I awake standing in the sitting room with John talking to me. I do not walk in my sleep! What is happening to me? Ah, wait... I recall awaking in Watson's room with the realisation that I had to visit the washroom - I must have been so tired that I made my way down the stairs to do so whilst in the trance of the half-asleep. I am now in the sitting room with the discreet door at my back.

"Are you even listening to me Holmes?"

I rub a hand across my eyes. "What?"

"Are you all right old boy? You look almost as ill as poor Watson did when I woke him this morning!"

I nod and sniff. My nose feels uncomfortably dry. "I am still tired."

"Yes, you should rest; Lestrade did say that that is the only thing that will cure jet lag."

"What is jet lag anyway?" I mumble with another sniff. "Presumably it is an ailment that is spread in the air conditioning of the shuttles."

He laughs. "Oh, no! No, it is not a thing that is caught. It is simply a reaction to the body clock becoming confused."

"Then surely the best cure would be to sleep at the appropriate hour?"

He smiles and guides me to the settee. "If you force yourself to stay awake all the day, you would most assuredly find sleep all the more difficult when night comes. You should sleep when you feel able to do so for now, as I am sure I have already told both you and Watson - as has Lestrade, I would seem to recall."

I nod and yawn into my hand. I then cough as my throat protests that it is dry.

"You are ill!" John sits at my side and places a hand upon my shoulder. "What is wrong?"

I shake my head and sniff again. "I am merely thirsty."

"Oh! Well yes, of course, you would be; you were asleep for quite a while. What would you like? Tea?"

I nod and stretch myself upon the settee the moment that the robot is on his feet. I am not as desperately in need of sleep as I was, but I do still feel somewhat weary. All the same, I have felt worse than this and I know that an interesting case is all that I need.

After a sip or two of the restorative drink that the kindly robot presents to me, I realise that I do in fact have a case - the woman named Chelsea and the question of what she could possibly want with my Boswell. From what I have seen of her, she does not love my dear friend; if this is indeed the truth, why is she walking out with the fellow?

The first thing that I do is take my tea to the communicator to ring up Lestrade.

"Hi Holmes," she greets me cheerfully before frowning at my image. "You have got a cold - your eyes are all puffy!"

I have not! "I feel fine," I assure her somewhat abruptly. "What I have is a muddled body clock, apparently."

"Yeah, jet lag. You need to be careful though; it's easier to get sick when you're tired and stuff. You need to see that you rest plenty."

I am always careful! As careful as my profession permits, in any case. "All right. Really Lestrade! I do not require coddling!"

She holds up her hands. "Sorry Sherlock. I'm real sorry if I offended you. What was it you were calling about?"

I take a calming sip of my tea. "Chelsea."

"Oh," the Yarder grimaces. "Has she come back? I told her to let you 'n' Watson rest if she didn't want a restraining order filed against her."

"You did what?" I must confess that I am rather shocked.

She shrugs. "You aren't the only one that can be a little overly protective, I guess. Besides, I was angry."

I cannot help but chuckle. "Thank you. It is nice to know that we have your support."

"You've always got my support! You, Watson and John are my best friends. I'm not gonna let you down."

I thank her with a smile. "What can you tell me about her?"

She shrugs. "She's prettier than me?"

Hum! "That is debatable."

"She started working at the Yard as a receptionist about two months ago, so she's still on probation. I could lose her her job, if she hurts you guys."

That might be useful to know, as a last resort. The threat might put her off.

"Is that how she met Watson?" she asks.

I nod and suppress a cold shiver. "Yes. She introduced herself to us and became somewhat flirtatious towards Watson - who was flattered."

"Aw, come on! Cut the guy some slack! I mean, you don't say no to a woman's attention."

I grimace. "I certainly do not encourage it either." Not even when I had just been rejuvenated, and felt so much younger than I had been accustomed to, did I behave in such a manner. I would have been offended had a woman like Chelsea addressed me with some of the expressions that she has directed at my Boswell. Admittedly, I might also have been somewhat confused at first, but I have myself under control now.

"Yeah, OK. I know you don't - don't get upset," she smiles at me. "Anything else you need to know?"

"Aside from Watson, does she have many friends?"

"I don't know. I'll find out, if you want," she frowns at me. "What's all this about?"

I tense as the sound of Watson's footsteps reach my ears from upstairs. "Could we discuss that over lunch?"

"Lunch? Shouldn't you be resting?"

I smile and shake my head. "I am too restless for sleep and we must eat. I shall meet you at... does one o'clock suit you?"

"One o'clock's fine," she assures me with a bright smile. "I know a nice, quiet café if you're interested. How hungry are you?"

"Quite hungry. Why do you ask?"

"There's an all you can eat Chinese place I go to sometimes."

How does she remain so slim? "No, I think not. I would not say no to an Italian or French meal though."

"I don't do snails," she says with a grimace. "Ugh..."

