CHAPTER THREE: IN WHICH LUNACY AND SMALL-MINDEDNESS ARE DISTINCT CLASSES OF IDIOCY

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{John's POV}

"Words," I repeat disbelievingly. "She said she sees words."

Sherlock doesn't answer, leaving his chin perched on his fingers as he stares blankly, either deep in thought or pretending to be.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and stare at my flatmate. "You actually accepted this case?"

He finally looks up. "It's not the words themselves that is the puzzle, John. She saw or experienced something strange and her small mind came up with some explanation that seemed easier to comprehend. No, the interesting part is how it has become connected to me." He pauses, leaning forward as if to communicate his utter seriousness.

We both glance back toward the person in question, her head lolled back against the chair and her blonde curls falling messily over her cheeks. Her freckles stand out like polka dots against her skin, which is still blanched from her sudden collapse. She can't be older than twenty-five, maybe even twenty.

When Lucy had fainted, Sherlock had moved to catch the girl smoothly. I had rushed forward as well, helping him pull her back into her sitting position and checking her vitals, finding her with only an increased heart rate. She doesn't seem the type to be hysterical, and yet my best guess for her collapse is overwhelming emotion.

"So...what?" I break the silence. "She's hallucinating words as a coping mechanism? Maybe she's as smart as you are, and is in denial about it."

"Perhaps," Sherlock said, his face impassive.

Realizing I'm not going to get a straight answer out of him, I shake my head and finish unpacking the groceries. "You know, it wouldn't kill you to get the milk once in a while, instead of texting me until I show up to attend to your every beck and call."

"You asked me to text if I needed anything. I needed something."

"And what was so urgent that it couldn't wait half an hour for me to finish up?"

"Hm? Oh. It's not important," he waves away my question, putting his elbows on his knees and setting his chin on his steepled fingers. Apparently whatever had been so imperative just half an hour ago is devoid of interest in comparison to this new puzzle. His attention is completely fixated on the young woman.

"I hope she doesn't wake up with you staring her down like that," I say dryly. I wad up the grocery bags and put them in the bin on my way back into the sitting room.

He doesn't answer, and I recognize the intense gaze that signifies his mind is far from my words. I exhale heavily through my nose, and settle into the armchair with a cuppa, resolving to wait it out.

It's only a few more minutes until I hear the girl stir. I look up as her eyelids flutter open.

"Wh-Wha-?"

"It's alright, you just passed out," I say, standing to help steady her. To my surprise, Sherlock is already at her other side, a hand on her shoulder.

"I passed out," she murmurs, looking disturbed at the thought. "I never pass out."

I forego the usual are-you-okays in favor of ascertaining the answer myself. Her face still lacks color, but whether it's from fright or lack of well being, I'm not sure. Her fingers are trembling as well, and her gaze darts all across the room, seeming to settle here and there on invisible subjects. His mind palace, I think, and immediately shy away from the thought. Even Sherlock would acknowledge something like that as impossible. Right?

"So I'm not dreaming," she says, her voice torn between the tone of a matter-of-fact statement, and something much more desperate. And yet, underneath I catch a hint of... Excitement? Wonder?

Sherlock frowns a touch, his observation kicking up a notch, but he doesn't comment.

He may as well have, however, because she looks back at him defiantly. "You try being half-stuck in someone's head and see how you react," she snaps. Suddenly impatient with her recovery, she lurches upwards. As soon as she does, she squeezes her eyes shut with a gasp, half-falling back into the armchair.

"Careful," I caution, wanting her to stay seated.

She pushes Sherlock's hand away, and shoots me a look of determination. "M'fine," she mutters, trying again, this time with more success.

Her gaze roves over the room again, before settling on Sherlock. "Yeah, so this is super weird." I identify her accent as American. Perhaps she's an exchange student? "And cool," she adds, almost as an afterthought. It's strange, how she's caught between fear and awe.

"How did you know to come here?" Sherlock asks, unmoved by her emotional bipolarism.

"I didn't," she replies bluntly. "I passed by your apartment and saw the word home over the door. I took a gamble, and I was right." She looks around at the flat again, staring at Sherlock's spray-painted handiwork on the wall, and at the windows, still boarded up from that gas leak.

When Lucy returns her eyes to the two of us, she seems somehow reassured. "I'm sure you have a zillion questions," she says, and I can see she's fishing for my reaction to all this.

Before I can ask her how she's heard about my blog, Sherlock's phone starts to ring. He nicks it from the table, looking annoyed. "Sherlock Holmes." As he listens, his expression grows more focused. "Of course. How could I refuse?" He hangs up without saying goodbye, and immediately heads for the door. "Lestrade. A case," he adds, looking at Lucy, who suddenly looks worried.

"Wait, you're taking a second case?" she asks.

"Considering your case is so connected to my mental state, this will give me a chance to observe you and your reactions when I am deducing," he says as though it were obvious. Though to him, things usually are.

He reaches the door, pulling on his jacket and scarf, and addresses me. "Coming?"

I glance at the girl. "If you want me to."

"Of course," Sherlock answers before Lucy can say a word. She only smirks, seemingly unbothered by his lack of social graces.

He swings open the door. "I'd be lost without my blogger." Lucy grins enthusiastically at that. I smile back. She must really be a fan of the blog.

Sherlock disappears down the stairs and the two of us are quick to follow. "The game is on," I hear Lucy mutter behind me, and I can't help but smirk at that.

Little did I know, a much greater Game was afoot.

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*theme song plays*

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