(Alice’s POV: )

 In a small room full of cages, Doctor Stapleton was examining a fluffy white rabbit on a metal table, which I could only guess was Bluebell. She looked up as Sherlock and I came through the door, followed by John.

 “Oh. Back again? What’s on your mind this time?” She asked dryly.

 “Murder, Doctor Stapleton. Refined, cold-blooded murder.” Sherlock accused. He nudged me and I reached to the back and turned off the light switch by the door. The limited lighting coming from the window at the end of the room was just enough to show that the rabbit was brightly glowing green. I turned the lights back on again.

 “Will you tell little Kirsty what happened to Bluebell or shall I?” I asked smartly. Sherlock smiled unpleasantly at her, while I did the same but a bit smugger. She sighed.

 “Okay. What do you want?” She asked tiredly.

 “Can I borrow your microscope?” Sherlock asked nonchalantly.

 LATER

 In a larger lab, Sherlock was gazing into a microscope, me in a folding chair next to him. My arms folded across my chest and my head dipping, as I was tired. I hadn’t been getting much sleep. Unfortunately, Sherlock decided to comment.

                “Do you want to go to the hotel room and sleep?” He asked flatly.

 “No, I’m fine. Thank you.” I answered, trying to not sound cranky. He didn’t seem to believe it.

 “You got two point three hours of sleep last night. That is not enough to properly function.” He said knowingly.

 “You seem to manage.” I snapped.

 “My point is made.”

 “Shut up.”

                “You should sleep.”

 “Shut up.” He smirked and turned back to the microscope.

 LATER AGAIN

 Unhappy with what he was seeing, Sherlock turned away from the ’scope and crushed crystalline into smaller pieces with a little hammer. Time passed and he varied between sitting with his back to the microscope, his hands folded in the prayer position in front of him as he thought, or gazing into the ’scope, or scribbling chemical formulae onto the desk with different coloured marker pens. I was in the same position as before, dozing off often but trying to stay awake to prove my point. Nearby, John sat on a stool with his head propped on his hand, gazing blankly into space. Doctor Stapleton was standing near him.

 “Are you sure you’re okay?” Stapleton asked. I looked up and at her, unsure of who she was talking to. John did the same. “You look very peaky.” She said. Finding out that she was talking to John, I rested my head back on my chest and tried to keep my eyes open.

 “No, I’m all right.” John replied tiredly.

 “It was the GFP gene from a jellyfish, in case you’re interested.” She continued. So that was how she did it. I thought it was a firefly.

 ”What?” John asked, completely oblivious of the subject.

 ”In the rabbits.” She clarified.

 “Mmm, right, yes.” John replied, only to be polite.

 “Aequoria Victoria, if you really want to know.” She added proudly.

 “Why?” our doctor asked. I heard the fabric he was wearing rustle, indicating that he moved his head.

 “Why not? We don’t ask questions like that here. It isn’t done.” Stapleton dismissed. Sherlock looked increasingly irritated as he picked up another slide and put it under the microscope. “There was a mix-up, anyway. My daughter ended up with one of the lab specimens, so poor Bluebell had to go.”

 “Your compassion’s overwhelming.” John said cynically.

 “I know. I hate myself sometimes.” Stapleton mocked.

 “So, come on then. You can trust me – I’m a doctor. What else have you got hidden away up here?” John tried. Exasperated, Sherlock took the slide out again, and I smiled. Stapleton sighed.

 “Listen: if you can imagine it, someone is probably doing it somewhere. Of course they are.” Stapleton explained. Sherlock was staring intently at his latest slide but his eyes drifted across towards John and Stapleton briefly.

 “And cloning?” John asked, a little enthusiastic.

 “Yes, of course. Dolly the Sheep, remember?” She confirmed.

 “Human cloning?” John continued.

 “Why not?” Stapleton shrugged.

 “What about animals? Not sheep... big animals.” John asked.

 “Size isn’t a problem, not at all. The only limits are ethics and the law, and both those things can be... very flexible. But not here – not at Baskerville.” Stapleton answered. Furious, Sherlock snatched the latest slide out from under the ’scope and suddenly hurled it against the nearest wall, which just happened to be behind me. It nearly hit me, and I nearly shrieked.

 “Sherlock!” I shouted.

                “It’s not there!” The detective exclaimed, livid with frustration.

 “Je***!” John announced.

 “Nothing there! Doesn’t make any sense.” Sherlock complained.

 “What were you expecting to find?” Stapleton asked calmly.

 “A drug, of course. There has to be a drug – a hallucinogenic or a delirient of some kind. There’s no trace of anything in the sugar.” He explained, pacing in front of his table.

