BORED.

Sherlock was so, so, so bored. He felt like his own mind was tearing itself apart. Buzzing. He needed a case, something interesting to happen.. The man was absolutely losing it. Someone had taken his cigarettes, and refused to buy any for him. Even his secret stash was gone!

"Please." He turned to you, sitting nonchalantly in the nearby armchair with a newspaper being your main focus. "I'll tell you the next lottery numbers?" Holmes tried, but you still didn't cave. He sat down on the chair opposite to you, fingers tapping against the armrest like he just downed over ten cups of coffee, restless and frustrated. Sherlock was craving a cigarette more than anything right now.

He stared at you blankly. It was very obvious that he was struggling to sit still, his leg bouncing as if it wanted to detach itself from his body. But it didn't, of course. "Come on.. I need one!" He groaned under his breath, struggling to get through to you, but he was just getting the same answers..

There were no interesting cases, and it was driving Sherlock off the walls. His brain was going haywire. He was deducing things about you that he didn't even find that fascinating just to occupy his thoughts for even a minute.

You had a shower last night, you already had one this week, no? Clearly trying to freshen up even further. But why? New cologne/perfume.. Your clothes were just recently ironed and reeked of strongly scented cleaner, not the regular one you used.. Was something going on tonight? Meeting someone, but who? He wasn't entirely sure of that.

"Who is it?" Sherlock spoke up abruptly, breaking the quiet that fell over the room. There was no answer yet. The rustle of paper was starting to grate on his nerves. He didn't know why, but that particular sound was just itching him in the wrong way right now.