Chapter 13: Forever and a Day

"You're going to eat," John commanded with all the force of an army captain, used to being in charge, as he stormed into the kitchen that morning.

Sherlock was inclined to agree. If his transport had been damaged enough to cause him to faint, he concluded that food was a necessity. And besides, he was hungry, anyway. But he couldn't let his doctor know that he agreed with him. "Is that a threat, doctor?" He asked in amusement.

"Only if you don't eat."

"So if I don't?"

John smirked to himself as he bent over the skillet, cooking eggs and sausage for two. "Well, I'd probably force-feed you. And I'm not below putting sugar in your food so you'll eat it."

Sherlock chuckled, digging his nose between his thumbs and palms as he tilted his head back. The adrenaline he'd been running on since Rose's death had faded with his faint last night. He had no energy, no willpower, left in him to do anything but recover.

Except he had to solve the case. Because if he didn't, another young girl would die. And Sherlock liked to keep his hands free of blood. Despite all he pretended like anyone who died on his watch was nothing to him, it actually made him sad. Not during the case, mind you, but afterwards, when there was time to mourn the dead.

He'd woken up that morning sore and hungry and weak. His body was ten times heavier, his eyes fighting to stay open. God, he was abnormally tired. But why?

John was scrambling eggs over the stove, bacon sizzling in the oven and toast in the toaster. "So, you're not going out tonight, right?"

"Hm?"

"To the club. You're not going, are you?" John was worried for his friend. Sherlock had fainted, after all, and looked all the more pale and sick against his dark chair. He lifted his head and glanced into the living area to look at his friend. Sherlock sat up with sudden strength, his eyes bright.

"Of course I am," Sherlock replied calmly. "I don't have much of a choice. Moriarty's going to open the club tonight. I have to go."

John was about to argue when the door burst open. Detective Inspector Lestrade doubled over, his hands on his knees, panting hard. "Sherlock!" He wheezed. "I have to tell you—!"

"Sit down, Lestrade, for Christ's sakes!" Sherlock waved his hand languidly, his eyes closed peacefully. But his voice was sharp and commanding. Lestrade took a seat at the table. "Now, what is it?" Sherlock tilted his head back so that he got a view of the inspector upside down. His head was spinning, his body protesting. Inside his head, Sherlock was begrudging the inspector's annoying timing.

"Lestrade!" John growled, stomping back into the living room. Sherlock looked at his friend and smirked. "Captain Watson" had made an appearance once again. Maybe he could get Lestrade to leave so they could feast upon their breakfast in peace. The smell of the cooking eggs and meat made Sherlock's belly give a loud, greedy growl, and Sherlock frowned, rubbing a hand against the concave surface of his stomach.

"I ought to throw you out!" John was still shouting, though Lestrade could see there was worry hidden behind the anger. What's the git done now? "Sherlock needs to rest!"

"There's something he ought to know!" Lestrade snarled. He needed Sherlock. And Sherlock had been well enough to be on the case a few days ago, so what was so different about right now? Sure, he knew the bloke was suffering, and maybe he looked a little paler than usual, but so what? London needed Sherlock Holmes' great brain. "And he needs to tell me about The Spider's Nest!"

"Well, it can wait for breakfast!" John yelled. "Sherlock hasn't—"

"All right, all right," Sherlock raised his hands up in the air, his ears ringing from the grown men's argument. "You two bellowing bulls are making my head spin, and it's quite painful." He leveled a scolding glance at the two men. Lestrade hung his head, and John went to check on the food. "You may talk to me and ask me questions, Lestrade, but you'll have to wait until I eat something," Sherlock slumped in his chair and whimpered softly, massaging his temple. "I barely ate anything yesterday, and I'm as weak as a kitten." He accepted eggs, toast, and bacon from John with a weak smile and trembling hands, quickly falling upon his food. John hadn't served himself, and Lestrade hadn't been offered.

John wasn't concerned with the (as far as he was concerned) unwelcome intrusion of Greg. Right now, he was supervising Sherlock, making sure that the detective's appetite stayed steady. When he was satisfied with Sherlock's performance, he seemed to come back to himself, leaving the thick army exterior on the battlefield. "Coffee or tea, Lestrade?"

"Coffee sounds great. Thanks." Lestrade replied, leaning eagerly towards Sherlock as the consulting detective stuffed the remaining food into his mouth, leaving behind an empty plate. Sherlock stretched and John went to fetch a round of coffee for all of them (except he wasn't going to give any to Sherlock—what he got was sugared tea, no buts about it).

"All right," Sherlock said at length. "What?"

"What did you find out about The Spider's Nest?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's a dance club with a bar. Bouncers are easily bribed. The barkeep is cheap and will bleed you for every penny. There's a pole dance-strip tease where the Black Widows take off their clothes. Sex is offered in private rooms called Nests. Each Black Widow is issued one."

"And these 'Black Widows'?" Lestrade asked over his coffee as John handed it to him before sitting with his own cup and handing Sherlock his.

Sherlock sipped his tea delicately. "Most of them are of average height, thin, and between the ages of 25-40. I can only identify fifteen of them by name, but there are at least eight more. They've taken a liking to my disguise," he chuckled. "There are exceptions to the rule, but the girls are of consenting age."

"Is there rape?"

Sherlock scrunched up his face and rolled his shoulders. "Not that I could see. Impala, my voice on the inside, is only sixteen—only just able to consent, unless the laws have changed."

"Impala?" Lestrade sat back in surprise. "You have an informant?"

"Yes. She's to be Rose's replacement as a Widow."

"You mean she isn't one?"

"She doesn't wear black, if that means anything, which I'm certain it does. She's in training—though in what, I'm not sure."

"Sex? Killing?"

"Both, I should say."

"Both?!"

"Relax, inspector," Sherlock chuckled, finishing his tea and curling into his chair, resting his head on the armrest. "I'm going to get her out of that club before Moriarty can train her."

"How's that?"

"Data, data, data," Sherlock mumbled sleepily. "I can't make bricks without clay." His eyes closed and he stopped talking, his breathing calm and soft. Lestrade thought he'd fallen asleep and was about to go when the man sprang up like a jack-in-the-box. Both the officer and the doctor jumped as Sherlock spoke. "Oh! You wanted to say something, Inspector?"

"Ah, yes," Lestrade rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. "The building that's being used as The Spider's Nest is actually where we picked you up."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Really, now? Well, this changes everything."