Insomnia
A Sherlock Holmes One-Shot

A week.

The blesse'd violin plucking had been going on every night for a week. Always around 3 or so in the morning, when I would be in my deepest of sleep, when I would finally be ready to rest myself from a long day of work, that violin would begin wailing. I gritted my teeth, trying to block out the strings incensed crying, but it was to no avail. The violin just wouldn't stop.

You see, my dear friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, was working on a new case, something to do with a family from Russia, and there was just one little connection that he couldn't quite place his finger on. The family's eldest daughter, due to marry the newly appointed prince, had been murdered one night in her sleep. No signs of struggle, no signs of a forced entry; everything was as it should have been. She was lying on her bed, appearing to be asleep. The doors had been locked, as well as the windows, so there wasn't any evidence supporting a murderer-yet somehow the woman was dead. At first I believed her to have simply passed on in her sleep, but as always Sherlock had a different theory entirely. And here he was, trying to place his finger on what had truly happened to that poor girl-what the rest of us couldn't possibly see- and depriving both himself and everyone else in London of much needed sleep. I sighed and tossed my sheets aside, there was no hope of regaining my losses, not at this hour. I grabbed my dressing gown and slippers, then headed into the corridor.

Just as I thought, my partner was standing in his usual manner-back turned to the world, violin resting gently beneath his chin, and horse-hair bow carving away at the poor strings-near the large window overlooking the great city of London. His dark, unkept hair was even more so disheveled than when I last left him, and his outfit seemed to match-dirty button-up blouse torn and matted, trousers hanging on his shoulders by one measly suspender, and loafers scratched and practically falling apart. His eccentric amber eyes were closed, mouth turned into a tight grimace.

Holmes may not be one to admit it, but his violin spoke in more ways than he possibly could. When he would return home, after a murder or a seemingly troublesome case (much like this one), the violin would sing of sadness and melancholy words, woes most men, or women for that matter, ever harbor; however, when he would come home-adrenaline high and blood pounding- the violin would sing with such vigor and life-it was magnificent, beautiful even-but for now, the violin wept.

I frowned; this case must be affecting him more so than I thought. I stuffed my hands into my night bottoms, feeling around for the small powder I'd placed there moments before. It was present, like I knew it would be. From the looks of my colleague, I would be in need of it shortly. I cleared my throat, giving signal to my friend that my presence was now existent.

Upon that note, the music came to an abrupt halt, and the musician's dark amber eyes shot open, "Watson?"

"Right, old boy." I feigned a smile and descended down the small staircase linking the upper foyer to the latter. "Haven't you any clue what time it is?"

The Stradivarius retreated from his chin to his side, "To be honest, I do not…know." He mumbled, staring down at his instrument.

I raised an eyebrow at my friend; he was acting quite peculiar, even for him. "Is something troubling you, Holmes?"

It was as if a switch had been flicked on in that moment. His face suddenly came to life, staring back at me with overly bright features and curious eyes. "Not at all." He smiled. "I seem to have disturbed your sleep, however..?"

I waved him off and took a seat on our lounger. He was hiding something from me, as per usual. "It's alright; I'm used to it by now."

Holmes smirked and laid his violin in his armchair, replacing it with his favorite wooden pipe. "As I am aware," He took in a deep breath and puffed out a large cloud of toxic fumes. "So sorry to have woke you, by the way. This case is…most troublesome to me, at the moment."

"It's alright, old boy, I figured as much." I glanced up to see the dark circles from insomnia protruding from underneath his eyes. "When was it that you slept last, Holmes?"

"I can't recall." He answered dully, his face taking on that familiar glazed look.

"Holmes," I rubbed the bridge of my nose in annoyance. He opened his mouth to protest, but I quickly cut him off. "You have to sleep; otherwise that brain that you so greatly cherish will simply cease its function."

Sherlock scoffed and began to pace around the room, restless. "If I sleep, then this case will present new challenges. Challenges which, as you know, the inept troopers of the Scotland Yard are most likely to ignore, thus creating a problem more complicated than the last- THEREFORE!" His voice had amplified in volume as he continued, "Not just anyone, neigh, NO one, but the great-"

"Sherlock Holmes," I added, smirking.

