Prompt: Sweet treats: Someone gets to enjoy a favorite snack or dessert.

"You're going to rot your teeth."

He ignored me, attention apparently on the newspaper he held rather than the third piece of chocolate cake he demolished. Another large bite disappeared before he gestured to an index on the table's far edge.

"Hand me that?"

I shook my head but dropped the book within reach. If he wanted to eat cake for breakfast, luncheon, and supper, he should at least clean his teeth after each "meal," but only something proving me correct would ever change his actions. I rather hoped that "something" leaned more toward a day's stomachache than losing all his teeth.

Not that he would listen about a stomachache, either. A moment's thought decided to change the topic.

"How is the kidnapping case progressing?"

"Which kidnapping case?"

I made no effort to conceal a frown. What did he mean which kidnapping case? He had only the one!

"The one that started yesterday?" I failed to fully keep blatancy from coloring my question. "You said someone had broken into that poor girl's bedroom while her parents were away."

Confusion turned his mouth though he still did not look away from his paper. "You must have mixed up the cases. I have a woman's necklace missing from her bedroom and a child requesting I find her father, neither of which have changed since you last asked—" A glance checked the mantle clock, "two hours ago."

Two…hours ago? Silence answered him as I debated his words. Two hours ago, I had been…What had I been doing?

Walking. Right. I had been walking home from my last patient. I had not reached the flat until just over an hour ago.

So then why did Holmes think I had asked him about his cases two hours ago?

I had no idea, but an attempt to voice as much halted before the words fully formed. My friend no longer sat at the table.

"Holmes?"

Silence answered me. He had taken his cake as well, though the paper remained haphazardly folded to display an article about an attempted assassination to transfer to an index later.

How had he left the room without me noticing?

"Mr. Holmes! Package!"

Mrs. Hudson's voice carried from the entry, echoing in the stairwell to carry as far as my room on the next floor, then footsteps darted out of the lower bedroom to follow the order. A short conversation sent him back up less than a minute later.

"Watson, Lestrade wants to know if you will teach another class at the Yard."

Another? But I had just taught one.

Right?

"Watson?"

Right. The class had covered the more advanced first aid techniques that we had not reached in the first round. Several constables had proven themselves more than competent at trauma care, and one inspector could teach me tricks to stabilize a broken bone.

So then why would I teach another class so soon? Anything I could possibly cover would become no more than a review session.

Perhaps Lestrade had meant something else, something I could not remember just now. That would explain the missive, and I turned toward the door, intending to retrieve the telegram to read for myself.

Except pressure landed on my right shoulder, clearly the shape of a hand. A glance behind me found the sitting room just as empty as it had been a moment before. Who touched me?

"Sit."

The hand tugged gently, but one step backwards somehow covered the entire room. I found myself on the settee before I could blink. None of this made any sense.

"Watson, can you hear me?"

Yes, but I could not see him, nor did I understand why I could not see him. I rather doubted his many experiments could have discovered a way to turn himself invisible. Could he have used me in an experiment?

Possible. Even probable. I simply needed a way to break free of the effects. How might he have dosed me?

"No. I will not let you stand until you look at me. You need to wake up."

Supper, perhaps. I did not remember eating, but considering another experiment that had muddled my entire day, that did not mean anything. Did I feel any different?

"What caused this? Are you ill?"

No, but that did not mean much, either. I had not thought anything of the other experiment at the time.

"Wat—no." Pressure landed on my shoulder yet again. "Stay seated."

Why? Was that another symptom? An inability to stand? I had succeeded well enough a moment ago. Why not now?

And how had Holmes appeared in the middle of the sitting room?

I blinked and looked again, then stared. The room had been empty. Completely but for me. How could he now kneel in front of me?

Relief flickered across his gaze. "Good. Can you hear me?"

The settee rested well away from the door—much further than he could cross without notice—and I had not heard him enter, nor had I seen him round the settee's arm.

"You were dreaming, Watson. Now you are not. Answer me. Are you here?"

Here? What did he mean here? He knew I sat on the settee.

Wait. Here as in did I understand him. That made sense. I nodded.

"Do you remember anything?"

Just the empty sitting room. I had been waiting for Holmes to finish his supper of far too much cake before—wait. No, that was a dream, which meant…

Supper at Simpson's. A dearth of cases. Nights of violin solos. A possible cold case from Lestrade. Holmes had disappeared into his room on arriving home, and I had settled on the settee in the empty sitting room.

"You were sleepwalking," he informed me. "Why have you not been sleeping?"

His violin, of course, but I saw no reason to voice that. I merely shrugged and leaned into the cushions, wishing I could go back to sleep. Another moment finally found the words to reply.

"Did you mention a letter from Lestrade?"

Well, to ask a question of my own. I would not satisfy his query unless given no choice, and while he continued studying me, he let me change the topic for now.

"Yes. He promised to bring that cold case in the morning and asked to bring one of the newer constables. The letter said he has a couple of questions about your medical lessons."

"Did he say what?"

No, but he had sent a packet regarding last week's case. Several questions led into a true conversation which slowly made him stop checking me for illness—and directed the discussion into one of my fallback plans.

One hour and a very pointed question later, he finally bolted out the door in search of a way to confirm the rumor I had just invented. I simply pulled a blanket from the back of the settee and made myself comfortable.

I would have a truly silent sitting room for at least a few hours.

Hope you enjoyed :)