Author's note: Thank you for the continued support! My uni exams are over so hopefully I might be able to update a bit more. I think I won't do too much on the wedding scene when it happens because I kind of feel like His Last Vow's storyline is probably more relevant to this story.

Chapter 59

It was quite safe to say that Sherlock had the most ridiculous ideas as to what makes a good bachelor party. He had already discussed some plans with Molly but he was moaning because she didn't seem to think they were brilliant ideas. He gave his initial plans straight away when Lucy had gotten back from her night out, but it wasn't until morning the next day that he went into detail.

"I think it makes for the perfect night." His nose was up in the air, giving off a sense of self-righteousness.

"Do you really think John wants to go on a pub crawl to places where there were murders?" Lucy asked seriously as they sat by the desk.

"Yes." Sherlock replied bluntly. If she didn't know him better, Lucy would be sure he deadpanned, but there was no humour to this. His gaze was serious.

"And you plan to measure his exact alcohol intake?"

"Of course."

"I can't even be bothered to ask why," Lucy sighed. By this point there was no hope for poor John. Moving swiftly away from what Sherlock was already dead set on she asked: "Who else is going to go?"

"What do you mean who else?" Sherlock looked confused.

"Well surely John would want some of his other friends to come," Lucy replied, resisting the overwhelming urge to roll her eyes and strangle Sherlock. She loved him but for goodness sake he was clueless sometimes. Upon seeing Sherlock's face, she continued: "Why don't you invite people like Greg and Mike Stamford?"

"Greg?" Sherlock was lost.

"You know who he is!" She almost screamed in frustration. "Lestrade!"

"Oh," His face wasn't amused. "I suppose I could…" He clearly didn't want to.

"This isn't about you Sherlock, this is about John." She reminded him.

"Fine I'll ask Lestrade if he can come after his shift." He wrinkled his nose.

They spent much longer discussing plans but Lucy could barely get a word in edgeways. Sherlock was already set on exactly what would happen, how much they would drink at each pub before Greg and maybe some others would join them. He had already calculated what times they would arrive and leave each pub and at what times they would need to go to the toilet. It was quite frankly scary how precise Sherlock was. It was obsessive. He was clearly nervous about John getting married, not that he would ever admit it.

Lucy had tried to tell him that he really didn't have to have everything planned out so meticulously. That they could drink what they fancied at the time and how much they fancied. But she soon gave up when it became obvious that Sherlock was not open to changing anything. She wasn't quite sure why he had requested her help if he already knew everything he was going to do. She guessed he just wanted some company.

Sherlock was clearly frustrated and itching for a case. A good case. Lestrade had come to him but with nothing of much interest. He could have taken the easier ones, but it seemed as though he needed something bigger to distract him. Perhaps a nice serial killer?

"Your parents want us all over sometime for a big family roast." She had ended up changing the subject from John's wedding after bringing the detective a cup of tea. He grimaced and wrinkled his face up in absolute disgust.

"How wonderful." He grumbled.

"It will be nice."

"No." He looked moody.

"Right Sherlock what do you want to do?" Lucy huffed in anger. "You're being stroppy."

"I am not!" He pouted. He took a gulp of tea. "Lestrade said he had a murder but it sounded boring. Just a dead maid."

"Oh just a dead maid," The teenager muttered sarcastically. "Well let's go help because it's better than you being shut up in here."

Shortly after, they found themselves in the back of a cab driving to a posher area of London to gate-crash Lestrade's crime scene- because of course Sherlock couldn't be bothered to let him know they were coming. When they arrived at the house, they could see the back entrance that led to the garden was cordoned off by police tape. Being Sherlock, he just lifted it up and went under it with Lucy trailing behind.

Lestrade was looking at the body on the ground while barking orders to some of his team. Everyone instantly noticed Sherlock's arrival and almost everyone rolled their eyes.

"So much for not coming." Lestrade grumbled as they approached. "You can't just turn up unannounced Sherlock!"

"You need my help now shush." Sherlock instantly went to work looking at the maid who was unceremoniously sprawled on her front just inches away from the back door to the house.

"Hey," Lucy greeted Greg, laughing.

"Hey kiddo," He grinned.

"I pestered him to come. He was becoming unbearable just moping around at home." She sighed.

"I don't blame you, we need a babysitter for him really." Greg smirked.

"Oh this is easy you idiots!" Sherlock yelled. "Even Lucy can solve this faster than you lot."

"I wouldn't say that Sherlock," Lucy raised her eyebrows. He motioned for her to get closer to the body.

"Look at the wound." He instructed.

"A stab wound right to her left side, probably pierced her heart and definitely her lung." Lucy said, "Looks like whoever attacked her came from behind as I can't see any other wounds."

"Which means…" Sherlock prompted.

"That whoever stabbed her did so from inside the house as the maid was walking outside. So, they had access to the house, otherwise surely the maid would have turned at someone unfamiliar?"

