"You want us to do WHAT?" John stared aghast at Lestrade.
Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, looking thoroughly harassed. "Look, you know I wouldn't normally ask this of you, but I'm desperate."
"You must be to even think it! God knows what Sherlock will say."
"What will Sherlock say about what?" Sherlock enquired curiously, coming through the door into 221B, shedding his coat, scarf and gloves.
Lestrade turned round to look at him. "Two men have been found murdered. The only thing they have in common is that they are patrons of the GayBoy Club. I need you and John to go under cover at the club…"
"As patrons?"
"As staff!" John fairly spat out the word.
Lestrade nodded. "I need reliable eyes on the floor that can spot trouble. I can't send any of my people under cover, they're all known at the club now, from doing the interviews."
"What about Anderson?" Sherlock barely kept a straight face as he asked the question.
Lestrade's eyes went wide. "Are you insane? No. Don't answer that. I don't even want to consider the consequences of sending Anderson under cover as a waiter in a gay gentleman's club."
"For a start, he's not a gentleman," Sherlock murmured to John.
"Guys, please?" Lestrade's tone was plaintive. Sherlock and John looked at him for a moment, then looked at each other for an even longer moment. John sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay, Greg, we'll do it."
THE GAYBOY CLUB – TWO NIGHTS LATER
"I am going to fucking kill Lestrade with my bare hands!" John's voice was loaded with fury as he examined himself in the full length mirror in the change room. His 'waiter's uniform' consisted of a pair of tight fitting black silk boxer shorts, white collar and matching cuffs, black bow tie…bunny ears and a fluffy white tail attached to the back of the shorts. To say John Watson was not a happy bunny would be an understatement. John felt that he may as well have walked around with his genitals displayed on a tray for all the coverage the shorts provided. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so exposed and so vulnerable.
Sherlock's voice held amusement. "The manager did tell us the club was modeled on the PlayBoy Club."
"Yeah, but I didn't think that meant we were going to be dressed as bunnies! God, this is humiliating, what if any of my army mates see me?"
"Unlikely to occur, unless they happen to be patrons, and I think under the circumstances they would probably be more worried about you seeing them here. Especially if they are married, which from my understanding most of your former compatriots are."
"True. But I feel like an idiot."
"Relax." Sherlock stood beside John and examined himself in the mirror. He was wearing the same uniform as his friend. "We'll be fine." Sherlock twisted to look over his shoulder at the tail attached to his snugly fitting shorts. He frowned. "That tail makes my bum look big."
John scowled. "At least your arse is worth looking at."
Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Really?"
John went pink. "I didn't mean it like that!"
"Oh," Sherlock's voice was silky. "Just how did you mean it?"
John was saved from further embarrassment by the entry of the manager, Frederick Weatherby-Smythe. "Oh! Don't you two look delicious? I'm sure they'll just eat you up out there."
"That's what I'm afraid of," John muttered.
"Inspector Lestrade said to tell you he has men stationed outside the club. Just give me a nod if you spot someone suspicious and I'll call him in." Frederick waved at the door, "I explained earlier how this place works, so it's time for all good little bunnies to get out on the floor and start working their tails off." As John went past him he made as if to pat John's arse. A low warning growl from the doctor stopped him. He pouted. Sherlock stifled a snigger. Spine stiff, John stalked out of the door into the club proper.
The GayBoy Club was softly lit, and plush leather-upholstered booths for two lined the walls. In the centre was a dance floor, and at one end of the floor there was small stage where a string quartet were setting up. A bar was tucked away discretely, and already three or four other 'bunnies' were sashaying to and fro across the room with orders and returning to the booths with drinks.
Frederick indicated a sweep of booths along the closest wall. "I've allocated this sector to you two. You should be able to see everyone coming and going to all the booths in the club from here."
Sherlock and John murmured their thanks. Only one of the booths in their sector was occupied so far. A lone man sat waiting patiently. His face was in shadow. With a grin, Sherlock indicated that John should serve him. Sherlock headed towards the bar and John attempted to move seductively towards the booth.
John kept his voice low and even, "Good evening, sir. What can I get you this evening?"
"A gin and tonic will do. I'm expecting some…" The man paused, started, and stared at John. "Supplementing your army pension, John?"
John stared open-mouthed. "What the hell are you doing here, Mycroft?"
Mycroft squirmed slightly in his seat. "Some of the people I deal with have certain, shall we say, proclivities, that would get them arrested in their own countries. So I have meetings with them here. Mixing business with pleasure, you might say."
