"Why are you still awake?"
The question drifted across the room as I leaned against the doorframe, and I covered a yawn. I had slept for perhaps an hour before the silence woke me.
"Because I am not asleep."
The last syllables tried to blend a touch too much, but he affected a scowl instead of commenting.
"Go to bed."
I would love to, except there was no use staring at the ceiling when my eyes refused to close again. My room was too quiet, and I had discovered why when a rambling search found Holmes in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. I had not told him why I had been unable to sleep while he was gone.
"You know you 'ill not enjoy—" I broke off with another wide yawn. "Mrs. Hudson's reaction to find'ng you here," I finished.
He still did not comment on the slightly slurred words. I had always found it difficult to speak when exhausted, and with so little sleep over the last week, it was a miracle my words were even understandable.
"She will not return until the day after tomorrow," he replied instead, his focus on the strange mixture of cookware and beakers in front of him. "I will have plenty of time to finish, and this experiment is quiet. Go to bed."
That experiment was too quiet, and his information was outdated. Mrs. Hudson could have finished her holiday as early as yesterday, but I would not argue. I claimed a seat at the table without answering.
"What—are you doing?" I eventually asked, failing to stifle yet another yawn.
"Testing," was his somewhat distracted reply. "The flour drops at one speed, the baking powder at another, and a mite at still another. Why?"
"You sneaked into Mrs. Hudson's kitchen to test gravitational theories?"
An irritated huff carried faintly. He sprinkled something from a beaker into a mixing bowl, then stepped away to stoke the fire. "I have already tested this with items from the sitting room, but the powders behave differently than paperweights. There is also a side experiment too complicated to explain."
Considering gravity research had no need of beakers and bowls, the "side experiment" was probably his main experiment. That meant he had invented the gravitational premise on the spot, but I did not say as much. He rarely refused to explain his experiments to me, and I was well aware of the burr creeping through my words from lack of sleep. I hardly made an attentive listener at the moment. There was one thing I would ask, however.
"You're keepin' your flour 'way from the flame?"
"Of course."
Good. I knew he remembered what would happen if the flour reached a spark, and we did not need a repeat of either incident. He glanced up when I remained at the table even after he had returned to his workstation.
"Go to bed," he ordered again.
No. I refused to voice how much my room's silence currently bothered me, and watching him would either entertain me or put me to sleep. Both of those were infinitely better than staring at my cracked ceiling.
"I'm out of chamomile," I replied instead.
Silence answered me as he realized what I was not saying. After the sixth sleepless night in a row, I had dosed myself with chamomile and lavender tea, and he had returned from his trip to find me deeply asleep on the settee. Sleeping for twenty hours straight had obviously concerned him—probably because I had spent much of it sleepwalking—and I doubted he enjoyed the implication that the long rest had not broken the cycle.
"We could review the coal tar derivative discussion," he eventually said rather than offering to fetch more. I felt a small smirk escape.
"Don' worry about it. Your myst'ry experiment might do the same th'ng."
He grumbled unintelligibly, annoyed that I had seen through him, but he made no real answer. Silence settled over the kitchen, and I scooted my chair next to the table, resting my chin on my hand as I watched.
Two bowls sat in front of him, one empty and one partially filled with an unidentifiable mixture. He occasionally stepped away to check something boiling—and dripping—in front of the hearth, and various bags and containers joined beakers, utensils, and a variety of spills to sprawl over counters and nearby tables—and the floor, in a few places. Mrs. Hudson would not be happy with the mess, but I was too tired to argue with him. I knew better than to think he would listen to me, anyway. Not this far into his experiment.
I readjusted in my seat, leaning harder against the table in a bid to get comfortable. The armrest insisted on digging into my ribs no matter which way I turned.
The pressure finally eased, and I relaxed against both chair and table as Holmes stirred with one hand and added ingredients with the other. More sugar went into his mouth than into the bowl, but he also included a powder, a splash of milk, and two different spices. That would taste disgusting no matter how long it cooked.
I opened my eyes without realizing I had closed them, and a scowl escaped when I found Holmes frozen mid-stir, watching me.
"What was that?"
"Irritat'ng," I grumbled in reply. The micro naps were the only thing preventing a true problem after so long without meaningful sleep, but they were nearly as frustrating as staying awake completely. I wanted to sleep, not close my eyes for sixty seconds at a time. Was it too much to hope that he would fail to notice the next time I drifted off?
Probably, but I said nothing as he returned to his task with a twitched grin. He did not need to know that his sudden silence had woken me, and I could only hope that the noise of his experiment would eventually put me to sleep for real. For all that they kept me from reaching the hallucinatory stage of sleep deprivation, the micro naps did nothing to help the fatigue slowing my thoughts and slurring my words.
A distracted idea wondered if Mrs. Hudson kept chamomile somewhere, but I forced my attention back to where Holmes stood at the counter. I would not search her rooms, and if I would not search her rooms, there was no use debating the idea.
He stirred his mixture once more, then sprinkled more powder and stirred again. After testing the consistency with his fingers, he dumped the contents into a casserole dish and gingerly stuck the bakeware into the oven. Noting something in his book, he turned his attention to the second, larger bowl. A heaping cup of flour quickly joined baking powder, some spices, and a few tablespoons of sugar. A spoonful of sugar went in his mouth, and he ignored my grin to stir again.
"What're you trying t'make?" I finally asked, disregarding the way my words stuck together. We both knew his gravity experiment claim was a deflection, and I wondered if he would tell me pieces instead of the premise.
"Something edible," he replied shortly. One egg, a splash of milk, and more sugar went into the now soggy mixture—as well as all over the counter. That would be a trial to clean later, but he pretended not to notice the spill. He alternated milk, water, and flour until the mixture reached an intended consistency, then poured the slop into another dish. It joined the first in the oven.
"Those w'll not succeed," I informed him. He merely shrugged.
"You will not taste them."
That was all that mattered, and I let the subject drop as he began rummaging through the cabinets.
"Where did she…" The mutter trailed off, but an "Aha" carried before I could voice a question. Two more spice containers emerged from this week's hiding place, and he pulled forward another bowl. With flour again his base ingredient, he apparently chose amounts at random, though I did notice more sugar went into his mouth again than went into the bowl. He had never been able to stay out of the sugar.
"I 'ope you plan on replacing her supplies 'fore she returns," I hinted after several minutes. She would have his hide for using her kitchen—and possibly mine as well for not stopping him—but we both might go hungry for a while if she returned to an empty kitchen. I was too tired to try to interfere, but I could only ignore so much.
He gestured to his notebook, obviously keeping track of what he used for just that purpose, and I made no answer as he resumed stirring ingredients together.
Instead of an egg and milk, this bowl received oil, water, and half a stick of butter, and Holmes again used flour to adjust his texture. Three more spills went unheeded as he rapidly stirred the concoction, then the first two pans came out to shove the third in the back. Movement caught my eye as he replaced the dishes he had removed.
He had carelessly left the sack of flour near the edge of one counter, and now it tipped slowly forward. The unbalanced bag would quickly dump from counter to floor, and the cloud would ignite moments after the bag fell. Replacing the cookware put Holmes' back to it, however, and I was too far away. I could not possibly reach the sack before it spilled not ten feet from the flames.
I could reach Holmes, though, and I lunged out of my chair.
"Holmes, get down!"
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