It is broad daylight when I wake up. The sun is streaming through the windows, the light almost blinding me when I first open my eyes. Sherlock has long ago got up by the look of it. I wonder what time it is.

My clothes are nowhere to be seen. I remember leaving them in the living room the night before, far too much in a tizz to even think about them. For a moment I consider wandering in as I am, but then decide I wouldn't want to do that to John. Instead I pick up the black shirt that Sherlock wore the night before and put it on over the thong. Then I potter into the kitchen in search of some food.

There are voices in the living room that I decide to ignore for the moment. By now I know where the teabags are so I switch the kettle on and root around for a clean mug. While I am waiting for the water to boil I look through the double doors, wondering what John and Sherlock are talking about. My eyes meet a complete stranger sitting in one of the chairs who is looking at me as if I was something he found in his soup. I freeze.

"Adriane, step in here a moment." Sherlock's voice pulls me out of it. I take a few tentative steps into the living room, trying to avoid the man's gaze. He is looking down his nose at me, an expression of utter disdain on his face. John is in the corner, looking concerned but not saying anything. I look at Sherlock for some help, who regards me calmly and says, "Adriane, this is my brother Mycroft. You do not have to speak to him unless you want to."

The man shifts his gaze to Sherlock with such viciousness that I'm surprised Sherlock doesn't flinch. The two brothers lock eyes a moment, then Mycroft Holmes turns back to me with a smile that would make a crocodile jealous. "Ah yes. Miss Woodford. So nice to meet you at last. I can see how you are being… useful to my brother." He is looking me up and down as he says it and manages to convey complete disgust in the word useful. Across the room there is a sharp intake of breath from John, but Sherlock just tilts his head backward and steeples his fingers, observing but not intervening.

The fact I'm wearing Sherlock's shirt is only making this worse. I am blushing from my head to my toes and I'm vaguely aware that I'm pulling the hem down to make sure my bottom is covered, although it makes no difference at all to my sense of total exposure. Although there isn't much of a family resemblance otherwise, both Holmes brothers have the same way of looking straight through people. I shudder, unable to think of anything at all to say.

"Tell me, Miss Woodford," Mycroft Holmes continues as he takes out an expensive-looking pocket watch and considers it. "Do you have any more information of national importance you'd like to share? Or are you saving it up for a special occasion?" He snaps the watch shut and looks back at me with a cold, smug little smile. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up and I'm wondering what would happen if I just ran away.

"Enough, Mycroft," Sherlock suddenly says. "Leave her alone." I can't remember when I have felt more relieved at the sound of his voice.

Mycroft huffs and gives me another foul look before returning his attention to Sherlock. "I'm disappointed, Sherlock. I'd never expected you to waste time on some cheap… floozy."

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes. "And I never thought you would feel the need to score points at the expense of someone so clearly your intellectual inferior. You're losing your touch, Mycroft."

Mycroft raises his eyebrows in distaste but refrains from further comment as he gets up and straightens his jacket. He gives John a cursory nod which is all too reminiscent of Sherlock's mannerisms, then considers me one final time. "Remember what I said, Sherlock," he says, not taking his eyes off me. "They don't change. You'll see."

He leaves and total silence descends over the flat for a moment as the front door falls shut. Then John bursts out. "Jesus, Sherlock, what was that all about?"

Sherlock says nothing but just shakes his head dismissively and picks up a book. I'm shaking, totally overwhelmed by everything that has just been said. To mask how upset I am I step back into the kitchen and make a clumsy attempt at putting a cup of tea together. John comes in when the mug crashes onto the floor and shatters into a thousand pieces. He ignores the shards, puts his arms around me and squeezes me into a hug. After a moment he calls across to the living room, "Sherlock, come and deal with your mess."

Sherlock appears at the doorway. He quickly surveys the room and says, "I didn't drop the mug."

I can imagine the look John is giving him when he answers. "That's not what I was talking about." He lets go of me as Sherlock looks across. I grab the nearest thing to hand, which happens to be a damp and pretty manky-looking tea towel, and wipe my face dry. Sherlock frowns at me slightly. "Why are you so upset? Mycroft's gone. In any case that was all for my benefit, not yours."

Now I'm getting angry. "Cheap, brainless whore," I snap at him. "I can translate, Sherlock."

