Written for a very long prompt, but the basics are: Aspie!Sherlock. (Yup. That's it.)

Title from the Doctor Who quote by the seventh doctor. "Anybody remotely interesting is mad, in some way or another."

John breathed a sigh of relief as he let himself into Baker Street and out of the sun. It was one of those stupid days where it didn't rain, and instead the sun decided to make up for it by shining extra brightly. If only it chose to do that in December rather than June, John wouldn't have minded. But on a day where he had to walk, while carrying their groceries, he did not appreciate the heat.

He rested for a minute, letting his eyes adjust to the dark before heading upstairs, not eager to see what Sherlock may have done to the flat in the time he was gone.

He'd left him early that morning, Sherlock haven't even gone to bed yet, with instructions to clean up the elaborate amalgamation of beakers, tubing, and stands he'd assembled in the living room the day before.

John had gone to visit Harry, run a few errands, and to buy groceries. (He didn't go to the store where he fought with the chip and pin machine. He wasn't sure if he could show his face there ever again.)

It had been a good six hours since he'd left Sherlock sprawled on the couch, where he'd apparently been all night, and John was hoping for some evidence that Sherlock had done what he'd asked. Any evidence really. Even if he'd dismantled whatever it was he'd built without putting it away, John would have settled.

But nothing had been touched, Sherlock still in the same position as when John had left him.

John dumped the grocery bags in the kitchen and took a deep breath before walking into the room where Sherlock and his mess laid.

"Sherlock," he said evenly. "Why haven't you cleaned... this up like I asked you to?"


"When I left this morning, I asked you to clean this up. Did you forget? Did you just not want to do it? Had you even realized I'd gone?"

Sherlock shifted slightly, and opened his eyes to peer at John.

"Of course I noticed." He sounded peeved. "It was quiet."

John sighed. "Do you have a valid reason for not cleaning this mess up, other than you were too busy thinking and forgot?"

"No John," he replied, irritated. "I can't remember everything."

John stopped. "Everything? Sherlock, this is one thing that I asked you to do! Have you honestly just sat there on the couch all day, still in your dressing gown?"

"No," he replied honestly. "I made some tea."

"Made some tea..." John muttered, going into the kitchen and making rummaging noises. "So if you could make yourself tea, why couldn't you be arsed to do this one thing for me?"

"I was thinking, John," he said flatly.

"Thinking!" John came to stand in the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room. "Thinking!" he repeated.

"Yes, and I couldn't put it away yet. I wasn't done," Sherlock told him, sitting up and fluffing his hair. Sometimes John wanted to pull on that hair, use it like a leash to direct Sherlock to where he was supposed to be. (He suspected it wouldn't go over well at all, probably landing them both in hospital after a spectacular no-holds-barred throw down.)

"Not done," John repeated. "And you couldn't finish whatever the hell it was you had to do, and then put it away?"

"No," Sherlock retorted. He was becoming agitated, his hands flicking around like they wanted to reach for something. Sherlock balled them into fists and released them slowly, doing what John recognized as violin fingerings from that one awful time he thought he'd learn.

He stood up and began pacing around the room, his fingers still playing silent melodies.

"I... I just couldn't," he insisted, the tinge of panic still in his voice.

"Okay," John said uneasily. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"I just couldn't," he repeated, running the fingers of one hand through his hair while shaking the other, like trying to flick off something wet.

"I know," John said, in what he hoped was a soothing voice. "I understand that. But what's wrong now?"

"You're not listening!" he bellowed.

John watched Sherlock pace, now completely lost.


Sherlock's laps turned smaller until he was almost spinning. "You're not listening," he repeated, whispering to himself now. "I couldn't. You're not listening."

He continued running one hand through his hair while the other returning to fingering what was undoubtedly some ridiculously complicated piece.

John frowned. "I'll just come back in a bit. We can talk once you've calmed down."

Sherlock ignored him as John returned to the kitchen.

John put the groceries away, and then busied himself cleaning the kitchen. For someone who rarely ate, Sherlock managed to dirty quite a few dishes.

John washed them all, finding the warm soapy water relaxing, especially when faced with the thought of returning to talk to the agitated detective.