(Sera.)

"Burglary from a Voodoo museum on Basse-Terre Island?" John called down the hallway. He'd been throwing things out for the past hour. No luck yet.

I'd since settled sacrilegiously in Sherlock's designated armchair, sipping at my third cup of tea. John was eyeing me, obviously unsure of how to best handle the situation. I'd thought the detective's inexplicable desire for me to stay would work in my favor, but it was becoming a waste of time.

Stagnating quiet, dust settling.

"Best be off," I heaved myself to standing and sent a glance toward Sherlock's closed bedroom door. Silence. "Thanks for everything John. I think I've rather overstayed my welcome."

The greying army doctor stood awkwardly, managing a weak chuckle. He stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets, following me as I gathered my things and headed to the door. "Sorry about him. I don't get to say this often, but, uh, he's not always like that." John leaned against the doorframe. "Look, if you're not busy—"

"You," Sherlock seemed to manifest in a flash before us, harpoon brandished towards the good doctor. "John, stop flirting, you know what it does to my appetite." He rounded his weapon on me. "You. Stay."

I blinked. Second favorite. I bit down on the inside of my cheek.

"You never have an appetite," John had exclaimed angrily, stalking back into the living room and dropping heavily into his chair once again.

"Your persuasion tactics are obviously delicate and well-honed," I sniffed as I pushed the detective's harpoon away with my pointer finger and followed John back to my previous seat. "You wouldn't mind telling me what I'm doing here then, would you?"

"That's my chair," Sherlock observed, ignoring my question.

"Ooh, I can see why you're famous."

Sherlock shot me a venomous look, taking a deep breath and launching into his verbal counterattack. "New clothes. You smell like a walking department store. At least once you get past that godawful perfume," he paused, inhaling. "Scent's much too young for you. New ring, what's that about? You keep working it on and off your finger, but there's no tan line. Too plain and inexpensive to be a gift, so you bought it for yourself. Recently. Why's that? I'd say keeping up appearances, but this is an entire outfit, and going by the fact that you've just lost your job—"

"Sherlock," John interjected before the detective could continue his rant. "Can you cut that out for like, two seconds?"

There was a stretch of silence and I grinned. "Remarkable."

"That's what I said too, and look where it's got me," John growled, shaking out the day's paper and disappearing behind it.

I said nothing.

"I have a theory about you," Sherlock murmured, fixing me with a now unreadable stare. "You asked why you're here. I want you to prove it for me."

I turned my face, the muscles in my jaw working, clenching and unclenching, and I didn't want to let him see that. Not Sherlock. Not Jim, who was Jim? I bit down on the inside of my cheek. I'd dug a set of crescent imprints into the pale green leather of the armrests, which Sherlock would no doubt notice. I relaxed my fingers, obscuring his view.

The dark-haired detective had begun to pace again, agitation winding his muscles into rigidity. He was still gripping that harpoon. "Nothing?" his voice ruptured the silence. Sharp. Everything about him was sharp.

"What, other than her—"

"Nothing?" Sherlock repeated firmly.

"Military coup in Uganda," John sighed, glancing over the printed paper.

"Hmm."

John chuckled. "Another photo of you with the, er ..." He said, tapping a grainy photograph of Sherlock in the now famous, or perhaps infamous, deerstalker hat. Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust, dismissing it with a quick "oh". John shot me a look of amusement and moved on to the next newspaper. "Well, um, Cabinet reshuffle?"

Sherlock halted, tossing the weapon back and forth in his hands. The agitation seemed to mount. "Nothing of importance?" Whatever John's response might have been was quickly foregone when Sherlock slammed the pommel of the harpoon into the ground. "Oh, God," he roared.

Assessing his display, I briefly wondered how well Sherlock Holmes knew his sister. Her stunted emotional growth would lead me to believe she'd been isolated for most, if not all, of her life. Tucked away into the darkest corner of the world. As far as I could tell, the only people she'd grown up with were psychiatrists and prison guards. So, I couldn't imagine how often Sherlock had visited her. Nevertheless, looking at her detective brother now, I saw Eurus' restlessness, that insatiable desire for stimulation. Perhaps they hungered after different things. Perhaps it was all the same.

I tugged the ring off and on my finger and glanced at the doctor. I breathed out.

Sherlock had rounded on John as well, his eyes honing in on the weak link. "John, I need some. Get me some," he demanded.

The doctor paused. "No."

"Get me some," Sherlock tried again, brow creased and pale eyes narrowed like splintered glass.

"No," John insisted loudly. He lifted a finger to point at the detective, voice stern. "Cold turkey, we agreed, no matter what." Sherlock huffed, discarding the harpoon. "Anyway, you've paid everyone off, remember? No one within a two mile radius'll sell you any," John said, browsing through a different newspaper.

