Sherlock flew down the stairs unable to be sedentary any longer, the cab was waiting outside and he directed it to Scotland Yard. He pulled Lestrade's access card from his coat and strode towards the building. 9.15pm, Lestrade and his band of incompetents should have left by now, due to the lack of paperwork they would have been getting over the past few weeks. He made his way easily in to Lestrade's office, with minimal confrontations besides the occasional cleaner.

He paced around the office, hesitant of what he might find, it could say that there hasn't been anything for the police's concern, or that Sherlock had been severed from communication with the police and would no longer have the privileges on cases. Not that would stop him of course but, although he would never admit it, he needed Lestrade and the authority that came with his company. He couldn't decide which would be the worst scenario, so instead he blocked the thoughts, inserted the key copy he had made and pulled out the closest file. Dated last week and renewed every day this week with the same signing: 'Nothing to report.' Sherlock almost crumpled the file in clenched angry fists. He thrust the file back in the cabinet with such velocity the whole contents of that draw shifted revealing the bottom of the draw and an open crack. Sherlock pushed his fingers in to the opening and holding on to the rest of the files, lifted the lid. Inside the false bottom of the drawer was a thick, yellow file filled with news cuttings and scribbles. There was too much to just take pictures on his phone so he put everything thing though the photocopier. 'Perhaps I should have brought John.' He was getting frustrated with the speed of the photocopier. He checked the other files and bottoms of the draws to make sure there was nothing of significance, then replaced the old files to its secret home, picked up a fresh sleeve and tucked the copy under his arm, hidden by his jacket.

2:47am. Sherlock burst through to 221B, swinging the door with such force that it slammed its shelf shut with about as much force it opened with.

"Jesus Sherlock!" John had leapt to his feet in military attack form, but Sherlock said nothing and threw the papers down on the coffee table.

"Sherlock? Where have you been? It's 3am, God; I've got work in 4 hours." But Sherlock was scattering the papers over every inch of the table, flinging anything off that was in the way.

'Organised chaos.' Thought John. 'Good sign, it means he's found a case.' John took a seat next to him and picked up the now empty file sleeve, he saw the stamp of Scotland Yard imprinted on the header.

"So, Lestrade gave you this then?" Sherlock paused for a millisecond and then resumed his frantic antics.

"Oh, Sherlock you didn't?"

"Not now John."

"But, Sherlock this is illegal even for you; stealing from the police."

"They're not going to know, anyway they need me." Sherlock snapped, his impatience and excitement were running him: "Besides, it's not worse than shooting a man, is it John." That didn't soothe the creases of worry from John's forehead but what was done was done, Sherlock was too far-gone at this moment to be reasoned with. So instead he turned his attention to the sprawl of papers.

"So, what is all this, what have you found?" Sherlock sighed and clapped his hands together, pausing the streams of thought that were fighting alongside each other simultaneously, but John deserved that much.

"This file was hidden in Lestrade's office. It's something he has been collecting for the last four months now. He turned to look at John and saw the tiredness in his eyes but also the clear determination that he was going to stay and help. "Lestrade isn't quite as absent as we presume." John raised an eyebrow but let him continue. " He's documented the dwindling crime acts over the last few months until these three weeks where it has been nothing, at all, no murders, no break ins, not even any pre-teen shoplifters."

"Right."

"Don't you see John?" Nothing! This is not human nature! Where's the struggle, the beautiful destruction."

John could watch nothing but Sherlock, when he was like this, it really was extraordinary, passion and childlike wonder ebbed through him and he shone his brilliance. "Now look John, really look." Sherlock directed him to the clippings; about two hundred photo articles each talking about some various crime. John looked for a few minutes, scanning various articles, but soon the words swarmed on the page and started bleeding together. He rubbed his eyes to try and clear them; Sherlock placed a hand on John's arm.

"You need sleep." John sighed with his eyes closed and a weary smile, John was used to staying up night after night with Sherlock when they were on a case but without any work Sherlock had almost regressed to a childlike state in a constant need of attention, and company, and entertainment. It had exhausted John. But this is exactly what Sherlock needs and he wasn't going to abandon his friend for something as frivolous and selfish as sleep.

