Sleep Loss - A BBC Sherlock One-Shot
John could usually put up with Sherlock pretty easily. Well, at least he rarely got the urge to shout or rant at the taller man and he was usually able to walk away until he calmed down or his friend came to realise that he was in the wrong and apologised.
Today, he needed to walk away. He really had to go round Sarah's for a few hours.
Sherlock had started the day by waking him at four AM without a word of apology (after all, the Great Detective can go days without sleep; why does John think he needs it?). The case that prompted the rude awakening had moved incredibly quickly and ended abruptly; leaving Sherlock in a bad mood.
John was not in the best of moods himself. He was tired, extremely so, but was unable to sleep because his selfish friend and flat mate was busily scraping away at his violin as if determined to murder melody after melody.
"Just shut up!" John exploded at last as he dragged himself down to the sitting room.
The taller man turned his head to the irate doctor with a frown. "I thought that you had gone to bed," he remarked as he again dragged his bow across the violin's strings.
"How am I supposed to do that with this racket?" he snapped. "Find something quiet to do, if you can't sleep."
He tossed his violin onto the coffee table before throwing himself onto the leather sofa. "Sleep is boring John. All it does is waste time."
"I'm tired Sherlock," he told him in a quiet, reasonable tone. "I need some sleep."
"Then sleep," the Great Detective growled, sitting up. "It's not as if you have anything interesting to do."
He didn't mean to do it. He was simply too tired to be able to stop himself. Before he even fully realised what he was doing he had approached the sofa and punched his flat mate on the nose.
Sherlock said nothing. He simply cupped his hand to his nose to catch the blood and stepped inside the bathroom.
"God Sherlock," John gasped as he came to his senses. "I'm sorry. Let me take a look."
"No; I'm fine," his friend's muffled voice responded through the closed door.
Despite the protests, John did tend to the injury that he had inflicted. He also made his flat mate a cup of tea.
Sherlock, for his part, played a quiet and soothing piece of music and then put the violin away. What he did when John returned to his bed was unclear, but he was as quiet as a mouse until the doctor got up of his own accord.
Today, he needed to walk away. He really had to go round Sarah's for a few hours.
Sherlock had started the day by waking him at four AM without a word of apology (after all, the Great Detective can go days without sleep; why does John think he needs it?). The case that prompted the rude awakening had moved incredibly quickly and ended abruptly; leaving Sherlock in a bad mood.
John was not in the best of moods himself. He was tired, extremely so, but was unable to sleep because his selfish friend and flat mate was busily scraping away at his violin as if determined to murder melody after melody.
"Just shut up!" John exploded at last as he dragged himself down to the sitting room.
The taller man turned his head to the irate doctor with a frown. "I thought that you had gone to bed," he remarked as he again dragged his bow across the violin's strings.
"How am I supposed to do that with this racket?" he snapped. "Find something quiet to do, if you can't sleep."
He tossed his violin onto the coffee table before throwing himself onto the leather sofa. "Sleep is boring John. All it does is waste time."
"I'm tired Sherlock," he told him in a quiet, reasonable tone. "I need some sleep."
"Then sleep," the Great Detective growled, sitting up. "It's not as if you have anything interesting to do."
He didn't mean to do it. He was simply too tired to be able to stop himself. Before he even fully realised what he was doing he had approached the sofa and punched his flat mate on the nose.
Sherlock said nothing. He simply cupped his hand to his nose to catch the blood and stepped inside the bathroom.
"God Sherlock," John gasped as he came to his senses. "I'm sorry. Let me take a look."
"No; I'm fine," his friend's muffled voice responded through the closed door.
Despite the protests, John did tend to the injury that he had inflicted. He also made his flat mate a cup of tea.
Sherlock, for his part, played a quiet and soothing piece of music and then put the violin away. What he did when John returned to his bed was unclear, but he was as quiet as a mouse until the doctor got up of his own accord.