John does not understand.

John does not want to understand.

John does not even want to remember what happened last night.

John does not want to look at his phone.

John doesn't even know why his tea had gone cold.

John does not even know how he got to the kitchen room and made tea.

Did he use the stairs?

Or did a fairy help him to go to his destination?

Or did he have powers?

Did he teleport?

Oh. My. God.

Had he been thinking about everything that happened last night? The other days? When Sherlock was doing all of those things?

How long was he thinking about it?

What was going through Sherlock's mind while sending those texts?

Did he fucking wank on his chair? Like, truly wanked on his chair?

What was Sherlock thinking?

Why was he doing this?

What was going through his mind while sending those texts?

Why did he even send those texts? Seriously?

The jokes are going too far.

John is confused.

John does not understand.

Why was Sherlock doing all of those things?

Did he not want to understand?

Did he want to understand?

He doesn't know.

He's confused as hell.

Confused.

And he's feeling like shit, too, because hang over and Sherlock Holmes just talking dirty and mentioning sexual things so casually. Like it's an everyday thing.

And on top of that, he even told his brother that he and John were having sex! Oral sex to be exact.

John could care less what Mycroft thought of that, but why? Why did Sherlock do that? Why did Sherlock do that? Why would Sherlock Holmes even do that?

Boredom?

Hell, no! When Sherlock was bored he'd just sulk all day and all night. When Sherlock was bored, he doesn't joke around like this. So, why? Why is Sherlock Holmes doing all of this?

John felt stupid.

He slapped his face gently and sipped his now cold tea and sighed. Why is  Sherlock Holmes doing this? Is this still a joke?  

A clatter had brought John back to reality and he looked to his side to find Sherlock stealing his mug and sipping from it. The detective wrinkled his nose and said, "It's cold," before putting John's mug back to the table. 

John sighed and rubbed a hand to his face. I don't understand. You don't do this, Sherlock. Why.

He didn't see the look of puzzlement Sherlock gave him.

"You okay?" the detective asked.

John shook his head. "No." 

"Hang over?"

"Yeah." He lied. 

"Hm. Next time, don't drink too much." Sherlock turned his back to him and was now heading to the sitting room.

John watched as Sherlock slowly headed to the sitting room and before the detective could fully exit the kitchen he called, "Sherlock..." 

Sherlock stopped and turned to him. "Yes?"

Innocent eyes, innocent face, innocent everything. Does this man even know what he's doing...? Do you even know, Sherlock Holmes, why you're doing this? Do you have a reason behind all of this?

John stared at him, raked his eyes on Sherlock Holmes figure and thought of all the reasons why Sherlock was doing these things. And none of the things that he thought about sounded possible. 

"John...?" 

John flinched, back to reality. "What?" 

"Are you okay?" Sherlock now sounded worried.

He nodded. Lied. "Yeah."

"Are you sure?" 

"Yeah."

"Okay. Were you going to ask me something?"

"What?"

"You called me. Were you going to ask about something?"

Ah. He's got questions but John Watson just shook his head. Sherlock shrugged and exited the kitchen. 

John felt like shit again. Not the bad kind of shit. Just the confused kind of shit. He doesn't understand his emotions. It was a mess.

A/N: This chapter is confusing. I am confused myself.