"Oh, thank goodness," breathes Shell Bell, and she scurries through.

"See you soon!" says Tony. He closes the door.

At around Shell Bell's subjective lunchtime, Sherlock enters the bar and commences searching for her. It ought not to take long.

"Great, I," Bell says, standing up, and then she says, "ow!" She feels at the back of her neck, confused.

"What was that?" exclaims Bell. "I - what - Sherlock - what was that?"

"I have no idea," says Sherlock, sounding extremely unhappy about it.

"I feel strange," Bell says, sitting back down hard and looking with a despairing expression at Sherlock. "There's - were we drugged?"

"I... am not sure," she says slowly, frowning. "Not by anything I recognize. But at Milliways, that is hardly the final word."

"I don't know what else - I - I want -" She sits bolt upright, and says, "Something is wrong. Something is really really wrong."

Immediately concerned: "What is it?"

"Whatever just bit me is messing with my brain. I did not feel this way a minute ago, I did not do it on purpose, and now it is happening anyway, and I am scared that that can happen, and even though this is part of the problem all I want is for you to hug me and tell me it'll be okay," says Bell, bursting into tears.

"...I don't know what to do," Sherlock says helplessly. But regardless, she finds herself reaching across the table and touching Bella's hand.

Bell squeezes Sherlock's hand hard and drops her face into the other elbow, sobbing.

"I am experiencing a similar problem," says Sherlock. "I don't know what is going on."

"...Should I hug you?"

"Would you?" asks Bell in a small voice.

Sherlock comes around to the other side of the table, leans on the corner of it, and hugs her.

Bell snuggles up unhappily. "This is screwed up," she says. "I'm straight. I tried to not be straight for a while and it didn't work."

"I am not reliably attracted to either gender," says Sherlock. "This is bizarre. And upsettingly pleasant."

"Reliably? What's that mean?" Bell asks, seizing on the distraction from what madness has overtaken her brain.

"It means the set of people I am attracted to is very small."

"It does seem very... couple-y in here," says Sherlock. "More so than usual. But without the degree of alarm I'd expect if everyone had been drugged like us."

"Maybe they got stung a while ago, before I woke up?" hazards Bella. "And have got used to it."

Sherlock closes her eyes and listens to the surrounding conversations.

Bell sits quietly in her arms, sorting out genuine unhappy from alien but sincere happy.

"The holiday seems to be in celebration of romance," she reports. "At least some of these people are experiencing it as such in the context of previously established relationships."

"Oh." Beat. "What mad person decided to drug people into falling in love as a celebration of romance?"

"If I knew," Sherlock says flatly, "I might decide to kill them."

"That would be lovely," sighs Bell, and then she smacks herself sharply in the forehead.

...Against her better judgment, Sherlock snorts.

"It would be funny if it weren't so intrusive," grumbles Bell. "It's in my head. Why couldn't they openly offer me a syringe of whatever this was when I was trying to like girls? But, hm." She glances around the room. "Okay, it's not girls, it's just you, so that wouldn't have helped then particularly unless I'd had one in mind and I didn't."

"Why were you trying to like girls?"

"Because having children in Panem would be ludicrously irresponsible, I don't especially want to be alone forever, based on how many married couples wind up with children I don't think most men would be adamant as I am on the subject of avoiding risk, and if I liked girls I could at least theoretically wind up with one and never have to worry about bringing a small important person into a terrible world. I guess now the plan is to take over the world and then do whatever I please." Pause. "Do... you think... that this stuff lasts?"

"For your sake, I hope not."

"For my sake?" queries Bell.

"It makes you so uncomfortable," she says. "I don't have a strong opinion on it that way."

"You don't?" Bell says. "And I mean - the specific alteration - as alterations go - if someone's going to do something to my brain this isn't the worst thing - I just didn't want anything done to my brain. But now they've gone and done it already."

"It's confusing," says Sherlock. "I dislike it on that level. But if we are to be taking over the world together I suppose it is convenient to have you enshrined in my priorities."

"If I had to be forced to fall in love with somebody - if for some reason that were a logical necessity," says Bell, shrugging minutely. She doesn't finish the sentence.

