"He never stops, does he?"

"He really doesn't. It's got to be quite detrimental to his health."

"Mmm. Does he, you know, sleep? At home?"

"Sometimes he does. Usually on the couch. Once I found him still sitting at the desk, head down on his laptop keyboard. Fell asleep like that. His laptop was off, though, so either he hit a button in his unconsciousness or else it just auto-powered off."

Sherlock spared John the quickest of glances, something like affronted embarrassment flashing across his eyes. John realized that perhaps he shouldn't have admitted that to Lestrade, even if the latter found it humourous.

"But, no, he doesn't sleep on a case unless he passes out."

"Not that I do that often," Sherlock replied, not looking away from the goldfish bowls. He was crouched on the ground, his chin resting on the edge of the carnival stand. He'd already walked the perimeter of the stand several times, judging distance or whatever else he was doing besides making a scene.

"It's happened a few times."

"Only twice, John. Twice. Once because my mind was incapacitated by drug, once because baser human need actually got the better of me."

"Yes, Sherlock Holmes got tired." John paused. "After four days straight of no sleep." He had been bitterly concerned for his friend for those four days, and had even gone as far as threatening to spike Sherlock's tea with sleeping medicine. The result of that was Sherlock refusing to sleep and refusing to drink. After the fourth day, however, John hadn't needed to worry any longer because his flatmate (flatmate's body, really) had decided to suddenly take a kip halfway through an experiment. John had monitored Sherlock closely after he had woken up (and, annoyed, had jumped right back into the case), but the solid eighteen hours of sleep his body had managed to squeeze in seemed to put life right back into Sherlock and he solved the case before the day was out. (He had actually gone to bed at a decent time that night, too.)

Sherlock grunted in response, standing to walk to the other stand of the stand again.

"Sherlock, just throw the ball," Lestrade laughed, leaning against the support of the carnival stand.

"Quiet," Sherlock returned, never looking away from his newest experiment.

"You wasted a whole bucket already! You won't win with the last one, Sherlock, it just won't happen," John stated matter-of-factly. Sherlock had already thrown one ball; it had bounced off haphazardly and thus led into this Sherlock-sized analyzation of the game.

"It's funny. He can't do anything in the normal fashion, can he?"

"Funny? He's drawing a crowd, Greg. Can't you, I don't know, use your police power and... get them out of here?" John questioned absently, passing a glance at his wristwatch. They'd been here four hours. No wonder he was tired.

"I could," Greg agreed. "But I'll let them see if he wins or not."

John looked back at the crowd as someone yelled "You can do it!". He sighed, although he wasn't able to help the smile. "Well, Sherlock isn't going to like it when they all start chanting for him to win."

Sherlock, however, hadn't even seemed to notice the yell. He stood fluidly, making his way back to John and Lestrade. "I've figured it out. A combination of the distance coupled with the material of the ping-pong ball and the glass bowls-"

"Just throw it," John and Lestrade said at once.

Sherlock frowned briefly before turning back to the booth. "As you wish."

John smiled softly, preparing to have a sulky Sherlock as his companion the rest of the night...

Five minutes later

"I told you, John!" Sherlock boasted, all but obscuring John's vision as he showcased the small goldfish in the bag. "All it took was a careful consideration of all the facts."

John pinched the top of the clear bag and dislodged it from Sherlock's fingers lest he should shake the poor fish to death. "Yes, Sherlock. You have a goldfish. That we're not keeping, might I add."

"Oh, I didn't want it, anyway," Sherlock replied dismissively, although his eyes hadn't left the frenzied fish in the bag full of water since he had won it. "I just knew that the game could be won if one put the proper amount of thinking and analyzing into it."

"And you wanted to be a show off," John finished, grinning down at the little fish. "You know, it's cute. It's got these little black splotches."

Sherlock gave him a depraving look that caused John to lower the bag from eye level self-consciously.

"You said you didn't like fish."

"I never said that, I just... I always wanted a dog," John replied sulkily.

"Dull."

"What are we going to do with this fish now? We could let it go, in the pond, I suppose."

Sherlock reached down and plucked the bag from John's fingers again, pivoting to hold it out to Lestrade. The Inspector Detective had been out of the conversation, but watching them with a smile on his face. Now, he came to a standstill to avoid a fish-in-a-bag in the face.

"What?"

"Take it."

"Why would I want it?"

"Women like these types of things, don't they? Little... fish with black splotches," Sherlock said distastefully, mocking John's previous comment.

"Well, yeah, I guess. S'pose they do."

"Take it."

Lestrade took the bag, peering at the creature inside. "Yeah. I think the wife'll like it." He looked away from the bag to Sherlock. "Does it have a name yet?"

Sherlock now transferred the depraving look onto Lestrade before turning away and continuing down the fairway.

"Sherlock," John chimed in.

Sherlock turned, looking at him expectantly. "What?"

"No, not you," John said, waving a hand. "Name the fish 'Sherlock'."

"Why would you name the fish 'Sherlock'? That's my name," Sherlock replied. "I don't want to share a name with a fish. Much less with something that you called 'cute'."

Ignoring the embarrassment that John was quite sure Sherlock wouldn't let him forget for awhile, he turned to their third party. "Sherlock... Shirley... Lock... Lockie..."

Sherlock, ahead of them, made a noise of disgust.

"Lockie," Lestrade repeated.

"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock muttered.

"I like that. Then the wife can't question it so much."

"Why would you name a fish after me?" Sherlock demanded, falling back in line with them. "You don't give human names to animals!"

"'Lockie' isn't exactly a human name," John said easily, fighting the urge to laugh at Sherlock's bewildered expression. Giving the fish to Lestrade was a sort of touching moment for Sherlock, well, as close as he got to touching, anyway. Now, it had backfired on the detective in ways he hadn't imagined. Could it be that he was embarrassed? He didn't act like it, but Sherlock didn't do anything in the normal fashion.

Despite his better intentions, his laughter spilled over, prompting an even more bewildered look from their companion.

"I think 'Lockie's brilliant," Lestrade decided, grinning with John now.

Sherlock's head snapped from John to Lestrade. "What? You're actually following his suggestion?"

"What's the big deal, Sherlock? You'll never have to see the fish again," Lestrade said, holding the bag up. "Give your utmost goodbye to Lockie, now."

Sherlock only frowned and turned away, striding ahead of them once again. John and Lestrade were left together, both chuckling as John gave the Detective Inspector a high five.


I sort of love it. xD Sherlock's utterly bewildered and annoyed at this latest development. And John and Lestrade are awesome, almost-taunting, but awesome friends.

"Ferris wheel?" "Hm?" "Want to... the ferris wheel?" "Why would I ride the ferris wheel with you, Sherlock?" "Why not? I want to deduce the wind speed-" "No, I'm not. Sorry." "What next, then?" "Oh, stop sulking. We'll go to the gazebo." "The... gazebo?" "Like I said earlier, the entertainment." "Oh, wonderful. ... I could experiment more with the ferris wheel..."