Sleep.

Sleep.

Sleep.

Sleep.

Sleep.

John has never needed it so much in his life, after two endless days and one long night of running around and thinking and then running some more with a pinch of thinking on the side; not to mention suffering rejection in the form of Sherlock's scoffing as he told John that his thoughts which he was trying to contribute to the case were rubbish, because if he had looked more carefully at the man's left toe…

And then John stopped listening, because he was too sleepy for a long spiel. He just yawned and nodded every now and again so as to pretend he was listening. And then, as Sherlock stopped talking and seemed to delve into his mind palace, John hoped that maybe – just maybe, if he was lucky – then Sherlock would be spending a lot of time in his mind palace. And so, perhaps, during that time, John could attempt to doze off, just for a bit.

Just for a bit, he concurred with his self as he rested on the table, his head in his arms, and the room blacked out as he eyelids fell.

Sherlock smiled as he snapped out of his mind palace. A revelation – noun; 1) the act of revealing or disclosing; disclosure; 2) something revealed or disclosed, especially a striking disclosure, as of something not before realized – had just been had. He had to leave immediately, and if his memory was right, a piece of evidence he had missed or discarded as unimportant should still be at the scene of the crime, if it was even a crime, which Sherlock was beginning to doubt.

He jumped up from his seat, shrugged his coat on, and called for his partner as he wrapped his scarf around his neck, "Come on, John!" He almost pelted down the stairs, and expected the same paced footsteps to be following him, but was shocked to hear no such thing. He cocked his head and furrowed his brow, staring up the stairs, hoping for the doctor to appear very soon. Alas, that did not happen, and with a sigh he was forced to hurry back up the stairs, with Mrs. Hudson complaining that it sounded like an elephant stomping around.

He frowned at the sight of John asleep at the kitchen table, and he strode over to the smaller man and shook his shoulders, "Wake up, John, we have a case to solve."

John mumbled incoherently, but his eyes slowly opened and he squinted around him with bleary vision, "Wazzat?"

"A case, John, come on!" Sherlock clapped his hands to further wake the doctor, "I need to get to a piece of evidence before Anderson gets his hands on it."

John nodded and yawned, stumbling up and following the swish of the consulting detective's coat as he blazed through the doorway and down the stairs, this time followed by footsteps – slow and clumsy, but there all the same. When outside, Sherlock managed to quickly hail a cab, and he and John bundled into it and were driven away.

"Anyway, John," Sherlock began his duty of filling John in, "before I told you to look carefully at his left toe. However, what we should have focused on was his left finger – the ring finger, to be exact, for on that was an old wedding ring – scratched, but still shined regularly by him twisting it about his finger whilst thinking of his late marriage, but by the state of him and his flat it would seem that he hasn't been with his marital partner for quite some time. All the police thought that perhaps his ex-wife hated him for the man he was, particularly his drunken behaviour, and shot him. However, this man hadn't been a drunk for quite a while, despite the countless bottles of alcoholic beverages in his flat, because those were days old and had been lying in his bin for ages. You can tell from the stain in his carpet, which, like the bottles, is days old, but, surely, if he was a constant drunkard then you'd expect more sloshing of beverages – more stains; more recent stains – but no, because, as I just said, he hasn't been drinking in a while. The reason for this is also the reason for all the bottles in his bin that have just been sitting there. Wouldn't you usually take them to the bottle bank? Of course you would, unless you weren't feeling up to it, and he certainly wasn't, for he had been thinking lately about his wife and-"

Sherlock paused as he felt a weight on his shoulder, and he looked down and blinked at John, with his head on Sherlock's shoulder. His breathing was steady and light – the slow breathing of someone unconscious – and it seemed that where sleep was involved, John had reached his limit.

Sherlock smiled, for he had forgotten that, despite how inhumanly strong his character was, John was still a normal human with certain requirements. With that in mind, and the fact that it was going to be a long car journey anyway, Sherlock planted a chaste kiss on the doctor's forehead and ran a calloused hand through John's dusty blonde hair, telling John to rest well before silencing himself throughout the rest of the ride.


Author's notes: My friend, pie1313, came up with this idea, and it was so simple yet sweet that I felt compelled to write it, so here you are. I'm not the best at thinking up cases, but I tried my best. By the way, if you're wondering, the man shot himself because he missed his wife. Corny and kind of been-there-done-that, but do I look like the genuis Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? No. Didn't think so.
Critique is welcomed, comments are appreciated!
Thank you and enjoy!

Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

AnorexicWalrus~