YOOOOOOOOOOO! Hey, everybody! For some reason I was re-reading this story and suddenly desperately needed to write another chapter. It's so weird to think that I started this story five years ago and last updated it two year ago. Oops...

Anyway, I still pretty much remember what the plot was (or at least the little bit of a plot that I had), but I'm warning you right now that my writing has changed a significant amount in the past couple of years (hopefully for the better, or maybe it hasn't even changed at all and I'm just clueless about myself as a writer). The first-person PoV from the first chapter is unlikely to make another appearance, and I'm struggling a little bit to make my new writing style kind of sound like the old style just to keep the same feel of the story. Additionally, hopefully Sherlock and John will get less OOC as I become more comfortable with their voices.

If anyone still cares about this story (it's completely fine if you don't), let me know what you think. Criticism helps me grow! ~BEK

Sherlock's mobile "dinged" for a third time, and by now John knew better than to say anything about it. Besides, he was more focused on watching his patient as the antidote took effect. Luckily, the drug was fast-acting, and Sherlock had barely gone back to his papers when the first signs of lucidity began to appear in Bridgette's eyes.

"Hey, how's it going?" the doctor asked smiling gently at the girl who was now blinking at her surroundings in confusion.

"Wha's goin' on?" she asked blearily, licking her dry lips and accepting the small paper cup of water she was handed. "Why are you guys here?"

"You seem to have fallen victim to an acute case of scopolamine poisoning before showing up on our doorstep this morning. John, being a doctor to his core, insisted on bringing you to hospital and here we are," Sherlock interjected, steadily meeting Bridgette's still slightly glassy eyes with his own.

"But I don't even know where you live!" Her voice quivered slightly.

"Aye, there's the rub." A twitch at the corner of her lips told him she understood the reference; he hated to admit it to himself but it was looking even more promising that this girl was going to be another one of the few people in the world whose presence he could tolerate.

"I know it's frustrating and we're going to figure it out," John interjected soothingly, "because that's what Sherlock does." That seemed to effectively end the conversation for the moment, and John bustled around the room gathering paper wrappers and plastic packaging while telling Sherlock to go get their new friend discharged and to get the British Government to get him some back-up supplies in case of emergency.

He wanted to get Bridgette (and Sherlock, now that he really thought about it) out of here and back to the (relative) peace of 221B as quickly as possible. Not only was he aware that for some reason the American disliked hospitals rather more than the average person, one is also not generally poisoned for no reason. While the paranoia may just have been a figment of his imagination, he had a sneaking suspicion that something bigger was going on here, and, unfortunately, he was just going to have to wait to find out what it was.

Bridgette didn't talk a lot on the taxi ride back to Sherlock and John's flat, despite the latter's repeated attempts to engage her in conversation; for some reason it was hard to strike up the requisite amount of camaraderie he was looking for after apparently being drugged and then waking up in the hospital with no memory of how she had gotten there. Additionally, she was slightly dazed from the speed at which she had been freed from the ER; she never knew medicine had any other setting other than "slow."

The trio returned safely to 221B and John installed the girl on the couch she had vacated barely two hours ago, despite her continued assurance that she was fine and didn't needed to be mothered, a statement at which John snorted in disagreement before tucking a second blanket around her shoulders and taking himself off to the kitchen to make tea.

For Sherlock, the crisis was over, and this was now a case. He let it go (just this once) that Bridgette was not sitting in the "client" chair – John would have his head (or at least his skull) if he pushed that right now – and steepled his fingers under his chin to focus on the task at hand, waiting silently for her to make the first move. He watched as she leaned back into the cocoon of blankets, eyes closed and breathing deeply. She seemed to not be aware of him looking at her. Typically, now that he had the chance to observe her unnoticed, she was wrapped up like a burrito, and so he settled with casting his mind back on the past couple of hours until she was ready to speak.

It wasn't until John had returned with three mugs of steaming tea, and the girl had doctored her's with three sugars before taking a couple tentative sips of the hot liquid that she was ready to talk.

"What the hell just happened?"

"I told you."

"That wasn't enough."

"That's all I have." Bridgette sighed frustratedly; she wanted answers but realized that no one, not even the great Sherlock Holmes, had them.

"Alright, what do you want to know?"

"Start at the beginning."

"In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth, and the earth was without form and vo-"

"Whenever you're ready to stop joking around would be lovely."

"I woke up late this morning, was walking to work, my nose felt kind of sneezy, and then I woke up in a hospital bed. Is that what you wanted?"

Sherlock waved a hand in front of his face. "Before that. What happened last night? Or the day before that? Or the day before that? Anything out of the ordinary, anything different, anything-"

"Should I skip the part where you treated me as your own personal guinea pig?"

"I'm not even going to answer that one."

"You just did."

"Alright, girls, that's enough," John cut in, getting very sick of the both of them. "Sherlock, shut up and eat a biscuit and let her think for a second." The detective obliged but grudgingly, aggressively dunking the snack in his rapidly-cooling drink. The scientist, for her part, took another sip of tea and closed her eyes, her brow furrowing as she cast her mind back to the previous few days.

"Short of being tested for crime-fighting capabilities,"- Sherlock snorted disapprovingly at that- "the only thing I can possibly think of is that I wrote myself a note last night."

"A note? What kind of note?" John asked before Sherlock could swallow his third biscuit and make some sort of scathing remark.

"It was like 2:30 in the morning and I got this really good idea or something about work so I scribbled it down and went back to sleep. I don't remember what it was but it's probably just something stupid though, like acrostic DNA poem or something dumb like that."

"Well, if that's the best we've got right now, we should probably go check it out, eh, Sherlock?"

The dark-haired man was about to agree that yes, it would be excellent for Bridgette to go back home and text him the contents of her obviously so-important note, but wouldn't it be better to maybe go out and walk from her flat to the hospital to see if there were any real clues they could follow? when his phone chimed again. Usually Lestrade got the point by now, but Sherlock dug it out of his coat pocket all the same, ready to throw it against the smiley face on the wall.

He read skipped the previous couple of messages (which were all slightly different variations of "Where the bloody hell are you when I need you?") before coming to the very first message the DI had sent him.

He read it and his heart dropped.

What had he done?