"Good. Everyone was home. The man and woman of the house are at the yard."

"So it was either the husband or the wife?"

"Yes." Sherlock had a small smile.

"Well there wasn't much of a scuffle at all so it was sudden, almost spur of the moment. But I feel there was a reason. I feel as though this was a killing out of sudden anger."

"Why?"

"Well they haven't exactly thought the murder through have they?" Lucy said with a smile, "This woman was stabbed and left in the garden for everyone to see, if this wasn't spur of the moment it would have been thought out more carefully so they would have known to hide the body and to not leave the murder weapon right by the victim. Clearly they were shocked at their own actions as if they were behind the maid, stabbed her, they could have dropped the knife in shock which explains why it's positioned where it is." Lucy frowned. "Where were the homeowners and who called you?"

"The husband called, he was clearly shaken." Lestrade answered, "They were both sat in the living room having a cup of tea when we arrived." He shook his head, stunned.

"So it was the wife." Lucy frowned. "You said the wife wasn't shaken but the husband was. I'm just guessing here but perhaps the husband and maid had an affair, it came out, and the wife, in a blind rage, killed the maid?" She saw Sherlock grin and knew she was right.

"Well we don't know that yet…" Lestrade sighed. "There isn't enough evidence right now."

"Just check the prints on the knife I'm sure you'll have the killer." Lucy said. "It is a lot of guesswork though."

"Oh hush we know our guesswork is right," Sherlock waved his hand, too self-confident.

"Well we will get on straight away interviewing the couple and getting prints." Lestrade said, but he grinned lopsidedly, "That was pretty good though Lucy… if you are right."

"Thanks, let's hope I am." She laughed.

"I never get complimented," Sherlock grumbled almost inaudibly. But he straightened his coat and announced: "Well this was easy and mind-numbingly boring let me know when there is something fun." He started walking out of the garden.

"I would apologise for him but I'm sure you're all painfully used to it by now," Lucy sighed, rubbing her eyes.

"Well thanks for your help," Lestrade smiled. Lucy hugged him briefly before running off after Sherlock who had already hailed a cab and was impatiently waiting.

The rest of the day was filled with clients coming in and out of the flat. Lucy had taken to ignoring most of it all and simply drawing instead. Sherlock was becoming incredibly rude and snappy so she just tried to stay out of his way and let the clients take the full force of his wrath. According to Sherlock, all of their issues were boring, boring, boring!

It was safe to say that he had no cases by the end of the day. He had rejected everyone. By this point, Lucy didn't know what to do. He was mixing all sorts of dangerous chemicals in the kitchen and she was getting scared that it would blow up soon. She texted John:

Can you get Sherlock a case or something because I'm scared he's going to destroy everything!

She waited a bit for his reply:

Give me half an hour and I will be round to save Baker Street!

Lucy breathed a sigh of relief. As soon as John had arrived, he had shouted at Sherlock.

"Grow up, stop being a stroppy toddler and clean this god damn mess up!" John was livid.

"But John I'm bored!" Sherlock yelled back.

"I don't care!" John growled. His glare at Sherlock was enough to make the consulting detective reluctantly start to clear up the kitchen a little. John sighed before returning to where Lucy sat in the living room.

"I'm sorry I asked you to come over but I didn't know what to do." Lucy murmured.

"Hey now, don't apologise," He smiled warmly, pulling her into a tight hug. "He's just being a nightmare and it's unfair for you to have to try and play mummy to him." Lucy laughed a little.

"Where's Mary?" She asked.

"Oh, she wasn't feeling very well earlier so she's resting at home." He replied. "Truthfully, she's probably exhausted with all this wedding planning, but I think we've got it all sorted." John's smile was wide, and Lucy wasn't sure if she had seen him look so happy and in love before. It was heart-warming.

After ensuring that Sherlock had tidied properly and was going to at least try and behave himself, John left the duo alone, but not before ordering Sherlock to make dinner for once. Sherlock had rolled his eyes, and lumped down onto his chair.

"I'm not expecting you to cook, don't worry," Lucy muttered as she flicked through the tv channels. Sherlock Holmes just grunted.

"What do you want from the Chinese?" He asked after a pause. Sherlock was never one to eat a whole lot of food, but it was painfully obvious that he was eating more than usual to try and make Lucy eat more.

"I'm really not that hungry." Lucy automatically said. But she winced, knowing that it wasn't the right thing to say at all. Considering she hadn't eaten all day and had only had tea to drink, she knew he would make her eat dinner. He was clearly monitoring her intake.

"What do you want from the Chinese?" Sherlock repeated, trying to be patient.

"Err," Lucy felt panicked. "Just chicken Chow Mein then please." Sherlock looked at her for a moment, but it seemed to satisfy him and he set about ordering the food.

