I changed my plans for this chapter. Guess what I'd originally planned to do, if you want.-SH

Chapter 10: In the Zone

Sherlock's stomach woke him up by growling painfully, insisting that it required sustenance right this second.

The consulting detective groaned to life like a car engine in cold weather, and realized immediately that not only did his stomach ache with impossible emptiness, but his head throbbed painfully, the ache seeming to drip behind his eyes, making them heavy. Sherlock also noted he had evidently crawled into his bed in 221B wearing his disguise. Sherlock sighed and undid the belt, unbuttoning the jeans, kneeling as he lifted his hips with a grunt, pulling them down before kicking them off unceremoniously until they were a lump at the foot of the bed. He would need to throw them in the laundry later. Maybe he could charm Mrs. Hudson into doing it for him.

Sherlock wrestled his way out of his shirt, thankful he'd had the sense to remove his mask and shoes. Satisfied, laying completely naked except for underwear, Sherlock closed his eyes and steepled his hands, bringing them to his lips as he thought deeply. He'd physically lost three hours because he'd made the unfortunate mistake of accepting one too many drinks from the Widows, but his mind, ever-active, drunk or sober, had stored it away for future reference. He only needed to concentrate hard enough to get at it.

But, as he tried to enter the serene doors of his mind palace, his stomach's angry growling yanked him back into the real world, leaving Sherlock hungry and flustered. He chuckled. Dancing had certainly taken a lot out of him! He needed a nice, warm, filling breakfast, packed with much-needed carbohydrates and dozens of calories. He'd have to ingest at least 2,000 to go dancing tonight!

No, no, no! Sherlock ordered himself angrily. Focus. Focus! Ignore your bloody transport for an hour. Just an hour. His malnourished body ached at that, his stomach stopping its growling now, though it persisted with a dull, painful ache that would have distracted him…

But Sherlock simply closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and retreated into his mind palace. The events of the night flooded back to him—poor quality images because of his slightly addled conscious—but enough to notice he'd not gotten himself into any sticky situations. Sherlock was not a particularly noisy drunk, but his intelligence level lowered at least by half. He was prone to cursing, and his balance was far from perfect. But it seemed the ladies liked him. Good.

The nine Black Widows he knew—easily identifiable by the black dresses and blood-red lipstick—as well as several others gathered around him in an appreciative group, much like (he imagined) a group of nervous, anxious fans. He got questions as to his identity, but refused to answer with any names except "Raven," and used his height to his advantage when the younger Widows tried to tug off his mask. They bought him drinks, and he bought them drinks. A few of them climbed up on the stage to dance on the poles and he threw money at them (Mycroft would not be pleased at the state of his expenses). He had acted the part well, but despite only taking little sips of the alcoholic drinks he was brought, one too many creamsickle sips, and he was over the moon. He quickly switched to dancing after that, which the women were more than happy to oblige to. He had four women around him at all times, one dancing against his front, the other at his back, and two more at his sides so that he was effectively boxed in. He remembered being touched, even below the shirt, remembered to show slight interest by groaning or otherwise responding appropriately, often earning him a giggle or two. He remembered feeling a scarf about his neck, which drew his attention to a young Indian girl whose long, dark hair was done up in braids which sort of curled back like the horns of an…impala. Impala! He'd met Impala last night!

Sherlock sat up with a jerk, firmly pulled out of his mind palace by the realization. Everything else was lost to him, but what did it matter? He was home, safe and sound, and he'd met Impala!

Sherlock sat on the bed, slightly bent, his fingers tracing patterns in the sheets. He recognized by the dipping sun that it was around 2 in the afternoon. It was likely he'd not gotten much sleep—he couldn't remember what time he'd fallen asleep. But he reeked of alcohol and sweat and women—he could smell it on himself. Disgusting. He needed a shower.

The consulting detective pulled his lean, lanky body out of bed. He felt quite unsteady on his feet. There was the throbbing in his brain (was it literally pulsing?) and the persistent, though dull, ache in his abdomen (hunger, starvation, emptiness) adding to his discomfort. But there was nothing to be done about it now.

Sherlock sighed and went into the bathroom that adjourned his room. He relieved himself of his underwear after starting the shower and stood naked, shivering, with one hand thrust under the showerhead as he waited impatiently for the hot water to kick in. Meanwhile, he stared at his own reflection in the full-length mirror. The first thing he noticed were the dark contacts. How had he slept with them in? Sherlock remedied this by removing them immediately. He blinked. His eyes felt dry and raw, like he'd just been crying, but all in all, it was a small discomfort. Sherlock got into the shower, without once paying attention to the subtle muscles rippling in his long, thin arms, the protruding cheekbones and ribcage smacking of starvation, the long, muscular legs built up from years of running about catching criminals, the concave stomach that nearly met his spine, the tattoos that now covered him, and the necessary reproductive organ that served little purpose to a man such as himself.