John's tone was dry. "Your pleasure or theirs?"
"I really don't see how it's any of your business," Mycroft said stiffly.
John chuckled. "Gin and tonic, you said?" He headed back to the bar.
Taking the fulfilled order from the barman, he suddenly grinned evilly. John handed the tray to Sherlock. "I think you'd better have a look at the bloke in the booth and tell me what you think."
Sherlock nodded, picked up the tray and headed back across the floor. The strangled squawk that came from inside the booth made up for a lot, in John's opinion. Frederick appeared at his side, "Is there a problem?" he asked anxiously.
John giggled. "Not exactly. Let's just say there's been an unexpected family reunion."
Frederick narrowed his eyes then widened them. "Oh. That booth is reserved for Mr Holmes, and Sherlock's last name is…"
"Holmes." John's grin got wider.
"Sherlock must be the aggravating younger brother Mr Holmes sometimes speaks of." Frederick chuckled softly and slapped John's wrist lightly. "You really are a naughty boy, aren't you?"
John decided to ignore the slap and change the subject. "Was Mycroft…Mr Holmes, here the nights both patrons were killed?"
Frederick frowned. "I'll have to check, but I think he could have been." He disappeared into another room and returned with a tablet. "Mr Holmes was here on both nights, but surely you don't think he's the killer? He is such a polite gentleman."
John chuckled quietly to himself. "No. I don't suspect that. But he is observant. He may have noticed something. I bet he wasn't interviewed by the police."
"He certainly wasn't interviewed here." Frederick frowned again. "Only our staff were interviewed. I refused to give member's details without a court order. We do have to protect our member's privacy."
John studied Frederick Weatherby-Smyth closely. The camp persona had vanished once they'd started talking seriously. Frederick saw the look and laughed. "Front of House is always camp. I was hired as much for my Kenneth Williams impersonations as my managerial skills."
"So that over–the-top act…"
"The act is not so much over-the-top as rampaging down the other side of the hill waving a pink frilly flag." Frederick grinned. "It's tradition."
John laughed, then frowned, thinking back to an earlier comment. "You said that Mycroft has a reserved booth. Are all the booths reserved?"
"Mostly, yes. Many of our patrons have reservations for particular booths on certain nights."
"Did the two dead men have them?"
Frederick stared at him. "Yes they did." He turned to point out the booths, both in different sectors.
John watched the other waiters flick across the floor to their allocated booths. "So no chance it was a waiter. They all have their own sections."
Frederick looked at him. "There is a slight chance, if someone was filling in. Let me check my rosters." He consulted the tablet again. "One of our casuals, Jason Mitchell, was working both nights, in those sectors."
"Did you tell Inspector Lestrade this?"
"It never occurred to me. He interviewed the staff that were here when the bodies were found. I didn't even think about the casuals." Frederick looked like he was about to kick himself.
"I think you'd better give Lestrade his address."
"Not necessary. He's here tonight."
"Is he?" Frederick indicated a slender blonde man moving towards the bar with an order. John looked at him. "I think I need to tell Sherlock about this." He headed towards Mycroft's booth.
As he approached he realized that Mycroft was studying photographs of the two dead men. Where the hell had Sherlock stored those? There wasn't room in those shorts for as much as a postage stamp without it showing!
Sherlock gave him an amused look. "I had them under my cuffs. Where did you think I had them?"
John stuttered and blushed slightly. Sherlock's ability to read his thoughts from his face was uncanny in the extreme.
Sherlock and Mycroft gave him identical looks of amusement. John cleared his throat. "We have a suspect. Casual waiter by the name of Jason Mitchell, he was working both nights. Frederick didn't think to mention him to Lestrade."
"Oh well done, John," Sherlock fairly purred.
John flushed under Sherlock's praise and dropped his eyes, grinning like a loon. That was when he noticed the spilled drink. "Get a bit of a shock, Mycroft?"
The man in question glared at him. "You really can be a very nasty little man, John Watson."
"Yeah well, it's hanging around with you and Sherlock rubbing off on me."
Sherlock sniggered, and Mycroft's glare took on a tinge of daggers. "I'll get you another drink," John said hastily. He turned hurriedly to head for the bar and slipped on a piece of ice.
"Fuck!"
"What's wrong?"
"My ankle, I think I've sprained it."
John grabbed hold of the table, tentatively placing his foot on the ground. Pain lanced through it. He winced.
"Can you walk on it?"