They sat in the living room to eat. The kitchen wasn't completely clear from being a nuclear waste site, so it was more sensible to sit on the sofa and watch crap telly. Lucy looked down at her container of chicken chow mein. Sherlock had ordered her a small portion so that it was more of a manageable size for her to eat, but it still looked far too big. He was already scoffing down his rice and some kind of chicken in sauce, while simultaneously yelling at everyone on the tv. The teenager wasn't under a completely watchful eye, for which she was very grateful. There felt like a little less pressure on her.

She slowly wrapped some noodles on her fork and chewed. The taste was slightly salty and she grimaced as she went down her throat. It was strange. Just a few years ago she would eat portion after portion of chow mein, rice and chicken; but now she was struggling with a tiny mouthful. A huge part of her wanted to throw the container down in anger and storm out, refusing to eat. But there was a voice inside her, reminding her of what Mycroft had said. It was down to her to help herself at the moment. She knew it was, she knew that she was the only person who could truly help herself. But it was hard. For Sherlock, and for Mycroft she reluctantly started to make her way through small mouthfuls of beansprouts, peppers, noodles and some chicken.

She was so proud of herself when she had eaten over half of it. And from Sherlock's sneaky side wards glance, and resulting soft smile, he was proud of her too.

At that point, she paused. Her stomach was churning uncomfortably. The teenager put the container on the table and leaned over slightly. Her arms wrapped around her own body and she slowly breathed, trying to calm the rising anxiety. The need to make herself sick was once again all that was on her mind. She felt gross, she felt disgusting and the pressure in her stomach from the food made her want to rid her body of all of it. But she didn't want to disappoint Sherlock. She seemed to be forever stuck in this limbo and conflicting thoughts and emotions. It was mentally draining her. She tried to remember how Mycroft helped her from her panic attack before, she tried to remember the breathing pattern he did with her. It wasn't coming to her mind. All she could think about was how she couldn't control her breathing. How she felt sick from all the food. How she felt her heart palpitate and her palms become sweaty.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock immediately noticed a difference, he placed his hand on her back. A second went past. "Breathe with me." He softly instructed, knowing that her anxiety was slowly taking over. Sherlock gave her space but started to deliberately breathe in slowly, hold for a couple of seconds before slowly breathing back out. Lucy turned to face him slightly, watching him. After a moment, she copied him, trying to mimic his breathing. It took several minutes- as it had done with Mycroft- but eventually, she felt calm again.

"Thank you." She murmured, her voice quiet and slightly embarrassed.

"No problem," His voice was gentle.

"How did you know what to do?" Lucy asked. Sherlock paused for a moment.

"I remember Mycroft helping me before, they aren't very clear memories, but I always remember how he helped me through panic attacks." Sherlock said.

"He did that with me before as well." Lucy ran a hand over her face, feeing exhausted from the anxiety.

"Of course he's still annoying and unbearable." Sherlock quickly mentioned, causing Lucy to laugh.

Sherlock didn't make her eat any more of her food, she had eaten quite a lot of them and it was just a matter of taking baby steps for now. Of course, he was concerned when she went to bed early, but there was nothing he could do other than wait. He was sat thinking when his phone started vibrating. Glancing at who was calling he was tempted to not answer. But he sighed.

"What?" He asked, answering the phone.

"Hello brother dear," Mycroft replied. "I'm only calling to inquire as to how Lucy is doing today. She wasn't in the best of… ways yesterday." Sherlock sighed.

"She had a panic attack after eating a little over half a container of chicken chow mein." Sherlock cut right to the chase. "I had to help her through it. I don't know what to do and it's frustrating."

"She isn't a case you can solve, Sherlock." Mycroft reminded him, his voice sharp. "I doubt not many know what to do in this situation."

"I don't know if I can help her." Sherlock growled. "Why are you better at this than I am? I hate it." It was rare he would admit his brother was better, but in this kind of situation, Sherlock felt completely defeated.

"I always tried to help you through your problems, Sherlock, and you and Lucy aren't that different. Different situations, yes, but at the end of the day you both have addictions."

"This is infuriating." Sherlock huffed. "Piss off Mycroft."

"Do you need me to come over at all?"

"No, piss off, didn't you hear me?" Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock, you can't think of yourself all the time. Lucy needs stability and help." Mycroft growled back.

"And you shouldn't be talking about her like she's a pet."

"I'm not, I'm just facing the facts." His brother's voice was annoyingly calm again. "All I'm saying Sherlock, is if you need me to help then I will. Now stop being so selfish." There was silence.

"Fine." Sherlock hung up on him.

The consulting detective went to his skull on the mantelpiece and lifted it up, revealing a pack of cigarettes. Feeling defeated, incredibly pissed off and having no clue what to do for the best without admitting he needed Mycroft's help, he lit up a cigarette.

He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs and sighed in relief.

He stopped.

He glared at the cigarette.

Goddamn his brother was right.

Fucking addictions.