 “Sugar?” John asked.

 “The sugar, yes. It’s a simple process of elimination. He saw the hound – saw it as his imagination expected him to see it: a genetically engineered monster.” I began.

 “But I knew I couldn’t believe the evidence of my own eyes, so there were seven possible reasons for it, the most possible being narcotics. Henry Knight – he saw it too but you didn’t, John. You didn’t see it. Now, we have eaten and drunk exactly the same things since we got to Grimpen apart from one thing: you don’t take sugar in your coffee.” Sherlock finished.

 “I see. So...”

 “I took it from Henry’s kitchen – his sugar.” Sherlock interrupted, glaring down at the microscope. “It’s perfectly all right.”

 “But maybe it’s not a drug.” John suggested.

                “No, it has to be a drug.” I insisted. Sherlock sat on the stool with his head buried in his hands. He lowered his hands a little but kept his head bowed and his eyes closed.

 “But how did it get into our systems. How?” He asked himself. Slowly he began to raise his head, still keeping his eyes closed. I just watched him, this new to me. Apparently it wasn’t to John, cos he just had a look of, “Oh g*d...” On his face.  “There has to be something...” Sherlock mumbled. He turns his head repeatedly, and I was mesmerized.  “...something ...ah, something...” His eyes opened, and I looked away quickly. “... something buried deep.” Taking a sharp breath through his nose, he turned and pointed imperiously at John, Stapleton and I. “Get out.” He ordered.

 “What?” Stapleton and I asked.

 “Get out. I need to go to my mind palace.” Sherlock clarified. I was curious and cocked my head to the side as John sagged on his seat with an “Oh, not again” look.

 “Your what?” I asked, Stapleton agreeing with my statement. Sherlock had already turned his head away again and was staring ahead of himself. John got off his stool, and I watched him with a questioning look.

 “He’s not gonna be doing much talking for a while. We may as well go.” John explained. I got up (somewhat unsteadily… I hadn’t been on my legs in a couple hours) and walked over to the doctors. Sherlock was breathing deeply, focusing his thoughts. Stapleton followed John and I as we headed for the door. Thankfully John hadn’t  noticed my exhaustion, and didn’t mind me grabbing his hand loosely as we walked for subconscious moral support.

 “His what?” Stapleton asked.

 “Oh, his mind palace. It’s a memory technique – a sort of mental map. You plot a map with a location – it doesn’t have to be a real place – and then you deposit memories there that... Theoretically, you can never forget anything; all you have to do is find your way back to it.” John explained, much more thoroughly this time. I was intrigued.

 “So this imaginary location can be anything – a house or a street.” I said in a questioning manner.

 “Yeah.” John confirmed. I nodded. I would have to ask Sherlock about it sometime.

 “But he said ‘palace’. He said it was a palace.” Stapleton said, a bit doubtful.

 “Yeah, well, he would, wouldn’t he?” John replied, looking back towards Sherlock for a moment. Then he led us out of the room, into Barrymore’s office, which was empty now that Baskerville was closed for the night. We sat down and awkward silence commenced as we waited for the sociopath. Eventually, Stapleton left to the restroom, leaving John and I alone. As soon as he heard the lab door close, he looked to me and asked,

 “You okay?”

 “I’m fine. Why?” I replied, looking him dead in the eyes and trying to keep mine open.

 “One: You’re extremely tired. Two: Sherlock is worried about you, so something must be going on. And three: You keep putting a hand to your stomach, and Sherlock notices every time. He wouldn't notice if he didn’t care.” He listed, looking at me like a child you would scold.

“Yeah, I didn’t get much sleep.” I told him nonchalantly.

“That was one…” He hinted. I rolled my eyes.

“I don’t know what Sherlock’s going on about.” I lied. “Maybe there is something, but if there is, then I don’t know what it is. And third…” I hesitated, trying to come up with a believable lie. “Shark week.”

“Okay. Never mind.” He said quickly, sitting back in the chair and looking around the office. I smiled to myself when he wasn’t looking and for the first time in my life, thanked God for the symptoms. And John couldn’t know I had an ulcer… he would take me off the case until it was gone. I had chosen last night to wait till we were back in London, then I would go –with Sherlock- to check it. I couldn’t leave these two. They were my life.

Okay, I'm SO sorry I haven't updated in almost a week. I read and talked to people on here instead of updating, so yeah. I'm sorry. But I have a real job now (yay me! Monies!) but it's only in the afternoon, so I should be able to update regularily as long as I don't procrastinate and get this junk done. So yeah. Enjoy, vote, and comment fun peoples =)