It was just another normal day at the Baker Street flat. Nothing seemed too much out of the ordinary as John had entered from his new morning walk routine. The door closed the afternoon sun out of the hole-in-the-wall entrance way as Mrs. Hudson, clad in a bright blue summer dress completed with matching jewelry called from the kitchen. The sound of her heels could be heard as she started toward the doorway between where John stood and the small downstairs kitchen.

"Mrs. Hudson?," John asked as he met her at the entrance way.

Mrs. Hudson had that bright and sunny smile playing innocently on her face. A playful, yet sweet expression that gleamed today much like that of a child who had just heard exciting news. "Did you see her?"

Her eyes shone as she looked at John with such a warmth that seemed to replace the lost sun rays in the room. However, the comment seemed out of the ordinary to the ex-military man as he asked with a confused expression, "...Who?"

Mrs. Hudson half squealed as she said the next part, "Sherlock's brought a girl with him!"

John paused for a moment, his expression making his characteristic "what?" face before quickly saying, "...sorry, what?"

Mrs. Hudson, ever the woman for gossip, began explaining, "Looked like she was in her mid-twenties. Pretty little thing. They're in there." She pointed up at the staircase, referring to the door of the flat. "Sitting room, from what it sounds like."

John gave his landlady a small nod of thanks, but wasted no time in getting up the stairs to see this strange happenstance for himself. Sherlock had brought a girl home. Sherlock? A girl? As in, he had found a female, or anyone for that matter and brought them home. To his home. Sherlock. Such a run of events seemed improbable. No, impossible seemed a better word.

John's hand tightened around the door of the flat him and his roommate shared before turning it, opening the door that immediately connected to the sitting room. Just as Mrs. Hudson had said, a young woman in her mid-twenties was sitting in a chair opposite of Sherlock. The woman turned, revealing bright blue eyes, adorned with a natural palette of eyeshadow and subtle black eyeliner and mascara set in to a pale face framed by long blonde hair. She smiled at John as he entered, revealing white teeth beneath red artificially-colored lips.

"Start from the beginning so my colleague can hear it," Sherlock said immediately as John walked into the room.

Quickly assessing the situation, and realizing it was just another client, and not in fact, a girlfriend of any sort, John gave a small nod of "Hello", accompanied by a relieved, "Hi".

"I...um...," the woman began, shocked by the sudden interruption of her story, but nonetheless continuing on after greeting the new member of the party, "Hello...well, I was just telling Mr. Holmes that-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted, "Start over. Exactly how you said it before, from the beginning with detail." John went to take his usual seat next to Sherlock, eyeing the woman with some interest.

The woman glanced from Sherlock to John, blue eyes conveying an emotion of mixed confusion and curiosity before restarting her tale for the incoming spectator, "A few weeks ago, my student, Ryan, came to me with a magazine article," she paused a moment to look at Sherlock as if to check if she was following his instructions correctly before continuing, "It said that there was a vacancy at an art agency for a client spot. Now, my own student, of course was interesting in the position, but...he pointed out something very peculiar. The agency only represents blondes. Now, not just any blonde, not ash blonde, dirty blonde, strawberry blonde, only natural bottle blondes. Naturally, he looked at me and said that I would be perfect for the position and that I should go in to apply..."

"Wait, so does he hire natural blondes or bottle blondes?," John interrupted.

The woman looked at him with a slight, intrigued smile as she said with half a laugh in her tone, "It's an expression isn't it?," she continued with a response,"Naturals only. Course when I got to the place, it was filled with blonde women and men. Ryan somehow pushed me to the front of the crowd and soon I was in the man's office. Mr. Luhrman, that's the name of the agent, he told me the details. He said if I got the position, he couldn't represent me right away, but he could give me 400 pounds every week I was employed. The only rules were that I had to come in every day from ten to fourteen and that I could not leave the room. He then told me about their benefactress, an elderly blonde woman, American, who had passed away. He assured me the work I would be doing was extremely beneficial."

Sherlock sat back in his settee, placing his fingers together in that most peculiar way he always did when he was thinking, placing them beneath his chin and closing his eyes as John continued to watch the client interestedly, taking in the account with a slight frown displayed plainly on his features.

The woman looked to Sherlock, uncertain whether or not to continue. She looked to John whose interest shown clearly and undoubtedly, "Um...anyway. He looked me over and then tugged at my hair. Told me he'd been fooled by wigs and dyes. Said he needed a sample of it to test its legitimacy. I let him cut off a little and sure enough in two weeks I got an email, telling me I had the position. Enclosed was the address and he had told me to bring my own art materials. When I arrived, on the desk was the English dictionary alongside a note instructing me to illustrate every word on canvas-sized paper. Now, I didn't ask why. It was 400 pounds and not exactly difficult work. You just don't question a thing like that. So, for about three months, I drew for him and I never once left that room. He paid me as he said every Friday. Then, one Saturday morning, I came work and a message stated "The Blonde Artists Agency has been permanently dissolved October 16th, 2013". I asked around and no one had ever heard of a Mr. Luhrman, not even the landlord who had rented out the room!"

