a vain girl with a scalpel

Sherlock's boredom is a dangerous thing, John knows from experience; a man who would stand in the path of lightning if it proved interesting enough to warrant his attention doesn't do well when left at loose ends. John's grown to understand it, even appreciate what it means to Sherlock to be without work; Sherlock's mind at rest is running twice that of any normal person, and occupation cannot be easy for anyone who spent a single afternoon learning the entirety of grade school astronomy and an evening with university textbooks and physics journals scattered through the flat like breadcrumbs leading to a truly terrifying days of quoting energy-mass conversions over breakfast and dipping into the vastness of stellar phenomenon before tea. They had reached dark matter theory by the time John heartily regrets the birth of Gallileo and begins to empathize with papal wrath if this is the type of thing Christ's representative on earth thought passed for light chat during meals.

Go. Read. Shoo. It is brilliant.