Sherlock regards me a second. "You forgot untrustworthy. Although it was only insinuated."

Behind me, John says, "Sherlock."

Sherlock sighs. "Listen. Mycroft was out to score points. He could have said much worse than that. I'm surprised you even took notice of him."

"Intellectually inferior." I'm still fuming.

He raises an eyebrow. "I said that to deflect Mycroft's attention away from you. I could have let him carry on if you'd liked. Besides, it's true. You are no match for him."

Sherlock walks back to the living room, leaving John and me standing in a pool of broken crockery. He touches my arm. "You OK?"

I take a deep breath and nod. He looks at me with a little smile and says, "I don't know what century Mycroft is living in, anyway. I mean, floozy?"

It makes me smile. John gives me a little nudge. "Come on, let's tidy this up."

-ooOoo-

After breakfast and a bath, when I've calmed down enough, I get my stuff together. As I go to get my coat Sherlock looks up from his book. "Where are you going?"

I'm confused. "Home?"

He considers this a moment. "Hm. Back here tomorrow at eight."

"Wha… Tomorrow?" I'm not sure I can deal with this. I may even have plans.

"Yes. Or you may stay here for the duration."

"Oh." I don't even know if I want to, or what he means, and whether there is any subtext. My head is a complete mess. "Can I go for a walk?"

Now Sherlock looks at me properly, registering the confused meaning behind my words. After a moment he gives an amused sigh, sounding only slightly derisive. "Adriane, you are welcome to spend the next two days in whichever way you choose, and that includes spending time here or at home, or walking, or swimming in the Thames for all I care. But I need you back here tomorrow night. And if you are with us this evening I will take us all out for dinner."

Put that way it suddenly sounds quite appealing. "Oh," I say again. "Thank you."

He smiles, rolls his eyes a little, and returns to his book.

John has been watching the discussion with some concern. Now he jumps at the opportunity. "I'll come for a walk with you."

-ooOoo-

We walk quietly for a while, making our way to the top of Baker Street and into Queen Mary's Gardens. It's busy in the park with people enjoying the sunshine. We sit down on one of the benches and watch the walkers, cyclists and skaters pass by. After sitting in companionable silence for some time John says, "Are you OK?"

I sigh, thankful for his genuine interest. "Yeah, I guess so. It's all a bit much at the moment."

He nods, contemplating his hands. "Did everything go OK last night?" He's being circumspect; I can tell he's dying to know what happened, what Sherlock did. I'm not sure I'm ready to talk about it. I look at him a moment, thinking. Then I nod. "Yeah, it went OK."

John is not looking very convinced. "Are you sure?"

It's clear he's not going to leave this alone. I guess total honesty is probably the best option. "John, it was mind-blowing. He's very good at this. You can probably imagine."

He contemplates this a moment, then says, "Yes. No," and then, after a pause, "Yes." I smile. He looks as uncomfortable as I feel. I don't know what drives me to say, "He got some other people involved. They were very good, too."

He doesn't even look very shocked, just sighs and shakes his head. "Jesus, Adri. And you're OK with that?"

I'm wondering how much to tell him. I know what it looks like on the outside, how easy it is to jump to conclusions. "Yes, I am actually." When he doesn't look at all sure I add, "John, he looked after me. He takes a lot of notice of what you say. It was one hell of an experience."

John gives me a long, thoughtful look and I decide that's probably as much as I should say about that. To lighten the mood a little I say, "See, floozy after all."

He smiles and shakes his head a little, and we carry on our walk.

We're out for much longer than I thought we would be. After Queen Mary's Gardens we continue onto Regents Park and spend forever sitting at the boating lake, drinking take-away coffee and talking about nothing much at all. Then we make a big loop back to my flat near UCL where I pick up a few things for staying overnight and end up making John lunch with whatever I can find in my fridge. He's on a roll, treating me to any number of silly stories about the cases Sherlock and him have been involved with, and he has me laughing out loud on more than one occasion. On the way back we stop by one of the local pubs for a pint. It is late afternoon by the time we roll back onto the doorstep of Baker Street, chilled out and a bit giggly.

