John Watson, former doctor for the British army, found himself drawn to the computer yet again. Its comforting glow shone in the dark, pushing away all of his demons. He sighed and strode over to the desk, sitting in the chair as he looked at the open page.
The blog. His blog. The scapegoat from the nightmares and the keeper of his memories—after all, diaries were a thing of the past.
His eyes looked over the page. It was a recent case. Sherlock had, as always, done an exquisite job putting all of the clues together and solving what had not been an accident, but completely intentional homicide.
It was always easy to see what Sherlock saw when it was explained. John couldn't help but stare at Sherlock in awe as the cases that were so difficult, seemingly impossible, were told as though a child could have done it. And once Sherlock walked him through it, John really did believe a child could do it.
John smiled, closing the laptop and looking out the window to Baker Street. The sidewalks were empty, as it was two in the morning. Unable to sleep, John always found solace in the living area, where he and Sherlock would hear cases, or Sherlock would play his violin, or Sherlock would sit in his chair and think. It was comforting, and he liked it that way.
The door to Sherlock's room creaked, and a silhouette of that very man peeked out of the opening, looking toward John, who was sitting in his chair. John turned, looking to his best mate, who nodded curtly and stepped out of the room, going to take a seat in his own chair. John followed him with his eyes as he walked across, making his way over the scattered articles of clothing and miscellaneous items that had accumulated due to the Mrs. Hudson being on vacation. (She claimed to not be their housekeeper, but she really was.)Sherlock collapsed into his chair, his arms thrown carelessly across the arms of the chair and his legs extended as he looked up to the ceiling.
John looked at him with a raised brow. "Are you alright?" he asked, hesitation sounding in his voice.
Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes and pausing for a moment. "This case. I don't know what I'm missing."
John frowned, feeling Sherlock's pain. Though he refused to speak up about it, as he was sure Sherlock had more of an edge to his frustration. "I'm sure you're going to figure it out," he said reassuringly. "You always do in the end."
Sherlock stood up and walked to the pinned-board and tore down the leads that he had found, shouting out in frustration. "It's not working!" he yelled, throwing them to the floor.
John stood, slowly pushing himself from the chair and walking over to his friend. "Sherlock, it's okay. You're a fine detective." He rested a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
The taller man turned, looking down at John with clenched teeth. "It's not right. I can't figure it out."
John nodded, patting Sherlock before stepping aside. "You will," he said, gesturing to his bedroom. "Go sleep."
Sherlock hesitated for a moment, but ultimately decided to follow John's advice. John walked him to his room and watched as he laid in his bed.
"Okay," John said, sighing as he stood in the door for a moment. "I'm—er… going to take your phone and such away." He nodded and began looking through his flatmate's room.
He cringed, holding up the corpse of a rat by the tail. "Sherlock!" he yelped, shaking it in his direction.
"Ooh," Sherlock said with a wince. "Sorry. I suppose I should find everything for you?" His social skills might not have been up to par, but he could tell certain things. And John was definitely appalled by the state of his room.
John nodded, dropping the rat and stepping out of the room, hovering in the hall. Sherlock sifted through, finding his laptop, phone and every other thing John might deem "sleep depriving". "Here," he said, holding them out.
John nodded, taking them all. "Now sleep."