Sherlock was sitting at the desk pieces of paper scattered about him. For the last hour he's been scribbling on sheets of paper, diverse in weight and texture, switching pens about every ten minutes. The pens were all blue but other than this, completely dissimilar. John had slumped in his armchair, mostly asleep and watching the detective through half closed eyes. John hadn't slept much in the last four days, Sherlock demanding his full attention on the case. Sherlock himself hadn't slept at all. John sighed sleepily, he'll never understand how the detective did it. John's head jerked up as a voice startled him out of his dream like state.
"Might as well go to sleep John. This will take several hours." And so it was, that when John emerged from his bedroom the next morning, Sherlock was still there, scratching away at the paper, the pile of pens thinned to just a few.
"Morning," John greeted him cheerfully. Sherlock didn't look up, just continued working at his experiment. He trundled into the kitchen still rubbing sleep from his eyes and made the coffee as he hummed quietly to himself. The machine beeped and John stretched luxuriously before pouring a cup for himself and another for Sherlock. The morning was bright and lovely through the window and John smiled at it, he felt much better for his lengthy sleep. It'd been far too long since he'd slept properly. John spooned sugar into Sherlock's tall mug and carried it to the consulting detective. "Drink that, it might help you act like an actual human," And coffee was one of the things that Sherlock really did seem to enjoy so John hoped that maybe, despite the tiredness, Sherlock would drink it and manage to be civil. As the doctor was handing over the cup, Sherlock leapt from his chair and shouted, sending papers and pens flying in every direction and accidentally hitting the hot coffee from John's hand. "What the bloody Hell was that?" John demanded crossly, trying not to curse. The coffee had scalded one of his hands and stained his jumper.
"I've got it John, don't you see? I have it!" Sherlock was still shouting at top volume. He brandished a paper wildly, then seemed to realize he had dropped the pen. Sherlock's face fell as he realized that half his proof was missing. He dropped to a crouch, scanning the floor for his prize.
"Sherlock, what is going on?" John touched his forehead with the hand that had been holding Sherlock's coffee.
"It was the brother John! It's obvious, right in front of our noses, look at the stationary!
"Stop shouting at me!" John bellowed back, fighting his rising ire. "It is far too early for that. Have you solved the case?"He took the first sip of his coffee, instantly feeling just slightly better.
"Of course I've solved it don't be absurd. It was the brother, he murdered the fiance because he liked his cocaine a little too much, got a little overzealous, bought more cocaine than he could afford. It was drugs John. Look at the paper." Sherlock's tone suggested that only an idiot would fail to understand the significance of the rough paper. Resulting in John feeling a little stupid and very irritated. "That's great Sherlock. I suppose we need to get to The Yard now?" His voice was edged with hard sarcasm. John supposed, quite rightly, that this meant he wouldn't be able to finish his coffee. Sherlock held up the pen.
"Get your coat, we're going out." At least he hadn't shouted it.
John plodded into Scotland Yard, the contentment from his morning shattered by Sherlock's constant chatter in the cab. He was only really talking about the case, but John knew it was one of the few signs that Sherlock had become dangerously sleep deprived. He figured it would take about another half hour before the detective was sleeping peacefully. John assumed that presenting the case would take only a few minutes, add another ten and he should have Sherlock dozing on the couch at the very least. John's silent planning and Sherlock's continued babble, that John had been steadfastly ignoring, were interrupted by the door to Lestrade's office opening, a small woman scurrying out and the Detective Inspector calling for them to enter. The shades were, as usual open, allowing the glorious sunlight to filter into the room and eliminating the need for artificial light. Lestrade himself was sitting with his feet on his desk, his morning coffee in hand and steaming gently. John eyed it enviously. "Solved the case then?" He asked, his voice unusually somber. The case had been very high profile and it had been almost a week since the murder. The higher ups were starting to breathe down his neck and Lestrade was becoming uncomfortable. Sherlock recited what he had told John earlier and repeated in the car, his voice starting to slow and falter slightly. John checked his watch discreetly. It had only been fifteen minutes since the case had been solved, Sherlock seemed to be tiring more quickly than usual.
"I still don't understand how the paper actually solves anything," Lestrade rubbed his cheek. He desperately needed this case to be airtight. It was his neck on the line if the perpetrator walked due to sloppy evidence.
"It solves everything," Sherlock snapped, "That particular paper can only be bought at one store in London, you have location, five blocks from the brother's house. The pen is one I stole from the said house, imported. Also the only possible instrument that could have written the note. Very distinct patterning. Drugs, the paper's distinct thickness and texture allowed it to retain some traces of cocaine. It's obvious! If you require more proof, then you'll have to find additional evidence for me to examine and you seem to be rather noticeably lacking in that respect. The note is the best proof you have."Lestrade had taken his feet off the desk, abandoning all pretence of insouciance.
"Sherlock I need more. I'll go back to the scene and look for more evidence and you keep looking at what you've got. See if you can come up with something more." John thought that Lestrade was being remarkably calm for someone who was being shouted at in his own office. Sherlock rubbed his eyes, another sign.
"No, no you obviously need me at the crime scene. Why don't you review the evidence, it'd probably do as much good," John raised his eyebrows, but Sherlock ignored the look. Lestrade didn't miss the significance of the statement. All three knew that if Sherlock had missed something on the evidence, there was a slim to nonexistent chance that Lestrade would see it.
"Sherlock?" John asked quietly, frowning at his irritable friend. Instead of replying, Sherlock merely glared at him before standing abruptly and sweeping from the room. "Sorry about him he's just-" "Tired," They finished at the same time, sharing small smiles. "Ok well, I guess I'm following him to the crime scene. Will I see you there?" John asked, standing to go. Lestrade nodded and sighed. It looked like another very long day.