Sherlock isn't in when we get back, and John makes tea while I flop onto the sofa. Not more than ten minutes later Sherlock stomps up the stairs carrying four or five large bags, the type that come out of expensive department stores or exclusive boutiques. I don't recognise any of the names on them, and some of the bags are unmarked. He whisks past and disappears into his bedroom, to come out five minutes or so later looking self-satisfied and rather gorgeous, cup of tea in hand. On his way across the sitting room he briefly stops in front of me. "You are intending to get changed."

It's a nice chance for me to roll my eyes at Sherlock. "No, I'm going out in jeans."

The sideways look he gives me is mainly amused, although it carries a fair hint of warning not to take liberties. He sits down in his chair, picks up a book and to all intents and purposes shuts himself off from the rest of the room.

For a while I try to concentrate on an ancient chemistry tome that I have picked up off the shelves, but although the book is fascinating in its antiquity I find myself just looking at the pictures, unable to focus much on the text. John is tapping away slowly at this laptop, but after a while he comes over and settles himself next to me on the sofa. He leans across to see what I'm reading. "Riveting. I see you go for the romance novels every time, then."

I laugh and close the book. "I was really enjoying that actually. It's funny how things move on."

It seems as good a time as any to get changed. I make an effort, not knowing where we're going. When I come out of the bathroom John gives an appreciative whistle which elicits a despairing eye roll from Sherlock. "Really, John."

"Well, it's better than your efforts at making compliments."

Sherlock looks at him a bit confused and frowning slightly. "I don't make compliments."

"Exactly," John says, and gets up. I try to suppress a laugh as John catches my eye and winks.

Suddenly Sherlock is there, far too close to me, looking down intently. It takes an effort not to take a step back as I stare back at him, wondering what he's doing. He holds my gaze long enough for me to start feeling very uncomfortable and then says, sincerely and in a quiet, low and extremely attractive tone, "You look nice."

I can feel the blood rise to my cheeks as I blush furiously. Sherlock watches my reaction for a second, then turns to John and throws him a pointed look. John shakes his head while I try to get to grips with feeling totally silly, but I nearly lose it again when Sherlock gallantly helps me into my coat before getting his own. He opens both doors for me on the way down, and when we get outside he turns to John. "Is that better?"

"Yes, I'm impressed," John says. "Now can you keep that up all evening?"

Sherlock gives him a raised eyebrow, obviously happy to accept the challenge, but I have by now had enough of being the subject of an elaborate wind-up. Besides, I'm not sure I could survive complimentary Sherlock for an entire night; chances are I would never recover. "That's OK, I think I preferred things as they were."

John laughs appreciatively and Sherlock just glances at me a second. "Very well."

Even so, when he's hailed a taxi he holds the door open for me with a flourish and a smug smile, his keen gaze studying my flustered reaction. I decide there is no use in pushing my point any further and that in fact it might make things much worse, so I just say thank you and sit down. John squeezes up next to me and whispers a quick "Sorry" while Sherlock is talking to the taxi driver. I shrug and say it's OK, and wonder what the rest of the evening is going to be like.

-ooOoo-

As it turns out I needn't have worried. Sherlock is on excellent form, whether because he can see the end of the case or for another reason I don't know, and he and John prove to be great company and very funny at times. They have an easy chemistry which almost makes me jealous; it also makes me wonder if John is really that obtuse, or whether he is just waiting for Sherlock to make the first move, or whether he is in denial.

The restaurant we are at is classy but not ostentatious and the food is very good indeed, so I find myself just enjoying the evening and doing more listening than talking. I decide to keep my wits about me though, and stop at the one glass of wine. Neither John nor Sherlock seem affected by making their way through the best part of two bottles of wine during the course of the evening. I'm glad I didn't try to keep up, I'd be singing by now.

When the table is cleared John suggests going for a drink before heading home, and we end up in the cosy bar that is attached to the restaurant. Both Sherlock and John order whisky, and I decide that it's either a large coffee or sleep for me at this point. We've sat down on a set of comfy sofas near the back of the place, not far from a log fire. Sherlock has commandeered an armchair in the corner and if it wasn't for the other groups of people in the place we could be back at Baker Street. I find myself sitting in a warm glow when Sherlock looks over and says, "I do believe Adriane thinks I have an ulterior motive for taking us out tonight."

I didn't see that coming at all. "What?"

