The T rating shall kick in shortly for drug references. Cover your children's ears.

"Here. You wanted the Darjeeling, right?"

"Mmm. Of course."

The world's only consulting detective was stretched out on the brown leather sofa in his trademark navy blue coat, having been too lazy to take it off when we got back. The flat felt cozy, invitingly warm. It was cluttered, but I liked that, as long as the clutter didn't endanger the lives of the room's occupants too severely. It felt lived in. Nice.

Mrs. Hudson was not yet back from the hospital. She would live, though, as the bullet hadn't passed through or even lodged in her brain. No brain damage; when she returned in a few weeks, she would be the same old Mrs. Hudson.

We counted our blessings. Or I did, anyway.

"Sherlock," I said suddenly, caught up in a contemplative mood, "do you believe in God?"

There was a short silence. He slowly brought the teacup down from his mouth, set it on the coffee table. "Why do you want to know?"

I avoided his eye, suddenly sheepish. "I don't…forget it. It's nothing."

"No, it's a very interesting question."

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

"No, it's…fine. I suppose the answer is that I really don't know."

His voice was uncharacteristically soft. "I was raised a Catholic. And when I was at university, I…fell in with the wrong crowd, you could say. Well. When I say wrong crowd, I mean the rich, pampered elite, like Mycroft and me were, and they…hated me. For being different, I was alone, more so than…"

He lapsed into silence, the ghosts of his own private horrors and insecurities flitting across the blank mask that was his face. "I turned to drugs. Cocaine, a seven percent solution. One night, I was confused, angry. I don't know what I was thinking. I shouldn't have lived."

He sighed and sat up on the sofa so that our shoulders brushed. "If you take all the factors into account, it was only by some extraordinary stroke of luck that someone found me, and later, I didn't know what else to call it, than…" His mouth set in an unwavering line. There was another long pause. "Can we talk about something else?"

I kept my voice steady with an effort of will. "If I was to search the flat, really search, would I find anything?" He didn't respond. "Sherlock, I need to know. I'm your friend, I want to help."

"You don't need to. That part of my life is over. There's nothing left."

I sighed. I had to trust him. "How long have you been clean?"

"For almost a year now."

That was about how long I had known him, I realized with a mix of affection and…what? Guilt? I needed to change the subject. "So…Moran."

He seemed relieved to have something else to talk about. "Yes."

"We're just going to sit around twiddling our thumbs until someone else dies?"

"I know patience doesn't come easily to you, John."

I elbowed him. "Who makes the tea? Who buys the milk? Who-"

"-was planning to make risotto?" He looked around in mock surprise. "Wait, who said that?"

I flopped back on the couch and groaned. He's incorrigible, I swear. "It's almost eight."

"Stores will still be open, I expect."

I got up. No sense in prolonging the inevitable. "Fine. I should get going."
To my surprise, he got up, too. "You're going to need me to tell you what kind of wine to get."

"I'm perfectly capable-"

"You're complaining because I'm offering to help?"

"I'm wondering what mad scheme of yours is behind the offer."

"Must there always be an ulterior motive?"

"With you? When was the last time you did anything out of the goodness of your heart?"

"I made soup two weeks ago!"

"You set the microwave on fire…how, I still have no idea." I shrugged on my jacket, then scrutinized him. "Maybe it isn't a good idea to leave you at home alone."

"That's right. Just think, with Mrs. Hudson not here…"

"I'm sure your boredom would run rampant through what's left of the kitchen. God, I don't even want to think about it. You're coming."

"Glad we got that settled," he said smugly, springing to the door.

"Oh, shut up."

If I had known, then, that it was going to turn in to the longest night of my life, I would have settled for cup noodles.

No one would have had to die.