I know I should be working on my other stories. I know I'm being bad staying up to work on this. But I think you guys know how it is to have plot bunnies for brains. *sigh* Anyway, not sure why, but I was thinking about Sherlock Holmes earlier, and this story came a hopping my way. I became obsessed. Bad news, this bunny is so demanding I will not be working on my other fic for a bit. Good news: I actually know how this story is going to play out.

So, that being said, this is my first Sherlock fic. I don't know much about the time period, nor have I read as much Sherlock as I'd like, so if you have any constructive suggestions, PLEASE share. I am going to try and do a bit of reasearch though, to make it better.

The game's afoot!

"My dear Watson, I quite believe that this is one of the most boring days of my existence." Holmes said to the ceiling, lying as he was on his back, draped with his head hanging off of the side of the bed.

"I was afraid I would find you either like this or catatonic. Holmes, you really must get a case." Watson sighed from the doorway, having just arrived at his friend's residence on his way back from visiting a patient. He hadn't checked up on Holmes since his marriage three weeks earlier- there had just been too much to do.

"Mmm, yes. As I have said in the past, my mind absolutely rebels at stagnation." Holmes said pensively, before sitting up abruptly. "I know!" He exclaimed, suddenly turning himself round and hopping off of the bed, his shirt collar falling to the side as gravity was once again affecting him normally. "We should go down to that club and find out if there has been any sign of Miss Adler around."

Watson watched Holmes as he stumbled over to his jacket; knowing full well that Holmes would only go after Irene if he was either drunk or she had done something interesting. By the way Holmes squinted at his coat in an attempt to find the sleeves; Watson knew that the answer was, quite certainly, the former.

"Holmes-"He called, striding over to his friend and helping him over to a chair. "I'm sure Irene has been staying off the map. Now you need to get cleaned up, before a client comes in and finds you like this and you end up without work simply because you got bored."

"Or lonely." Holmes muttered drunkenly, looking sadly at the floor. Watson paused mid movement, looking sadly at his old friend. He wasn't sure what to say. Holmes would just have to get used to his living with Mary.

"Come on." He said, trying to ignore the comment. "Let's get you sober. You can't have drunk that much or you wouldn't be alert." Walking to the windows, Watson flung the thick curtains open, allowing what little sunlight that was outside to enter. Closing his ears to Holmes' drunken protests, Watson proceeded to douse Holmes unceremoniously with cold water, watching as he spluttered into a clearer mind with much protest.

"My good man!" He exclaimed, spitting water onto the already soaked hearth rug. "Was that completely necessary?"

"Yes Holmes." Watson replied, wiping his hands off with a towel. "I quite believe it was."

Holmes huffed impatiently, leaning back in his soaked armchair to light the only thing around him that was dry, his prized pipe. He proceeded to smoke it and glare at Watson, though Watson could tell that Holmes was anything but mad at him. It was more like he was relieved he was there at all.

Being the drinker, and actor, that he was, Sherlock recovered quickly from the effects of the alcohol. By the time the haggard man burst into his sitting room, not only was Holmes himself again, he was also dry and wearing clean clothes.

He and Watson were talking over tea, Watson insisting that he needed to get home, and Holmes insisting that he needed to stay. In the middle of the argument a young man, perhaps thirty or thirty-five years of age came bursting into the room, his eyes wild, his chest heaving, and his skin dirty and cut, as though he hadn't slept or bathed in many days. Watson sprang to his feet in surprise as the man's words began tumbling out in a confused blather.

"She's after me! She's back, she's back." He wrung his hands, talking like a mad man, twisting his fingers so hard around each other that they turned white with strain. "Back…..she's back, backbackback, come to haunt me, come to haunt- won't leave me alone, can't escape……any escape."

Without warning, he threw himself at Holmes' feet and looked up at the detective, eyes darting in fear. "You must help me! You must! Can't run, no place to hide, police won't hear of it, say I'm mad. Tried to take me to the asylum. But that's where she was! That is her lair, her den….the den, mustn't go back to the den, mustn't go back to sleep- never sleep. Never….nevernever." He shook his head fiercely, back in forth. "Nevernevernevernenver…."

Suddenly the man's head dropped to the floor and he lay still, the previous mad energy that had been animating his body nowhere to be found. Watson crouched down next to the wretched figure and placed two fingers to his throat, worriedly checking for a pulse.

Holmes, thoroughly interested, crouched down across from Watson, awaiting the doctor's assessment.

"He's gone into shock, which decayed rapidly into a dead feint. Mad or not, this man was truly terrified of something."

Holmes nodded, observing the figure. "Yes, or someone. A female by the way he was speaking, and not his wife either, perhaps a lover?" Holmes muttered to himself, doing naturally what his friend had only started to pick up after years of living with him.

"An escapee from the mental hospital?" Watson guessed, looking up to be greeted by Holmes' intent stare at the man before him.

"No, unless he has found a way to remove the mark all mental patients bear. They are quite often tattooed on the back of the right wrist, especially if they are dangerous. This man has no such mark. I believe it was terror that drove him to his current state. He has not slept in a week at least.

"Well." Watson sighed, clapping Holmes on the shoulder. "I do believe that your boredom has been cured."

"Indeed Watson." He said, looking up to meet the physician's eyes, his own glittering with the thrill of a puzzle. "That it has."

Hooked? Or bored? I quite intend to continue writing this for my own enjoyment, but if I am writing for someone else as well, it would be great to know! Thanks =)