The last thing Georgia could remember was biting into a piece of buttered toast. Surely, she'd thought at the time, she should be able to eat buttered toast without something drastic happening. And now here she was, lying on the bathroom floor with her head in John's lap as Sherlock mixed various chemicals together.

"What the hell did I eat?" she moaned, trying to blink away the blur in her vision. She couldn't feel her fingertips. Why couldn't she feel her fingertips?

"A type of poison I was experimenting with," Sherlock replied, voice level and hands steady as he emptied one beaker's contents into another. The solution bubbled for a moment and turned yellow. Dark yellow.

"Why..." She shook her head as her train of thought wandered off. She reeled it back in, scowling at the ceiling and John's worried face. "Why was there poison..."

"In the butter," Sherlock finished. "There was poison in the butter. I'm sure I marked it." Had his voice quavered there? She shook her head again, sure that she was just hearing things.

"John, you look funny."

"Don't say that," John said. He sounded angry. Georgia wasn't sure if he was angry at her or Sherlock.

Suddenly, the detective made a noise of triumph, something like "Ah-ha!" but with more dignity. He held out a syringe of the dark yellow substance she'd seen earlier and moved forward on his knees, taking hold of Georgia's arm. "If this doesn't work," he said, eyes glinting with excitement, "just know that you were lots of fun to have around."

"I think that's the closest thing to a tearful goodbye that you'll ever make, Holmes," John murmured. Sherlock ignored him, pulling Georgia's sleeve up away from her elbow and rubbing the inside with a cotton ball. Georgia could smell the alcohol. She gasped at the sudden, sharp pain there and then it was gone and numbness streaked up through her arm and she was suddenly sleepy, so sleepy...

"Oh," she breathed. "John, John, the room is spinning."

His lips moved. He was speaking, but she couldn't hear his words.

And then everything went dark.

When she woke up, her head was much clearer and she definitely wasn't on the couch. In fact, if the room hadn't been the most horrible disaster zone she'd ever witnessed, she probably wouldn't have recognized it at all.

She probably would have liked to not recognize the room. That would have been concerning, yes, but not quite as concerning as this. She was in his room, tucked away in his surprisingly comfortable bed and it was freaky.

She scrambled out, pushing the blankets away and and tripping over a pile of random items before she fell against the door. She was still wearing all of her clothes. That was good. She pulled the door open and leaned against the frame for a moment. She made her way into the living room where she found the detective typing madly on his laptop. Or was that John's? She could never tell anymore.

"Why did you put me in your room?"

"John wouldn't let me leave you on the couch."

She should not feel disappointed. "Oh. All right."

He looked up, the lack of expression on his face making her stomach churn. He was a sociopath, of course he wouldn't be worried. "I see the antidote worked."

"How long have I been asleep?"

"Twenty eight hours."

"Really?" Georgia glanced around the living room, no wanting to keep making eye contact with him.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. Georgia swallowed and turned toward the kitchen. "Anything else I should look out for? I wouldn't want to ingest any more poison."

She was trying so hard not to look at him, focusing on it so much, that she did not hear him stand. When he did not respond to her question she glanced over her shoulder and gasped when she found him only a foot away.

"Don't eat the butter," he said quietly. "I haven't finished my experiment yet."

"Um. Thank you for the warning."

His expression was curiously blank, as though he were deep in thought. Her heart raced threateningly in her chest and she leaned away from him, not daring to let herself feel what her hormones were telling her to feel. This was Sherlock, the asshole who dragged her into a murder case and poisoned her with his experiments.

"I'm going to make myself something to eat," she said, trying to distract herself.

"No you won't," he said. "You're going to stand in the kitchen for fifteen minutes staring at the counter."

"What—"

"I am a sociopath, Georgia, not an idiot."

Once again she was surprised by how warm he was. Goddammit, she thought as he kissed her. And his shirt was soft, as soft as his skin, and he did experiments with dangerous chemicals, his skin shouldn't be so soft and what was he doing with his tongue—

She tore away from him, pulse pounding in her ears as her legs carried her out the door and down the stairs and past a confused Mrs. Hudson and out the front door and into the snow. Her bare feet protested as she ran, slapping against the cold concrete. Her thoughts were one confused jumble. She couldn't think. She could only breathe and run. And run. And keep running.

Eventually she ran out of energy and slowed to a walk, gasping for air. She didn't recognize the street she was on anymore, but she supposed that was okay. Sherlock would find her.

Sherlock.

She ducked into an alleyway and leaned back against the cold, brick wall, squeezing her eyes closed. Why did he have to do things like that? Why did he have to mess with her mind like that?

"Why, hello there."

She yelped and shied away from the familiar voice. Her eyes swept the alley, trying to find the source, and they fell upon a well-dressed, black haired man with a sly grin.

"Hello, my Georgia," he said. "You're looking flustered."

And all of her memories came flooding back.

Holy crap guys, school ate my life.

That's the only excuse I have for being so late in publishing this chapter. D: The good news is, I'm close to wrapping this up! And hopefully you guys will like the ending. XD