Nail Polish

~ Chapter One ~

Polish and Pizzazz

Weak cloud-muted sunlight streamed through the windows of 221b Baker Street, illuminating the distinctive features of its first inhabitant, Sherlock Holmes. Said inhabitant was precariously perched on the wide leathery arm of the sofa, hunched intently over his latest endeavor. His icy eyes narrowed in concentration as he worked, and a pink sliver of tongue peeked subconsciously through his lips. A stubborn whorl of dark hair flopped into his eyes for the umpteenth time, and he let out a frustrated grunt, for he couldn't spare his hands to swipe it away. Helplessly he puffed air at it, but to no avail. So, defeated, he turned back to his all-important task, trying uselessly to ignore the traitorous curls.

It was then that John, 221b's other occupant, chose to stroll into the room. One of his blocky hands cradled a steaming mug of tea, and the other clutched that day's crossword puzzle. Scratching his grey-speckled hair with the crossword, he asked,

"Sherlock, what have you done with my pen? There was one on my desk just yester- Hang on… What are you doing there?" The detective looked up from his work, arched an eyebrow and inquired sarcastically,

"What does it look like I'm doing?" John's gaze flickered from the minute brush in Sherlock's hand to the tiny red bottle balanced on the couch cushion to the nails of the detective's bare feet that were positioned on either side of it. The answer wasn't hard to grasp.

"You're… painting your toenails," he said numbly.

"And I'll be starting on my fingers once I finish up. Honestly, I can't fathom how women muster up the strength of will to accomplish this. The fiddly little brush is next to useless, and one must apply five coats at least to get the color advertised on the label…" Sherlock trailed off, quietly grumbling about the woes of nail polish. For a few minutes, John could only stand there gawking. At last he scraped together enough of his scattered wits to mumble,

"Right then. Just don't get any on the sofa. Or the carpet. Or… anywhere but your nails." Thoroughly disoriented, he turned around and made to amble back to the safety of his room, but something made him pause.

Sherlock had been acting rather strangely… more so than usual, that is. Whenever they were out and about, the detective would drag him into various trendy fashion boutiques to browse the tailor-made brightly-colored selection. In fact, he had even tried on a few. That was disconcerting in and of itself.

Then was the reading material. It was nothing new to see Sherlock bowed over a law book or a cobwebby old case file, but now his tastes seemed a little more varied. More often than not John would glance over the detective's shoulder to see the glossy pages of a style magazine spread open across his knee. He seemed quite intrigued by it too, especially the hair and makeup section.

And that lead to another issue entirely. Sherlock seemed to be focusing on personal grooming to an almost feminine extent, bathing daily, preening constantly, and even brushing his hair, something John had never seen him do; not even once. Also the Spartan collection of hair products they kept was swelling at an alarming rate, and nearly all of them belonged to the detective who once scorned another man for wearing them in his hair. If it wasn't so bizarrely out of character, John would've found this new streak of hypocrisy hilarious.

Most unusual of all however was the makeup segment of the problem. At odd hours of the day - often after perusing a fashion magazine – Sherlock would retreat to the bathroom and lock himself in, sometimes for hours on end. When he finally emerged, his face was red, and his eyes were slightly puffy as if he had been vigorously scrubbing them to remove something. On one memorable occasion he had burst through the door with a shout of pain, scrabbling at his streaming bloodshot left eye while ferociously fending off John's offers of assistance. Thinking back on the incident, the doctor could've sworn he had seen a smear of something black on his colleague's face before he had fled into his room. Eyeliner he guessed, or mascara. Or both.

But why? Sherlock seemed as straight as they come, and disinterested in romance to boot. He didn't appear to be the type who would suddenly revert to drag queen. On the other hand, he was Sherlock for God's sake, with him anything was possible.

"Look," John began awkwardly, "You don't have to be… y'know, embarrassed or anything. There's no need to hide it, just… be yourself I suppose." Sherlock skewered him with a curious penetrating look as he bumbled along. "Mrs. Hudson won't mind, she seems to be alright with… y'know…" he gestured at the detective's drying toenails, "That kind of… thing. And if… if anyone gives you any sort of t-trouble about it, I'll take care of them." Confusion manifested itself in Sherlock's furrowed brows as he asked,

"What kind of thing?"

"Don't try to keep it from me! What with all you've been doing it's gotten rather obvious. But remember Sherlock what I said that night at Angelo's: It's all fine, and I meant it. You'll still be my friend, style preferences aside."