He glanced over at me and returned the gesture. "Indeed-can solve this case. Hence, sleep is out of the question, irrelevant." He continued, chuckling. "In point of fact, dear Watson, I feel enlightened. My mind can reason in ways it couldn't previously, it's amazing. Like…some sort of medley with ideas and words circling about in my skull…"

"I'm sure," I answered, looks like I would have to use that powder after all. "Would you care for some tea, Holmes?"

The detective waved me off, "No, you-"

-"Holmes,"

"No, I-"

"I'm fixing you a cup." Sherlock cast me a glare, but continued pacing nevertheless.

I sighed and walked into the small nook which we had deemed a kitchen. As per usual, papers, test tubes, and beakers were thrown around the countertops, some still filled with vile colored liquids and experiments, but the sink and cupboards were devoid of any dish. Looks like I would have to inquire about tea from Mrs. Hudson-again.

I sighed and straightened my dressing gown. When I returned into the living area, Holmes was standing atop his writing desk, franticly searching through his bookshelf for a passage. "Watson!" He cried.

I stopped dead in my tracks, "What?"

"It's all coming together!" He declared, leaping down from the table to the floor. He threw out his arms, as if to say something, but instead of elaborating he began searching the room again.

I released a long breath and quickly made my way towards the foyer, "I'll be back in a moment, Holmes."

He grunted a reply as I limped down the staircase. To my surprise, Mrs. Hudson, our loyal landlady/nanny, met me around halfway. She, too, was wearing a dressing gown, and her greying blonde hair was wrapped in a loose bun atop her head. Her eyes were drooping, as I'm sure everyone's were so long as they were within earshot of Holmes, but she was holding a saucer with a teapot and cups in the center, much to my relief. "He's not well, doctor."

I stifled a chuckle. "Indeed, Mrs. Hudson."

"You have to do something." She stated, serious. "He's kept the whole of London awake long enough."

I reached down into my pocket and held out a small handful of white powder, which I then deposited into the contents of Holmes' teacup. She raised an eyebrow at me. "A sedative, to help him rest." I smiled, taking the tray from her wrinkled hands.

The woman sighed gratefully, "Thank heavens for you, Doctor Watson."

I nodded and began my trek back up the seventeen odd stairs to our flat, "Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson."

"Yes, Goodnight."

Now, it was clear that something had gone awry since I had left to seek out our landlady.

Holmes was pacing around the circumference of the room, new books, objects, and papers thrown precariously to the floor, mumbling to himself. His bright, tawny eyes were clouded and it seemed as though he was having a hard time focusing on anything other than the course he took for his feet. Apparently his pervious enlightenment had led him to yet another dead end. "Holmes?"

The detective ignored me and simply continued walking, still with the mumbling.

"Holmes." Louder this time.

Still no reply.

I sighed, giving up on trying to communicate with this man and simply walked past him, placing the saucer down on (through all of the papers and bullets, I supposed was the remnants) of our breakfast table. Holmes jumped back, glancing around the room like a wildman. "Watson? When did you get here?" He asked incredulously, running a hand through his disheveled hair. His eyes weren't as glazed as they had been, but they were extremely dilated.

"I've been here, Holmes. I simply went to Mrs. Hudson to fetch us some tea, remember?" Looks like the insomnia was beginning to affect some of his memory (among other things).

"Ah," He swallowed and placed his pipe down on the lounger, scrunching his nose in disgust. "Nanny."

"Yes," I grabbed the cup which I had previously placed the sedative in and held it out for him, taking the other for myself.

Holmes took the cup wearily and glanced down at its contents, "Did she poison it?"

My heart skipped a beat, surely he couldn't of detected the sedative-simply by glancing at the cup? I had been sure to choose a medication that would easily dissolve in liquid…"But of course not, old boy. She's our lessor, why on earth would she try to poison you?"

Holmes sneered at the cup, but took a sip of its contents nevertheless. I did the same, relieved that he hadn't seen through my ruse. "I must confess, my dear Watson that I am at a loss for this case." He answered suddenly, the cup now lying untouched on the table.

I smirked, if my plan were to work I had to make him believe that nothing was of suspicion, "The great Sherlock Holmes, at a loss?"

