Author's Note: Hi! Many thanks for the kind reviews. I apologize for the shortness of this part; I have to admit, the length of the first chapter was a bit unusual for me.
I adore Sherlock, but haven't had the opportunity to watch the new season. So several details are probably out of date, but we can say this is AU, yes?
Warnings: Too much narrative, overuse of the word "tea," not enough man kisses!
Disclaimer: I own nothing _
T
Chapter Two
Watson waited until morning to talk to Mrs Hudson, but it was difficult. Sherlock spent the rest of the night muttering, throwing stuff about and generally making a nuisance of himself. Granted, this wasn't exactly abnormal behaviour for the consulting detective, but the steamy expressions he threw Watson's way were highly disturbing. By the time seven o'clock rolled around, Watson just about bounded down the stairs to Mrs Hudson's door, desperate to get the situation sorted out before he knocked his flatmate senseless.
"Good morning, dear," Mrs Hudson said when she saw Watson on her doorstep. Her hair was in curlers and she held a cup of tea in one hand.
"Uh, something like that." Watson pointed at her cup and glanced up worriedly at her kind, elderly face. "Is that the same tea you left for us?"
"This? Oh, no, this is my morning brew. No, I told the young lady at the tea store that you two are always up and running about, that you could use something for those late nights. Something for my energetic boys. So she said to try that blend."
"Which blend?" The little paper bag had nothing but the shop name and a product number on in.
"I don't know, dragon-something. Was there a problem?"
Watson couldn't imagine how to start a more awkward conversation.
"Not at all. Thank you, Mrs H."
"You like it, then?"
"Yes. It's, uh, invigorating." He offered his most winning smile and fled back to his own flat.
He found Sherlock curled into a ball in the corner of the couch, sound asleep. Watson halted in the doorway, deeply troubled. If Sherlock ever slept, it was in the time he spent blinking between deductions and insults. It was a small favour for Watson, though, as unusual as it was. He hurriedly scribbled a note and departed.
The tea shop, aptly named The Tea Shoppe, wasn't far, maybe a brisk twenty-minute walk. Watson arrived before it opened and cooled his heels on the sidewalk before a young woman appeared behind the glass door and turned on the neon "open" sign. As soon as she unlocked the door, he pulled it open.
"Uh, hello," greeted the shopkeeper, eyeing him warily, apparently unaccustomed to shadow-eyed, middle-aged men bursting into the shop the moment it opened. She didn't look great herself; at a glance, Watson thought she had been out as late as himself.
"What's in this tea?" he demanded, holding up the bag left by Mrs Hudson.
"W-what?"
"The tea, miss, if you please." He shook it for emphasis.
She flinched away and winced. Watson imagined she had something of a headache. "Well, uh, that item number, I'll have to go and look it up."
"It's dragon-something. I think." Watson nodded encouragingly.
"Right." She went behind the long counter, pulled out a large book and set to work.
Watson occupied himself with wandering about the shop and idly touching the bits of tea paraphernalia. When he found a strainer that would match his new set, he forcibly restrained his hands in his jacket pockets. Instead, he subtly watched the store clerk. Her blonde head was bowed over her book, so he had the opportunity to study her carefully. She was cute, despite the circles under eyes and ashen complexion. If she were about ten years older, he would sidle over there and make small talk, maybe cast his line in to see if she was biting.
Not like you were just broken up with, he thought with sudden bitterness. Did he really want to dive into that game of hearts again?
She looked up and it was too late for him to look away. She lifted an eyebrow. He smiled.
"It's not our product," she said grimly.
"What?" He hurried over. "But its got your shop name on the bag."
"Yes, I can see that, but it ain't ours." She opened it and sniffed the contents deeply. Her cute face wrinkled in an expression of distaste. "I don't recognize the smell. It's so... sweet."
"How can it not be your blend if it's in your bag?" Watson had trouble wrapping his mind around that concept, possibly due to the early hour and general lack of sleep.
"I don't know," she protested. "I just work here. Maybe someone sneaked it in."
"Why would someone..." Watson trailed off as he thought. He remembered Sherlock's distress, distraction and eventual sleep. The man had been drugged and effectively incapacitated. If someone wanted to, say, commit a crime that would baffle the Yard, getting Sherlock out of the way first was an intelligent first step. And if the the effects were permenant...
He stared at the shop girl, shocked and horrified. She stared back, expression baffled.
"Who was working here yesterday?" he asked.
"Uh, my manager, I guess, and someone else."
"Who?"
She frowned. "I can't tell you that." Then she paused and gasped, putting a hand to her mouth. "Are you a stalker?"
