Chapter One

They tumbled down the stairs and out of the open front door, which was being held for them by…who was he again? Sort of familiar, bland-ish sort of face – but angry, very angry. Why angry?

What was that smell? His nose turned up involuntarily. Sour...wheaty…

"I'll be sending you the cleaning bill, don't you worry!" the man said, apparently aimed at them. At John? What had John done now?

"Pay the bill, John!" Sherlock ordered, vaguely aware that he was waving his hand around. Wait, hang on, that wasn't John – it was a woman. Annnddd…nope. Couldn't place her either. No, wait! Nurse – she was a nurse! Were they outside a hospital? Good, he needed a lie down.

"Over here, Sherlock," came John's voice, which was eventually joined by his face coming into view. No – it had gone again. Wait – was John spinning around or was that him?

"There you are!" Sherlock declared. He slung his arm around John's shoulder, feeling that this might prevent John from going temporarily missing again.

"You're very small, John," Sherlock announced, his arm feeling uncomfortable. "You're…all the way down there. Are you always this small?"

"Standing on the step, Sherlock," John murmured, pointing down. Sherlock's eyes tracked downwards and clocked that…yes, his own feet seemed to be on the door step. With focused concentration, he made it down to terra firma.

"Are you two going to be alright?" a voice asked. Woman's voice. Not Mary, not Mrs Hudson – definitely not Molly.

Hmm…Molly…

"Do you want me to call you a taxi?"

Oh right – yes, the nurse was still there. Tania? Theresa?

Sherlock heard the word 'taxi' and lurched off the kerb into the road, waving his arm. Driving thingys going past, flashy things, red and yellow…whatsits…lights! Headlights!

"Watch out!"

Apparently one of the driving thingys was now right in front of them, Sherlock unclear as to why the nurse – Tessa - there! – was shouting warnings at the driver. Oh, not at the driver – at him?

"C'mon, Sherlock," John said. They seemed to be moving towards the vehicle. "God, you reek!"

"Will you be okay if I let go of your arm, John?"

"You're holding my arm. Pillock."

A face was looking at him from the window of the car – staring, actually. Sherlock tried to deduce the expression but couldn't get past 'bad teeth, hair-line too low'.

"I can smell that one from here," the driver said. "I don't want no-one chucking up in my cab tonight, chief."

"S'fine," Sherlock heard John say. "Got it all out of his system."

"Forty quid up front," the driver replied. "You get it back if you manage to hold it in."

Sherlock was vaguely aware of John rifling around in the pocket of his Belstaff and retrieving his wallet.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, how much have you got in here?"

John handed a sheaf of notes over to the driver, before shoving the wallet back towards him. Back in the pocket – nope, where had it gone? Next to his foot – he could do this. The ground came towards him. Whoa…no, he couldn't do this.

He felt hands hook into his armpits. His first instinct was to fight his assailant, but apparently he wasn't under attack.

"Up, you silly bastard!" growled John. Once on their feet, John shoved the wallet back at him – and somehow it made it back into his pocket.

The next thing he knew, he was in the vehicle - and then his face made contact with the seat fabric. Ugh, musty. Who the hell put those hump things in the middle of the foot-wells? Eventually – and with what felt like an unnecessarily hard shove from John – he made it into an upright position. Doing up the clicky thing was another matter. After several attempts to get the metal thing to connect with the plasticky-metal thing with the red button, Sherlock gave up.

The car lurched forward – so did his stomach. The wave of nausea passed – ha! He'd beaten it!

"John!"

No reply. Through squinting vision, he observed that his friend was asleep.

"John!"

This time he batted him with his arm, which seemed to do the trick.

"Whuh? What the-?"

"What are we doing?" Sherlock asked.

"What? Going home – your home, Baker Street."

"No, John, what are we doing now?" – why couldn't the man answer such a simple question? – "Is this an invest…invos…invol…case?"

John made a snorting noise, apparently laughing at him.