"...Thank you," says Sherlock. "I think."

"Yes," she agrees, sounding slightly puzzled.

"I have never fallen in love with anybody before," Bell murmurs. "I wonder if it would have been so recognizable if it wasn't so sudden."

"I... don't think I have, either," says Sherlock. "And I don't believe I would have recognized it if you hadn't noticed first."

"I'm good at knowing what's going on in my head," says Bell mirthlessly.

"So I have observed."

"It's not usually as practically useful as one might think. It just seems important to know, to me. But I guess today..." She squirms. And snuggles closer.

Sherlock hugs her.

"I was about to suggest that we go in my room or yours or wherever and see if we can sleep it off but actually it's possible being alone in a room would be a bad idea relative to what we'll think after it does wear off. Assuming it does. Milliways isn't usually that... terrible."

"And I—no," she says, "on second thought, I could sleep with you."

"Oh, right, that thing, I forgot," Bell says. "Wait. You could? You think so?"

"I am not horrified at the thought."

"And with most people you are so this is a safe gauge," says Bell.

"Yes."

"Okay. Do you want to try that? On reflection I don't think I'm actually going to try anything I'd regret, not if I don't mean to."

"All right," says Sherlock.

"The bed in my room will be squishy for two. Is yours any better?"

"Yes."

"Show me?" Bell asks.

"Sorry."

And up the stairs they go. Bell folds her hands behind her back and attempts to follow Sherlock by looking at her feet.

Sherlock forbears to comment.

Sherlock's going to have to let them into the room, as Bell doesn't have a key. She shuffles her feet.

Bell sits on the edge of it, and then toes off her shoes, and then sighs and lies down, facing the wall and scrunched in towards herself.

After a moment, Sherlock curls up next to her, not quite touching.

Bell squirms backwards to fix that. She wants cuddles, even if she's not comfortable with wanting them.

In that case, she can have cuddles.

"I wonder if anyone downstairs knows how long it lasts. Or Bar, she might know."

"Do you want to go and check?"

"No. I wanna lie here forever. But I wish I wanted to."

"...I feel similarly," says Sherlock.

"I guess we could just lie here until we get bored, and then if it's not worn off we can go ask. It's not like Tony will be getting antsy waiting for us when we're on Milliways time."

Bell gives an involuntary happy sigh and falls silent.

Sherlock likewise quiets.

"Caviar," says Bell. "Wallpaper."

"Still not awful to have me in the room while you were asleep?" Bell asks, yawning.

"Thankfully, no," she says.

"That's good. That was so strange," says Bell. "I'm almost afraid to go back out again. There's no clock in here, that awful holiday might still be going on."

"I will check," says Sherlock.

"Okay. Thanks."

"Good riddance," declares Bell, getting up to leave the room. "Let's clear my room of fascinating useful things and put them in your basement."

"Let's," she agrees.

"Ooh! Presents!"

Bell points out the parts of the generator that were referred to during various parts of the explanation she got - the ports to attach batteries, in particular. She also produces her gold coins. "I got some of these, if there's a reason to want gold instead of copper for anything," she says.

"Shiny," Tony says approvingly. He scoops up generator, coins, and batteries. "I'll just go and get to know these guys better."

Bell snorts. "Have fun. Sherlock, where are you putting me?"

"We have a guest room that has yet to see an actual guest," she says. "Would that suit?"

"Sounds perfect."

"This is a nice place," says Bell. "Do I need to avoid going outside?"

"It would be safest," says Sherlock.

"Okay. I can do that. Are you usually home? Is anyone liable to come by? Do I have a cover story if someone does?

"At least one of us usually is. Very few people ever visit. I suppose we should invent a cover story in case someone encounters you."

"Is Three big and loosely-knit enough that I could be your orphaned second cousin from another town who talked you into taking me in?"

"It'll hold," she decides.

"Okay then." Pause. "Do we need to - I don't know, process anything, about the holiday thing?"

"Yeah, me either." Bell sits on the guest bed. "I guess I could talk at my recorder for an hour or three and see if that gives me an idea, but somehow I don't think it will."

"And I lack that advantage to begin with."

