Twelve
Refined

By some miracle, I had managed to escape from the café two whole hours early. This was in part due to the lack of customers on this Friday afternoon, but the main reason was in fact my supervisor's hideously good mood. It had only taken two complaints from me for her to give in and let me go. Things were obviously going well with her new boyfriend.

I had, of course, noticed the curious addition to the flat shortly after entering it, but by the fact that there was a distinct lack of cigarette butts and ash in the sparkling ashtray, I guessed that maybe it was just some relic from Sherlock's smoking days that had found its way to the surface of the clutter. I hoped so anyway; it was almost certain that if Sherlock's nicotine cravings crumbled, then mine would be soon to follow.

If anything, I really couldn't afford to take up smoking again at the moment.

I was about half way through my cup of steaming tea and equally far through the first chapter of an old academic textbook on Jainism when I heard the door downstairs open loudly. It was longer than I expected before a figure appeared over the horizon of the staircase visible through the open door.

"He-" my greeting was cut short when I saw who it was that was actually climbing the stairs – or maybe just how they were climbing them would be more accurate. "Jesus Christ, what happened?"

I leapt from my seat and hurried to the landing. John grimaced slightly as he stumbled up the final step.

"It's fine, Melanie." He said far too calmly for my liking. How could it be fine? Honestly, if everything was fine then why the hell would John and Lestrade be heaving a very strange-looking Sherlock up his own staircase? And why would said Sherlock have to be draped over each of their shoulders, as if he couldn't possibly bring himself to move his own legs in any sort of functioning manner?

"Hi, Melanie." Lestrade said, not appearing any more worried than John was.

"Sherlock?" I gasped anxiously, stepping forwards and placing a hand to his cheek. He didn't feel as if he had a temperature or anything, his skin emitting its usual warmth. Then what the hell was wrong with him?

"Chipped toe nail varnish." The drowsy man muttered under his breath, before suddenly looking over his shoulder. "Wow, bubbles."

"He's fine, Melanie." John repeated evenly. This did not help ease my concern, especially after hearing Sherlock's crazed mumbles.

"But…" I started, not understanding what was going on in the slightest. "What-"

"Open that door, would you?" Lestrade interrupted, nodding to Sherlock's bedroom door across the hall.

"Pretty little bubbles flying over the sea." Sherlock continued in his dazed voice. If I hadn't known any better, I would have said he was drunk. Sherlock couldn't be drunk though, it just wasn't him.

"Sher-"

My worried question was never voiced. John stepped in before it could escape, his tone commanding and showing a tiny trace of the strain he and Lestrade must have been under having dragged the limp man from God knew where. "Melanie, please."

"Oh," I briefly snapped out of my unease, "yeah."

I trotted swiftly over to the aforementioned door and turned the handle, opening the gateway to the bedroom. I held it ajar at arm's length, allowing the three men to navigate their way through the frame.

"The salinity of the northern areas of the Red Sea is on average forty-one per cent." Sherlock announced softly.

My fear instantly returned. "What on earth happened? What's wrong with him?"

Lestrade waited until he and John had dumped the consulting detective onto his bed before replying, a small smile washing over his face as he did, "Brilliant, isn't it?"

My stare darkened.

For a second, Lestrade honestly looked rather fearful of me.

"I mean," he quickly tried to recover, "it's a tragedy – a real shame."

John sighed and stretched his back. "He's been drugged, but he'll be fine in a few hours."

"Drugged?" I choked out in disbelief, my voice rising in pitch and volume. "By whom?"

Sherlock rolled over onto his side, whispering into his pillow, "Edward Teach died on the twenty-second of November seventeen-eighteen."

John seemed to contemplate what to do for a moment, his almost sympathetic gaze scanning my face for any hints or clues.

"That's uh… that's complicated." He told me helpfully. Sherlock murmured something else, but precisely what he said was completely unintelligible. John rolled his eyes and leant down again, starting to tug at the sheets under Sherlock's form in order to pull them free. At last he managed to do so, lifting them up and covering Sherlock to his shoulder. "There you are. Time for sleep."

My frown increased. Why wasn't John telling me who had drugged my Sherlock? Why would he want to hide something like that? What could possibly be so bad? Unless… Unless it was… him. "What's going on, John? How did- He's going to be alright, isn't he?"

Sherlock grunted. "Sleep is for losers."

John fixed his eyes on mine, announcing every word of his by now familiar sentence. "He'll be fine, Melanie."

"But…" I shook my head, trying to think straight. All I could come up with was to echo my previous question. This time, however, my voice was barely audible. "How?"

John opened his mouth to answer me, but sadly Sherlock got there first.

"Avast!" he cried dramatically, lifting his head from his pillow in enthusiasm. He flopped instantly back down again. It looked like he had fallen asleep mid-fall.

A breath of throaty laughter escaped from Lestrade's mouth. "Is it wrong that I kind of want him to stay like this?"

If Lestrade thought my glare before had been scary, then this time was absolutely terrifying.

His smile vanished, his eyes twitching between me and John.

"I'll let myself out." He said hurriedly, already edging his way around me and out of the door. I watched him go, my folded arms refusing to budge. I could barely believe that he thought this was funny. Sherlock like this was not funny. It was petrifying.

I waited until I heard the faint sound of the front door closing behind the inspector downstairs before moving. The mattress dipped under my weight as I perched on the edge of the bed, watching the drugged detective in apprehension. I swallowed and returned my attention to his flatmate.

"John?" I asked, my tone containing at least some of the pleading that I had intended. I needed to know this. Surely he could see that.

After seriously too many moments, his neck looked like it had given out; his head slumping downwards so that he was staring at the floor keenly.

"Well," he started, clearly giving up on any sort of secrecy. At least I knew my pathetic face was still good for something. "You see, there were guns and whips and nakedness and…"

He trailed off.

What had been a burning worry had been transformed by his straightforward words into plain and simple confusion. Guns and… whips… and nak-

"Oh God," I groaned coming to a realisation. "he went out in his sheet, didn't he?"

John looked up again, shaking his head for a couple of seconds before apparently changing his mind. "Well, yeah, but that wasn't the same nakedness."

I raised an eyebrow. "Huh? Then who was naked?"

"Just…" John seemed to be struggling with this far too much for me to be comfortable, "… someone."

"Someone?" I repeated slowly, really not liking that answer.

"Yeah… well…" he made out, pulling a face while trying to find the right words, "… a woman."

My expression went slack. My brain didn't want to accept what my ears had told it. I tried to get some kind of clarity in my thoughts, working them through out loud as I did so.

"Sherlock was drugged by a naked woman?" I said in a flat and bewildered tone. "A naked woman with a whip?"

John rubbed his forehead, frowning as if he was attempting to work out an extremely difficult maths problem.

"It's not what it sounds like." He hurriedly added, clearly already regretting his previous words. "She was… well, interesting is putting it lightly."

My jaw clenched, my next words coming out as strained accusations. "Sherlock was with a naked and interesting woman?"

John shook his head again, but a tiny shadow of a smile crossed his lips. "Trust me, Melanie, you have nothing to worry about there."

I wanted to believe him, I truly did, but something inside my mind was shouting the truth. Whenever Sherlock found anything interesting it was a good cause to worry, the subject usually being something dangerous and traumatic and unbelievably clever. This subject, though, was more than that. It was a woman. An interesting woman.

When did that stop being me?

Getting a bit of angst now, I'm afraid. And the Adler tale has only just started.

How are you guys? I feel like I should say something but my brain has been wiped unexpectedly. If I think of anything important that I've forgotten I'll just let you know next time.

Review?