Everything too loud, everything too bright. If only it were night, that would do better much better than this
Sherlock's thoughts went on and on in a seemingly endless loop that was slowly beginning to numb the detectives mind. It was his fourth day without sleep and he was starting to feel the consequences. His head ached and his eyes were so dry he thought they might turn to dust. He struggled to hide the oncoming yawn from John, who stood next to him, but his attempts failed and John gave him an unamused look.
"How long has it been since you slept?" he questioned in his doctor voice. Sherlock just rolled his eyes and leaned back against the cool wall of the office. He crossed one leg in front of the other and threw his hands into his coat pockets.
"A day or... four." He admitted. Sleep wasn't a necessity to him, though most people would tell him it was and anyhow even if he wanted to sleep he couldn't. His mind was usually far too busy to allow him a peaceful nights rest, and he's lie awake for hours on end doing nothing more than staring at his bedroom ceiling.
"Four days Sherlock?! You can't go on like this, you know?"
"On the contrary, John, I shall go on as I please."
"Sherlock." John stated with a displeased grunt. He was at a loss of what to do with the man. In fact John would say that Sherlock was more child-like than man-like at the best of times, although Sherlock would obviously disagree with that statement. "You need sleep, your body needs sleep you know that." He said incredulously.
"I know a lot of things." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "It does not mean I comply with them."
"But-"
"But nothing, John. I don't need to sleep, just... drop it." With that, Sherlock pushed off the wall and headed for the door. With one swift push they opened and in an instant Sherlock was out of John's line of sight. He had no clue as to why Sherlock was so opposed to sleeping, but he wanted nothing more than to find out.
The cab ride home that night was silent. John kept throwing Sherlock glances, in part wanting to make sure that he was alright. He sat almost completely still as he often did with his head turned to look out the window at the passing sights. John wondered about what was going on in his mind; was he thinking of work or of home? Or of him, perhaps. John had to admit that the majority of his thoughts were of Sherlock, though of course he'd never admit that to the man himself. He thought about his mannerisms and his character and his voice and his eyes and everything in between. He thought about what it would be like to hug the man, just once. It had been on his mind for a while, really. When had somebody last hugged Sherlock Holmes? It couldn't have been recently because John would most likely have known about it, they did spend most of their time together after all. John shook off the thought and turned to look out of his own window.