"Style preferences? Oh!" Understanding dawned on the detective's narrow face. "Before you continue running whatever dignity you've got left into the ground, I suppose I should mention it's for a case."

"A case?" blurted John.

"Yes. Why else would I be buying so many wretched beauty products? Married to my work, remember?"

"Right," A flush of humiliation crept conspicuously up John's neck and into his cheeks. "I just thought because you were skulking around so much-"

"Don't think, it doesn't become you," was the brusque answer he received. "Now help me with my hands, will you? I'll never be able to do my right."

"Okay," reluctantly the doctor set aside his now lukewarm cup of tea, and picked up the tiny brush. Sherlock impatiently thrust out his hands and John began to work, tackling the task with the precise skill of a surgeon. An oppressive silence settled over the room like a heavy quilt in the middle of summer.

After a tense eternity or two John gather the resolve to break it, and did so by asking,

"So, do you want to talk about it?" When the detective shot him a withering look he added, "The case! I meant the case!" In less than a nanosecond Sherlock's mood switched gears. His eyes glittered with excitement and he took a deep breath, and action that usually signaled a lengthy speech. An involuntary sigh whispered past John's slightly parted lips. Perhaps stony silence was the preferable alternative after all. But it was too late now, for Sherlock was already in full case-cracking mode.

"It had started as a simple disappearance report. Lillian Woodward, female, aged twenty-nine was reported missing from her flat nearly a month ago by her brother, Stan Woodward. He came over for tea as he always did once a month, but when he arrived, she wasn't there. The door was open, and there were signs of a struggle, so a kidnapping was suspected.

"Now Stan seemed quite distraught to Lestrade, but it was obvious - to me anyway – that he was faking. His lack of eye contact, slight flush and shaking hands were all chalked up to grief and worry, but it couldn't have been. His eyes were completely dry, not a tear in sight; guilt written all over him.

"But why! It could've been anything from mild jealousy to a full-blown mental disorder that prompted him. There's always a reason. I just don't know what!" Sherlock made to gesture vehemently with his hands, but John yelped,

"Don't! You'll smudge them!" and eased them gently back to their starting position on his knees. Sherlock was forced to be content with a muted growl instead. After a brief session of the silent treatment, the detective somewhat huffily resumed his report.

"As I was saying, I needed to find the motive. Despite appealing to Lestrade with my findings, he said he wouldn't bring Woodward in for questioning until I found some 'real' evidence." Disgruntled, Sherlock wrinkled his nose, and pursed his lips. "So, I was forced to dig deeper. A brief internet search confirmed what I already knew: Woodward is a young man in his early thirties - thirty-two to be precise - , he is quite athletic - plays football and rugby -, and he's gay.

"That is the most useful bit of information so far. One of my homeless network has told me Woodward frequents a bar called Club Pizzazz, a rather unruly establishment from what I've heard. I intend to find him there and question him anonymously. And since it is, after all, a gay bar, a proper disguise is in order. Understand me now?"

"Yeah, I… yeah," John stammered. "Right. Your nails are done, so… so I'll just… y'know…" he eased himself off the sofa, gathered his neglected crossword and rather chilly tea, and then tiptoed off to the relative safety of his room.

Once he reached the door, he turned around, and, against his better judgment, glanced back at the detective. Sherlock, still huddled on the sofa, was examining his freshly lacquered nails most effeminately. His elegant spidery fingers flexed as he gazed contentedly at his outstretched hand. This display was eerily convincing, so much so that Sherlock simply couldn't be faking. But, then again, this was the same detective who could be wracked with piteous sobs one moment, and then suddenly shut them off in favor of morbid glee.

It was just too much for John to process at the moment. So his brain simply pushed them aside, allowing him to drift undisturbed into the peaceful solace provided by his crossword puzzle.

A few hours later, John tentatively deemed it safe to emerge from his sanctuary. He crept into the kitchen, looked around of any recent signs of beautification, then having found nothing, proceeded to make dinner. Well, attempt to make dinner.

The fridge was bare aside from the omnipresent selection of body parts and a moldering bowl of sludge that had once been oatmeal. A quick search through the cabinets heralded a dismal result as well. Only a half-eaten bit of toast lurked in a dark corner where Sherlock had probably abandoned it when John wasn't looking. A shopping trip was definitely in order.

Without warning, the bathroom door thundered open, causing John to start and fumble with the scrap of toast. When Sherlock waltzed into the room a few seconds later, the toast dropped to the floor along with John's astonished jaw.

