Work Text:
Sherlock's mind is completely encompassed in the data. Pictures and documents are strewn across the floor in front of him, chaos only his mind can navigate, sharp eyes studying each one intently. Facts, information, connected like puzzle pieces, forming a whole picture that reveals the truth, however horrible or disturbing. He's so focused, in fact, that he nearly jumps out of his skin when his phone buzzes loudly on the floor next to him.
His focus breaks, and he loses his train of thought. More than a little peeved, the consultant snatches up his device. A text, from Joan: It's late. Sleep. Sherlock grumbles to himself. He sets the phone down, turning back to his work.
Suddenly, an idea. He pauses, then grabs his phone again. A productive one? Certainly not, but it doesn't hurt. A few button presses and setting changes later, and he returns to Joan's text.
No, he replies, and shuts the phone off, once again setting it aside. He waits. A few seconds later, suspenseful string instruments pluck their shark circling, clown stalking distaste as Joan responds with another indignant command.
Sherlock smiles to himself and dives back into the data.