"Stupid idea. Whose idea was that?"

John stared at his flatmate, clearing his throat pointedly.

"Ah. Ah," Sherlock growled victoriously, setting his sights on a new, unfortunate target. "No one needs to sell me anything. But, my dearest client," he mused, swooping to stand behind my chair, "well, why don't we discuss some payment? I solved your case after all, isn't that what really matters here?"

"Sherlock–" John started.

"Cigarettes? That's what you want as compensation?" I asked, now curious. It hadn't been a huge leap, especially after reading the blog dedicated to tobacco ash. His trembling fingers... Ah. I smiled thoughtfully. I didn't know which would be more useful to my research, enabling Sherlock Holmes' addiction or denying it.

I turned my head to examine the man standing above me. His jaw clenched, as if the word itself, the verbal confirmation, was laced with nicotine. He was obviously struggling. And I supposed I could be professional, if only to remind myself of the years I'd spent for that title in school. "I won't be the one to give you any."

John's lips pulled up into a warm smile.

Sherlock exhaled forcefully and strode across the room, hurling papers and books off the table in a feverish hunt. "Mrs Hudson!" he shouted in her general downstairs direction.

"Look, Sherlock, you're doing really well. Don't give up now," John said, gritting out the words evenly.

"Tell me where they are. Please. Tell me," the detective's voice cracked, desperation seeping in now as he dumped out boxes and overturned mugs. John looked at me and mimed zipping his mouth shut.

Sherlock straightened, having determined his search fruitless, and composed his features. Onto another tactic. Again, I marveled at his imitation attempts. His lips were downturned plaintively, eyes softened, as if to catch John off guard and somehow appeal to the doctor's sympathetic side. Sherlock hesitated, his mouth forming the word a few times before the sound actually traveled through his teeth. It was a pitiful sight, though perhaps not for the reasons he'd intended. "Please."

"Can't help, sorry."

"I'll let you know next week's lottery numbers."

John snickered.

"Oh, it was worth a try." Sherlock dropped the act and swept the room with his gaze, finally settling on the fireplace. Flinging himself to the ground, he rummaged around the pile of papers that had been stacked in the unlit hearth. The great detective produced a slipper, which he shook out, to no avail.

Mrs Hudson chose that moment to breeze into the room, with what I was beginning to recognize as her signature announcement of arrival. "Oh-ooh!"

"My secret supply. What have you done with my secret supply?" Sherlock pressed immediately, still submerged in the clutter.

Mrs Hudson furrowed her brow. "Eh?"

"Cigarettes! What have you done with them? Where are they?"

"You know you never let me touch your things," she exclaimed indignantly, glancing around at the various piles of upset correspondence. "Ooh, chance would be a fine thing," the landlady remarked darkly under her breath, before those warm eyes settled on me. "Oh dearie, you're still here?"

I glanced at my wristwatch. Four hours. I sighed. "Afraid so."

"Sherlock, you can't hold clients hostage, even if they are pretty, bless you," she cooed.

Sherlock made a noise of frustration, and stomped over to retrieve the previously discarded weapon. Mrs Hudson glanced down at John who lifted his hand, miming a drinking motion. Mrs Hudson seemed to get the idea. "How about a nice cuppa, and perhaps you could put away your harpoon," she suggested.

"I need something stronger than tea. Seven percent stronger," the detective shot, glowering out of the window. He turned and aimed the tip of the harpoon at his landlady, who, to her credit, only reacted by flinching. "You've been to see Mr Chatterjee again."

"Pardon?"

"Mr Holmes seems to think that brandishing a weapon will threaten out some source of alternative amusement," I offered her, leaning back in my chair. "Which is usually the case."

"Stop trying to analyze me, it doesn't work," Sherlock bit out tersely. That hit a nerve. Perhaps I was going too far; I'd walked into this flat with a role to play, and I was already letting that slip. Eurus would have noticed. I bit the inside of my cheek, stomach muscles clenching.

"Sandwich shop," Sherlock barked, doubling down his efforts in this new game. "That's a new dress, but there's flour on the sleeve. You wouldn't dress like that for baking."

"Sherlock..." John warned.

"Thumbnail," the detective persisted, harpoon still directed at the small woman, "tiny traces of foil. Been at the scratch cards again. We all know where that leads, don't we?" Sherlock paused, sniffing deeply as he finally lowered the long weapon. "Mmm. Kasbah Nights. Pretty racy for first thing on a Monday morning, wouldn't you agree? I've written a little blog on the identification of perfumes. It's on the website – you should look it up," the man rattled off, the natural spaces between each word disregarded. He was on a roll, that much was apparent.

"Please," scoffed Mrs Hudson indignantly, her thin arms crossed over her chest.

"I wouldn't pin your hopes on that cruise with Mr Chatterjee. He's got a wife in Doncaster that nobody knows about."

