Just finished watching S03E01 of Sherlock. A little exchange between Mycroft and Sherlock pulled a string of inspiration with me. No spoilers, but it does help if you've seen the episode.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. If I did, it would probably be a sappy rom-com.

There was a knock at my door.

There was never a knock at my door.

Usually Anthea—No. Sugar. She changed it to Sugar and dyed her hair blonde.

Usually Sugar calls me and tells me there is an important emergency meeting. I usually have to throw my jacket back on (I've given up undressing completely over the years) and head back to work, if only for a few hours. I usually manage to get at least one glass of wine in before the world falls apart again.

But as I stare at a half-empty (half-full?) glass of wine and there is a knock at my door, I realize that this is not a usual circumstance. I ponder briefly the thought of an assassin waiting for me on the other side. I take a glance around my spartan apartment. Anyone who tracked me here would have to ask themselves if they were mad. Or if I were. I simply prefer discretion.

I set my glass aside and stood from my leather armchair. In all honesty, it is probably the most expensive piece of furniture in the place. It's worth more than the actual place. I don't exactly spend much time here. Usually to avoid assassins and World War III.

Usually.

I peer through the peephole in the door. The outer lens is covered in grime, but I make out the figure of a very grey man. I open the door.

"Detective Inspector, to what do I owe the pleasure?" I take note of a bag in his hand, not unlike the bags under his eyes.

"Sherlock sent me." His dark eyes rolled. They are quite dark. Or maybe it's the lighting. "He said you needed this right away."

He held the bag out to me then and I almost choked on my own spittle. I had to clear my throat instead. I shall have to have Sherlock killed immediately. I accepted the clear plastic bag from the Inspector and suddenly felt very self-conscious of my living arrangements. Shouldn't it be impressive? I live in the middle of a veritable Hell. It is anything but nice. At least, to anyone but those looking for anonymity in the impoverished masses. Not that I care what he or anyone thinks.

Still. Sherlock. Which of us is really better off?

"Inspector, would you like to come in for a glass of wine?"

"Oh. Uh... Sure. Why not? And call me Greg, please."

I stepped aside to allow him in. He didn't seem fazed. Not even a quirk of the shoulders. Interesting. But only mildly.

I looked down at the plastic bag I had clasped in both of my hands. Well played, Sherlock.

Now what the hell am I supposed to do with this goldfish?

Also being published on AO3. When I get an account, that is.