Greetings once more!

In response to Morgan Pen: Cowardly Dan is not a canon character, but I basically treat him like an early version of Holmes' 'homeless network'. I didn't originally intend to bring him back from Ch. 1, however, I decided to use him again while I was writing chapter 2. (Honestly, it could have been any one of Holmes' non-canon colleagues -as there aren't any canon characters I could use for that role- who ran into him, but this keeps it more streamlined.)

Edit: I've made some minor edits (including one that specifies that it is currently summer, and that the storm FEELS like autumn, but isn't) over the past few chapters. For those of you watching for updates, thank you for returning. For those of you who are new, welcome, and please review! I also had a last minute change of heart as to the sequence of events, so therefore Molly's introduction was pushed forward, but it is still pretty soon. It's a little hard to build upon canon with speculation, and I thank you for your support. This is a smidge of "what if", also. This chapter is going to be quite promising as well, so let's get on with it already!

Edit: Again, attempting to write in the Queen's English. Also, added a bit here and there. Small details mostly. Things I'd neglected to mention previously.


The clink of glasses could be heard from the kitchen, and Sherlock pictured in his mind what was happening. They were small glasses, and one of them was a liquor bottle. 'Shots. Predictable.' Just like clockwork, the host brought out a bottle of liquor and enough shot glasses to include Cowardly Dan and his plus one.

The group met at the round dining room table and Dan pulled up a chair for Sherlock, patting it and calling for him as if he were a dog. Sherlock huffed softly, reluctant to lift himself from his comfortably reclined position on the sofa. Josh, the host, smiled warmly. "Care for a gentleman's game, Sherlock?" He shrugged in response, disinterested. "I think I'll pass on this one."

"So be it, then."

Cowardly Dan and several others whined and implored, but Sherlock simply rolled his eyes at them. Dan then suddenly changed tactic, laughing to himself. "It's for the best anyway; Sherlock would swindle us out of our money with his crazy mind powers." 'Oh, here it goes' Sherlock thought sarcastically to himself, but part of him was fondly listening, weak against flattery. "Mind powers?" Dana, the wife of the host, asked, amusement in her eyes. "Is he some sort of mad genius or something?"

This was the cue Dan was looking for, and he began to describe his peculiar peer. "Yes, he's a crime solving genius. He has this weird ability to look at anyone and just know things, like he picks up the smallest details." Everyone at the party turned to look from Dan to Sherlock, and they bombarded him with their questioning looks. It was a little annoying, but not nearly as annoying as it would be without the happy hue cocaine gave. 'Another thing to note, besides exuberance, is its analgesic properties', he tacked mentally.

"No way, really?" Josh scoffed, incredulous. Ellen was far more optimistic, believing every word. "So, he knows us just by looking at us? Sherlock, can you show us these mind powers?" Sherlock snorted at 'mind powers', something Ellen apparently was taking quite literally. He couldn't help but want to show off now. "I don't know anything much. I can only really tell for certain a few minor things about each of you."

Josh snorted in sardonic laughter, but he was very curious. "If you're so certain of your abilities, why don't we make it a bet?"

"Oh I don't know about that", Sherlock feigned insecurity. "Oh come on, Sherlock, you should!" Dan insisted. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock sighed. "All right, I'm listening."

"For every correct guess about one of our hobbies, careers, or personal lives, the one you guess correctly gives you five quid. For every person you guess wrongly, you have to give them five quid. You in?" Dan threw up his hands. "No way am I playing that; Sherlock already knows me so it's not fair. But even if he didn't- well, y'all want to lose all your money? Hey, be my guest." Sherlock continued his act, pretending to be unsure about his prospects and the rest of the group ate up the wager.

"Well?" Josh goaded. Sherlock sat up and shifted uncomfortably, pausing for a few moments. "You know what? I'm feeling lucky today, so I'll give it a try." Cowardly Dan bit back a snicker, nearly giving away his cover.

Sherlock stood up, his heart pounding in excitement as he sat to join the group. All was silent as he picked out the easiest of the bunch and then stared with his intense gaze.

"Dana, you are an oil painter and art collector, specialising in the Romantic period but also having a soft spot for Modern art, two rather diverging tastes, you've recently come to appreciate Modern, likely due to your husband's influences. You're not a good cook yet have very fine dining taste; you've probably been cooked for by a professional for a good portion of your life. Your fashions betray your long standing romantic love for the Victorian Era, and it's obvious to me that you tend to dress your husband." He turned his attention to the host.

"If Josh had it his way, he would be in jeans and a T-shirt right now, as despite his own eloquence and poetic nature he is a misanthrope with nihilist sympathies-" Josh interrupted, red in the face. "How could you possibly know all of that?! Especially my being a nihilist, I don't go around broadcasting-" Sherlock smirked coyly, "aren't most Modern style artists misanthropic nihilists?" Josh frowned, shaking his head. "How could you possibly know I'm an artist?" Dana clapped her hands, her mind completely blown away. "How much does that mean I owe you? It was all correct, but I feel I lost count." Josh scoffed, inserting his hand in the conversation between the two as he stood from his seat. "Very funny, Dan. This little trick isn't going to earn you or your friend a cent."