"No, I'm fine, really. So tell me what is so obvious that I'm missing. And why did Lestrade hide this, and why didn't he come to you about it?"

"I'm going to make some tea, do you want some?" Sherlock stood towering over John as he passed to the kitchen ignoring the look of surprise on John's face. John decided not to mock the detective and just graciously accept this rare occurrence. He was still studying the articles, he felt so close to seeing whatever it was Sherlock could see but it was just out of his grasp. Sherlock reappeared and handed him his cup, John smiled and took a sip, a generous amount of honey overpowered his taste of the rest of the tea but he gave Sherlock another appreciative smile as thanks.

Sherlock looked back his papers and waited for the Xanex to kick in. Several minutes later: an empty cup and a doctor snoring lightly, face softened. Sherlock picked up the smaller man and carried him upstairs; he turned off his alarm and let his flatmate get some well-needed rest.

It was 11 am before John roused. He rolled on to his side away from the light flooding in between the curtains; it took several minutes for it to register.

"OH SHIT!" He kicked the duvet off and checked his alarm clock, 11.06am. "OH CRAP, CRAP, CRAP." He flung himself out of bed pulling on trousers and tearing off his bed shirt. He stumbled down the stairs, shirt in hand and trousers undone trying to remember where he kicked off his shoes last night. He tumbled in to the living room flustered but stopped dead. The living room had been converted into a web of coloured string; he dropped his shirt and walked in with an open mouth. Each wire connected to an article or print on any number of the four walls, it was beautiful and terrifying.

Sherlock walked in from the kitchen to see John standing with his back to him, shirtless, trousers hanging off his hips and looking up at his creation; 'No time for underwear then.' Sherlock placed a slice of toast in his hand which brought John back in to reality.

"Oh crap Sherlock I'm late. AGAIN! Sarah's going to kill me." Blushing slightly when realised the state he was in, hurriedly did his trousers up and pulled on his shirt.

"You called in sick.

"I...what?" John stopped scurrying about looking for his shoes and straightened to look at Sherlock. Even through John's puzzled expression Sherlock could see how younger he looked now he had actually slept.

"I called in sick for you." Sherlock looked at John with a deadpan expression.

"What, why? Why would you do that?"

"Because you would have been in no condition to treat patients. Besides I need you home today."

John collapsed on the sofa next to Sherlock; he slumped his head in his hands and stroked the back of his neck. Sherlock watched this soothing action. "Thanks, I guess, I suppose I would have been more a burden than help at the clinic. And I do feel a lot better now." Sherlock was looking too smug. "Although, I don't remember how I got to bed last night."

"I carried you."

John turned to stare at Sherlock who was following a particular blue string with his gaze. "You what?"

"I carried you. That's how you got to bed last night." John's cheeks flashed red and he turned his head in fear of being seen.

"But, no. No, I was looking through the file with you, and then... and then you brought me some tea..." John couldn't recall anything after the honey. "You...you drugged me, you son of a bitch."

"John it was necessar..."

"You son of a bitch. The only two times you have brought me tea and they have both been drugged!"

"Well, the first time it was actually just sugar."

"THAT'S NOT THE POINT SHERLOCK!" John was fuming and his embarrassment had been replaced with rage. "How could you do that Sherlock?!" He faced the angled man and glared accusingly in to pale eyes.

Sherlock wanted to shrink away, John was the one person he hated to disappoint. "I, well, you needed sleep and I needed you today."

"You don't get it do you? You machine! This is a complete violation of trust I...I just can't believe you would do something like this, to me!"

Sherlock kept his chin raised with an unreadable expression plastered on defensively until John had slammed the front door behind him, then his head dropped in a long exhale.

"Sherlock?" A warm voice echoed round the door followed by a quick, soft knock.

"Not now Mrs Hudson!" and Sherlock wrapped his dressing gown around himself and lied on the sofa with his arms round his chest.