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[highfunctioning_sociopath]

Mundane.

This is positively ridiculous.  I don't want to go anywhere! I am perfectly content at 221B.  

On the one hand, there's no one there.  Literally, there's nobody. I can sit and think for days on end and no one will pester me with eating or watching telly or 'help me with this completely obvious problem that I'm too dull to work out for myself.' 

On the other? It also means John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly and Mycroft aren't about.  And who else will keep me entertained.  They might be average, but I'm used to having them around. And what will become of them, if I'm not around?

Comments

[hisdearblogger]

Don't quote medical facts to me, Sherlock Holmes.

You should know by now that I will stand by how the energy food provides your body is better for you - both physically and mentally - than starving yourself.

[highfunctioning_sociopath]

[He rolls his eyes. They might actually be fighting just now.]

Of course you will, which explains why, even with your military training, you still run slower than me.

[That wasn't a comment on John's height, honest.]

[hisdearblogger]

[ Have a very displeased look, Sherlock. You tall prat. ]

Pardon me for not being born with the appropriate genes to insure I grow into a giraffe.

[ There might have been a time in John's life when he had been referred to as "a hobbit". By his sister. So, any shot to his height might have been a tender area to aim for... ]

[highfunctioning_sociopath]

[John will get over it.]

It has nothing to do with height. Everything slows down when you're digesting.

[hisdearblogger]

How would you know? You barely eat.

[highfunctioning_sociopath]

I eat enough to sustain myself. Anything more is gluttony.

[hisdearblogger]

[ And here is John rolling his eyes because for God's sake... ]

[highfunctioning_sociopath]

What?

[hisdearblogger]

Are you saying that having three meals is gluttony?

[highfunctioning_sociopath]

For me? Yes.

[hisdearblogger]

[ John makes a face. ]

How can you say that?

[highfunctioning_sociopath]

[He speaks the next phrase rather slowly, as if speaking to someone dimwitted. Which, maybe John is, on occasion.]

Because... it's... true.

[hisdearblogger]

[ John repeats in the same fashion as Sherlock. ]

No... it's... not.

[ Frowning again. ]

You're being too harsh with your body. It's not healthy.

[highfunctioning_sociopath]

It's served me this long...

[He doesn't care.]

[hisdearblogger]

[ John lets out a heavy sigh because being a doctor he can't help but care about these sort of things. ]

[highfunctioning_sociopath]

[He tilts his head slightly while studying John.]

Is this... one of those... sentimentality things?

[hisdearblogger]

[ There's another sigh, softer this time, before the doctor nods. ]

Yes, it is.

[highfunctioning_sociopath]

Ah. And would it make you less sentimental if I ate more?

[He doubts it, let's see if John can tell where this is going, though.]

[hisdearblogger]

Probably not.

[ Meaning, even if Sherlock ate three meals a day, John would still worry about him at times. ]

[highfunctioning_sociopath]

Well, at least it wouldn't make you more sentimental.

[John might be learning.]

[hisdearblogger]

[ Another roll of the eyes because even if John took the time to explain himself he highly doubts Sherlock would understand it. ]

[highfunctioning_sociopath]

[There's a reason why Sherlock needs his blogger.]

What now?

[hisdearblogger]

[ Sounding more tired as he grabs his jacket and puts it on, heading for the door. ]

Nothing, Sherlock.

[ Pausing long enough to ask: ]

Do you need me to get you anything from the store?

[highfunctioning_sociopath]

Borax. And I don't mean Boric Acid or laundry detergent, but actual borax.

[Yup, over Sherlock's head.]

[hisdearblogger]

[ A blink and then another accompanying a blank stare before John nods slowly and heads out the door. ]

I'll... see what I can do.