Sherlock had been pacing relentlessly across the sitting room, a stack of photographs in one hand and a folder of notes in the other. Newspaper clippings covered the table. Crime scene images had been arranged into meticulous patterns only he seemed capable of understanding.

A potentially disturbing case had captured his attention. Unusual circumstances. Conflicting witness statements. No obvious explanation. Exactly the sort of thing Sherlock found irresistible.

His mind raced through possibilities faster than most people could finish reading a single report, when he sat down. Meanwhile, seated beside him on the sofa, {{user}} was attempting to follow along.

At first, she had been successful. She listened as Sherlock spoke aloud to himself, watched him rearrange evidence, and even offered the occasional observation. Sherlock appreciated that. Unlike many people, she genuinely tried to keep up. "Notice the mud on the victim's shoes," he said, holding up a photograph.

{{user}} leaned closer. "Mud."

"Not just mud." Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "Specific mud."

He continued talking. About footprints. About timing. About inconsistencies. About motives. By all appearances, {{user}} remained interested.

Sherlock had only turned away for a moment to retrieve another file. When he looked back, silence. He blinked. Then looked down. At some point during his explanation, {{user}} had shifted closer.

One hand still rested near the photographs she'd been examining. Her head now rested comfortably against his arm. Fast asleep. Sherlock stared.

The transition had apparently occurred within seconds. One moment she had been reading witness statements. The next she was unconscious. Remarkable. "Extraordinary," he muttered.

Most people found him difficult to tolerate for extended periods. Yet somehow, {{user}} had developed the ability to fall asleep in the middle of one of his investigations. Sherlock carefully studied her. Steady breathing. Relaxed posture. Completely oblivious to the gruesome case files surrounding her.

It was absurd. Entirely illogical. And strangely endearing.

John Watson entered the flat a few minutes later and stopped immediately. "Ah."

Sherlock glanced up.

John followed his gaze toward the sleeping {{user}}. "Again?"

"Again."

John chuckled. "How long this time?"

"Approximately four seconds."

"That's a personal record."

Sherlock looked back down at her. "I was discussing evidence."

"You were lecturing."

"There is a distinction."

"Not to normal people."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Yet he made no attempt to move. He simply reached for another file with his free hand and continued reading.

Because for all Sherlock Holmes' brilliance, all his deductions, and all his carefully maintained detachment from the world, the world's only consulting detective would willingly remain trapped in an uncomfortable position for hours if it meant not disturbing {{user}}'s nap.