The Little Black number #2
Proof that a holiday in Spain was bad for his work. Damn Molly Hooper! Sherlock cursed her name again as he stumbled along in the dark alley alongside number thirty three strip club. The stiletto heels were killing him and his thighs were still sore from John's waxing of them (which had not been a permissible activity until both he and Lestrade had sworn on their continued presence in Baker Street never to tell anyone of such events (especially Anderson or Donovan)), however they had refused to vouch for what Mycroft would definitely eventually find out. Sherlock had conceded that it wasn't their fault they were idiots.
This Job would suit Molly perfectly, Sherlock thought, at least she wouldn't have to cross dress for the occasion.
"Sherlock!" John hissed at him, "Dress!" gesturing to the way in which his… belt thing had ridden up his thighs as he struggled to maintain his balance on the uneven cobblestones, revealing the frilly white lace of a pair of ladies knickers, which had been stretched ridiculously over a far more comfortable pair of y fronts. All relevant parties had drawn the line at the mention of a thong.
Sherlock cussed under his breath once more, as he stumbled into the wall of bright lights and loud music that was supposedly attractive to most adult humans, regardless of gender, age, race, sexual orientation or handedness, luckily for Lestrade and John, there was little left for them to do that evening and they had opted to share in some of the entertainment provided. They weren't officially public yet, but Sherlock was pretty sure they meant it literally when they said 'sharing'.
A man at the bar looked rather surprised as Sherlock wiped his mouth with his arm, and the tattoo sleeves (which had been frankly a godsend from Lestrade after John had threatened an attack with a ladies' razor) twisted in a way which was definitely not natural for human skin.
Sherlock re-adjusted said arm, and whispered faux-drunkenly in the man's ear.
"Don't tell N… Mora" the man's arm froze, beer bottle half way to his mouth, as he wondered at Sherlock's ability to read the clearly forgotten tattoo on the man's bicep.
Sherlock then quickly moved off in search of his target, Arlene Rachette. That probably wasn't her real name, only James Moriarty was stupid enough to hang around the criminal underworld without a pseudonym. Regardless, he found her. He spotted her pushing her way into the gender-neutral toilets, having almost fallen over a pair of twenty-something year olds who appeared to be attached at the… lip? Quickly moving on from that particular mental image (he was certainly open minded on a normal day, but to be quite honest, this wasn't a normal day, and what those two were doing would still be unacceptable for a straight couple to perform in public).
Having at last got the hang of moving around in three inch heels, Sherlock tottered delicately through the swinging door, and alighted gracefully alongside the sinks as if he had been born in three inch killer heels. A smug smile escaped his lips. It vanished quickly however when he caught sight of himself in the mirror. His hair! Sherlock had never been even the slightest bit vain, he would often leave his thick, dark curls un brushed (and occasionally unwashed) for days, he never particularly cared if it was short or long. He cut it only when it began to fall into his eyes, and most of the time it was left to its own devices. Sherlock resolved there and then never to allow John near his head with a comb again. How did women cope? He leaned over the sink to turn on the tap, and the curly hair extensions swung into his eyes. He did his best to tuck them back behind his ear, but he wound up with a streak of soap suds smeared across his cheekbone.
"Let me get that for you… ma'am." There was a gentle, male voice in his ear, as a soft palm cupped his chin, thumb grazing his cheekbone.
"Oohh," the voice hissed, "those cheekbones should come in a protective sheath!" The hand pulled him around by the shoulder and Sherlock found himself nose to nose with a very horny RAF captain. The man was almost as tall as him, and may well have been taller if it weren't for Sherlock's shoes. His coat was long, and blue, and matched his slightly darker trousers, which were too tight. Either that or… crap!
Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock was not entirely asexual... all the time. His body had terrible timing when it came to chemical defects, not that there was much he could do about that…
The Captain wouldn't care, judging by the fact there was lip stick on his collar, and he smelled of more than one kind of aftershave.
"You're in for a shock" Sherlock teased, smiling coquettishly.
"The name's Jack" whispered a trembling voice in his ear, before suddenly launching an attack on his mouth, warm, and wet and sweet and frankly fantastic. Sherlock broke the kiss, and worked his way up to Jack's ear.
"Surprise!" he murmured, and then he crushed his hips against Jack's, rubbing himself against Jack's… scratch pole. "The name's Sherlock and I don't normally dress like this".
