John Watson burst into the cluttered study. "Sherlock I think we-"

"Shh!"

"- need to… Sorry, but did you just shush me?" John stood, affronted.

"Yes. You were talking and it was annoying."

"About the case, Sherlock. I was talking about the case. I think I've found some—"

"Shh!" Sherlock waved a hand, brushing John away.

"This is important, Sherlock. It might help solve the case!" John nearly whined.

Sherlock groaned and spun around in his chair. He had stains of what appeared to be charcoal on his shirt.

"John. Shh. Now." Sherlock said, curtly.

"Stop shushing me, Sherlock. I mean it." John held up a finger, acting too much like Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away once again, acting more like a lazy teenager rather than the world's only consulting detective.

John sighed.

"Don't." Sherlock spoke with his back to John.

"Don't what?" It was John's turn to roll his eyes.

"Don't do that thing you just did. The 'ugh' thing."

"I was sighing."

"Well don't. It distracts me."

"Sherlock-"

"John."

"Sher-"

"John."

"Sh-"

"John."

"WHAT? WHAT COULD I POSSIBLY BE DOING WRONG THIS TIME?" John Watson roared, throwing his hands up in mad frustration.

Sherlock spun around to face him once more. He pressed his fingertips together and brought them to rest under his chin.

"In the refrigerator there are two bags of fingers. Grab the one and bring it to me please."

John stood, incredulous, the vein in his head throbbing.

"Fingers? In the…? Sherlock, we talked about this. No storing body parts where the food is stored."

Sherlock gave John an odd look as if he had said something wrong, which, to most people, he had. But not Sherlock.

"MRS. HUDSON! WHERE ARE YOU? I NEED YOU TO GRAB SOMETHING FOR ME." Sherlock yelled to the room at large.

"Landlady, not housekeeper, Sherlock." Came the reply, several rooms away.

Sherlock pushed himself up and stormed into the kitchen. He grabbed a bag of fingers from the fridge and tore it open. John watched in horror as Sherlock brought one to his lips and bit it, taking off a huge portion of it.

"SHERLOCK!" John bellowed, standing agape with a look of utter disgust on his face.

"What?" Sherlock asked innocently.

John tried to speak several times, not getting past the first few words. Sherlock picked up another finger and ate it.

"Stop it! What are you doing?" John thought he was going to be sick.

"I'm hungry." Sherlock strode to the table and pushed the clutter to the floor before sitting down in one of the worn chairs.

"Fingers, Sherlock? Hungry for fingers?"

The look John received was enough to make any man feel like a complete fool. Sherlock's eyes darted to him, then back to the fingers, then back to John. Sherlock cocked his head.

"Fingers, John? What are you talking about?"

"What am I—THOSE, SHERLOCK! Those are fingers. You're eating fingers. Why—why are you eating fingers?" John began pacing quickly.

"French fries. I said French fries, John. Look." Sherlock held out a severed finger.

Only, it wasn't a finger. It was a French fry. And that wasn't blood. It was ketchup. And John was just there. Dumbfounded. How could he have mistaken the two things?

"When is the last time you had a nap, John?" Sherlock cut into his thoughts.

"Wha-?"

"A nap."

"Errr three days ago, was it? Something to that effect." John scratched his head.

"After three days with no sleep the average human will experience hallucinations, short temperament, and severe anxiety. You need to sleep, John."

John opened his mouth several times. Sherlock only shook his head and gave John a sad look as if to say 'You poor, idiotic, ridiculous lamb.'

And so John retreated to his room without another word.