"I didn't tell him ANYTHING Josh! He's always like this. The first time I met him, he laid out my whole life in front of me. It was so bizarre like right out of a Twilight episode. He's a freak! A genuine freak. Besides, I don't even know what 'misanthrope' or 'nihilist' mean." Cowardly Dan pouted and crossed his arms, roughly landing them on the table in protest.

Sherlock inwardly cringed at the word 'freak', but pretended it hadn't bothered him. Besides, the rest of the conversation was very entertaining. "I assure you this is not trickery. I am merely observing the Modern style art strewn about this home, signed by none other than a J.M.M., and your wife's beautiful, yet unusual, watch on the end table also has those same initials etched on, only it also says 'to Dana, with love', so I should hope J.M.M. is you. The Romantic period art is original, or very good copies, indicating a strong love for collecting Romantic period art, a hobby that has lasted a long enough period to gain quite an impressive collection; your tastes don't account for this lovely collection so therefore your wife's must. Your state of dress and body language suggest you feel uncomfortable in a waistcoat and tie yet your wife seems comfortable, and you both match ever so well, also your wife's hands have distinctive oil paint stains, faint writing callus on her right finger, but also a distinct coarseness, obvious indication- she is also an artist! And by the way, right handed. As are you."

Sherlock paused merely to get his breath, then continued.

"This food was catered from a very expensive restaurant down town, I can see the name of it pencilled in a female's handwriting near the phone, so it seems that Dana had been in charge of food for this get together, and there's a neglected kitchen with countless takeaway menus posted on the fridge, so I think it only logical to assume she can't- or won't cook. Why would she not cook? She's from a rich family. She doesn't have to, and likely never had to. Am I wrong?"

The room was silent; all were gawking. Sherlock looked from one person to the next, a superior air about him. He once more addressed Josh.

"If you cared to pay attention, to observe instead of traipsing through life wilfully oblivious, you may not think me so mysterious. The total for Dana came to fifty-five quid, and for Josh- thus far thirty quid." Josh only got redder, but he settled back down into his seat, giving in. Within fifteen minutes of this test of Sherlock's skills, the amateur detective's money issues were temporarily solved.

Once everyone had a turn, Josh stopped the game. "All right, all right, that's enough of that nonsense. We're all too sober right now, so I submit we should play the original game I had in mind, and Sherlock, you have to play." The younger Holmes snorted at the idea of being forced into ANYTHING, but he decided he'd play along. He was in a generous mood, especially once he and everyone else got a refresher of cocaine pregame.

"We're playing the betting version of 'Tiger's Coming'. Everyone takes a seat at the table with their shot glass. I'm going to fill everyone's glasses with vodka and when I do, put a quid in the pot. When I say "quick! Tiger's coming!" everyone dives under the table, comes back up, takes their shot, then the process repeats. The game continues until people stop coming up from under the table. Last person standing wins the pot."

Sherlock eyed each of his opponents, gauging his chances. He was not an experienced drinker, but he had a naturally high tolerance, and therefore stood a decent chance to win this. Besides, he was feeling utterly charged with energy, invincible. Everyone got out their change as they were being filled up, anxious to start the game. Sherlock was sure none of the women were going to stand much of a chance. 'The biggest threat', he decided, 'is Cowardly Dan. He's a total alcoholic'. Next, he examined the alcohol. This wasn't just any vodka. It was of a significantly higher proof. His heart beat against his chest as he read the warning label, his head buzzing. '"Danger. Not to be consumed by itself." Can't back out now. Don't want to. This is certainly not boring.'

First round, everyone came back up. Second, third, and fourth were the same. By the end of those rounds, everyone was feeling giddy. Sherlock noted his exceedingly euphoric condition, and also that he felt so good he rather didn't care why for once. Cowardly Dan smiled at him, and he genuinely smiled back, prompting Dan to laugh and joke, "I've never seen you so happy before. I didn't think it possible! Come to think of it though, I've never seen you drink and do coke, either."

"I've never drank and done coke, so I'm not surprised." They both snickered like little boys who were getting away with something. "Really?" "Never."

"Wow, seriously? Coke and alcohol are like- coke and alcohol!" Sherlock understood Dan's rather stupid joke, and for some reason he thought it was actually kind of funny. Not clever, but still funny. Dan elbowed him lightly and laughed at the connection, which prompted the laughter of the entire group. The positivity in the room was infectious.

Fifth round, Ellen bumped her head on the bottom of the table, knocking over a few glasses, but luckily Josh saved the vodka. She looked at Sherlock and tapped her hand on the table at him. "Coke helps even a lightweight like me go on drinking all night long because the two interact, making a third-" Dana whined. "Ellen, don't get started with your chemistry speak, we're high!" Sherlock pouted in thought, narrowing his eyes. "Creating a third chemical? Interesting."