At this, John glanced over at Sherlock, trying to spot a reaction on his unresponsive companion's face.

After a few seconds of silence, the woman opened her red lined lips and in a half desperate, half impatient tone asked, "...so...will you take my case?"

There was a short silence before Sherlock opened his blue eyes, resting on the woman for only a moment before stating matter-of-factly, "As far as I'm concerned, you don't have a case. You want to know where this Luhrman man went because you feel cheated out of pay and as far as I can see, you've only gained a grotesque amount of money, as well as knowledge about a multitude of words beginning with the letter 'A'."

John only sighed at the harsh remark and looked almost sympathetically at the blonde who asked awed, but nonetheless with a sense of calm, "So, you're not taking it?"

"Obviously not. Get out of my flat."

"Hold on, hold on...," John heard himself say as he began to turn on Sherlock, "You don't find this case appealing at all?"

Without any interest, "Maybe I'll look into it later." He stood from his seat and walked into the kitchen, standing at the central counter that was littered with tubes, bunsen burners, and various chemicals that were more than likely poisonous and possibly illegal. "Leave the address of this agency with John." He lifted a beaker with a clear blue liquid. "However, keep conversation to a minimum, I think he likes this case just as much as he'd like to remove your skirt."

"Sherlock!," John exclaimed, a light shade of red beginning to flare up on his cheeks as he shifted his gaze from his "friend" to the woman apologetically on both their behalves, "This is absolutely not true." And then with quick haste, "N-Not that you aren't-...not that I wouldn't be intereste-I mean-" As he fumbled for a politically correct statement, he brought his hands to his face in exasperation.

The blonde only smiled, "I haven't introduced myself. My name is Jacklyn Wilson."

"John Watson," he said politely as he extended a hand with an embarrassed smile. Sherlock glanced over, but said said nothing.

Jacklyn took his hand with a warm smile and a firm, yet delicate, shake. As her hand fell back to her side, "Um...probably should have some pen and paper for that address."

John paused a moment, looking into those charming blue eyes before he realized she had been talking. "Oh! Oh, right...Sorry..." He stood and began to look around the messy flat flustered as Jacklyn only smiled as she waited patiently, finding the man in the jumper quite charming in an ordinary subtle way.

Finally, spotting a pen and yellow notepad on his desk next to his laptop, he cleared his throat and handed the items to the young woman with a still flustered and final, "Okay."

Jacklyn wrote the business address, as well as her own. She also was not shy in writing down her nine digit phone number in the fluid black ink of the ballpoint pen. John took the paper thankfully, looked down at those nine little numbers, scrawled out in bubbly penmanship and smiled back at her in pleased surprise.

"We'll be in touch," she said softly with a small smile playing on those cherry red lips.

"Uh, yes, definitely. We'll...uh...We'll do that. ...Yes," John responded, ever the romantic. With that, the woman picked up her dark red pleather bag and took one last look at the odd pair, Sherlock at the countertop fiddling with his substances as though no one else were in the room, and John looking at her with that unmistakable flirtatious grin. That was the last image she saw of the two before exiting through the dark wooden door.

As she exited and the last bit of her white skirt was seen through the crevice before the door had closed, John finished nodding a small final "goodbye", still a little flustered. Sherlock coughed from behind him as John ignored his flatmate, reflecting on what had just occurred. However, Sherlock's coughing did not let up and the sound of a shattering glass vial was the next to reach John's ears. He turned around quickly, "Jesus! ..What's wrong?"

"I'm n-," Sherlock was cut off by a series of his own heavy cutting coughs.

"Sherlock!," John exclaimed in concern as he quickly made his way over to his companion, taking only a second to glance at the many strange and foreign liquids on the countertop. The coughing did not let up in the slightest as Sherlock began to sink to the floor on his knees, but not before John could catch him and bring him back to his feet, offering strong and steady support, "Sherlock! Jesus..." Sherlocks eyes closed tightly as he began to gag and fall out of John's grasp and down to the tiles of the kitchen floor, hunched over on his knees. John followed the man down, leaning beside him, remaining calm (or at least allowing his voice to appear thus), "Alright, just stay calm, try to breathe."

"I-I would, but-", another round of coughing and gagging from the great Sherlock Holmes, "-that scene made me feel so sick that I don't think I can recover."

Silence.

Complete silence.

And then...

"...you...DICK...You complete DICK," John could do nothing but just simply stare at Sherlock with a mixture of anger, awe, shock, and a million others.

"Oh please, are you actually considering having relations with that woman?," Sherlock inquired, getting to his feet, "Mind the glass."

Ignoring the last comment and joining him up off the floor as to which emotion he was feeling became clear (anger), "That is none of your business."

"You are. Ah," he quickly started toward the paper with the address...and the nine seemingly incoherent, yet for some reason so obviously relevant black numbers.

John followed and was just out of reach of the yellow notepad, missing the opportunity to grab it by only a few seconds, "Give that here."

