Eleven
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I sat on the barstool, vodka martini in one hand and the hem of my skirt in the other. Being around a man who could judge every movement you make and its consequences for a long time, made you more self-conscious in situations like this about the amount of leg on show.

The stool beside me no doubt scraped against the floor, but it wasn't easily heard over the chatter around us.

"How's work?" Becky asked as she readjusted her position to a more comfortable one.

I groaned, feeling as if I could slap my head rather hard against the solid surface of the bar. "Killing my soul one cappuccino at a time."

Becky shrugged. "At least it's something. It's good that you're not sitting inside all day watching the telly, isn't it?"

"In some ways I think I'd prefer that." I muttered, taking a sip of my drink before placing it back onto the counter again. "But I have to buy food with some form of money."

"We should so go into the forgery business." Becky agreed with a nod.

I jokily scoffed. "I appreciate the friendly suggestion, but I doubt that you have money troubles – your bakery's been doing brilliantly recently."

"Well," she stretched out with a pause, before giving in to her arrogant side, "yeah, it has."

I laughed and took another drink. Becky's face slowly twisted, her usual unfaltering happiness giving way to something resembling concern. She placed a hand on my knee and gave what was for her an extremely scrutinizing gaze; although on Sherlock's Scale of Scrutiny it was probably only a three.

"Are you alright, though – money-wise?" she asked anxiously.

I rolled my eyes. "Well, let's see. My minimum wage plus tips at the moment only covers a third of my rent, and that's not even starting on food and basic necessities, the rest of my rent is coming out of savings, but they're not going to last much longer, and, thanks to the Prof and his fantastic letter of recommendation, it looks as if I'm not going to be able to get a better paying job anytime in the foreseeable future."

I had tried to make it sound as if I wasn't that worried, but Becky had obviously seen through it. "I could lend you something if you needed it."

I shook my head and sighed. "No, it's fine. I'll manage somehow."

Becky clearly realised that my pride would never have let me budge on this as she let it drop. Her hand retreated from my knee and went back to her glass, her next words back to their normal cheery tone. "There's always a spare bed at mine if you need it."

I smiled gratefully. "Thanks."

She started shifting again. "I'm going to pop to the bathroom if you want to go and have a cigarette while I'm gone."

I waved a hand dismissively, not really thinking about it. "Nah, I've quit."

Becky instantly stopped.

It took a second for her to register what I had said, but once she had her blank face swirled into a sea of surprise.

"What?" she exclaimed, drawing the attention of the barman nearby, "Since when?"

I frowned. Surely we had discussed this before now. "Few months ago."

"But you've been trying to quit for years!" she continued in that high pitch, apparently deciding she didn't need the bathroom after all. "What happened?"

Had I honestly not told her this already? Or had I been so wrapped up in my own miseries that I had totally forgotten the other things in my life? Either way, Becky should have noticed without my explanation by now. Although, I supposed I hadn't really seen that much of her recently. God, I was not being a good friend at the moment, was I? "Well, Sherlock was quitting and I didn't want to smoke around him, so I was gradually cutting down without even noticing it, until I stopped completely."

Becky blinked. "Sherlock?"

I nodded, lifting my glass casually to my lips. "Yeah."

She was clearly still having trouble understanding. "And you haven't had a cigarette in months?"

"Nope."

"Why didn't I know about this?" she asked, her voice rising in tempo again.

I just shrugged, not particularly keen on going into the whole bad friend thing. At least her question meant that she hadn't noticed yet. And if she didn't notice, then how much of a bad friend could I have been?

"I mean," she started, eyeing me in astonishment, "you haven't been going mental from the cravings or anything."

Internally I was thinking about how if anything in my life would have driven me crazy over the past six months, it would certainly not have been a little nicotine withdrawal, but I knew that I couldn't actually say that out loud. If I had then we would have had to go into a rather different, and far more disturbing, conversation.

"I suppose I haven't." I instead settled for.

She looked at me, her face stuck on its astonished mode for what seemed like minutes, before at last settling into something more reasonable. Becky reasonable, however, was not what other might consider a good conversation partner.

"Speaking of Sherlock…" she drawled out, her voice thick with hidden meanings that made me want to run and hide under a bush somewhere. This was her gossip mode. And that was never good.

"Yes?" I answered equally slowly, trying not to think about what devilish questions she might ask.

"Well," she began seriously, "I just so happened to be perusing over a copy of the Daily Mail the other day and stumbled across quite an interesting article."

Oh.

Shit.

Becky continued as if my face hadn't suddenly dropped into the land of awkward secrets. "And it just occurred to me that you had never mentioned how you were dating London's own Batman."