He felt like he might have heard this from somewhere. Drug effects really only mattered to him if they involved crime somehow. Ellen got in front of Dana, planting both hands on the centre of the table, not so deftly avoiding the pot. "Yes! And this third chemical is called cocaethylene, which has a similar chemical make-up to-" Dana sneaked her hands around Ellen and began to tickle her, prompting an all out tickle match between the two young women. Sherlock gave the two an epic eye roll and sigh combination, but mostly for show, as it was not nearly as grating on his nerves as it usually would be.

While everyone was distracted, Josh initiated a sixth round, and Ellen didn't come back up. She was a real light weight despite the coke it seemed. Seventh round, Dana did not come up, and joined Ellen on the floor in a fit of giggles.

Eighth round and it was Josh, Dan, Scott (the very quiet guy who was far sighted), and Sherlock. When Sherlock came back up, the world abruptly spun around him and he gripped the table tightly to hold on. This sudden onset of effect should have been unsettling, but Sherlock merely found it amusing, probably due to the lingering coke in his system, but also perhaps due to the third chemical produced in his body. Josh shot Sherlock a mean smirk and the mad genius raised his brow in response, straightening himself out.

Ninth round, it was Dan, Josh, Scott, and Sherlock, who only made it by clawing up his chair. "The climb feels positively mountainous," Sherlock exclaimed to himself, and everyone laughed, including him. Dan helped him to sit properly, half mocking him. "Sherlock, you're not going to make it next time, are you?"

"Offcourse I will", Sherlock slurred nonchalantly as he lifted his glass and took his next shot, inwardly noting the practically incomprehensible quality of his poor pronunciation, uncaring. Everything around him was starting to lose any semblance of meaning. Words and categories simply disappeared into non-existence. It was peculiarly refreshing. Sherlock's head hung lethargically on his right shoulder and he watched the as the ceiling spun for an indeterminable amount of time. People spoke around him, but he had no idea what they were saying, and he didn't bother to pay attention. Then, they were speaking about him, and his ears perked up. One of the men said "... so out of it!" and the others laughed cheerily. Following, something about "should we count him out?" which prompted the young Holmes to jerk out of his lounging position, nearly smacking his head into the table like he was a mannequin controlled by a five-year-old puppeteer.

"No-er, I'm- still game." Every word hung at the edge of his lazy tongue and he had to enunciate slowly in order for them not to jumble into an incoherent mess. Upon slightly renewed connection with reality, he recognized that the rest of the players were also starting to look pretty drunk, well, except for Dan, who seemed fine. Sherlock didn't mind losing to Dan. Once Josh was sure everyone was ready, he made the call. "Tiger's coming!"

Sherlock roughly slid off of his chair, landing awkwardly, yet painlessly, on his shoulder. The floor felt welcoming, cooling, soothing. He instinctively curled up before realizing he was supposed to be getting up. The shifting table appeared too far away to reach, but he tried for it, rotating until he was on his back while gripping the chair leg for some semblance of control over his own body. Laughing could be heard from the distance, and he couldn't distinguish whether the laughs were at him or something else. Dan squatted beside Sherlock, smiling kindly. "Do you think you can get up, or do you forfeit?" A gargled groan escaped in response, but eventually the intended words made their way out. "No. I'm- I can do it", he spoke breathlessly, trying to garner the wherewithal to prop himself up.

Josh's disembodied voice said "Scott is out! What about Sherlock? He out too?" Dan offered the downed man a hand up, and he took it, using a combination of that and the grounding stability of the chair to lift himself to a feeble standing position. Sherlock could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and suddenly, a small man was holding him up. "Ah!- Comme tu es grand! Jesus! Sherlock? You okay?" A few giggles could be heard from the darkness and then another set of hands slid around to support him. "Why is he holding me?" A cold hand held his chin up and he opened his eyes, his warped and blackening vision revealing Josh's consternated face. "You fell on him! Obviously." "I fell on him?" Sherlock pondered in a nearly inaudible whisper, bewildered.

The world blackened and Sherlock felt the voices around him growing distant. He welcomed the soothing dreamless state of unconsciousness. His last thought felt detached from his mind, almost as though imposed by an unfamiliar entity.

'Cocaine. Better than Ritalin.'


Shots on an empty stomach, terribly naughty!

On a related note, I looked up interactions of insufflated Ritalin and alcohol, and I couldn't find any studies on it. But when I looked up cocaine and alcohol, I came across some interesting reads. Cocaine mixed with alcohol creates a third chemical in your body called cocaethylene, basically increasing the duration of euphoria, causing more of a lack of appetite, and dramatically increasing your chances for a heart attack due to heart palpitations. Also saw a common misconception: uppers and downers negate each other. No they don't. (Look up 'speed-balling' if you'd like a good example of uppers and downers having interactions.)