"Sherlock! I can't even bloody stand on it!"
Mycroft, will you help me?"
"Of course, Sherlock."
There may be few things more embarrassing than being carried in a chair lift by the Holmes brothers, whilst dressed as a bunny, but John had yet to encounter them. "It could be worse, John," Mycroft murmured in his ear, "One of us could have carried you in a fireman's lift." John couldn't repress the shudder of horror that went through his mind at the image of himself being carried like a sack of potatoes over either Sherlock or Mycroft's shoulder, bunny ears flapping and little fluffy tail pointing skywards.
Carefully, they lowered John into a chair provided by Frederick, near the rear door, beside a stack of clean table linens and empty bottles.
"I've called Inspector Lestrade," Frederick informed them softly. "I thought he should know about Jason."
Mycroft returned to his booth. Sherlock took the roll of bandage offered by Frederick and rapidly strapped John's swelling ankle, then headed back onto the floor of the club. Frederick patted John's shoulder before disappearing to meet Lestrade. John sighed and closed his eyes. This was a bloody disaster. No other word for it.
John wasn't sure how long he'd sat with his eyes closed, but the commotion made him open them.
Jason Mitchell was running towards him, heading towards the rear door. Sherlock, Lestrade and Donovan were in pursuit, but John could see they weren't going to catch him.
John looked around for inspiration. He grabbed one of the white linen tablecloths and an empty tequila bottle. He hauled himself carefully to his feet. As the fugitive went past him, John whipped the table cloth out in front of him, draping it over Jason's head. A confused expletive came from under the cloth as Jason tried to free himself. John swung the bottle. It connected with a solid thunk. The cloth wrapped bundle swayed for a moment, then dropped like a stone.
Sherlock, Lestrade and Donovan stopped dead. They stared at the bundle on the floor, then they stared at John. John waved the bottle at them. "Ummm. Ole?"
Lestrade started to laugh as he cuffed their dazed captive and hauled him to his feet. At this point, Donovan took in the uniform both John and Sherlock were wearing. Then Donovan did something that John would have bet good money on that she couldn't do. Sally Donovan blushed.
221B BAKER STREET - TWO WEEKS LATER
John was lying on the sofa with his sprained ankle resting on a cushion, a cup of tea on the table next to him. Sherlock stood at the window playing softly on his violin.
Footsteps on the stairs heralded the arrival of Greg Lestrade. He came into the flat carrying a large plastic bag.
Sherlock lowered his bow and turned towards their visitor. "You have something for us, Lestrade?"
"Not a case, thought you'd want to know the wrap up of the GayBoy Club case."
Sherlock snorted. "Not really."
"Well, I do," John said.
"We've arrested Jason Mitchell for the murders. Turns out his motive was the fact they didn't tip him."
"What?"
"Yeah. Neither man had tipped him."
John looked at Sherlock. "Did Mycroft give you a tip?"
"No."
"Maybe you should kill him for that."
Sherlock snorted. "I have much better reasons to murder my brother than a lack of a tip."
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Guys."
"Sorry, Greg. So the guy is obviously a nutcase?"
"Yeah. Probably going to be assessed as unfit to plead. How's your ankle?"
"Getting better. Doctor at the hospital said another two weeks."
"Bet you're a lousy patient. Doctor's always are."
Sherlock snickered his agreement. John glared at him. Greg cleared his throat. "Any way, the boys at the Yard were really impressed with the way you stopped the suspect, John, so they got together and got you this." He handed the plastic bag to John then backed away slightly.
John gave him a suspicious look before reaching into the bag. Sherlock drew close to look. John drew out a polished wooden shield. Mounted on the shield was a pair of bunny ears and a fluffy white tail. A brass plaque at the bottom stated "Awarded to John H. Watson – the GayBoy Club – June 2013 – The Ears and the Tail of the Beast that He Dispatched with Such Aplomb".
John Watson swore.
Lestrade collapsed into John's chair, laughing.
With a wicked grin, Sherlock picked up his violin, and the strains of the March of the Toreadors flowed through the flat.
Author's Notes: Firstly, a note on the Kenneth Williams comment. Kenneth took part in the wonderful "Julian & Sandy" sketches on the BBC radio show "Round the Horne". I suggest you check them out if you can. Kenneth Williams was the inspiration for Frederick.
I'd like to thank Amy, Andrea and Rick who, between them, presented me with the image of Sherlock with a fluffy bunny tail which grew into Run, Rabbit, Run. You guys are crazy nuts and I love you.