Mind racing, like a freight train; a tornado jet; a whirlwind.
It never stops. All-seeing; all-knowing. Never missing a beat.
Wild; frantic; chaotic; manic.
Thoughts; feelings; sentiment - boring: relegate to Mind Palace - memories of people; places; times.
People are so dull; lethargic; stupid; vacant.
How can such empty minds make so much noise?
A cacophony of idiocy and humdrum.
"You lower the IQ of the whole street."
"You're an idiot."
"Practically everyone is."
Annoying. They're all so annoying.
Anderson; Donovan; even Lestrade sometimes.
Mycroft. Don't even go there.
Too much. It's all too much. Too much noise. Too much information. Too much... of everything.
Peace. I need peace. Nobody speak. Nobody move.
Anderson, turn around.
I need to be alone.
Whirring; running; chasing.
Chasing the criminals; chasing the high.
The high.
The endless desire; longing; need for the high.
Adrenaline high. Drug high.
The need. The gnawing deep down; in the pit of my stomach.
The knowledge that one day, the chase won't be enough. It'll fall short; leave me wanting.
But John. John is my tether; my rope; my kite string.
John keeps me sane; holds me tight; sets me right.
His strength; his honour; his integrity.
He never judges. He neutralises my acid; calms my fire; tempers my tongue.
He is peace.
The peace to my bedlam.