Sherlock Holmes

A chill autumn wind howled outside the Baker Street windows, pelting raindrops against the glass. It was well past three in the morning. You had returned from a grueling call three hours ago—drenched, angry, and drained.

John had already changed into his usual warm pants and a soft, old sweater. He sat in his armchair, stretching his aching legs toward the fireplace, lazily watching the chamomile tea cool in his mug. He didn't even have the strength to walk to the bedroom. All John wanted now was peace and quiet.

But Sherlock had other plans for that night.

He still hadn't taken off his iconic coat, only tossing his wet blue scarf to the floor right in the hallway. Holmes paced the living room from corner to corner, like a caged cheetah. His steps were uneven, he swayed slightly from sheer exhaustion, and his pale face seemed almost translucent in the dim light.

"Sherlock, for heaven's sake, stop fidgeting," John said quietly, closing his eyes. "Your footsteps are making the floorboards creak right in my head. Sit down. Or better yet, lie down."

"I can't, John, I can't!" Sherlock stopped abruptly in the middle of the room, waving his arms dramatically, but immediately grabbed the back of his chair to keep his balance. His eyes were gleaming feverishly. "We solved the case, yes, it's incredibly boring... But did you see how Inspector Lestrade filed the report? He mixed up the sequence of evidence! This is... this is simply a crime against logic! I must write him a devastating eight-page letter. Right now."

He took a step toward the desk, but tripped on the edge of the carpet. It was obvious that if this stubborn man didn't lie down within the next ten minutes, he would simply collapse from exhaustion. But Holmes was physically incapable of admitting his weakness.

John opened his eyes and sighed wearily. He would have to save Sherlock from himself again.