Thud. Not for the first time, John heard the sound coming from the lounge room. Thud. It was one o'clock in the morning, and not even the pillows covering his ears would block out the miscellaneous noises that were echoing inside the flat. Thud. What the hell was he doing? John had being lying in bed for hours, willing Sherlock to go to bed, or at least quiet down. It had been three days, and Sherlock had neither eaten nor slept in that time. As a doctor, John was convinced that Sherlock was a medical mystery, as he seemed to run purely on science, coffee and nicotine patches. It made him a brilliant detective, but a nightmare to live with.

With a heavy sigh, John swung his legs out from under his duvet and rubbed his burning eyes. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he massaged his temples with his fingers, taking deep calming breaths before he went to confront his flatmate. He always managed to get himself worked up, and it never did him any good – Sherlock never actually bothered with anyone's opinions, save for his own.

John fumbled beneath his bed for his fleece-lined slippers, and grabbed his dressing gown from the hook behind his door. He felt like Mrs Hudson when she came upstairs late at night to tell them off– all he needed was some hair curlers.

Like this, John stormed into his lounge room, halting just as an ornamental knife came whizzing through the air and stuck, quivering, in the faded blue wallpaper by his ear.

'Rising early, are we John?' Sherlock's voice drawled from the other side of the room. He was sitting on the armchair next to the mantle, but with his legs where his head should have been, and his tangled curls hanging just above the floor. Next to him was a pile of scissors, butter knives, pliers, scalpels, and anything else sharp he could get his hands on. A similar array of objects were sticking from the wall opposite, amid small slits where he had obviously pulled them out to start again.

'What in-' John took a deep breath and looked away from the chaos, fists clenched, counting to ten in his head, slowly, like if he were a teacher dealing with a particularly trying student. It was surprising how many similarities the two situations had. 'What, in God's name, are you doing?'

'Trying to distract myself from the tedious nature of the world and all those who live in it,' He drew back his arm and flung a bread knife into the wall.

'By using our wall as a dart board?'

'Indeed'

'Oh for crying out loud…' John's shoulders slumped as he pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. 'Right, that's it, get up, Sherlock! Get up, and find your shoes,' John turned on his heel and stomped into his bedroom.

'Why?'

'We're going for a walk!'

'What, pray tell, are we doing?' Sherlock asked. His voice was slightly muffled, as the lower part of his face was covered with his customary blue scarf. They had left their flat quickly and quietly -so as not to disturb Mrs Hudson – and were now walking briskly along the pavement. It was the early hours of the morning, but London was still awake, the far-off sounds of traffic and police sirens mixed with the heavy beats of music and shouting.

'You haven't slept in 72 hours, and because of that I haven't been able to rest either. So I'm taking you out for a walk, in the hopes that it will exhaust you enough to make you sleep. Either that or make me so tired that I will sleep through whatever stupid rubbish you get up to,' John replied curtly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

'Have I been keeping you up? I'm sorry,' Sherlock tried to appear sincere, and failed.

'Shut up,' John snapped. 'And you haven't eaten either.

'Ugh. Eating's boring. And overrated,' He rolled his eyes and huffed, sending his breath out in a cloud of vapour in the cold air.

'What, even more than breathing?' John asked, a touch of exasperation in his voice.

'I am being slowly convinced of the benefits of breathing. In the meantime, eating has slid down several places on my list of practical activities,' the corner of his mouth turned up in a wry grin. 'But if you are insisting, as my doctor, where should we go?'

'There's an Indian place a couple of blocks down. They do a brilliant chicken tikka-masala. I took Jilly down there a couple of-' John paused as Sherlock made an amused sound. 'What?' He asked him impatiently.

'How did Jilly react to that then? Being taken to a restaurant that serves you in polystyrene trays? Really, John, I didn't think you could be so clueless.'

John was astonished, and a little irritated, that Sherlock was lecturing him on human behaviour.

'What's wrong with it?' He demanded. 'She said she enjoyed herself,'

'Then she was lying, probably trying not to hurt your feelings. But then, she didn't really think about your feelings all that much when she dumped you, did she?'

'You're a real prick, you know that, right?'

"I have been informed of that fact quite regularly, actually. Come on though, John, didn't you pay attention to her earrings? Or her perfume?' It was Sherlock's turn to be exasperated now. His friend simply looked at him blankly. 'No. Of course you didn't. If you had, you would have known not to take her out to "Big Tej's Indian". My perfume analysis would have done you some good, if you had paid attention to it.' Sherlock's voice maintained its pretentious, conceited tone, but a slight bitterness crept in towards the end, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. Even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't help the automatic reactions that betrayed his true feelings.

'Don't tell me you're still upset that I said it was a little ridiculous,'

'I believe that your exact words were"a complete bloody waste of time",' Sherlock enunciated each word very carefully.

'Right, so where, exactly, has the ability to recognise different perfumes been useful?'

'What about Jilly, hm? Jilly the woman who you were seeing, but I knew more about, because I paid attention to her perfume and you did not.' His scarf had slipped from his face and specks of saliva had caught on the fibres.

'Oh, so you knew her and I didn't?'