Sherlock scrubbed himself first with ordinary soap, and then with his favorite body wash, until his skin was all pink, worried, and sensitive from the attention and the shower smelled of sweet vanilla. Then, Sherlock shampooed and, reassuring himself that he no longer reeked of his nemesis' hideout, he emerged, greeting the steam with a sharp inhale and a sigh of satisfaction.

While he dried off carefully, not really in any hurry, and wanting to be careful of his sensitive skin, anyway, Sherlock inspecting the cuts and bruises that had once littered his body. Or rather, the scars. The bruises had faded, although there were still some yellow patches on his chest, and the whip to the face had only caused him a split and bruised lip, which had healed rapidly. Scars here and there still struck white against the pink skin, due to both the scrubbing and the shower's heat, but Sherlock decided his skin was too pale to notice them. Besides, the tattoos drew the eye. That's what he'd really wanted them for in the first place.

Sherlock threw on an oversized v-neck tee shirt which sagged off his left shoulder and pulled on a pair of jeans. The jeans would usually hug his hips, but with his recent weight loss, he needed a belt to keep them there. They sagged around his ankles, but what did it matter? This was home, and John wouldn't care if he was casually dressed. Sherlock returned to the bathroom to brush his teeth and do a bit of shaving. After this was done, he sighed as his stomach growled again, reminding him that his transport needed maintenance. Immediately.

Well, he'd proved to himself he could ignore it, if necessary. That was enough until he'd gained back some weight and didn't slip out of his clothes anymore. Then, and only then, would he concern himself with weaning off a need for food, if he was still dependent on it.

Sherlock stretched his arms out way above his head as he walked out into the main part of the flat, grunting and unsuccessfully stifling a yawn as all his muscles fell into place. John was reading the paper, but he looked up as Sherlock stumbled into the kitchen. "Morning, Sherlock," to which he only got a sleepy grunt in reply. John turned back to the headlines, and sat forward with a jerk. "Sherlock!"

The consulting detective stopped, his hand on the fridge door. His friend's nervous-excited exclamation warranted attention. Hunger forgotten for the moment, he sprinted back and leaned automatically over the back of John's chair like an over-stimulated child. "What is it, John?"

Obediently, John handed him the paper. Sherlock straightened up and read the headline: Spider's Nest Opens in London. Hunger seeped out of him (malnutrition's ache be damned) as he read through the article, which talked of the grand opening a day before and the wild parties that extended until the wee hours of the morning. It was a normal article, except it didn't name the owner of the club, and stated that he "declined to comment." Sherlock fell into his chair and handed the paper back to John, looking more than a little pale.

John chose to ignore the sign of weakness in his friend. "Suspicious, isn't it?"

"Very." Sherlock curled his knees to his chest and matched finger pads to finger pads on each hand. "The motive is unclear. No one knows him as Moriarty—no one but you, Lestrade, Mycroft, and I, at any rate—why decline to comment? Why refuse to be named?"

"What does he own the club under?"

"Richard Brook," Sherlock responded in a cold, dangerous tone. "The man's a tyrant. If I could only understand why..."

"Could it be a trap?" John reflected on his thoughts last night, about the safety of his friend. "Could he have meant to lure you?"

"It's entirely possible, but I didn't come," Sherlock replied thoughtfully. "The Raven showed up, but not Sherlock Holmes. I doubt he'll be able to make a connection between my two identities. He'll believe I am still recovering, I imagine."

"As well you should be." John scolded. "Did you find the girl you were looking for?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes," Sherlock said distractedly. He was considering the options rolling around in his head. "Impala. I'll be talking to her tonight, getting some information, hopefully. If Rose says she can give me the answers I need, I'll stop at nothing to get them."

"Right," John smiled. "Well, I should let you eat. You must be famished." He got up with a grunt. "I've got to go into work for a few hours. Someone needs me to cover their shift. Don't do anything stupid." And with that, John was gone.

Sherlock made himself tea and drank at least twelve cups while John was out. But, too absorbed in the case, lost in information, he ingested nothing else all day.

Headcanon says Sherlock's favorite scent is vanilla. With a sweet tooth like his, who could possibly blame him?-SH