John laughs. "My guess is it's the coffee. Trying to stay awake while the two of us are drowning our sorrows." He takes a swig of his drink as if to prove the point, then grins at Sherlock. "Am I right?"

Sherlock smiles. "Very good, John. Although I am hardly drowning my sorrows." He puts his glass down. "That, and the fact that she consistently ordered the least expensive items on the menu while we were having dinner, even going so far as skipping dessert, which I know for a fact is not something she would usually do in a place like this given the chance." He contemplates me for a little longer, then finishes, "I can only conclude that she expects me to call in the favour later and does not want to be too far indebted."

I'm aware I'm doing a goldfish impression. While I did have that train of thought at the start of the evening I didn't think I'd been that obvious. To counter Sherlock's smug smile I say, "I'll have a port."

To my surprise he gets up and wanders off to the bar, coming back some time later with a glass of port and something that looks suspiciously like a large piece of chocolate fudge cake, which he puts down in front of me. I didn't think the bar menu went further than crisps and peanuts and I'm getting pretty guarded now. "What's this?"

Sherlock smiles disarmingly. "Dessert." When I don't look convinced he adds, "The barman owes me a favour."

He sits back down and then just stares at me. John is watching the proceedings with amused curiosity, having sunk comfortably into his side of the sofa and looking for all the world like he lives here. I stare back at Sherlock, wondering what on Earth he is up to. "What are you doing?"

"At this moment I am assessing the depth of your paranoia."

I'm really not sure what to think. The cake looks delicious, which doesn't help. "Is there an ulterior motive?"

He smiles again, more enigmatically this time. "Not one that could be achieved with a mere slice of cake."

I'm beginning to come to the conclusion that this is a wind-up and he just loves seeing me off balance, or maybe it is a test to see how much I am prepared to put up with, or maybe he really is just making a point about me being too paranoid. He's right though. I am no longer able to take anything he does at face value, always looking for the catch. However, it seems a waste of good food to leave it so I pick up the fork and start making my way through the cake, which turns out to be as gooey and chocolatey and delicious as it looked. Sherlock gives a little chuckle, challenge completed, and returns his attention to John, who smiles and shakes his head. I wonder how often he has to deal with stuff like that from Sherlock.

They are in the middle of a discussion about Mrs. Hudson and her late husband when I finish. As an afterthought I drink the port, too quickly, and then wish I hadn't. Between the coffee, the chocolate and the alcohol I am now feeling decidedly wired. My only hope is that if I sit quietly in my corner and just listen to the conversation it will go away.

When John drops another port in front of me at the next round I try to refuse. He gives me a grin. "Never seen you drunk. Could be funny."

Sherlock raises a sardonic eyebrow. "Could be embarrassing."

"Oh, so you have seen her drunk," John says, giving him a conspirational look. "Tell me all."

"Adriane has the unfortunate habit of losing all sense of propriety when she drinks."

"Well," John says, "If that's all, I'm sure she's not the only one. Drink up."

For some reason, probably to do with my already tipsy state, I decide that it's probably time for me to tease Sherlock a little. After all he seems to delight in doing it to me and I feel I am owed a turn. I drink the port quickly, all the while staring at Sherlock. He returns my gaze stoically, without comment, and pointedly looks back to John with a slight eye roll when I put the empty glass back on the table. John smiles but doesn't say anything.

I try to pretend that I can't feel my head turning fuzzy almost immediately as the warm glow of the alcohol spreads through my body. As surrepticiously as I can manage I snuggle into the sofa, content to watch Sherlock and John talk and without feeling any need to contribute to the conversation. Hopefully I can prove Sherlock wrong by just keeping my mouth shut.

I have to admit they are both very easy on the eye, especially when they are like this – relaxed, enjoying a night out. It surprises me how funny Sherlock can be when the mood takes him, and how genuinely admiring John is of him. It is sometimes hard to see it when they are in the middle of things, when Sherlock's hard-hitting opinions and observations grate against John's morality and their relationship seems to be made up of continual verbal tussles. On an occasion such as this they look good together. In fact, they look perfect.

I am pulled out of my reverie when John gets up to get another round of drinks, and returns with an elaborate looking cocktail. There is a small glass floating in the centre of it. "What on Earth is it?"

"It's a Firebomb. Try it."

