I give up. I'll update when I update. Please don't hate me!

Anything you recognize probably isn't mine.

I give up. I give up! I can't go through another day of this.

It's only been one day.

So what? I'm going deaf! It's not worth it.

You'd lose the bet. Sherlock would get a favor from you. Who knows what he'd ask of you?

Hmm. He can't ask me for anything if I kill him.

That would be against-

" - your Hippocratic Oath." The screeching of the horse hair bow against the strings of his torturous instrument suddenly stopped.

Damn. He's in my head.

My eardrums were still ringing when I reminded him, "I told you not to do that."

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at me, violin still in position on his other. "Do what?"

How innocent.

"You know what, Sherlock."

He almost smiled fondly at me, before his expression morphed into a hard smirk. "Just like the rest of them," he muttered under his breath.

I frowned. What did he mean by that? "Sorry?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, carefully setting down his violin. "So, what distraction have you planned today?" He paused for a moment. "No cards. I dislike them."

I chuckled. "You're just a terrible loser."

"Not necessarily a weakness."

"Of course not."

He furrowed his brows at me. I raised my own. "What?"

"Don't patronize me." My lips curved up of their own accord while his formed a scowl.

I cleared my throat. "Anyway, I'm not sure what to do. How do you feel about cooking? We could make cupcakes. Or cake." A thought struck me, and I looked up at him questioningly. "Come to think of it, I don't think you've eaten anything since I got here."

Still frowning at me, he snapped, "That's not true. When you first came here, I had a biscuit, and I had a cup of tea with milk yesterday. Also, cupcakes and cakes fall into the category of baking, not cooking."

"Baking is a category of cooking."

"Be more specific."

While I glared at him, I thought about the implications of what he was saying. Eating that much on a regular basis can't be healthy. Casually, my eyes swept over his body. He's isn't as thin as his diet should make him . . . Is it possible his eating habits fluctuate? That's definitely not healthy, especially for his heart . . .

"I'm not anorexic."

Damn. He caught me.

I tried for innocence. "Are you not?"

"No."

"How doyou explain your habits?"

"I don't eat on cases. It slows my thinking. Otherwise, I have a generally healthy diet."

"Cases?" I was confused. "Oh! You said you were a detective. Still not healthy, but . . ." I tilted my head thoughtfully and raised my eyebrows quizzically. "How can you be on a case? We're stuck here."

"Firstly, it's consulting. Consulting detective. And I am on case. Well, more like I'm doing an experiment." He seemed to hesitate. "Before you ask, no, I won't tell you what it is, and, no, it shouldn't hurt you."

My head whipped up. "'Shouldn't'?"

He looked at me as if I was being unreasonable. "Yes, John; it shouldn't hurt you."

My voice raised a pitch or two. "I don't want 'shouldn't'. I want 'won't'."

"Alright. It probably won't hurt you." He was laughing at me.

I scoffed and settled back down. "You're just trying to make me nervous."

He grinned at me, all of his teeth shining brilliantly. "Bit, yeah."

Attempting a serious air, I straightened my back and looked firmly at Sherlock. "You're not going to distract me. You haven't eaten anything real for days."

"One day," he muttered. I ignored him.

"So we're going to make something to eat that has actual nutritional value."

"I just told you I don't eat on cases."

"You can't prove you're on case if you won't tell me what it's about. Besides, I don't care. It's bad for you to stop eating entirely. Do you like anything in particular?"

He let out a long-suffering sigh. "Pasta."

"Pasta? How about spaghetti?"

"Fine."

"Fine." With a grunt, I lifted myself from the armchair and descended the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson?"

She appeared in a doorway, as if expecting my call, and smiled warmly at me. "Yes, John, dear?"

I couldn't help smiling back at her. "Sherlock and I were hoping –"

Faintly, we heard, "John was hoping!" My grin stretched wider and Ms. Hudson chuckled.

"Anyway, we were hoping that you'd be willing to share some cooking materials, if you have them."

"Of course, dear." She started leading me toward the kitchen. "What do you need?"

"Umm . . . Dry pasta, I think, and tomatoes . . ."

Mrs. Hudson stopped at the counter and looked at me. "I take it you don't know exactly what you need."

I chuckled, blushing. "You caught me."

She smiled kindly. "I thought so. So, what are you making?"

"Spaghetti with tomato sauce?"

Mrs. Hudson started to bustle around the kitchen, grabbing odd items and settling them into a basket, finally stopping after grabbing a recipe book from a shelf and laying it open on top of the pile. "That should be everything you need, dear. The recipe is one of my late husband's, so it's fairly simple, but if you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask."

Taking the basket, I thanked her and headed back up the stairs. I found Sherlock exactly where I left him, standing in the center of the room and staring at me. I raised one eyebrow. "Impressed by my shapely figure?"

He didn't answer, but only shifted his eyes to my chair. As I stepped past him, I followed his eyes. There was nothing there but the chair . . . and my cane . . . My eyes widened as that sunk in, and I tripped.

Sherlock caught my elbow and the bottom of the basket, stabilizing me. His smile, oddly sincere (for him), sparkled.

"Definitely psychosomatic."