Hi there, thanks for the reviews and alerts and favourites and love in general :) Here's another chapter for you all, hope you like it!

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I do own a mischievious cactus and fourteen completed scrapbooks.

Need coffee? MH

"Owwwww," Sherlock groaned, shielding the blue light emitting from his phone screen with his left hand. He sat up gingerly, and examined his surroundings.

He was lying on the kitchen floor; that much was evident from the table legs and aroma of burnt toast. He looked to the clock on the wall. 7:05. His eyes flickered to the window. Faintly dark. He couldn't tell if it was AM or PM.

"John?" he croaked, from his seat on the floor; he didn't quite trust his legs yet.

John emerged from his bedroom, looking bleary-eyed but otherwise in good condition. "Good morning."

"Is it?" Sherlock inquired, struggling to his feet using the cupboards as leverage. "Sherlock disagrees. He is in pain."

John cocked an eyebrow as he filled the kettle with water. "Why are you speaking in third person?"

"Because Sherlock is so hungover that he doesn't want to be himself any more." Sherlock perched himself on the draining board, and clicked his back loudly. "Why did you let me sleep on the kitchen floor?" he demanded, wincing as John boiled the kettle.

"I tried to move you," said John, mildly, as he rinsed out two mugs, "but you kept throwing eyes at me whenever I came close. You said that the tiles were too beautiful for you to move."

"Sounds mildly familiar," acknowledged Sherlock, as his eyes scanned the floor for any miscellaneous eyeballs.

"I gathered them up again," said John, gesturing towards the jar in the microwave. "Your aim was quite appalling, but they all landed in more or less the same area. Tea?"

"Good." Sherlock surveyed his bare toes.

John placed a teabag and a splash of milk in each mug.

"How did we even get home last night?" Sherlock inquired, after a pause.

"You called Lestrade's mobile. He came to pick us up, but insisted on photographs." John poured boiling water into the mugs.

"Hmm... I'll have to hack into his phone..." muttered Sherlock, scowling.

John removed the teabags, handed Sherlock a mug, and sat down at the table, his legs neatly crossed. "What are we doing today, then?"

You are required. 13:20. MH

"We have six hours to waste. What do regular hungover people usually do?" Sherlock asked.

"Sleep? Moan? Vow to never drink again? Try to remember the previous night?" John suggested.

"Boring," said Sherlock, dismissively.

"Bacon sandwiches?"

Sherlock's nose twitched. "I could be persuaded."

xXx

"John!" Sherlock burst through the bathroom door, shaking a letter excitedly in his hand.

John spat out his toothpaste, and glared at the enigmatic detective in the mirror. "What's that?"

"John, someone sent me a death threat! Isn't that wonderful? Another enemy!" Sherlock was positively beaming.

John thought he might kiss the letter from happiness. "And you're not at all worried?"

"Worried?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Well, what does it say?" John demanded, turning and leaning against the sink, toothbrush abandoned.

"'Holmes; don't get involved in your brother's case. If you do, you'll end up like the last dead body.' Isn't the grammar good?"

"Yes, Sherlock, the grammar is correct. Are you going to pay heed to the message?"

Sherlock gave him a judgemental look. "John, don't say such stupid things, or you'll give Anderson a run for his money."

John spluttered.

"Let's form words, yes? And then get a cab to meet Mycroft."

"Why are you so excited about this?" John demanded, rinsing his toothbrush under the tap before replacing it in the holder.

"If they're already warning me off it, it must be a good one," explained Sherlock, striding purposefully into the living room. He picked his scarf up from the arm of the sofa, and knotted it about his neck.

John quickly went to his room, pulled on two odd socks, and tried to locate his shoes.

Sherlock slipped his coat on, and tapped his foot impatiently. "John!"

John managed to locate one shoe in his room, and the other on the kitchen counter. "Coming, coming..."

Sherlock was out of the flat, and in the cab by the time John stumbled down the steps; his coat dangling off one arm.

"Where are we going?" John asked, as he slid into the back seat beside the detective.

"Oval Road, Camden."

Thoughts?