Before I have had a chance to even get to the drink Sherlock has picked it up and is examining it in detail. After having sniffed it he dips his finger in the shot glass and tastes it. "Cinnamon shnapps, Red Bull, Vodka. I am beginning to suspect you are trying to poison her."

John just grins. "It's nice, actually. And hopefully the Red Bull will stop Adriane falling asleep. She's got very quiet."

Sherlock passes the glass back to me with an "It's probably better that way." I take a tentative sip. It's a bit weird drinking from two glasses at the same time, but the cocktail itself is spectacular. The combination of energy drink and alcohol is adding to my buzz and dizziness in equal measure. The cinnamon is warming, and I am more and more sinking into a glowing state of contentedness, by now just watching Sherlock and John, listening to the sound of their voices and no longer paying much heed to what they are talking about.

As I work my way through the drink I'm quietly thinking to myself that they are both gorgeous, and my thoughts turn down a decidedly raunchy avenue. It is so tempting to wonder what it would be like, having the two of them together, what they would do to me. It's hard to stop the thoughts once they have started to take over my head and so I let them run their course. John and Sherlock aren't taking much notice of me at the moment anyway. In any case, I'm getting a bit past caring.

After a while Sherlock turns to observe me a moment. "John, I think Adriane has had enough to drink."

John turns to me. "Oh? How so?"

"She's spent the last twenty minutes looking at us both like we are sweets. I'm afraid that if she drinks any more she will embarrass us all by doing something inexcusable."

I feel he is being a bit unfair. "Not doing anything," I blurt out. "Can't help it that you're both delicious." It's hard to get the words out. I really shouldn't have kept on drinking.

John laughs, a look of slight disbelief on his face, but Sherlock is looking at me with resignation. "Here we go."

It makes me unreasonably cross. "Only speaking my mind. Mm entitled to my opinion."

"Of course you are," John says, grinning at me. "Speak your mind some more."

I can hear Sherlock sigh with exasperation on the other side, but I'm trying to focus on John which is hard enough it itself. "You and Sherlock should be together."

John rolls his eyes. "Not you as well, Adri. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not gay, and he's not interested."

I huff and try to think of something witty to reply to that, knowing that at least half of his statement is plain wrong, but Sherlock just says, "Adriane." There's more than a hint of warning in it and even in my inebriated state I have sense enough to take some notice of him.

"Fine. You keep deluding yourselves." I leave it there a moment, wondering vaguely if that was a bit harsh, and then say, without thinking at all, "Would be one helluva threesome though."

John looks at me as if he can't quite believe what he's just heard, then bursts into giggles. It's clear he's a bit worse for wear himself. I look at Sherlock, and am met with a level stare. "Home."

I shrug. "Whadyou expect. I'm a floozy. Mycroft said it. Sure you think so too."

I can't quite work out whether he's upset or not, but then I can't work out quite a few things at the moment, like where my coat is and how to stand up straight. In the end I manage to stagger out of the place supported by Sherlock and John, and they somehow get me into a taxi. During the ride I launch into a rendition of the Dirty Goblin Song, which has John in whoops of laughter. This in turn launches me into a fit of giggles, until I am sat on the floor of the cab hiccupping. Sherlock is looking out the window silently. When the cab stops in front of my own flat I turn to him, confused. "'S not Baker Street."

"No, it isn't," he says, matter-of-factly. They get me out and manage to walk me up the stairs, where Sherlock opens the door with his own bunch of keys. It annoys me that he has still got my front door key on there. "'S my key."

He looks at me, obviously wondering whether that's even worth a response. Having decided it isn't he helps John to get me into the hallway. They take my coat off, which has me in another heap of giggles, and then John navigates me to the bedroom. He gets me to sit down on the bed and takes my shoes off. I hum a little, "Ee-eye, bollocky eye, bollocky eye taboo" while he's doing it and John giggles. Sherlock is watching from the bedroom door, staying silent. He looks impressive and thoughtful and a little dangerous and I think he's gorgeous. I'm finding it hard to keep my eyes off him.

John tries to get my attention, failing at the first two attempts. "Adri."

I finally smile at him, thinking he's lovely, and say, "You're both great. Wanna stay?"

He ignores me, although he's grinning. "Adri, listen to me. I'm going to get you into bed, but I'm going to get this dress off you because it's not safe to sleep in. OK?"

