to think of a story

Multiple, constant streams of thought going at all hours of the day, most of the time useful. Running scenarios and calculations in the background like a helpful computer program.

But sometimes, one of the streams of thought pulled into the foreground, and Sherlock was suddenly overcome with this intense, stinging pain.

He'd be sitting at the kitchen table, reviewing preserved slides through his microscope, and then he was struck with the very old, sickeningly familiar sensation of being a photo frame on the wall, but askew. Visually interesting, a conversation starter even, but wrong. Ill-fitted to the wall in a way that everyone saw, immediately, always. Too tight or too loose in the skin of his own body.

Sherlock was picturing himself having a drink with Lestrade at a pub, out of nowhere-- an activity that he would very likely hate. But still, his chest ached at the fact that he wanted it anyway? He wanted to be wanted.

Lestrade liked him, he knew that. And that was very kind of him. But he still looked at Sherlock more like a tool to be used and then placed back in its box than as a person who just needed a friend sometimes. What a disgusting feeling.

Sherlock exhaled and left the table in favor of the living room couch, drawing up his legs as he did when alone and placing his forehead on his knees. He rocked gently forward and back, something about the movements an acceptable exit point for the thoughts.

The image of drinking with Lestrade faded away into the oblivion, melding again with all of the other thoughts, and Sherlock muttered to himself as a way to externally sort through the remaining streams of concepts and pick one that he wanted to spend more time with.

Just then, John left the bathroom in his blue bathrobe, making a casual path towards the living room with darkened blonde hair sticking up in all directions. Sherlock didn't care that John was seeing him in this state, as he'd seen it before, but still looked up as John walked by, saying his name calmly. John would see him.

John sat in his armchair and grabbed the newspaper, glancing over towards him with a half smile, breezy and unintentional.

"Hey. Figured out that opera house burglary, then?"

Sherlock's hopeful expression disappeared, and he dropped his forehead to his knees again.

"No."

"Okay."

John started on reading the paper and though Sherlock usually enjoyed the mutual silence, today it felt suffocating. Isolating.