"Wasn't s'posed to be," he replied, his eyes closed again. "S'posed to be stag night."

Sherlock tried to process this information, turning it over in his mind, attempting to see whether it linked to anything tangible in his brain.

"I'm getting married?" he asked. That sounded…odd. But this whole night was a bit confusing.

Again, the same snorting noise from John.

"Er, no, Sherlock. Me, my stag night – Mary, remember?"

Ah, Mary, yes! Wonderful, caring Mary. His friend, Mary.

"Who the hell would you be marrying, Sherlock?" John asked. Apparently this line of thought was amusing to his friend.

"Dunno," he replied, suddenly aware that thoughts usually well-buried in his subconscious seemed to be poking at his brain. "Thought maybe it was Molly?"

"Molly Hooper?"

John was laughing again. Why was he laughing?

"Why are you laughing at Molly?"

"Not laughing at Molly – laughing at you."

Sherlock considered this for a moment. Didn't seem that funny.

"Molly likes me," he heard himself saying. Voice sounded weird – went a bit high at the end. "Thinks I'm interesting. And handsome. Read that blog of hers, ages ago."

"You are handsome," John replied. "You're a handsome man. But also a massive git."

Sherlock waved his hand about.

"Molly doesn't mind," he said. Funny, the more he said her name, the more he had this strange urge – he suddenly wished he could conjure her up in front of him. Sherlock dug into his pocket and triumphantly pulled out his phone. He prodded it. Was it broken? Ah no, the swipey thing. He swiped and something flashed, then disappeared. He cursed under his breath. Looked at John – bloody idiot had dozed off again. What did Mary see in him?

He swiped again. Shit, it was asking him for a passcode. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to focus – to his utter surprise, and with a sense of victory, a string of four numbers popped into his mind and he stabbed at the keypad.

"Who are you calling?"

John's eyes were still closed.

"Calling Molly."

"Don't call Molly."

"Want to call Molly."

"Sherlock, I'm not letting you drunk-dial Molly Hooper!"

Now that was just offensive. What did John think he was intending?

"Molly worries about me!" he protested.

"Yes, she does – far too much. But you're fine," – there was a pause – "You're not fine, but you'll be fine. Leave her alone."

"Need to tell her the calculations didn't work."

Sherlock paused to congratulate himself on locating the word 'calculations' from his internal hard-drive. He'd enjoyed working out those calculations with Molly. He swiped at the contact list on his phone, the entries whizzing up and down the page making him feel faintly sick again. Where was her name?

"Stop it!" John ordered. "You're not calling her!"

"My phone, John. My pathologist."

"Not your pathologist – give me the phone!"

John made a lunge for the phone, but somehow Sherlock held on to it, pulling his arm as far away from his short-armed friend as he could. But John kept coming.

"Give it to me, Sherlock!"

"Nope!"

"Give it!"

"Won't."

Suddenly, John launched across the vehicle, pinning Sherlock's free hand with one of his and grabbing at the phone with the other.

"Oi!"

Another voice – oh yes, the driver. He was still there.

"Oi! What are you two doing back there? No fighting!"

Sherlock held his phone aloft, and had managed to wriggle his other hand out of John's grasp – so now it was planted firmly against his friend's face in an attempt to overpower him. A string of curse words came out of John's mouth, and Sherlock then felt a knee uncomfortably close to his groin. Oh, right, yes – John had seen serious combat before. Knew a man's weak spots. Not playing fair though. He just wanted to speak to Molly – not speak really, just hear.

"Pack it in, you two, or you're out!" the cabbie yelled again.

"Oh, fuck off!"

"Right, that's it for the pair of you!"

The vehicle screeched to a halt, and suddenly Sherlock's vision changed dramatically. A second ago he had been seated – albeit uncomfortably – but now he was on his back in the foot-well, staring at some empty food containers and what was possibly a pornographic magazine under the passenger's seat. More to the point, he was now bearing the full weight of John Watson, who had come crashing down on top of him. And now John had his bloody phone.