"Well, I assume you can afford paper, you could write instead. I would probably do that if I'd gotten a bunch of notebooks before I got the recorder."

"I am not very... talkative."

"Not even when no one's listening?"

"Not even then."

"Why not?"

"...I am not sure."

"I couldn't stand not knowing something like that about myself," Bell says, drawing her knees up to her chin and hugging her legs. "I'd never know if I had a good reason."

"Maybe. I don't know. I don't think I realized it was unusual to care about what I was thinking so much until I was... at least fourteen. It didn't occur to me to explain what people around me said about themselves with the hypothesis that they didn't know, and weren't just hedging or being secretive or lying."

"There is not very much to me, I don't think," Sherlock says quietly.

Bell blinks at her. "You don't think so?"

"I am very good at killing things, finding things out, and looking beautiful," she says. "Apart from that—" A slight shrug.

"I'm good at controlling my fire stick, talking to myself, and convincing people in Milliways that despite the fact that I have no accomplishments I'm a valuable source of advice, and apart from that -" Bell also shrugs. "You could probably trivialize anyone that way, reducing them to a list of three skills. Tony's good at charming people, building things, and looking like he's not miserable on stage."

"You and Tony are the sort of people that other people miss. I am, with one exception, not. And my main accomplishment is a stack of murders I did not want to commit. I don't believe it compares."

"I'd miss you," Bell volunteers.

"Why?"

"I like you. You've helped me, a lot."

"You're welcome," says Bell. "Anyway, why does having a small circle of people who'd miss you add up to not having much to you? Two people would miss you. Two people currently miss me; I don't know how I rate with you and Tony right now but even if it's negligible I don't think I suddenly became more interesting as a person recently. You don't seem to be classifying me the same way."

"I am well aware that my father loved me enough to spend all of his money on me and then die of alcohol poisoning in penniless despair, but that knowledge does not help to inflate my sense of self-worth."

"It's a silly metric. You're the one who brought it up," Bell says.

Sherlock is silent.

Bell flops onto her stomach on the bed. "I'm sorry about your dad, though. And your terrible ex-friend."

"Perhaps what I meant to say is that that is not the metric I am using at all."

"I guess I misunderstood, then. What did you mean?"

"I am not sure."

Bell rolls over and looks at the ceiling. "If Lynnis and all the other Careers in line had defected, my main accomplishment would be the same as yours. As it is I have none. Are accomplishments relevant to what you're trying to get at or do you not know why you brought that up either?" Pause. "Let me know if I'm being intrusive. My curiosity sometimes puppets my mouth and my tact is narcoleptic."

"What would you want to change?" Bell asks.

"Well, that is part of the problem," she says. "The consequences of not being this good at killing people would be worse."

"Do you wish you felt differently about it?" hazards Bell.

Bell rolls onto her side, facing Sherlock. "Sometimes?" she prompts.

"The pool of people I am attracted to," she says, "is mostly people I think could beat me in a fight. Perhaps that is why it's so small."

"That doesn't sound like many people, no," Bell says. "Is it any? That you've met?"

"That I've met? No."

"I'm surprised you've figured out what determines who makes it into the pool, then," Bell says. "How'd you do that?"

"I have watched the publicly available recordings of every Hunger Games ever broadcast."

"And you haven't run into - I don't know, Johanna Mason, in person yet?"

"I have not."

"Did I guess one correctly? I saw her Games and she certainly killed people effectively but I don't know how you evaluate people's skills."

"You did," she admits.

Bell giggles for no good reason. "Is that the primary reason that you'd like to feel differently about being good at killing people?"

"I don't know."

"I think we should, yes."

"That sounds awkward. 'Hi, Tony, how are you doing with the generator and the gun collection, by the way I recently fell into drug-induced love with your sister and vice-versa because Fucking Milliways'."

She smiles slightly. "I see what you mean."

"Maybe it'll work better if you tell him. Do you have a way to tell him that's less awful than that?"

"...Not as such," she admits.

"And not telling him also sounds awkward," grumbles Bell. "Fucking Milliways."

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Okay. Since I have my speech on the subject composed already, so very eloquently, should I just do it the next time I see him or will you?"

