The laptop's ominous looming continues even after John half buries it under his pillow, when it doesn't stop staring at him so accusingly when John tells it to shut up. The one, blue, blinking eye suggesting that the battery's charging, mocks John with its obscene, hateful wink.
How can he put into words the utter ludicrousness of barging through darkening London streets with a madman? How could he possibly form coherent sentences about the adrenaline, the exhilaration of the chase, the unbound joy, freedom of running, when it should've been impossible?
Where are the words needed to thank Sherlock enough?