Author's Note: Being neither a high functioning sociopath, nor a genius, it is Sherlock's probable insomnia that I can most relate to, having been a cronic insomniac for well over a decade myself. It therefor seemed prudent that, should I attempt to write from his perspective, this would have to be the focus of my story. I don't know exactly where this is going. There may be slash, and the rating will probably change. All the same, enjoy.

CHAPTER ONE

For all my brilliant ideas, I concede that this may not have been the most so. While it did help lead the case to a satisfactory close, there may have been less risky ways to achieve this end. The fact of the matter still remains that it worked, however, and damned be John Watson if he pretends otherwise.

I can live with his disappointment, but I will not be chastised for getting the job done.

Sherlock pauses and lifts the pen off the page, scrutinising his own words. Then he sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair, before throwing his head back over the armrest of the sofa, the hand holding his notebook coming to rest upon his chest.

He lays sprawled across his favourite piece of furniture, looking for all the world like a caricature of some kind of East Asian prince in his blue silk dressing gown. It is seven minutes past four in the morning. He knows this, because from this vantage point he can see the glowing, phosphorous digits on the TV upside down, proclaiming the hour with irritating accuracy. Sherlock can't sleep, and Sherlock is bored to death with it.

It comes in waves, this annoying inability to sleep. When he is at his busiest, he uses it to his advantage. Sleep is a pointless distraction, then, much like eating. But when he is bored, has nothing to do, his insomnia does nothing but irritate him.

So he spends his nights updating his website, playing the violin until John comes downstairs in his pajamas and shouts at him to cut it out or so help him he will smash the damn thing, watching bad telly and writing in his notebook. He occupies himself until he passes out from pure exhaustion some time before dawn. Most days he wakes up a few hours later to find a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of him and his flatmate in the armchair before the TV, reading the paper. It has been a while since he has gone to sleep in his own bed.

It isn't all bad, however. At the very least, his sleeplessness gives him plenty of time to think, his favourite pastime, and think he does. More often than not, he writes his thoughts down.

Lifting his head from the armrest he continues his scribbling.

It was, I suppose, a bit more dangerous than necessary to gamble the hostage's life the way I did, but she survived, didn't she? She's alive and well and back with her mother, so why shouldn't I bask in the glory of my accomplishments? I take risks all the time! The thrill is in the chase! John knows that, and he doesn't usually mind when I take risks. Although, as he said, usually it's my own life I risk, or his…

He doesn't mind when I risk his life. He's far too noble and self-sacrifising. That's his reason, why risking his life is okay. I'm not like that. I enjoy the risk, I don't even think about anyone else.

Sherlock lifts the pen again. Reads what he has written. Sniffs, and then strikes it all out with the pen. It looks so whiny and petulant, like a child trying to justify his actions even if he knows they were wrong. He starts over.

For all his faults – his inferior intellect, his tendency to be self-righteous, overly noble, stupidly kind and ridiculously positive – John Watson is always right. But I will never, ever tell him that.

Last week, Lestrade called me about a hostage situation. A teenage girl had been taken by a desperate criminal following a bank robbery that went horribly wrong. The Yard had no luck getting the girl back, and the criminal was able to make good his escape, taking the girl with him. My aid was requested in tracking them down.

I did this job expertly, of course. (I was able to deduce that the criminal in question was a ruthlessly intelligent paranoid schizophrenic off his medication and tracked his location to a stronghold he had built in a disused Underground station.) However, retrieving the girl without spooking her kidnapper into killing her also proved too difficult a job for the Scotland Yard, and so I took it upon myself to sneak inside and remove the girl myself. Had I made a wrong move he would have likely shot her in the head, of course, which was why Lestrade was reluctant to do just that, but I did not, and he did not, and Lestrade would have had to eat his hat, had he had one.

After the girl was safe, the police was free to storm the stronghold and the criminal is now in custody awaiting trial. John won't let me have my victory, however. For several days now I have had to endure his berating me for moving too quickly, being reckless, risking other people's lives. What if he had caught me? What if he had killed the girl, or me, or both? And while I don't care one bit about the risks…

He is right. I was high on my own brilliance, blinded by hubris, and I ran in without thinking. My success was not based on skill or intelligence, but sheer luck. While John is, of course, concerned with what could have happened to the girl, I am simply mortified that I fell so low as to abandon all thought and rush into a scene. What an amateurish thing to do, what stupidity! I am never stupid. I don't even know what I was thinking. I wasn't thinking. I got lazy. In short, as John has repeatedly told me, I acted like a 'complete wanker'.

The moral implications make little difference to me, but I understand that the risk was also unacceptable on such a level. As John so elegantly put it, I made a 'right mess of things', and should be ashamed of myself. And, as previously mentioned, John Watson is always right.

Sherlock closes his notebook, feeling suddenly tired and heavy-headed. He closes his eyes (only for a moment, he assures himself) and presently falls asleep.

A low sizzling noise fills his ears, and he feels his nose twitch slightly. There is a smell, too, like burning flesh. His eyes open a fraction, but he quickly closes them again to block out the warm sunlight that fills the room, glaring and far too bright for his sleepy eyes. A moment later, he ventures another peek at his surroundings, orientating himself. The sizzling noise seems to stem from the kitchen, as does the smell. He groans, stretches, turns over onto his side and focuses on the coffee table. Predictably, there stands a cup of tea.

'You're awake!'

Sherlock turns his head and sees John standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He is smiling.

'Good morning,' he says.

Sherlock grunts a reply and rubs his eyes.

'I'm off to the surgery in a few minutes,' says John. 'Just cooking you some bacon. Be sure to eat it, you know you have to eat.' He disappears into the kitchen again.

Bacon. Of course. Pig's flesh. Sherlock stretches, yawns and reaches for the cup of tea. It is still warm.