Ain't quite sure what went down last night
But judgin' by her smile, I'm certain I did it right
-DeStorm Power feat. Mike Diva, "Heroes and Villians Issue #1"

"So, what were you up to last night?" said John, as he sat down to his laptop. "You didn't come in before I went to bed."

Sherlock yawned. "Worried about me? I'm a big boy, John. I can write my own checks and everything."

"As your doctor, I have to recommend that you get a healthy amount of sleep. Or any amount of sleep. Any at all."

"Nothing strenuous. Just a little bondage."

"Ah. Did someone handcuff you to a radiator again?"

"No, I wasn't the one restrained."

"Ah. So you were the one doing the handcuffing."

"No, she was already restrained when I got there."

His roommate turned from his computer, locked his hands around his mug as if to protect it from whatever Sherlock was about to say, and looked him in the eye.

"Explain."

Sherlock didn't. He finished the last bite of toast, picked up the newspaper, opened it. 6 Down was a nine letter word for a stream of descending water. After a few seconds thought, he said, offhandedly, "there's not much to explain."

"Explain, then. It shouldn't take long."

"Really?" Holmes drawled. "Fine, then." He took an entirely unnecessary minute to compose his thoughts. (8 across, "Neutral, nice knives.")

"It's within walking distance of the Tube. There's a cafe across the street, makes rather weak tea. Cashier just had a falling out with her boyfriend-"

"Sherlock. Why were you there in the first place?"

"Oh. I was after Irene."

"You saw her?"

"No. I knew she had some sort of connection, but I didn't know what, exactly. I needed to get in."

"That's what she said," John muttered into his tea.

"What?"

"Nothing." Sip.

"The rear entrance was locked, so I had to walk in the front door. I decided to improvise."

"You walked in without a plan."

"My plan was to improvise. Stop smirking; you know my methods. Once I had the measure of the receptionist, I could form a plan in more detail."

"What plan did you form, O great detective?"

"None, actually. They were waiting for me."

"What?"

"She said 'good evening, sir. We've been expecting you.' And then she called one of the guards to show me to a dressing room. I think he served in Iraq, sort of like you. Misses his daughter."

"How do-no, nevermind. Then what happened?"

"There was a little light in the dressing room telling me when to proceed. At first I thought they had mistaken me for a customer, not an employee."

"Well, of course," John quipped automatically. "You're clearly not the sort that needs help with women."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him. "Shame I didn't have my riding crop. I had make do with what was at hand."

"And what...what was at hand, exactly?"

"Not much, to be honest. A smattering of hoods, riding crops, a few...personal devices, this one thing with feathers-"

"You do know what they we-how to use them? You didn't put something where it wasn't supposed to go, did you?"

"Obviously not."

"Wait, how?"

"There's no such thing as useless information, John."

"Except what a goat pepper is."

Sherlock twitched. "That was one time, and I had never encountered that information before."

"It had three little cartoon peppers next to it on the menu!"

"There was something in my eye, I missed it."

"If you would actually read menus like a normal person-no. No, I'm not falling for this. What did you do?"

"Put on my gloves. Infection. You're a doctor, John, you should know about bodily fluids."

The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose, and chuckled softly, something like a smile on his face. "I can't believe this. I just...I just can't." He raised his head. "Go on."

"There was a curtain, and a chair, and the various...accessories. Poor lighting. Someone could trip."

John giggled uncontrollably.

"What? What's so funny?"

"You wouldn't get it. It's a human thing."

"Hm. Would you like me to continue?"

"Oh, please do."

"The...customer, I suppose, was behind the curtain. There was a sort of...thing. A customized kind of chair. or bed. Or a bit of both, I suppose. It had a certain raw look. Washable surfaces, custom-made in Camden, I think. Imagine a very unusual dentist's chair.

"After drawing back the curtain, I observed the woman herself. Would you like me to tell you about her?"

"No, tha-"

"Roughly 1.6 metres, roughly 75 kilograms, banker, ginger, bit of a fondness for Yorkie bars. I didn't catch her eye color, but she was wearing a hood. I suppose there were attendants watching, for safety reasons. The cameras were very cunningly hidden, but I noticed them."

"Wait, for blackmail material?"

"Probably not. Adler is flexible in her habits, her address. All she needs is a phone, access to the Internet, and she's in business. This establishment, however, has registered owners, employees, support base. It's...what's that military term? 'Low-speed, high drag'?"

"Whereas Irene would be 'high-speed, low-drag'. Harder to pin down, even if she didn't have her rather formidable protection."

"Exactly. Also, I believe there is a...home market for such materials? In fact, their customers might want personal copies. Or they could just be filming for safety purposes. Or some combination. I assume safety is the most likely."

"You know what they say about people who assume."

"No, I don't. Explain."

John explained.

"I still don't understand."

"Of course not," John sighed. "So. The woman."

"Yes. I unbuckled her hands, and told her 'You are safe.' I was going to explain the mixup, but she seemed puzzled. 'I'm not looking for safe,' she said. Clearly, she would be unreceptive to any explanation I could give, and then I would have to deal with that large man outside. I resolved to play the game for the game's own sake. And to get to the records."

"Are you sure those were the only reasons?"

A cock of the head. "What other reasons would there be?"

"Entirely academic ones, in your case. I assume you used the...devices yourself?"

"Oh, of course not. I wouldn't know the first thing about them. I made her do it."

John nearly spat tea onto his laptop.

"I obtained a selection, and laid them out in front of her. Since I was playing it by ear-not improvising, John-I...commanded her to use them."

"What, with the blindfold on?"

"It was a hood, and I understand that it's not so much about what you see, is it?"

"Not...exactly?"

"In any case, she presumably knew more about the matter than I did."

