musicalluna

Title: Sleep Is For The Weak Minded
Fandom: Sherlock
Author: MusicalLuna
Rating: T
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John
Genre: Humor
Warnings: None
Complete: Yes
Summary: Sherlock is inconvenienced by John's need for sleep and tries to do something about it.
A/N: I just thought this idea was hilarious. ;p
Disclaimer: I don't own anybody.

 

“You sleep constantly,” Sherlock says, flinging a small object (John has no idea what it is, but it's probably his) across the room in irritation one morning. It hits a precarious stack of books on the armchair and they topple off, crashing to the floor.

 

John blinks at him drowsily because he's only just gotten up and it's really hard to make sense of Sherlock first thing in the morning (or any other time, really). “Sorry?” he says.

 

Sherlock huffs and begins pacing. “You should be.”

 

Rubbing a hand over his eyes to try and wake himself up so that he can maybe begin to understand what Sherlock's going on about, John says, “I can't help sleeping, Sherlock. The body requires adequate sleep to function properly.” He frowns. “You know, it's not even as though I get that much sleep. I can sleep five or six hours and operate well enough.” He ignores a derisive snort from Sherlock. “Most adults need eight hours,” he adds pointedly.

 

“Yes, well, I only need two to four and not even every night. All of this sleeping you do is a major inconvenience.”

 

John stares at him in disbelief. “My sleep patterns are a major inconvenience. For you.”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says peevishly. He smacks a mug off the top of a stack of books and watches it shatter on the floor.

 

John throws up his hands. “So, what, you just want me to stop sleeping? I did do that during the banker case. You remember how well that turned out, don't you? I'm not a machine, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock presses his lips together, clearly frustrated. John decides it's too early for this, so he's going to let him stew in his thoughts. He goes into the kitchen to pour himself a bowl of cereal.

 

He's halfway through eating it when Sherlock stops stamping around the lounge like a child and moves to the doorway. He stands there, staring down his nose at John. After a leisurely moment in which he chews a mouthful of cornflakes, John looks up at him. “Yes?”

 

“You can't adjust it, or whatever,” Sherlock asks—sort of—letting his eyes rove around the kitchen. He flutters his fingers.

 

John flutters the fingers holding his spoon in return. “No.”

 

That's no good. Sherlock heaves an enormous sigh and crosses his arms in a tiff. “Well, that's just stupid.”

 

“Bodily functions are stupid. Got it. I'll let the universe know.” John raises his cup in a toast and drinks.

 

“If you can't stay awake, who am I supposed to talk to?” Sherlock demands and his voice rises into what can only be described as a whine.

 

John waves his spoon. “I dunno, you used to talk to a skull. You'll think of something, I'm sure. You're a genius. The brilliant Sherlock Holmes.”

 

The idea is already forming in Sherlock's mind when John stops speaking, his face is bright with it. “Can I talk to you while you're sleeping then?”

 

“What?” John says and starts shaking his head. “No. No, you cannot talk to me while I'm sleeping. That's—that's weird.”

 

An eyebrow arcs up on Sherlock's forehead. “But the body parts in the fridge—”

 

“Well, I'm not terribly keen on that either, as I've told you, but it's less disturbing than the idea of you standing in my room talking to me while I'm sleeping. Don't do that. Don't ever do that.”

 

Sherlock looks put out. Mere seconds later another idea occurs to him. “You're a doctor.”

 

“Yes, glad you noticed.”

 

“What about small doses of amphetamines?”

 

John drops his spoon into his bowl with a clatter. “I am not taking drugs because you're a robot and you want someone else to join up with you!”

 

“Occasionally then. Recreationally,” he proposed, as though it were a perfectly reasonable request. As if anything Sherlock Holmes did was reasonable.

 

“No! I am not going to take stimulants just so you have someone to talk to when you're up all bloody night, and that's that.” His flatmate is still looking contemplative so he adds with a serious finger-point, “And don't go putting them into my food or spiking my drinks either.”

 

The “foiled!” twitch mars Sherlock's features and John rolls his eyes. Honestly. Normal people don't have breakfast talks in which they rule out drugging one another's food. “Caffeine?”

 

John sighs and picks up his coffee again. “Only works to an extent. I can manage three or four days on four hours if I mainline it, or one all-nighter. Eventually the body just shuts down, Sherlock. It gets what it wants.”

 

“Servile,” Sherlock mutters.

 

“No wonder you get so bored,” John mutters back. “Two hours of sleep a night.”

 

“Five to six days a week.”

 

“That's a hundred and fifty-eight hours a week, you're awake.” John shakes his head, trying to imagine what he'd do with so much time. “That's forever.”

 

In the doorway, Sherlock shifts on his feet, staring down at the floorboards. “Yes, well.”

 

Looking at him, something inside John folds. He sighs. “All right, fine. I'll put a chair in the corner. But you have to whisper.”

 

Sherlock's face grows radiant with a grin. “Excellent! Yes, that's excellent.” He began muttering to himself and bounced back out into the lounge. After a moment John could hear him tidying up. He shook his head.

 

“God help me.”