When he’d started spending the night with her, she’d bought some instant for him, but that shit was swill. So as she let him into her apartment, he asked, “Spare me one of your Diet Cokes?” She turned and cocked an eyebrow at him. “You hate it.” “Need the caffeine.” Nodding, she headed to her refrigerator. Sherlock went to sit at her dining table and rest his head in his hands for a second. The vase of fresh red tulips mocked him with their bright cheer. It had been a long time since he’d been blackout drunk, but he sure the fuck had managed it the night before. He’d woken up sprawled in the corridor between the Hall and the showroom, like he’d been on his way somewhere and had just run out of battery. When he’d crept into the Hall, Bibi and the women had been putting out a massive, greasy breakfast, navigating around fallen bodies everywhere, and after some biscuits and gravy, a gallon or so of coffee, and a very fast, very cold shower, Sherlock had felt like he’d get through the day.
