Xavier? Yesterday you were calling that thing Jeremiah."
"Quentin has many names," said Sherlock haughtily. "And don't ever refer to him as 'that thing'."
"Sorry." John was by now resigned. It had already been twelve days. Surely someone would be committing a nice murder sometime soon. He hoped. State of his nerves, he was beginning to think it wouldn't be long before he arranged Sherlock some entertainment himself.
"You know, all my bullet holes are starting to look like a shape."
"I can't see one."
"Look, along here, and up here, and imagine there's a line here, and another one there...do you see it?"
The Great Detective looked crestfallen. "It's a parrot."
"Oh, a parrot." John took a sip of the tea which had somehow materialised on the coffee table in front of him, then hurriedly spit it out. "Sherlock! What is this?"
"Told you it was an experiment. And are you sure you can't see the parrot?"
"Positive." John poured the offending cuppa down the kitchen sink. Then the doorbell rang. "Hark! There is an outside world after all. I'm going downstairs to see who it is. Don't do anything silly."
"I am Sherlock Holmes. I am never silly."
John descended the stairs, muttering under his breath. He flung open the door, and saw, to his enormous relief, Detective Inspector Lestrade standing on the doormat, flanked by two uniformed drones.
"Hello, John," the DI greeted him. "Is Sherlock around? We could do with his help."
John nodded, pointing to the staircase behind him. "Lestrade, please don't be alarmed, but I could kiss you right now."
Lestrade blinked. "...Right."
"Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to," John said breezily, dragging him by the arm up towards Sherlock's room. "I'm just very happy. Sherlock gets bored, I get driven to distra...Sherlock. How on earth did you get up there?"