"No great task."

Sherlock sighed. "I told her to feel the various objects, and then chose one at random and then demonstrate its use. After enough time to learn the basics, I switched to another, and another, until we had sampled the full array. She kept asking me silly questions about whether I liked it, which I ignored. I told her to use this one, and the other, entirely at random, for random durations, random times. What of this angle? What of that one? How finely could pressure be applied? What if it were withdrawn, and applied, and withdrawn again? Is there something wrong with your mouth?"

John closed it with a sharp click. "Your nostrils are flaring," he mumbled.

"Are they? Perhaps I'm coming down with a cold. Anyway, it was an investigation, of sorts. I approached it in a scientific manner, naturally. What command issued, what tone of voice to use. I think I gained a lot of-" he made a gesture -"data. Of course, I'll need a larger sample size for it to be of much use. Did you know there's not much research on the matter?"

"Um-"

"Well, actually, there is, but I doubt it'll be of little practical use. I don't see the practical purpose of much of it, really. All that sweat, all those fluids, that smell. Disgusting."

"Wait, what? Smell of what? You didn't-"

Sherlock gave him a Look. Pursed lips, head tilted, faint air of contempt. "That would be unprofessional. Even if I had been interested in that manner, I would not have indulged myself. I am talking about the smell of the woman-well, not The Woman-herself. She seemed quite receptive, especially when I talked in a certain fashion."

"What fashion?"

"Oh, you know. 'Stop being an idiot and help me lift this body!' sort of thing."

"Right." John gathered his thoughts. "It's the same voice you use when you're angry. Or when we play Cluedo. Which amounts to the same thing."

"I don't see why that tone would be more stimulating than any other."

John stared. "For certain people, the appeal is in the authority, the power the other person has over them, or vice versa. That voice of yours, the 'I'm better than you' upper-class voice, that emphasizes it. Makes it prominent. I've seen the stories people write about you, just from a five second clip on the news; you could make a shedload of money at that job."

Sherlock frowned. "I'd rather not. I already make a shedload, and it's enough trouble to screen the mail as it is."

"What have you been doing with those, anyway?"

"Donating them to charity. They always give me such funny looks in the shop, I'm not sure they believe me."

"You're the most eligible bachelor in London, and you show up with women's underthings. What are they supposed to think?"

"Everyone knows I don't see the point of romance or sex, so I can't imagine why they would-"

"What's that you're always saying about eliminating the improbable? If you show up with a carrier bag full of underwear, what is the most probable explanation?"

Sherlock thought. "I see your point. Oh, and I don't use a bag. I just carry them in my coat pockets."

"So you just walk into the Red Cross shop, pull handfuls of panties from your pockets, and toss them at the cashier?"

"Of course not. I fold them and bag them. You would not believe how much trouble it is to find a charity shop that takes underwear."

"Well...if they are lined, there's a better chance, Harry says."

"I didn't say they were all women's clothing."

"Oh. Yes. How long were you there for?"

"Minutes, usually-"

"No, not at the charity."

"Several hours. By the end of that time, my ingenuity was running low. I had taken to introducing other objects to the lineup, to surprise her. Her knowledge was quite comprehensive. After the business was concluded, I asked the lady to stop complementing me-she liked that-and I left. I was able to obtain the records with no problem at all."

"Ah. Yes. The records. And what did you find?"

"A note from Her, hoping I had enjoyed the experience."

"Wait, so you're saying-"

"Adler arranged the whole incident, yes. I can't imagine why."

John turned away from his friend. He stared at his computer, raised his hands, lowered them again, cupped his face in his palms with an inarticulate noise.

"You realize I can't blog about this," he moaned.

"Really? Why not? Seems like exactly the sort of thing your readers would like."

"Some more than others, true, but that's an entirely different type of blog. I can't write about it because no one would believe me."

"Why not?" He really shouldn't string him along like this.

"As much as many of our female readers-and a statistically significant portion of the male ones-would like the idea, no one's really going to believe that you, of all people, had sex, of sorts, with a woman. I'm not even certain I believe it. The Consulting Detective is now a Consulting...a Consulting..."

"Master, I believe is the term."

"Yes, whatever. Everyone thinks you're either asexual-or with me, and this proves both of those wrong. You know how people get when you prove them wrong."

"Yes, I do." Sherlock raised the newspaper and waited for the penny to drop.

"You made it all up, didn't you?"

"What? John, why would I do that?"

"I don't know. Some kind of test."

"What sort of test would that be?"

"Well, the only way to verify this is to investigate myself. You didn't give me the name, but I know it's near a tube station with a cafe across the street."

"Nice to know you were paying attention, but cafes tend to be near Underground stations."

"Not many with a...a..."

"Dungeon?"

"Dungeon across the street. Plus the information about the female cashier."

"Most cashiers are female, John."

"Then I'll just look for cafes with an unmarked building opposite, won't I? Better yet, just search for London...London..."

"Dungeons."

"How do you even know all of this?"

"I looked it up on your computer when I got in."

"My computer was in my room."

"Yes, and?"

John groaned. "Alright. I look up dungeons, then try and find one near a Tube station with a cafe opposite."

"You do realize there are close to three hundred Underground stations." He snapped the newspaper shut. "Well! Finished the crossword."

"Without writing anything?"

Sherlock looked puzzled. "Is one supposed to?"

John stared at his friend for a few more seconds.

"No," he declared. "It didn't happen. You're winding me up, trying to send me haring off all over London."

"Why do you say that?

"Because if it did happen, Irene would've found out by now, and sent you a message, and she has a very distinctive ringtone-"

Sherlock's phone moaned.

"Do you mind if I take this?" the detective mouthed.

John looked a bit poleaxed. "Go ahead."