A completely different Sherlock stood before him. Gone were his customary button-down and slacks. In their place was a pair of tight-fitting garishly red trousers and an equally snug black t-shirt with a revealing v-neck. His tousled curls were combed neatly, glistening with gel and arranged to perfection. Swooping black eyeliner completed the look by accentuating his electric eyes.

Right down to the tips of his crimson nails, Sherlock looked completely and utterly gay. Paralyzed by the sheer weirdness of it all, John couldn't look away.

"So John," Sherlock asked seriously, "How do I look?"

"Erm…"

"Never mind, your opinion is probably useless anyway." Despite the makeup, Sherlock's biting wit was unhampered and his attitude was businesslike. This was for a case after all. "I'm going out. Don't wait up," he added, checking his reflection in the gleaming side of an empty test tube. Apparently satisfied, he smoothed his hair, turned on his heel, and swaggered out of the flat.

It was a good two minutes before John regained the presence of mind to rescue the toast from the floor. Two more passed before he got around to tossing it in the waste basket. Dazedly he meandered over to the window and peered outside. Sherlock, rather conspicuous in his red trousers had hailed a cab and was just climbing inside. Its headlights flashed in the evening air as it swerved back into traffic.

Only after it had vanished around the corner did John realize he had forgotten something very important: He had neglected to take pictures of Sherlock when he was all dressed up! They would've fetched an admirable sum at Scotland Yard amongst Sherlock's antagonists.

God knows how much they needed the money.

~SH~

Fifteen minutes later, the cab had disgorged its flamboyantly clad passenger onto the curb before his rather opposite destination. 'Club Pizzazz' conspicuously lacked what it was named for, sporting worn down walls, smudged windows, and a dismal patch of cracked parking lot. Palpitating neon lights reluctantly lit up the eves of the building, spelling out the broken words 'lub 'zazz' in loopy cursive. Graffiti sprawled carelessly across the walls, adding to the run-down quality of the place.

Ignoring this, Sherlock stroked back his hair, and plucked at the front of his uncomfortably tight shirt. How did people stand it? Lestrade would pay… real evidence indeed…

He pushed his resentment aside (only for the moment - he could stew in it later) then opened the shabbily painted door. The distinctive odor of liquor was the first thing his nose detected, and then a seductive whiff of cigarette smoke. Before he could restrain himself, his head snapped toward its source. The stress of keeping himself well groomed had taken its toll; he had nearly caved in yesterday. Only a sound rap across the knuckles from John's newspaper made him remember his cold turkey pledge.

After regaining control of his cravings, Sherlock picked his way past a ramshackle sitting area packed with moth-eaten couches and several rickety tables before he reached the bar counter. Edging around an amorous couple on their way out, he took a seat on one of the squeaky barstools… but not just any one.

Hunched beside him was his target: Stan Woodward. He was a tall man, taller than Sherlock himself, and much broader. It was plain to see that under his light shirt and jacket he was quite well-muscled. A scattering of stubble dusted his prominent chin, and his fingers drummed distractedly against the tabletop.

Sherlock spun on his stool to face Woodward, and tapped him gently on the shoulder. When he turned, the detective, adopting a slightly higher tone and a cockney lilt asked,

"Stan Woodward?"

"Yeah?" he replied quizzically.

"Owen Williamson," Sherlock extended a hand to Woodward who shook it hesitantly. "I read that story 'bout your sister in the paper. Nasty bit 'o business, that. My condolences."

"Oh, thanks," Stan directed his gaze toward a smudge on the counter and released Sherlock's hand. A half second of silence passed, in which the detective noted a dull flush suffuse Stan's face. Seemingly eager to shift the conversation away from him, he said, "So, do you come here often?"

"Nah, first time. Yourself?" With a noncommittal shrug Stan replied,

"Eh, every now and again."

"So do you know what's worth drinking at this place?"

"Try the Pizzazz Special. It's a real knock-out, so to speak." He waved the bartender, a short greasy looking chap over and said, "Two Pizzazz Specials on me. You know what to do. "The bartender nodded, then stalked off.

"Wow, mate!" Sherlock exclaimed, "Thanks! It's me though who shoulda been buyin' you the drink what with that business about your sister. Must be dreadful!" Still staring determinedly at the smudge, Stan murmured,

"Well, I can't exactly say it was pleasant."

"What was it then?" pressed the detective, carefully maintaining his accent. "How did you feel? What happened? It was all very hush hush in the papers."

