John likes to think of his and Sherlock's relationship in analogies. They always refer to him in the lesser sense and Sherlock with a higher level of grandeur; Sherlock is a pen that writes the world's secrets, whereas John is just the composition book where the ideas are lost and whose pages are completely blackened with ink, each one overflowing and bleeding into the next. All the information overlaps and blends together.

Sherlock is a reservoir of endless energy and, in turn, John is a rechargeable battery (and if one knows anything about rechargeable batteries, one knows that their so-called lifespan is 72 hours, give or take).

Today, John thinks (groggily, as it's unbearably early and he's slept for merely four hours), he is the human population and Sherlock is the earth. No matter how he tries, he's still going to rise with the sun (caused, as any fourth grader would know, by the rotation of said earth).

Sherlock has decided that the sun rises at three in the morning on a Saturday, and thus John is trying with all of his might not to strangle him senseless.

The bugger would probably laugh about it afterwards if he did, anyway.

John's trying to listen through the drowsy cloud of half-awake stupor hanging over him and attempting to keep at least one eye, half-open, on Sherlock as the madman paces the length of the sitting room. It is, however, becoming increasingly difficult to pull on his other shoe. He's rather sure that his foot's supposed to fit in one way or another - the shoe, apparently, thinks otherwise.

" – needs to follow him to West End and leave us to 'round Trafalgar Square," Sherlock continues with a heaving inhale. "Make sure to grab your gun, as he'll likely be armed, and his patterns show that he's definitely hostile. Your shoe is backwards."

With a glance downward, John slowly comes to realise that, yes, his shoe is backwards. He ought to do something about that. Sherlock's footsteps become distant as he turns the shoe in his grip and wriggles his foot into it, and that's really much better. When he looks back up, blinking sluggishly, he sees a mug in front of his face. He processes it. One of his hands lifts of its own accord and his fingers wrap firmly around the handle.

When he looks down into the mug, he sees coffee.

That takes another moment to process. Coffee. Looks like it, anyway. Smells like it. Could be drugged. But, no, there's a case. Sherlock wouldn't bother with it.

Could be biohazardous.

"Errr," John mumbles, inhaling the steam coming off the top of the drink. "S'the coffee pot clean?"

He doesn't have to look up to know that Sherlock's expression is exaggeratedly indignant; he never takes accusations kindly, even when they are accurate ones.

"Of course it's clean, I've not put anything in it since you threatened to toss out everything in the fridge if I made to 'poison' you again."

With a squint up at the man towering before him, John lifts the mug to his lips and sips. The warmth rushes down his throat and he sighs gratefully, downing another gulp.

"Thanks," he mutters, half-smiling in Sherlock's general direction. Sherlock's expression brightens and he trots aside to grab John's coat off the rack with a flick of his wrist. With a long-suffering huff, John downs as much of his coffee as he can, wincing at the burning in his mouth, and pushes to his feet. After swaying in place for a moment, he lets Sherlock half-shove his arms into the coat before taking over and shrugging it on the rest of the way.

"You said something about Trafalgar Square?" John asks, blinking forcefully. He feels Sherlock's hands grip his shoulders and turn him, directing him out the door and steadying him as he trips down the stairs.

It should be strange, but nothing really is anymore. At this point, the touch is a nice anchor, and it's a bit warm. Good thing, too, because February at three in the morning is more than just a little nippy.

"I'll fill you in on the way," Sherlock says quietly when they reach the front door. John looks back and gestures at the staircase; it takes Sherlock only half a second (a new record) to realise that John wants the hall light off. He steps away to flick the switch and John grabs his keys off the décor fireplace mantle, muffling the jingle with his gloves and pushing the door open with as little creaking as possible.

As hard as it is to leave Baker Street without waking Mrs. Hudson, John loves all the creaks and cracks. 221B is old - there have been other stories here, other lives. He likes the idea of one leaving off where theirs began - his and Sherlock's. He likes their tale.

Sherlock's firm hand finds his shoulder again and pushes him out the door unceremoniously, his other reaching back to quietly slide the door shut. John curls into himself in defense from the cold and he hears Sherlock snort softly in amusement. John would hit him for that if he weren't counting on the git catching them a cab. Sherlock is definitely stubborn enough to run off on his own and leave John to find his own taxi. But then, John could also just turn around and go back to his bed.

His bed would be so warm.

However, John knows he wouldn't enjoy it as much as he will when they've finished this case. Probably because he knows he'll be able to sleep a full eight hours because Sherlock will be passed out on the sofa.

As Sherlock shoves him into the cab that has, once again, appeared miraculously out of nowhere, John thinks that he'll have to dig out one of Mrs. Hudson's afghans for Sherlock when they get back. There's a leak in one of the sitting room windows.

The cab door slams shut with a loud clunk. Sherlock tells the cabby to take them to Trafalgar Square before slumping against the seat.

"So," John yawns into his arm. "Triple homicide?"

Sherlock's expression lights up. "Quadruple," he tells John enthusiastically. John grins at him and waits for the madman to go off on a spiel. He estimates five seconds; it only takes three. He'll get it right next time.

John watches Sherlock speak animatedly about the case and another analogy pops into his head; Sherlock is a whirlwind and John is a tree.

No matter how hard he tries to stay grounded, he'll always get caught up in the excitement.