"You may as well. Unless you would rather I did."

"The only reason to prefer that overall is if he'd take it better from you. You know him better than I do."

"The source of the information will not impact his reception significantly."

"Okay. Me then. How is he likely to react?"

"Sympathetically."

"Okay. That's good."

"I expect he will also be confused. He frequently is."

"Well, it's confusing. And horrible. And if you ever find out who set it up you should probably go ahead and murder them."

"Noted."

"Should I go find him now or just wait until - lunch or whatever? What time of day is it?"

"Midmorning. Lunch was a good guess."

"Lunch it is, then. Will I get to try your cooking?"

"You will," says Sherlock. "It will be pleasant."

"What're we having?" Bell asks, sitting up and indulging one bounce on the bed.

Bell blinks. "Cute, like - what do you mean by 'cute' here?"

"...I am not sure I have an exact definition," she says consideringly.

"Do you mean cute like a five year old or cute like I'm an exception to the people-who-could-beat-you-up criterion?" Bell specifies.

"The former."

"Okay. I don't have much of a filter on little mannerisms like that. Acting five is often a good substitute for acting actually crazy, and it's also often easier."

"Also more endearing," she observes.

"If I'm going to live here I suppose it is best that you like me," Bell says.

"I agree."

Bell's stomach gurgles. "We didn't actually eat anything the entire time we were sleeping off the drugs," she observes.

"That is true," says Sherlock. "I will make lunch."

"I'll wander around the house and learn where things are, if that's okay."

"Entirely."

"Do you want any help?"

"It would be convenient but not necessary for you to fetch Tony from downstairs," she says.

Bell goes downstairs in search of Tony!

Tony is playing with the generator and humming to himself.

"Sherlock is making risotto," reports Bell. "It'll be ready soonish. How are things going with your swag?"

"This generator and I are going to be very good friends," he says. "I'll be up in a few minutes; you guys can get started without me if you want."

"Okay. Also we have something fantastically awkward to tell you and I wound up with the job of issuing the speech but I think I'd rather say it with her in the room."

"...What, did you have sex or something...? Never mind, if you wanna tell me when she's there, tell me when she's there."

"Sorry," he calls after her.

Bell sits at the kitchen table and fidgets and says, "He'll be up in a few minutes and says we can start without him."

"You are uncomfortable," Sherlock observes.

"I told him we had something awkward to tell him but that I'd rather say it with you in the room and he just offhandedly guessed that we had sex," Bell says. "I told him that wasn't it."

"That does sound upsetting."

"A little. Caught me completely off guard. I'll be fine."

"All right. Lunch is in an edible state," she adds.

"Ooh. Where are plates?"

Sherlock indicates a cupboard. She fetches the forks herself.

Bell takes down three plates, and finds glasses too and sets those out. All the while she appreciatively sniffs the air.

"I am pleased you think so," says Sherlock.

Om nom nom. Bell eats steadily and happy and with pleased little noises.

Sherlock regards her with benevolent pride, in between also eating.

"How'd you go about learning to cook?" Bell asks her.

"Research and experimentation," says Sherlock.

"Lunch," Sherlock confirms.

"It's really good. You probably already knew that," says Bell. She briefly wonders if the awkward announcement will put Tony off his food, then determines that to be a rationalization. "Milliways does holidays sometimes, did you know? There is one that you should avoid. The decorations are red and pink and white and lacy, and there's a symbol that looks like this -" She puts her fork down to form it with her hands. "And part of the festivities is drugging people with... I don't know, love-darts? And we got stung and fell in drug-induced love and had to sleep it off but at least I realized what was going on. And there's no good way to explain that to you but the alternative was not telling you at all which seemed like a bad idea."

"That sounds... cute yet horrifying," says Tony. "Are you guys okay?"

"Yeah. It wore off," says Bell.

He glances at Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugs.

"I suppose it might have been cute, seen from the outside?" Bell muses. "But mostly horrifying. I burst into tears at one point. So yeah." She eats more risotto. Risotto is delicious.

"Yeah, that's what I meant," he says. "Superficially cute; actually horrifying."

Bell nods. Her mouth is full of risotto and she cannot talk.