I set an alarm on my pocket telephone and take to my bed, but sleep evades me. This is partly due to feeling horribly unwell and cold and partly due to my upset nerves sending me to the washroom at frequent intervals. Unless Lestrade is right and I am indeed catching a chill.

"Holmes?" Watson quietly opens the door of my room and peers inside. "Are you all right old fellow?"

I shiver as he comes to my side and presses a hand to my forehead.

"Oh God! You are not well! Stay there and I shall get John; we should get you upstairs to my room, so that we can light a fire for you."

That would be too far from the washroom. "No, just allow me to take to the settee; I shall be comfortable enough there."

"Are you quite sure?"

I smile and nod. "Rest is all that I need," I assure the fellow with a sniff. I then realise that he is dressed up. "You are going out again?"

"Yes," he averts his gaze as his face flushes. "I um... Ahem... I shall be rather more careful tonight - and I have had plenty of rest. I must admit that I do not like to leave you while you are ill though; what are your symptoms?"

I shrug. "Inability to feel warm, headache, sniffles... the usual symptoms of overtiredness."

"Or the first symptoms of a cold," the fellow notes with a frown.

I groan and rub at my forehead with my fingertips. "Do not fuss!"

"I am a doctor Holmes - and your friend. Now, wait here and I shall fetch John."

If he fetches John I shall not be permitted to leave this house for at least a week! "No. I am all right - go and have fun."

"I am not going to pick Chelsea up until eight o'clock tonight," he responds with a chuckle. "I have been trying to decide upon what I should wear. What do you think? Would a top hat and tails seem over-the-top?"

Where he is going, any outfit that he could possibly choose would seem over-the-top! "Just be yourself old fellow," I advise him kindly, "and wear whatever you feel the most comfortable in; you shall still be the smartest chap at the venue."

"Yes, I have noticed that most modern men seem to wear denim or sleeveless shirts."

I grimace and give a violent shiver at the thought. I should prefer to wear something considerably warmer.

"I shall ask John for some assistance," Watson repeats. "He can make up a bed for you while I tend to the fire."

I do manage to catch a wink or two of sleep once I am moved to the settee before my wretched body disturbs me yet again.

"Where are you going?" John demands to know when I drag myself unsteadily to my feet, discarding the book that he had been reading for a moment to frown at me.

I step awkwardly from one foot to the other. "The washroom."

The fellow quietly apologises. "Do you need help?"

"No. I can manage. Thank you John."

Just as I am tending to myself, my phone begins to vibrate. It is time to get up. I wash myself quickly and then go through to my bedroom, being careful not to alert the reading compudroid.

What to wear? I pull from my wardrobe a long, black PVC coat, a woollen jumper and thick denim trousers - jeans. It is not quite the outfit that I had in mind, but I hardly wish to spend the evening trying my utmost to keep myself from shivering. This will have to do.

I pull out an elastomask that sports a few scars, apply a tattoo to the back of my hand and then dress. Now to sneak out. Hum. I carefully, quietly, lift the sash window and make my escape down into the night. A quick check of the time informs me that I have half an hour to walk to Lestrade's apartment and call for her.

The walk to Lestrade's is uneventful. I do, however, have to stop once to sneeze; a deucedly uncomfortable action to perform inside an elastomask. At least it does modify the sound, I suppose - that Yarder could easily recognise one of my sneezes and I would rather let her believe me to be at home and in bed until she is in no position to insist that I return to convalescing and send me back to Baker Street or (worse still) ask John to come and collect me.

When my friend opens the door, I almost fail to recognise her. "Inspector Lestrade?"

She crosses her arms. "Tonight, I'm Xara. With an X. Got it?"

Consider me firmly put in my place. I give her a crooked grin. "Very trendy."

"What do I call you?"

I smirk. "On a good day or a bad day, Yardie?"

"Did Mr. Holmes warn you that I know where your pressure points are?"

Touché Lestrade. "I'm usually called Scar."

"Huh, yeah, I can see why. Well, let's go Scar."

"Do I 'ave to get the rounds in?" I ask as she leads me to an unmarked cruiser that she has evidently borrowed for the evening.

She chuckles. "Holmes' instructions?"

"Yeah. He says he's payin' me enough to allow for me to buy you drinks. Huh! Like you Yardies don't earn enough!"

She smirks at me. "Chill. I'm not gonna show myself up by letting you or any other guy practice your chivalry - it'd stand out where we're going."

I guffaw - that is, Scar does. "Yeah, it would. How's about we turn the chivalry thing on its head and you buy my drinks?"

She smiles icily. "How about this? I buy my drinks, you get your own drinks and I don't get mad."

Scar guffaws again. "I like you Xara. You're fun to be with. Are you always like this, or just when you're dating?"