"Neither do I," I assure her quickly. "Nor frogs' legs."

She shudders. "Frogs' legs! Ugh! No, not French Sherlock. Italian it is, huh?"

"Italian it is then," I agree readily. "But really Lestrade, French cuisine is not all 'frogs and snails and puppy dogs' tails'; it really is the very finest food in Europe."

"In your day maybe," she retorts. "You described what the British food was like."

I sniff. "It depended upon where one went. Country inns seldom offered good food - unlike these days, the food would often be prepared by the landlord or lady, not by a hired chef, and they often knew no more about cooking than I did."

She laughs. "I'll have to find you a nice country pub then, next time we've got a chance."

"Hum. Very well then." I am not at all sure about that.

She smiles. "Meet me at work in the car park at one then. I'll be waiting."

The inspector is true to her word. She is waiting for me under the awning, that once acted as shelter for the smokers (before tobacco became an illegal drug), out of the rain. She waves to me as I land my car and has almost reached it before the passenger door is open.

"In you get Lestrade," I smile at her as I turn up the heating. "How are you? You look quite chilled to the bone! Where is your coat?"

She shrugs and wipes her nose on the back of her hand. "At my apartment."

"Beth!" I shake my head and slam my eyes shut. "You tell me that I should have a care, but you seldom think to so much as bring a coat or umbrella to work with you."

"Yeah, yeah, I know; I forgot. The sun was shining and I was going by car anyway."

I frown at her from the corner of my eye. "Hum."

"Don't start, OK? I'll make a deal with you - I won't fuss if you won't."

That sounds reasonable and I agree. "Now, where are we going?"

"Luigi's," she replies and gives me the address and directions.

Luigi's may not sound particularly grand, and the interior is certainly not as opulant as a restaurant of my era, but it is not a 'burger bar' either. There are candles on the tables, which our waiter lights for us when we are seated. The Italians can be as hopelessly romantic as the French.

"What would you like, Sherlock?" my friend enquires as we each browse the menu. "Pizza?"

"Is the smallest pizza truly eighteen inches across?" I ask, somewhat taken aback. I am not that hungry!

"Think you could manage a half of one?"

I think that I could.

"OK," Lestrade beams at the waiter. "We'll have a regular pizza, topped with anchovies, olives, extra cheese..." she glances at me, "and extra tomato, please."

"Any chilli, inspector?"

She shakes her head and gives him another smile. "I don't know if Mr. Holmes 'd like it much. He likes to be able to taste every ingredient. We'll have a side order of your cheesy potato wedges though."

I smile at her, suddenly feeling oddly shy. I am a private man, but 'shy' is hardly a word that could usually be used to describe me. I suppose I simply find the knowledge that this woman knows me as well (or possibly even better than) my Boswell does slightly unnerving on occasion.

"And to drink, you will have cola?"

She nods. "Yeah, a coke for me and... What d'you want, Holmes?"

"I shall have a glass of red wine."

The inspector nods as the waiter walks away. "It's supposed to be good for you, I've been told."

"In moderation, many things are," I respond with a smile. "Even water can kill a fellow, were he to have too much."

"Can we talk about something a little less horrible over lunch, please?"

By all means. I shrug and lean forward. "We came here to discuss Watson's lady friend."

"Yeah, now what's going on there?" the Yarder asks. "I thought everything was fine between those two."

"I don't know," I shake my head sadly. "Everything seemed to be going well until we had that case in Canada - she tried to make Watson (persuade him, I mean) to stay here in London. Since we came home, she has become somewhat demanding."

"How, exactly?"

I run a hand over my face. "Calling him up late at night, making claims that Watson arranged to meet her (when I am quite sure that he did no such thing)... She did that again yesterday - you were there - she said that the fellow had arranged to go somewhere for lunch and that was it."

"Aw, come on Sherlock..."

I shake my head. "You do not understand! It was approaching dawn when the chap came home and he was intoxicated. And I do mean to the point of slurring speech and staggering about."

"Oh. That doesn't sound like Watson."

"Indeed not. I have seen him drunk before, but never like that."

She grimaces. "John did say he was sick, but he didn't say he was hungover."

"No; that would be because he would have been angry with Watson and the poor fellow has suffered quite enough. If you tell John -"

"I won't," she interrupts hastily. "You're right. Watson's had enough upset for one day. Here's our drinks - sure you don't wanna try some coke?"

I grimace. "It is rather sweet for my taste. If I want caffeine, I shall have tea or coffee."

She shrugs and sips her cola. "How's your wine?"

"Warming."

"Yeah, of course. You're still all tired and feeling cold; you really should be at home."

Ha! "I am not really the sort of fellow that can sprawl about at home when I have a case; I want to know what Chelsea's game is."

Lestrade shrugs. "Maybe she just doesn't wanna be forced to fight for Watson against you, Sherlock."

"Fight for him?"