He chuckled, but continued on nevertheless. "Try as I might I still cannot account as to how the Russian mistress came to be inside of that room. Agh, the pure simplicity of this case is the key to the whole mystery, of that I'm sure..." His voice trailed to that of a whisper as he became absorbed in thought again. I sighed and placed the cup back into his hands, he had to drink more for the powder to work. He accepted it wordlessly, again with a distracted nod of thanks, but sat still soon after, cup instantly forgotten.

"A highly-advised woman such as herself would not allow, or subject, to be taken by a stranger without making a fuss; she is but a woman after all…Such hateful, nervy creatures, given to discrimination, and ruthlessness."

"Drink up, old boy, before it gets cold," I remarked, keeping a deliberate tone of nonchalance in my voice.

He scoffed but amused me by nonetheless sipping at the tea.

"Cracking on-none of the servants in that wing heard nor seen any cries or struggle, therefore we can surmise that she must have been lured by someone she knew, or trusted heavily…though I assume the latter. Presumably we must ask, as a rightful detective would dictate, who? WHO would she trust…?" He broke off suddenly, and for a moment I feared he'd somehow managed to detect the drug; however my fears were allayed when he suddenly took a longer draught of the tea, continuing to speak. "Unless, of course, the woman was somehow incapable of speech..." His cup was forgotten as he suddenly thumped his fist into the palm of his hand. "But of course! How could I have been so ingorant? The murderer!" He turned upon his heel to stare at me. "Dear Watson, the woman's killer was in the room! THAT'S how the windows and doors were locked! He was in the room just as we were! He would stay, wait until everyone had gone, then emerge and go on about his affairs! AGH! Wonderfully brilliant!"

I watched him with muse. At times, Holmes could truly astonish me, at others, he could simply enrage. For a moment, I almost felt bad for giving him the sedative, but…in all honesty, it was necessary. He needed rest, as did everyone else in our flat.

"Now, I'm sure you are wondering as to the mystery of how she came into the room, and how this man escaped, well, my dear fellow, the-" Sherlock took in a sharp breath, reaching out and clasping the armchair for balance. "She…she was…Watson..?" Holmes staggered into the wall, breathing heavily. "Watson, I- I-"

I placed my cup down and leapt to my feet, carefully slipping my hand underneath his elbow, steadying him. "Easy there, Holmes." Sherlock clutched at my arm, his amber eyes clouded in confusion.

"Can't think what's come over me...suddenly…dizzy," he muttered. I tried to guide him over to the settee but he stumbled again, this time falling to his knees on the mahogany floor. "Watson, what's wrong with me? Everything's…spinning. My…mind, I'm…" he slurred.

"You've been pushing yourself to extremes these past few nights, Holmes." I replied, bracing his shoulders," Even your iron constitution has a breaking point, you need to rest."

He shook his head then swayed, clutching at me like a drowning man. "No- no, I can't-" His breathing was becoming harsher as he fought the drug. "Watson, I can't...I…the case..!" His voice trailed off as his body began to slump against me. I sighed and gently lowered him down until he was braced against the wall and floor at a 90 degree angle.

"It's alright, Holmes." I urged, trying to keep his head from falling over. "Just relax."

His badly darkened eyelids fluttered over his hazy brown eyes, his gaze was becoming increasingly limpid and unfocussed. "C-can't sleep, must- I must-"

"Shh, easy Holmes, it'll be alright," I shuffled him gently as to where he could lie on the entirety of the floor.

Much to my relief, the change in posture seemed to calm him; his breathing eased back into a normal rhythm. He sighed, his hand reaching out blindly, "Wat…sn…" I took his pale hand in mine, squeezing the fingers briefly in reassurance that I was, as he should know, still by his side.

"J..n? J..hn…I…I hve to…case." He breathed, all but gone.

"I'm here." I murmured gently. "It will be alright, just sleep, Holmes."

"…D...r…gged..." My heart froze for a moment. Had…had he figured it out? Through the midst of his drug induced sleep, had he discovered what it was that I had done? "The…R..ssian woman…was drugged…j…hn...tll…Lstrde….fr…me."

I sighed, "Alright, we'll explain the case to him later. I promise."

Sherlock released a long breath as his body went limp against the wood. I chuckled and placed the detective's dressing gown over his long torso and legs. After a week of constant thought and mental turmoil, Sherlock Holmes was finally asleep, and so the rest of London, and myself, could do so as well.