The sound of the phone bleeping was what woke Sherlock Holmes, and for a few moments he couldn't quite remember where he was. His body sore in familiar places, he groaned as he moved, attempting to reach for his Nokia, at the same time as ensuring he was, against the obvious pain in his body, sleeping alone. He opened one eye, and realised he was in a familiar bedroom, although not his own, he relaxed into the pain and put the phone to his face, reading the text.
"Intrstng find Fen Causeway, r up yr st."
He smiled and felt the crack as his bloody and bruised face protested. Sliding from under the sheets he realised she had undressed him, wondering briefly how stoned he'd been he looked to the dressing table where she'd laid out clean clothes for him.
The girl was a wonder, how someone so considerate and kind, had become embroiled with him was a mystery. Why she allowed him to use her home like this, to turn up and all hours, and leave again as inconsiderately and still care enough about him to undress him, clean his clothes, tend his wounds, and provide him with whatever he demanded.
He dressed quickly and stumbled to the bathroom, splashing water on his face, he scowled at his reflection in the mirror. 19 years old he looked like hell, but there was something in his deep blue eyes, the thrill of the chase.
"Sherlock?" she called from the hallway, "are you OK? Do you need anything?" Her voice filled with concern, he smiled again.
"Fine" he croaked, coughing the taste of foul tobacco from his throat, "what time is it?"
"About 7.30" she called, her voice sleepy, she'd had less than 4 hours sleep "are you going out?"
"Yep, want to come?" he asked opening the bathroom door wide, and looking down at her.
"Always" she smiled gesturing at her fully clothed body.