"Sherlock," John cut in angrily.

"Well," the dark-haired man threw his hands up, "nobody except me."

Mrs Hudson seemed on the brink of tears. "I don't know what you're talking about, I really don't." She stormed out of the flat, slamming the door behind her.

There was a pause before Sherlock moved towards me. "Off, get off," he shooed, perching in his chair once I'd vacated it. He wrapped his arms around his knees, rocking back and forth. Nervous energy seemed to jolt and twitch at his muscles. I stared.

John slammed the newspaper down. "What the bloody hell was all that about?"

"You don't understand."

"Go after her and apologise," John rebuked, eyes widened in disbelief.

Sherlock raised his head to look at his flatmate. "Apologise?"

"Mm-hm."

The detective sighed. "Oh, John, I envy you so much."

John paused, gritting his teeth. "You envy me?"

"Your mind," Sherlock explained, "it's so placid, straightforward, barely used. Mine's like an engine," John, who looked entirely fed up, gave a small, patronizing nod of quasi-sympathy, "it's racing out of control; a rocket tearing itself to pieces trapped on the launch pad, I need a case!" Sherlock finally roared.

"You've just solved two!" John exclaimed with equal vigor as he gestured towards the discarded weapon. "By harpooning a dead pig and traumatizing our client, apparently," he said, jerking his grey head in my direction. "Holding people captive, not good for business."

"Depends on the business," I supplied.

The doctor raised his eyebrows, as if to remind me not to encourage the detective.

Sherlock huffed, his aggravation palpable. He readjusted his body, jumping out of the huddled position and landing in a somewhat more normal seated arrangement. "It's a case by case basis. Sometimes it's necessary, if I'm looking to prove a point, which I am," he spoke rapidly. "You see, I don't think you came to me about your 'case'," he spat out the word, tone mocking. "Some kind of ulterior motive perhaps, but then again, that sounds rather too calculating for someone so mundane. Ooh, how 'bout this," he perked up, waving his hand in my general direction, "maybe she wants an autograph."

I took a steadying breath. My pulse pounded in my ears, and I unclenched my jaw muscles. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Mr Holmes," I managed to mince out, trying desperately to look shocked and offended. Too close. I should be glad that this was buying me more time. I am glad. This was what I'd wanted.

"Sherlock Holmes," John hissed, "you'd better get on your bloody knees and apologise, so help me God–"

"Then get me something," Sherlock countered loudly.

"Two. Cases," John ground out.

"Those were this morning," Sherlock dismissed, drumming the fingers of both his hands on the arms of the chair, simultaneously treading his feet on the floorboards. "When's the next one?"

John ignored him, turning to me. "I am so, so sorry, he's going through withdrawal. He's monstrous on a normal day, but this..." he pursed his lips, closing his eyes.

"John, it's okay, really. Maybe he's right. Maybe I do have an ulterior motive," I joked weakly, making sure I sounded at least partially shaken. I'd decided that this dynamic, while not ideal, would have to work. As long as Sherlock shouted abuse at me, John would feel responsible for fixing me back up. He was a doctor to his very core.

Sherlock groaned when the room's attention had been shifted away from him for too long.

"Nothing on the website?" John relented, fixing his flatmate with a deadpan glare.

Sherlock stood and collected his laptop, thrusting it into John's hands. The doctor raised his eyebrows, squinting at the open message. Sherlock strode over to the window and began to narrate, perhaps for my sake, but most likely to prove he'd memorized it. "'Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes. I can't find Bluebell anywhere. Please please please can you help?'"

"Bluebell?" I asked.

"A rabbit," he snapped.

I hummed.

"Ah, but there's more! Before Bluebell disappeared, it turned luminous..." he raised his voice, "'like a fairy' according to little Kirsty; then the next morning, Bluebell was gone! Hutch still locked, no sign of a forced entry..." Sherlock paused, his features morphing. "Ah! What am I saying? This is brilliant. Phone Lestrade. Tell him there's an escaped rabbit."

"Are you serious?" John blinked.

"It's this, or Cluedo."

"Ah, no," the doctor replied, slamming Sherlock's laptop shut, and returning it to the table. "We are never playing that again."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, apparently confused.

"Because it's not actually possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock, that's why."

"Well, it was the only possible solution," the detective frowned, gesturing with his long, elegant fingers.

John lowered himself into his seat. "It's not in the rules," he sang.

"Then the rules are wrong," Sherlock bellowed.

The ringing doorbell, however, halted all argument. John held up a finger thoughtfully as Sherlock glanced towards the living room door.

"Single ring." John observed, and I chuckled.

"Maximum pressure, just under the half second," Sherlock added, his body still, almost as if to avoid startling the visitor away.

"Client," the pair agreed simultaneously.