"Gonna take my clothes off," I say. "Great. We can have a shag."

I flop backwards onto the bed so as to give him better access. John giggles again for reasons I can't understand, rolls me on my front and undoes the back of the dress, unclipping my bra at the same time. His hands on my skin feel nice and I hum. "'S good. Touch me some more."

John makes a choking sound from behind me and pulls my dress down, bra and all. "Wheeee!" I shout. He giggles again and I think I heard Sherlock groan, so I roll on my back to look at him. "'S funny, Sherlock. John's funny."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and says, "John."

"Yeah, I think we're done," John says, still giggling a bit. I frown. "Nyou're not. Forgot my tights."

He looks me over appreciatively a moment, still grinning. "I think you'll be OK, Adri."

With a miffed frown I pout at him and he shakes his head. "Come on, let's get you into bed."

I giggle. "Make me."

John straightens up and laughs, putting his hand to his forehead in an exasperated movement. "Sherlock, some help please?"

There is an audible sigh from Sherlock as he takes off his coat and hangs it on my bedroom door. Then he crosses the room in two easy strides, as quick as a cat. He stops in front of me, looking down, imposing. His face is entirely serious as he scans me a moment and finishes at my eyes. "Get up."

I gulp, suddenly feeling very exposed and ridiculously aroused. I manage to stagger to my feet and stand there, swaying. "Fuck."

Sherlock holds my eyes a moment, and then says, "No."

I'm not sure what happens next. I can feel his hands on me, and his leg twisting around mine, and then I'm flying through the air. I land perfectly straight on my bed with my head on my pillow, gasping for air. Sherlock pulls the cover over me and then straightens his jacket. "There."

John's eyebrows are wedged halfway up his forehead, his mouth slightly open in amazement. "Impressive."

Sherlock shrugs, turns round and gets his coat. I haven't quite recovered from the shock yet, wondering what just happened, but I don't get a chance to say anything. Sherlock motions for John to follow, flicking the light switch on the way out. "Good night, Adriane."

-ooOoo-

It is the throbbing of my head that wakes me up the next morning. For a second or two I wonder why I am feeling so awful, and then the memories of the night before flood over me. I groan and bury my head under the pillow, wishing I could just die.

After an hour or so it becomes apparent that I am still very much alive. I get up gingerly, holding my head, and slowly make my way to the bathroom. When I get there I find that somebody has already put a glass of water and two painkillers out. John, at a guess. I take them gratefully and walk into the kitchen to make tea. The kettle is already full, and there is a mug with a teabag in it next to it. I feel very grateful to John and Sherlock up to the point that I notice my telephone next to it, message light flashing.

For at least a full minute I stare at it in dread. Then I pick it up and checking the message.

"There is no need to apologise by text. I will have your apology in person tonight. 6PM, 221B. You are cooking. SH.

I just stare at the text for a long time, trying to make sense of it. I can't work out whether Sherlock is angry but I guess he is. I don't understand why he is getting me to cook. I'm worried that he's getting me to come two whole hours earlier. I'm nervous in advance about having to face both him and John after the complete idiot I made of myself last night. After ten minutes of pointless contemplation I am still no closer to understanding it, and no less nervous.

Eventually I decide there is not much point worrying about it. My only other option is to phone Sherlock for an explanation and not a single hair on my head is about to contemplate that. Instead I try to think about what I might cook. Unfortunately my brain is still pounding, not helped at all by being nervous, and I can't focus at all. It is well after lunchtime before I begin to feel vaguely normal again, and by this time I have made a plan that will allow me as much rest as possible. I make sure I take it.

At a quarter past five I get my things together. My outfit for tonight is still at Baker Street as far as I know so there isn't all that much to take. I try to drag it out as much as I can, but eventually I have to admit to myself that I am stalling for time. With a final deep breath I make my way outside and pull the door shut.

The trip past the local supermarket takes much less time than I had anticipated, all the buses are running early and I find myself hanging around the top end of Baker Street carrying two shopping bags with no particular purpose at twenty to six. I am just contemplating going for a coffee when my phone beeps.

"You might as well come up. SH."

I don't even wonder how he knows where I am. Instead I walk the length of the street, resigned and wondering what the night is going to hold.