"Yeah, you know; being forgotten every time you say 'danger'," she smirks at me. "D'you know how many times he left Mary without warning because you asked him to come with you, or he thought you might need him? I've read his journals - the answer is that she put up with more than most wives would've."

I nod and avert my gaze. How I wish that Mrs. Watson could be reunited with my Boswell, but she would find him much changed and I have no doubt that he would worry. Watson and I grew old together, while Mary died when she was still very young. It is rather sad.

"Are you OK?"

I nod and sniff. "Watson deserves better," I remark quietly. "A good, honest and selfless lifetime companion - somebody like his dear wife Mary."

Lestrade narrows her violet eyes at me. "What about you?"

I shrug. "I must learn to share."

She laughs. "Yeah, I guess so. That's not what I meant though; what I mean is -"

I know exactly what she means!

"- don't you think you deserve happiness? What do you want?"

"Companionship is all that I have ever wanted."

She nods. "I know what you mean. A man'd want me to cook and clean and bring up the kids. He wouldn't want me chasing down criminals - he'd expect me to work part-time in an office, or get a job I can do from home."

"It would be a terrible waste of your talents."

"Thanks Sherlock," she beams at me across the table. "But you'd be OK. A woman wouldn't expect her man to change."

I roll my eyes to the ceiling in a silent plea for Gods's help. "You shall find, my dear Lestrade, that most women are not like you; they want safety, security... What could I possibly offer to anyone? I am not even very affectionate!"

"When you meet the right one, stuff like affection'll come naturally," she assures me as she reaches across the table to take and squeeze my hand. "You'll see."

I shake my head. "I do not see myself as the sort of man that could marry and settle down."

"Who says you have to settle down? Long as you're faithful - which, let's face it, you are -"

"Oh, Beth!" I hide my face in my hands. "A wife would expect me home at certain times -"

"Mrs. Winters doesn't! Scott works all hours and she knows it."

Mrs. Winters is a saint. I lower my hands slowly. "She would expect me to sleep. To... to go to bed."

"Well, yeah. That's kinda normal. We've already been over the benefits o' sleeping."

I shudder and hide my eyes again. "She would expect to be... kissed... and so forth."

"That bothers you? I already said - it'll come naturally when you meet the right person. Really it will."

I sniff quietly and lower my hands (and my eyes). "I have been kissed, but I have never instigated it."

My friend frowns at me. "So what? You want lessons?"

I laugh nervously. "Of course not! I simply wish for you to understand why I should prefer to live with a man. A man would not expect so much of me."

She again reaches across the table and pats my hand. "It's OK. I do understand. You don't want a lover, you just need a friend or two."

"Precisely." It is all that I have ever wanted. Love tends to complicate matters far too much.

The discussion ends when our pizza arrives and we set to with enthusiasm. Lestrade certainly knows what I like! This is delicious. The salty flavour of the anchovies compliment the olives beautifully, while the tomatoes cut through both.

"Feel better?" my friend asks once I have had my share and settled back in my seat.

A little. "Yes, thank you. I was hungry."

She nods and smiles at me. "I thought you had to be; you didn't eat much at the Yard yesterday."

I shrug and conceal a yawn. "Would you excuse me?"

"Sure. D'you know where the bathroom is?"

I grimace in response to her question. "I am sure that I can find it. Excuse me."

The cloakrooms prove to be easily found and I gratefully lock myself away. My mind is whirling now. Lestrade's questions about what I want have caused me to wonder about that myself.

What do I want? I believed that I wanted only companionship before my retirement and yet I was intolerably lonely when I moved to Sussex while Watson remained in London. There were moments when I would picture myself with a wife and children, quite grown up by then of course, and wondered whether I had made the right decision. It was far too late by that time, however, and I simply put it out of my mind. Besides, what do I have to offer a wife?

I feel better once I have washed my hands and face and so I quietly return to our table.

"Feeling OK?" the Yarder asks as I take to my seat opposite her.

I shrug and conceal a yawn. "I need some coffee, that is all."

She frowns at me. "Not two potfuls of the stuff, OK? It doesn't do you any good."

Indeed not. "I have never had more than a cup or two deliberately; I simply forget what I am doing when my mind is on more important things. Besides, if there is a stimulant to hand..." I shrug and give her a small smile.

"It's a wonder you don't notice," my friend remarks with a grimace. "I know how I'd feel after drinking all that! I've had a cup o' your coffee - you could dissolve the spoon in it!"

"Hardly that!" I snap. "But, while we are on the subject of coffee, I think that I shall order one. Would you like one?"

"Sure. Cappuccino, please."

What I want is a strong, black coffee and I tell her as much. "How would one ask for that?"

She smiles. "Allow me. I speak 'coffee house'."

A rousing cup of coffee later, the inspector and I are bound for New Scotland Yard. I should like to speak with Chelsea, though Lestrade insists that I should allow her to do the talking.