"Good morning John." A cool voice said.

My eyes flew open. I was alarmed, my heart rate was speeding up rapidly. Then as I saw who was next to me, I immediately relaxed again. Sherlock Holmes was laid beside me, propped up on one elbow, with his head resting on his hand. His brow furrowed slightly as he looked at me inquisitively. I went to speak and then my phone went off, I smiled a little nervously and searched for it. I acted incredibly fast as I could feel Sherlock's impenetratable gaze upon me.

One new message:

"Good morning John, don't you wish that was me next to you? x"

I felt as though someone had thrown a large bucket of ice cold water at me. How the hell was he doing this? Was this someone's idea of a sick joke? But, how could it actually be him ? Whoever it was, knew about Moriarty. Sherlock had undoubtedly noticed my behaviour and when I turned back to him, he was looking at me, puzzled. I threw the phone to the foot of the bed. I laid back down and turned on my side, copying his position. Trying as best as I could to muster up a composed facial expression. But try as I might, I wasn't convincing enough. His eyes flickered from the phone to me.

"Someone said something to upset you."

I protested. "No, no. I'm fine, just a little dazed from last night.. which I don't remember all that much of." I laughed a little and licked my lips.

Before I could stop him, he had snatched up my phone with his long limbs. His bony fingers pressing the messages open, I could see him scanning through them in a matter of seconds. Then the phone was back at the foot of the bed and Sherlock stared at me again. I wondered how he managed to maintain eye contact for that long, his eyes surely must ache in their sockets? His face seemed hardened, his chiselled features striking out as he pursed his lips together. I leant closer towards him warily, making every movement closer as careful as possible. I didn't want to address the messages or anything to do with the deadman, so I put my best foot forward as they say. I changed the subject. Shamefully cowardly for a soldier.

"What happened last night?"

He seemed to calm down a little, but before I knew it, he lunged at me. It all happened in less than a moment, one minute I was asking a question and the next I was kissing him. I could feel his cool mouth against my own and its effect sent shockwaves of tingling through my body. I put my hand in his curly, mess of hair and played with it a little, enjoying as much of him as I could before (regrettably) ending the kiss. God I wished I hadn't.

He had taken my mind off of everything that I had said, a mere moment ago and I realised that that was exactly his intention. Oh that man. But I truthfully did want to know what had happened because slight unease was starting to cloud my head and I could feel the aftereffect of alcohol descending upon me, smothering me like that of smoke. I leaned back out of the kiss, sweeping my hand across his cheek and using my thumb to lightly trace those carved cheekbones. I then released his face and returned so that I was on my side to him, my hands tucked beneath my head. His eyes were full of wonder and I smiled a little at him. I coughed and licked my lips, beginning to take on the manor of a teacher in the way that I spoke.

"Now, I do believe you didn't answer my question Sherlock." I raised an eyebrow, smiling again at him.

He sighed a little and I looked expectantly at him.

"You went to Betty's to meet Sarah, though you were there much longer than she was. Your aftershave had worn off, while Sarah still seemed relatively fresh. You were there hours before her. Now, you wouldn't go ahead in advance because you're precise, cautious man which means something happened to you while you were there. After seeing you for myself and hearing the way Sarah spoke of your behaviour, I noticed that you were showing the same symptoms of Meth intake as before, though it was harder to notice due to the amount of alcohol you had in your system. Now such a composed military man such as yourself would not have let yourself get into that much of a state, which means that you were lured into it. You didn't seem to remember anything and so spent most of the night dancing and thrusting along to a song I believe is called, 'Rude Boy' by Rihanna and you took incredible delight in directing your movements and singing towards myself."

I didn't know what shocked me more: the fact that I had walked into a Lion's den and allowed some bastard to drug me or the fact that I had acted that way infront of Sherlock.

"Mycroft and Lestrade were with me too."

It was like he had read my thoughts. Great. So I had also been witnessed by a man who ran the British Government and the Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard. Very well done John.

I chuckled to myself, slightly embarassed. I could feel blood rushing to my cheeks and I buried my face a little.

"Behaving that way is the least of your worries John" Sherlock said with a smug grin on his face, the recollection of my behaviour clearly pleasing him. "We do have to take into account that there is a greater game being played and undoubtedly, it's grand architect would have confronted you prior to Sarah's arrival and mine. This is the second time that you have been dosed with Meth and I do believe that your addiction to it is a key pawn in their game."

He looked thoughtful, though a smiled still danced upon his face. Thoughts were thrashing through my mind too, I had to agree, it was highly likely that I was confronted in order to be induced and the time difference between my arrival and Sarah's arrival was too great for another simple attack with drugs. They must have spoken to me. I throttled my memory, trying to stir up some information and failed. I wished I, like Sherlock, had some kind of Mind Palace. But as I listened to what he had said, one phrase seemed to strike me. I didn't know where it was from, or if it was these people who had said it, but I spoke it aloud and it seemed relevant.

"Addiction is a hard thing to beat alone."

I illeterated every syllable carefully, as though I were examining it as Sherlock would. But I could extract nothing. Sherlock seemed to me watching me carfully again and I decided to leave my sanctuary and get busy, distracting myself (for now) from the mysterious powers who were using me as a puppet.

I leant over to Sherlock, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek and then forced myself out of the bed. As I walked past the foot of it to get my dressing gown and slippers my phone sounded for a second time. Sherlock was laid on his back, his long limbs spread across the bed. I picked up the phone warily and looked at yet another message, hoping beyond belief that it was Lestrade or Mycroft.

"London Dungeons. Come and play? x"

Oh, perhaps not. Shit.