"Let's get this straight right now: this is not a date. My friend's in trouble and I can't go into a place like the Bottoms Up Club alone; that's why Holmes brought you in. Got it? You do as I say - if I say dance, we dance; if I say to shut up, you shut up. If you even think about getting too close to me, you will go over my shoulder. You understand, right?"

"Yeah," Scar mutters sullenly, while I hope that I am not going to be expected to dance.

"Good. Just don't forget it."

The night club is full to the rafters with youths and tobacco smoke. It takes all of my self-control not to cough in protest, for this young, rejuvenated version of me has never experienced the drug.

Beside me, Lestrade growls and mutters something about returning in uniform tomorrow. I should like to witness that!

"Where's your friend?" I ask her quietly.

She looks about her. "Good; it looks like we're here ahead of 'em. Come on, we'll go sit at the bar."

What should I have to drink? My first thought is to ask for something that contains caffeine, but that would most assuredly draw unwanted attention to myself here as everyone else is imbibing copious amounts of alcohol. Rum and coke, perhaps - it is vile, but at least the caffeine should keep me from becoming sleepy. There are also cocktails, which sound equally as vile, that contain energy drinks. I shall try one of those, I think.

Lestrade would seem to have had the same idea. She orders a rum and coke 'on the rocks' and settles down to casually watch the door.

I swallow the foul drink before me as quickly as I can and fidget on my bar stool. I do not wish to order another one of those!

"What the zed's up with you?" Lestrade hisses at me. "Got ants in your pants? Stay zedding still."

I cease my fidgeting and give her a crooked smile. "Wanna dance babe?"

"No. I'm drinking. ...Hon."

Hon? I raise an eyebrow at her and then begin to bite at my nail.

"Stop that."

I obey grudgingly. I then order another drink. I hope that Watson and Chelsea are going to put in an appearance soon, because I know not how many of these things I can swallow. I am already feeling a little bit sick.

"Go slower with this one," the Yarder advises me quietly. "If you drink too much, I'm not carrying you home."

It is on the tip of my tongue to point out that she has a car, but I quietly heed her warning. I am glad of the excuse to make this drink last me.

Watson has not yet arrived when nature begins to call. I grimace and try to decide whether I should use the cloakroom while I have the chance or wait. My companion of old could put in an appearance at any time, after all.

"What's the matter with you?" Lestrade growls at me.

Scar grimaces and squirms on the stool in a manner that I do not like at all. "Need to pee."

"Well hurry up then!"

When I return to my seat, Watson and Chelsea are just taking a table under the watchful gaze of a familiar, pale man with a jutting lower jaw and bulging eyes, who is sitting nearby.

My old friend's acquaintance looks decidedly nervous. Her smiles are half-hearted at best and she continuously clasps and unclasps her hands as she looks about her. I have never seen her look less than confident before, but perhaps - as with me - it is simply a matter of her usually being able to conceal any unease that she might feel. I cannot help but feel guilty for being so quick to misjudge the young woman.

"Are you all right my dear?" I hear Watson ask her with concern.

She shakes her head and rubs at her temple. "Actually John, I don't feel too good. I'm sorry."

"Not at all! It is you that I am worried about. Do you wish to go home?"

The pale man is already on his feet. He approaches their table, an unlit cigarette in his hand, and asks for a light. He then leans in close to whisper to Chelsea. It is then that things become interesting.

The girl is on her feet before Watson can react and hits the man in the jaw with her hand bag. "Leave me alone, fish face! I'm nobody's lacky!"

Fenwick is not alone. Of course he is not alone! Some menacing individuals surround the table and Lestrade and I are leaping to our feet and running in the same instant.

Any individual that does not know me might be surprised at my turn of speed, agility and perhaps just my ability to fight at all while exhausted. Indeed, I might be somewhat surprised myself, were I thinking about anything other than my Boswell's safety at this moment. There are thugs everywhere - some of them brandishing weapons - but I am moving instinctively amongst them, while Lestrade and Jones play their part with enthusiasm and Watson protects Chelsea.

It is interesting - everything around me would appear to be moving in slow-motion; it is not difficult to duck, dodge and block the many blows that are aimed at me. Even the flying chair that is sent hurtling towards my head misses me by a mile.

As the fight begins to draw to a close, however, I begin to flag. I am weary and feeling unwell now that the adrenalin, alcohol and what ever it was in those energy drinks is wearing off.

"Right," Jones growls as he brushes the fringe of his blue wig from his eyes. "Put your knives down in a pile on the floor. Enough's enough."

With that he and Lestrade each draw their ionisers and brandish them.

As the thugs make a neat pile of weapons, Fenwick attempts to sneak away.

"Oh no you don't!" in an instant I have grappled the scoundrel to the floor. I cannot help myself - in a fit of rage I astride him and give him two strong punches.