"I wouldn't complain" Jack's voice was gruff."
"Yeah well… I would" Sherlock drew away, prising Jack's hand from his hips. Call this an extenuating circumstance, which reminds me, I have a job to do."
"I'd offer to help but I get the impression…" Jack gestured to Sherlock's clothes.
"Exactly" Sherlock grimaced, propelling Jack gently towards a cubicle, "I won't be available to do anything about your… excitement for a while, you may find you need to relieve yourself."
"What about you?" Jack was rather bewildered by the sudden change of atmosphere, but still very visibly turned on. Sherlock used his coquettish smile of before, enjoying the effect it had on his new… friend.
"Maybe one day you'll find out, but for now, that is solely my business." He closed the cubicle door, still smiling, partly because his "Pon farr" (as John jokingly called it) was receding, although thankfully in an entirely non-life-threatening way. It wasn't long before Miss Rachette emerged from a cubicle, and proceeded to wash her hands.
"Say hi to Mark for me will you?" Sherlock appeared from his hiding place around the corner with his phone pressed to his ear and perched himself carefully against the marblework, a couple of sinks down from his target, thighs pressed tightly together. "Yeah and could you make sure his brother's there at 10 yeah?" He paused, "Tyler… Tyler yeah. Don't forget the Lion and the Bull." He pretended to ring off. The simplicity of bull + lion = bullion had led to a very disbelieving Detective Inspector Lestrade, but as Sherlock had explained, that was essentially the point.
Miss Rachette had fallen for it, hook line and sinker. Sherlock didn't actually know much more about the planned raid, but he hoped he had revealed enough to persuade Arlene here that he knew more, and that she was free to talk about it all with him.
It didn't take long for his victim to strike up a conversation… sort of.
"Blasted otters on a hedgehog!" she exclaimed, sucking on what Sherlock had seen was actually an entirely uninjured finger.
"The frog will always stop to watch." He replied levelly, and was proud that he managed the heroic feat of maintaining a straight face throughout. If there had been any doubt as to who was behind this particular plot before, there certainly wasn't now.
"I don't know why he makes us speak such nonsense" she complained, and Sherlock was brought back to reality from his musings, "I don't think he realises this isn't a comedy, its real life, and we actually have to say those stupid things… in public!" Sherlock just nodded mutely, and decided to get straight to the point.
"How much do you know?"
"Everything"
"Good we can talk freely then… smoke?"
"Ugh no thanks, it stinks… but if you need one I'm willing to tag along."
"Thanks" Sherlock made an attempt at a friendly smile. She smiled warmly back. As they passed through the noisy central stage, Sherlock caught John's eye… over Lestrade's shoulder. John went beetroot and Sherlock smiled encouragingly. Arlene noticed.
"Who's that?"
"He's my cousin," Sherlock had to think quickly, "…he's still got one foot in the closet." Arlene nodded understandingly.
Sherlock had barely finished lighting up when the sound of Sirens filled the street, the cars stopped, and a collection of coppers pushed into the club. Arlene kept cool, and pulled him quickly into a side alley.
"We can't talk about this now; there'll be police all over this place within an hour. It'll be another drug raid." Sherlock was not surprised by Arlene's assumption, but he was a little upset by the poor timing, and annoyed that Lestrade hadn't stopped it. "Meet me here at the same time tomorrow."
"Umm… little busy then, but you'll recognise my brother when you see him, we're twins." Sherlock was desperate not to have to dress up in this particular costume ever again."
"Swap contact words, otter for weasel, and hedgehog and frog, cool?" Sherlock was glad this woman had some sense, at least the conversation wouldn't be entirely boring if they were forced to revert to small talk. He was distracted, the case was over for him now, for a while, and already he could tell he would soon be VERY bored. He nodded and moved off as quickly as possible, back inside, in search of Jack.
AN: I apologise for the abrupt ending, but I don't really want to start a full length story right now, as I'm trying to keep going with 'Jack and Jenny' if anyone wants to write the rest as a sequel feel free, so long as you credit me with the first one.
Also, I shall here say hi to my friend AlexGregorivich, who beta'd this for me, and is looking to do more, so please visit her beta profile if you're looking for a beta. In other news… Please review! Please? Thankyou