The first time, John's in the middle of making a sandwich. There are four slices of bread, which he commandeers as his own -- if Sherlock wants a sandwich then Sherlock, for once, can be the one to go out and buy bread -- sitting next to a small block of cheddar and one bright red, perfectly ripe tomato.
John shifts his weight from foot to foot; he's been standing since the fair began at sunset and his feet are beginning to hurt. “Stop that,” his handler says in a bored tone, flipping through a magazine. She has an electric prod on her belt, but he hasn't seen her use it.
John's got the shopping done and he's walking home when a black car with dark-tinted windows slows down, crawling next to him on the street.
"Haven't you seen enough?"
John's been sprawled on the sofa for the last hour. He'd found a comfortable position and then sunk into it. More than willing to let the cushions consume him, until he fell asleep, or had to get up to pee.
The needle slides in and pricks the vein. Somewhere there is a television trickling the evening news down a hallway; the words wobble and bend in the light, as if relayed underwater, as if split by a prism, as if you are going out of your mind.
Sherlock stopped in the middle of his theory, his eyes scrunching shut in surprise. His shoulders were hunched around his neck, although that had done very little to protect him.
Eight days after Moriarty, Sherlock says, ”You aren’t as tiresome as every other human being on the planet.” It’s in a tone that, had John been paying attention, would have made everything that happened afterwards much less confusing.