Sherlock digests the world, breaks it down into amino acids and molecules like he does to the food he rarely eats. It makes sense that way, and he can do that with anything, no matter how tough it may be to chew on.
He wonders why other people can't swallow the mushy food they're spoon fed, wonders why he's got to be the one to predigest it and throw it up for them to comprehend (like some of those bats or animals with pouches), wonders why he can take on an animal carcass while others are still processing simple sugars.
It's a sad sad life.
It's all bits of broken glass, spinning this way and that in the sunlight, glittering and throwing their light everywhere.
They grate in his skin, biting and scratching until his nerves are rubbed raw, and he feels so much that there is no more to feel. (Too many neurons all firing at once, can't keep going, can't, can't...)
He wonders belatedly why there are tiny bits of glass everywhere, but his brain is too busy focusing on the irksome grating feeling to process much of anything else.