"I… I wasn't… it was all very shocking." The drinks arrived, pale lime-green liquor in delicate glasses. Stan picked his up and took a swig in an attempt to steady his shaking voice. As Sherlock raised his glass in turn, his eyes met the bartender's from across the room where he was serving another customer. Quickly he glanced away, leaving a twinge of suspicion behind for Sherlock.

Before he had time to sort through any possible reasons for this, Stan began talking again.

""The door had been forced open… The lock was broken. Her flat was a mess… she had struggled…" The detective nodded and took a sip of his drink. A bitter tang scalded his throat as he swallowed. As much as he didn't wish to dull his mind for the investigation, not accepting a free drink would've been quite unusual. For the sake of the case he took another burning tingling swallow, mentally cursing Lestrade as he did so.

As Stan went on to describe the arrival of the police, Sherlock was finding it difficult to keep track of the story. A faint buzz lingered in his ears, rendering them far less useful than he would've liked. What little he could hear was muted and garbled with a tinny quality as if it had been recorded on a cheap mobile phone. His powerful razor-sharp brain had become a sieve; useful information drained through the gaps and away into oblivion. Bleary and unfocussed, his black-lined eyes roved lazily around the room, at last coming to rest on Stan's jacket sleeve.

The material was finely made, foreign, Sherlock's addled mind supplied, expensive too. What would a man like Woodward be doing with a garment like that? He was young, hadn't had a college education, and was unemployed, judging by the tense lines around his mouth. A jacket of that caliber would've cost enough to make nearly fifty percent of Londoners file for bankruptcy if they purchased it. How then did he?

The detective blinked forcefully, trying fruitlessly to cling to his battered broken-down train of thought. His recalcitrant mind jarringly switched gears, catapulting his limited awareness to the state of Stan's legs. Firm and well muscled just like the rest of him, clearly an athlete's limbs. They were clad in shorts that stopped just above the knee, unusual considering the chill of London. But more unusual still was the total lack of disfigurement. Being involved in full-body contact sports such as rugby, at least a bruise or two was to be expected. In football too injured legs were a common occurrence. Sometimes the players simply missed the ball and kicked each other. This man's skin was completely unscathed, not even a scratch on him.

Wrong, wrong, wrong! The words blared like a fire alarm inside the doctor's foggy head. Agonizingly they jangled inside his skull, smashing any rational thoughts to smithereens if they dared to impose. This man was wrong, these sensations were wrong, it was all wrong! He had to get out!

Sliding gracelessly from his perch, he made to bolt for the door, but his legs turned to traitorous jelly and he crumpled to the floor. This wasn't just a side-effect of the alcohol… he had been drugged! Desperately he thrashed around, trying to right himself, but to no avail. His body would not obey. He was fused to the floor, heavier than a concrete block, well and truly helpless.

In the distance, Stan's voice cried,

"Hey! You alright?" When the detective didn't respond, Stan said, "You look like you've had a few too many. Don't know where you live, so all that can be done is just let you sleep it off. Hope you don't have any plans tomorrow!" Strong vice-like arms encircled Sherlock's chest and hauled him upright. Lips tickled his ear and warm breath rustled his hair as Stan leaned in behind him and whispered, "By the way, Jim says hello… Sherlock Holmes." Jim? Jim who? How does he know my name? Sherlock struggled to think as his awareness came crashing down around him. The annoying buzz in his ears escalated into a roar like a runaway train. Jim… Jim…

Suddenly it hit him. His world shattered into a billion shimmering pieces under the weight of this last spark of clarity. As the shards deteriorated into black dust and the malevolent bellowing train overtook him the answer was still painfully clear:

Jim Moriarty.

Then the crystalline insight blinked out, and the dust swallowed him whole.

~SH~

A/N: So, here's chapter one! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it! This story was actually spawned from a discussion with a friend (and fellow Sherlockian) of mine. We were painting our toenails at the time, and suddenly a picture of Sherlock painting his toenails sprang to mind. I, through a debilitating storm of giggles, told her about it, and asked her why he might be painting his nails in the first place. We came to the conclusion that it was a disguise for some sort of case. I simply had to write it. It was too much fun to pass up! It was meant to be just a one-shot, but… yeah, obviously that's not going to happen. The next chapters will be up as fast as I can type them.

Oh, by the way, don't forget to review! It's the greatest motivation ever, and it'll speed up my regrettably slow typing.