"No." Sherlock held the piece of paper high over his head, inspecting it far out of reach of his shorter companion, "She took care in writing it."

"Sherlock!," John exclaimed making a grab for the piece of paper.

"Nope!" Sherlock moved the paper just out of his reach and ran over to the couch, disadvantaging John's height even more so.

Attempting not to steam, John followed with a brisk walk, "Sherlock, stop being a baby."

Eyes never leaving the black ink, "I'm not being a baby, you're being a horny teenage boy."

Flabbergasted and looking up at the couch from the ground below, "Okay, see, that statement was immature."

"And calling someone a baby isn't?"

Open mouthed and staring at the self proclaimed sociopath, he looked dumbfounded as he attempted to think of some clever comeback. His mouth formed different vowel shapes, but nothing seemed to come out until he finally settled on the most intelligent response he could muster up at this point in time, pointing, "Shut up."

Sherlock smiled triumphantly at the piece of paper.

After a beat, "For God's sakes, Sherlock, just give me that paper."

He released it and it went fluttering to the floor, "Oops."

"You're an arsehole," John said, stooping to pick the paper up.

Sherlock finally stepped down from the sofa, walking back toward the kitchen, blue-green eyes switching focus between the different vials and test tubes, "Are you going to call her?"

"Once again, none of your business," he said looking at the letter and then removing his flip phone from his pocket to enter in Miss Wilson's contact information.

"You're going to call her. Wait at least a day or else you'll sound too desperate."

Letting out a shocked laugh and turning his attention back to his companion with a hint of sarcasm inlaid in his voice, "Oh please, Sherlock, tell me more about your dating tips!"

"I can give you more interesting date ideas than just the boring and overused cliche dinner and a movie, followed by sometimes...physical exercise." Sherlock looked at the floor, considered the glass for a moment, then decided John would pick it up later, stepping over it and turning on the stove.

John crossed his arms, making his "uh-huh okay sure/done" face nodding with a terse nod, "Alright, go ahead then, let's hear them."

The mad scientist tilted his head to the side in a fluid motion, taking a glass beaker from behind him and transferring red liquid from the smaller vial into the beaker, "Well, you could go to the circus, hike and have a picnic, perform an autopsy, go bowling, take a day trip to a museum..."

"An autopsy? Yeah, fantastic first date, she'll love it!"

"You never know."

"Yeah. You do."

"Oh, I know, but you rarely do."

Incredulously, "She doesn't concern you."

"She's my client," setting the beaker over the fire with metal tongs, holding it by the neck.

Ignoring his compatriots actions, having been desensitized to the odd and unanticipated actions of his flatmate,"Yeah, and she's my...Nevermind. And by the way, she's our client. Not just yours."

"Aw, already possessive I see."

"Shut up. I thought you didn't want to take her case."

Without a beat to separate the conversation, "Do you like instrumental music, John?"

Again, another quirk of Sherlock Holmes that Doctor John Watson had gotten used to, reacting as if music had been the topic of discussion the entire time, "It's fine...why?"

Removing the bubbling beaker from the fire and pouring it into another strange clear substance, "Why don't you ask her to a cup of coffee tomorrow? You can go on your date while I investigate and afterward we can see the symphony."

Sarcastically, "I thought I was supposed to wait at least a day."

"Text her tomorrow morning. Or not, I'm not interested in her, but her student is a different story entirely."

"Her student?"

"Yes, her student,"as the liquid mixed it began to make a sizzling sound, "Isn't it so painfully obvious?"

Beginning to lose patience, "No, apparently not. What is it?"

"The student is involved," Sherlock sighed. He could almost sense the confused look on John's face. Poor thing. What was it like to not be able to pinpoint the simplest of deductions? "An entire block crowded with prospective clients and one man manages to bring a woman to the agent before anyone else. A client who happens to get the job without any demonstration of skill or display of past experience."

"Okay, so the student...We need to find out more about him."

"I need to. You can go on your date."

Keeping one eye on the mixture that had begun to bubble, "You're sure you don't want help?"

Finally looking at John for the first since he came into the room with a sly smile, "Oh, you'll be plenty helpful."

Ignoring the liquid that began to ooze from the beaker onto the countertop as he studied Sherlock's face, "...You're doing the look. The other look, where you know something I don't and you know you know something I don't."

With a hint of mock offense, "I don't know what "the look" is. It's just my face."

"No, this isn't the look. It's one of the looks."

"So now there are multiple?"

"Yes, there's a lot of them."

Sherlock shrugged slightly and began heading to his room, "I'll see you in the morning."

Then the door was shut and the conversation closed. John gave a small nod to himself, then down at his hands. Those nine digits. There was something going on, what wasn't Sherlock telling him? What did he ever tell him? And at that, when were they not some kind of cryptic message that he would only find the meaning of after the fact? Surely, Jacklyn was not-

"Oh, and John. Don't touch the solution, it may or may not be mildly corrosive," Sherlock said popping his head out of the door for a second before immediately retreating back into his room like a turtle into his shell.

John would call her that night.