'YES! She was a call-in secretary, her shoes were cheap and so were most of her clothes! But her perfume, her perfume, well, that was a very different story. The most recent Dior perfume, by my reckoning, which is going for £120 a bottle. £120 for a perfume, purchased by a woman who gets paid a little more than minimum wage per hour?'

'Maybe she had just treated herself?'

'If she had bought this luxury item for herself, she wouldn't be wearing it all the time, would she? Surely, if she had splurged so much of her cash on this one item, she would savour it, wear it only on very special occasions: not just for a night-in with you. It wasn't bought by her then, no, it was a gift. You mentioned her birthday is coming up in a month – so it certainly wasn't a birthday gift, and this particular perfume came out several months after Christmas. A casual, luxurious gift for no apparent reason? The ties are obviously romantic. So this came from a previous, and very recent, lover, who obviously had a lot of money to burn. You said that she hadn't been in any serious relationships lately, so this, combined with the expensive, year-old emerald earrings that she so carelessly left at our apartment a few weeks ago, points to one conclusion.' Sherlock paused for breath, and, John suspected, dramatic effect.

'Alright then, what is it?'

'Your Jilly had very expensive tastes that her current financial predicament could not accommodate. So she instead angled for rich lovers who could sate her material desires. You only dated for a little while – not nearly long enough for any meaningful gifts to be shared – so why did she 'move on' so quickly? I assume it was when she discovered that while you are a doctor, you are also a returned-soldier who needs to share a flat and go to cheap take-aways to get by. This is why she wasn't best pleased to be taken to the Indian restaurant to which we are now headed.' Sherlock then whipped out his phone and started to text, avoiding eye-contact with his companion.

John was stunned. His legs kept moving, but his mind was slowly processing everything that he had just heard; his whole body was put on auto-pilot as he digested Holmes' logic. It all made sense – she only really became interested when he mentioned he was doctor. She had also become quite cold when he had started to mention his financial worries, but he had just assumed that she wasn't comfortable with lending him money. He understood what really happened, now.

Of course, that doesn't mean he was happy about it.

'So. Are you suitably convinced of the importance of perfume analysis now?' Sherlock sounded smug.

'Did you think, Sherlock, about how this would affect me?' John asked slowly, staring at the ground.

This confused his genius friend. Taken-aback, he replied 'No. Why would it affect you?' He didn't mean to seem uncaring – he was genuinely confused. John knew this, but instead of calming him down, it just enraged him even more.

'How would this-'John's hands began to shake. 'Do me a favour Sherlock, and just think for a moment. Think about what you have just told me: a woman who I was starting to develop serious feelings for only wanted me for my money, a woman who I've only recently got over. Now let me ask again – How do you think this would affect me?'

'Well, John, I assume it would make you revaluate your ability to judge people accurately, and perhaps pay more attention to the person with whom you create an emotional bond.' Sherlock had gone cold, his voice expressionless as it drawled out his words.

John just stayed silent for a while.

'What is it now?' Sherlock asked, looking down at his friend.

'You don't know how very wrong you can be sometimes, Sherlock,' John relied quietly.

'I'm wrong am I? Please enlighten me as to my mistake,'

'You just need to be more aware of people's feelings- oh God, who am I talking to?'John paused and sighed.

'What is it?'

'You know what, it doesn't matter.' He snapped 'You won't understand anyway. Look here we are, what do you want?'

They ordered their meal and sat in silence on the hard plastic chairs that the small café offered.

It was funny, really. Sherlock didn't eat very often, but when he did, he ate like a horse. John - who completed rigorous, army-approved weight –lifting and cardio exercises every day and did most of the housework between the two of them – couldn't even come close to the amount of food that his flatmate could consume in one sitting. As John stoically made his way through one serve of rice and Rogan Josh, Sherlock polished off three curries, a two-person container of rice and enough naans and pita breads to feed a small family. He wasn't a messy eater, either – whilst his appetite was enormous and he ate very quickly, he was very civilised about it, using the plastic cutlery like it was the Queen's silverware.

He delicately placed the final forkful of rice into his mouth, and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. With a sigh, he stretched his arms above his head, his purple shirt tugging up to reveal his lower stomach. John eyed it disdainfully. By all rights, his stomach should be bursting some of the buttons by now.

'Are we feeling a bit better now?'

'No. My stomach is full, but I feel…sluggish,'

'You did just eat a meal designed for four people in under 10 minutes,'

'My instincts had temporary control of my body – I couldn't stop, Now, I think my cognitive skills are now average at best. Still quite brilliant, by your standards, but unspeakably slow to me,'

'So, you might not be yourself for a little while?' John had chosen to ignore the quip about his intellect, but he couldn't help the hopeful note that entered his voice.

'Don't worry yourself too much. Give me ten minutes to digest and I will be back to normal,'

'Oh joy,'

They made their way back to their apartment. The exhaustion was tugging gently at John's eyelids, and even Sherlock seemed a little fatigued.

They slowly trudged up the stairs to their apartment, grunting a goodbye to each other before they went to their separate bedrooms. John had barely undressed before his drooping body slumped on the mattress. His final thought before he closed his eyes was: 'Oh good. My plan worked.' A faint smile played on his lips as he drifted off.