"Err…" I tried to come up with some sort of explanation as to why I had neglected to inform her of this now massive part of my life. While Sherlock would no doubt have hated being compared to someone with such a low IQ as Batman, I had to admit that there were some similarities there. At least Batman didn't keep severed heads in the fridge. "It didn't come up?"

I was glad that this seemed to satisfy Becky's curiosity. It was part of who she was, though; her mind leapt from one idea to the next in an instant. Her eyes lit up with this new one.

"Oh, I know!" she exclaimed happily. I dreaded what she was going to come out with, in my heart knowing that it could only be bad news. "Why don't you just move in with Sherlock? You spend so much time with him anyway, and it would help solve your money problem as well!"

My facial muscles deadened.

Me? Move in with Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? The Sherlock Holmes?

I did have to admit that I was effectively spending so much of my free time and so many nights a week at 221B that I was in essence living with him, but that was different from actually stating that Baker Street was my permanent address. For one, it would mean that I had nowhere to call my own personal space. For another, it would be admitting that me and Sherlock were in a proper grown up relationship. That wasn't even starting on the fact that I'd have to find somewhere for Inigo to live seeing as John was fiercely allergic.

And I'd have nowhere to run to after discovering entrails in the sink.

"No." I answered firmly. "Just no."

I groaned as I trod down the stairs the next morning.

My mind was not what it should have been. There had definitely been at least one too many drinks drank last night… or maybe four or five. Honestly, I had kind of lost count. I could only vaguely remember getting a taxi back here at around four thirty in the morning. I didn't usually get that wasted, the last time being the night of my twenty ninth birthday six months ago – and then there were exceptional circumstances, but Becky had a way of twisting your arm when you really knew better.

And I had to now go and start an eight hour shift in the café.

I stumbled through the hallway, at last making it to the living room door and pushing it open softly, hoping against hope that it wouldn't make an ungodly squeak as it shifted.

I stopped upon entering the room, my bleary eyes stuck in a state of bewilderment.

I knew I was hungover, but surely I wasn't that hungover.

"How long was I in the shower for?" I asked, letting my confusion take hold of my brain. For I had been certain that, before I had trudged upstairs to the bathroom this morning, this sight had not been sitting in the living room before me.

"Far too long." Sherlock quipped back easily. "Anyone without a brain would think you had drowned."

In my excellent frame of mind, that comment did not compute.

"What?" I said quickly, not getting it at all.

Sherlock sighed. "There's coffee on the table."

Oh, good. At least that was something. Maybe after some coffee this situation wouldn't appear quite so bizarre.

I wandered over to the kitchen, sneaking glances at the other occupier of the living room as I did. At last I managed to gather enough brain power to ask, "Client?"

The middle-aged overweight man stood from the chair he had been sitting in. "Yes. Um, I was in the country-side and my car-"

I held up my hand to stop his rant. "Not my area of expertise."

No, because now my area of expertise was how long to cook a Panini for or what amount of milk was needed in a Mocha Latte. Great. Waitresses knew so much useful information.

I reached the kitchen table, grabbing at the still hot coffee and sipping on it greedily.

An awkward silence had overcome the room. The visitor seemed too frantic about something to talk about anything sensible, and Sherlock… Well, Sherlock was being Sherlock and ignoring everyone apart from his phone.

"You'll be late." He abruptly spoke up, completely disproving my last thought.

I checked my watch.

God, he was right about that.

I gulped down as much as the coffee I could bare, not wanting to turn up to work looking like a zombie and yet not longing for a scolded tongue, before shoving the mug back onto the table. I swept around the room, gathering my coat and handbag and making my way over to the desk on the other side.

I leant down and kissed the toga-party-ready man sitting behind it on the cheek.

"I'll see you later." I whispered quietly, before jogging my way towards the door. I paused as I reached the other side, thought for a moment, and then came to the conclusion to lean back inside. I smiled in defeat at Sherlock and what I could tell was the only form of clothing currently in his use. That sheet was so much worse than me and the dressing gown.

"Oh, and Sherlock," I said with a smirk, "put some pants on before you go out."

Hahaha. This is where we are up to now. Hopefully it hasn't been so long since the episode aired that you've all forgotten about it. I know I haven't… Ben and his sheet… oh dear…

Sorry if this wasn't as polished as some of the other ones, but my beta was kind enough to go out for impromptu drinks with a friend and didn't get this back to me before now. Yeah, hopefully the beer hasn't destroyed her sense of grammar too much.

Oh, and hopefully there will be a GWP chapter to go with the last one up soon, but I haven't had the opportunity to write it yet so we'll see when it will turn up.

Review?