"What?" He shook his head rapidly. "No! My flatmate got sick on the tea in that bag and I need to know who gave it to him!"
"Wouldn't he know who sold it to him?"
Watson carefully resisted the urge to throttle the girl. Barely. "When will your manager be in?"
"Well, today's her day off, so tomorrow, I guess. Are you sure you're not a stalker?"
"Yes." He snatched the bag off of the counter. "Good day." Stiff-legged, he stalked from the little shop and it's wall of teas and tiny, useless tea accessories.
I'm never going to drink another cup of tea in my life, he thought as he strode toward home.
Watson entered his flat in trepidation, worried about what he might find. His fears were unfounded, though—Sherlock was still asleep, bundled in his coat, only one long arm flung out, suspended in air off the edge of a yellow cushion. Though the sleeping was concering, Watson appreciated not having to deal with his flatmate while he tried to think.
He spent some time on his laptop, searching for any drugs, either natural or manufactured, that could have effected Sherlock in such a way. Maybe something used to treat sociopathy or disassociation, both of which seemed to promenade hand-in-hand with the consulting detective's genius and allow him to function like some living computer. Then, if someone were to mix in chemicals that enhanced physical reactions—the thought of Sherlock in any state of arousal made Watson shudder and quickly move on—and increased energy levels, they would turn the consulting detective into a jittery, frightened mess and just might set him on his very own colleague.
They wouldn't know anything for certain until the contents were analyzed, but Watson was able to put together a list of possible ingredients, together with possible treatments. Unfortunately, most of them could really only be waited out.
Watson's pants vibrated, nearly sending him out of his chair. He fumbled the phone out and hurriedly opened it. There was a text from Detective Inspector Lestrange.
L: Is Holmes alive? Been texting and calling all morning.
Of course, Watson thought morosely, a flutter of panic starting in his stomach. He looked up at Sherlock, now snoring slightly, and swallowed heavily. He really did not want to wake the man.
There wasn't much for it, though. He could face the enemy, perform surgery in the field, and survive a bullet; he should be able to deal with this.
With all the stealth he could muster, Watson crept over and, holding his breath, wormed his hand into the warm middle of the ball Sherlock's body created. Sherlock's phone was where it should be, in the pocket of the house coat Watson had encouraged him to don only a few hours earlier. By some miracle, Sherlock didn't wake. Watson wasn't sure if this was a good thing or if he should be even more concerned.
When he accessed Sherlock's phone, he blinked in surprise at the two dozen texts and missed calls. Most were from Lestrange, outlining a new case.
One was from an unknown number.
Anonymous: Enjoy yourself, darling.
The innuendo and timing made that one pretty obvious. Watson's panicky feeling roiled its way to anger and then hatred. If he ever got the chance again, he would break Moriarty's thin neck with his bare hands. Bad enough the man was some kind of super-criminal, but Sherlock actually respected him-
"Ugh." As though responding to his thoughts, Sherlock himself shifted, snorted and made a noise of disgust. The arm withdrew into the dark coat and the pale, unfocused eyes opened. "Sleep," he muttered, his voice like gravel. "I hate sleeping. A waste... waste of time. And such godawful dreams..." He stretched out, sending his feet past the arm of the couch. He blinked at Watson, who carefully slid himself backwards and out of reach. "John? You sleep like any other common man." Sherlock's tone made it seem like Watson's commonness was some kind of cross he had to bear. "How can you stand it?"
This bit of snappishness was promising. Watson tried not to smile. "I see you're as good as new," he said. "Welcome back, you arrogant bastard."
"Welcome back," Sherlock repeated thoughtfully. He sat up slowly, swinging his legs down in front of him, then held his head, long white hands pushing back into his wild hair. "I don't... I don't know how 'back' I am."
"What do you mean?" Watson asked warily.
"I feel very strange."
"Do you?" He coughed. "Do you need, ah, something? Someone?"
The consulting detective answered that with a glare between his fingers.
"Well, uh, all right. Can you look at your texts, then? Lestrange has a new case for you."
"Murder?" Sherlock immediately perked up.
"No. This is a bit more domestic than murder." Watson handed over the phone. "Disappearance, coma, cultists and a parrot."
The other man flashed a grin. "That's almost as good as murder."
Watson wasn't sure whether to feel grateful or exasperated at Sherlock's return to normal. So he rolled his eyes, but twitched a smirk of his own and said, playfully, "Time for another adventure."
There was no warning for poor Watson before Sherlock's white arm lashed out and hooked around the soldier's neck, dragging him in. "Yes," he purred. "An adventure."
Watson squeezed his eyes shut, desperately thrust out his hands and thought, Damn you, Moriarty!