A/N: Takes place any time after the first episode of season one and before the last in season two.
"John!" the agitated call greeted me as I entered the flat I shared with the insufferable Mr. Holmes.
I sighed, "What is it Sherlock?"
"Will you hand me the remote?" he seemed slightly pacified that there was someone home to hear his demands.
I found him plunked down in front of the TV, which was playing an educational program about the solar system. He sat there staring at the flickering view of a Mars rover landing as though it was the only thing keeping him sane. Maybe not the show it self, but the box it came from had become my flat mate's only stimulation for over a week. Sherlock with no cases was a scary and a pathetic thing to see.
I spotted the remote just out of his long reach on the mantel of the fire place. I shook my head as I hung up my coat and headed over to where my friend sat in his stupor. At least he hadn't take up anything more addicting then the television; that I could be thankful for. But enough was enough.
I picked up the remote, but instead of handing it to him, I turned it toward the TV myself. I took a deep breath, preparing for the consequences of this action, and I turned off the television. I took the chair across from Sherlock in the time it took him to realize that the darkness was that of non-stimulated pixels and not of some scientist representing empty space.
He blinked, maybe for the first time in hours and turned his attention to me. I gathered my resolve to confront him. "John," he drew my name out, irritated and not quite back in reality.
"Sherlock," I said in clipped tones back at him.
"I'm bored," he stated, finally fully focusing on me.
It was all I could do not to smack my head against a wall.