"That's enough Scar," Lestrade tells me firmly. "He's had enough. Let's get 'em out o' here."

Watson helps me to my feet while I continue to glare daggers at the wretch that threatened my friend.

"Take them next door; it is empty. We should hold them until Grayson sends some cars to apprehend this gang."

Lestrade frowns at me and then nods. "We'll do as he says," she says to Jones.

There is no rope in the derelict old building next door, but there is plenty of electric cable. We bind each criminal securely and I then turn to Chelsea.

"The vial that Fenwick here gave to you; where is it?"

She stares back at me through wide, frightened eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Right," I reveal myself and toss aside the elastomask.

"Holmes!" Lestrade growls. "I knew it was you - even with your voice all disguised. No lowlife'd use a word like 'apprehend'. I should've known you'd never stay home if Watson was in danger."

"Are you quite finished?" I snap, addressing her with a glare, before turning to Watson's young 'lady' friend. "Come now; you cannot hide from me. Where is it?"

She becomes tearful as she hands it over. "I never would've used it."

"No, you made that quite clear tonight," I assure her quietly, before turning to Fenwick.

"Let me go Holmes," he advises me in that grating accent of his. "I know that you do not like violence."

I point at Watson as my temper again gets the better of me. "You threatened my Boswell! He is the finest man that I have ever known in two lifetimes and you meant to harm him. There is a line Fenwick and you and Moriarty have crossed it!"

He flinches and lowers his bulging eyes to the floor.

"Now," I growl dangerously, my voice becoming all the deeper due to the tobacco smoke that I have inhaled. "What is in this vial?"

He shrugs sullenly.

"You mean to tell me that you do not even know? Tut tut! And you wished for Chelsea to use it on my friend in any case? That is not very nice, is it?" I hold the vial up and study its contents. "I wonder what it does..."

The bulging eyes gaze up at me and the thin lips turn upward in a horrible smile at my musing. "There is an easy way to find out."

"Hum," I nod and continue to gaze at the vial's contents. "Yes, indeed there is."

"Holmes! No!" Watson protests. "You are not going to -"

I turn to my Boswell. "Hold him still and tilt back his head," I order the fellow. "He can sample this concoction for me, seeing as he saw fit to dose you with it."

Lestrade grabs my arm roughly. "Sherlock, get a hold of yourself! We don't do things like that - it's illegal."

I turn cold eyes upon her. "Get Chelsea away from here. She has seen enough unpleasantness tonight."

"Sherlock..."

"Get out!" I roar at her before she can argue further. I have never shouted at the Yarder like that before and I must confess that I am almost as shocked as she looks.

Lestrade takes Watson's lady friend by the arm and drags her out without another word.

"Holmes," Jones begins severely.

I stare him down. "If you wish to leave the room, I understand."

"I don't want you to break the law!"

I shrug and approach Fenwick slowly. "Hold him still Watson; he can drink this or choke on it - it matters not."

"It matters to me!" the criminal shrieks.

I stop, my head tilted to one side as I gaze thoughtfully at him. "Does it? But you do not even know what this does! Do you not wish to find out? Hum?"

"I know what it does!" he yells hastily. "It is a poison. It is slow-acting but deadly. Moriarty was going to use its antidote to make a deal with you."

Clever. "And why did you use Chelsea?"

Fenwick shrugs and smiles nastily (which, given my mood, is not wise). "They like each other. Your friend would trust her, no?"

From the corner of my eye, I see Watson clench his fists. "I should wipe that disgusting smirk from off of your face if I were you, you fiend."

He starts to laugh, but something in my expression causes the sound to die on his lips. He is, after all, a coward.

"That's better," I acknowledge when he lapses into a sullen silence. "Bear in mind that you are at my mercy."

"Game's over Holmes," Lestrade calls as she enters with Jones, Winters and John. "The Cavalry just arrived."

I nod and rub at my arms. I am tired, cold and my head is aching, but Watson is safe and we have a nightclub to invade tomorrow. That should be enjoyable!

"What the deuce have you been doing Holmes?" John demands to know as he rushes forward. "You look dreadful! You were supposed to be resting."

"I shall rest when I am..." I yawn into my hand. "...tired."

Lestrade smirks at me. "Yeah. Right now - I thought you were gonna stay home and sleep anyway."

I wave away her concern with one of my best 'all will be well' smiles. "I am quite all right."

"Like zed you are."

"You are cold," John adds as we watch the 'Cavalry' take away our apprehended villains. "I dare say you feel dreadful as well."

Nearing the point of collapse, if I am honest. I am already feeling the reaction coming upon me - I am going to be weary and morose for a week, I fear. Unless I can find a further distraction, naturally.