A London hotel room, three months earlier:
"A little lower…" the woman breathed, her voice husky with desire.
The man was knelt on the plush carpet, head dipped between her spread thighs. His hands firmly gripped her knees, keeping them pushed far enough apart to allow for his movements and her heightened pleasure. He was fully occupied with his task, mouth and trembling efforts bent to her sensual apex.
"Mmmpphh", she moaned, her eyes flickering shut as though in the grip of desire. Biting on her lower lip, she gave a provocative roll of her hips, pressing herself to him. She had to make sure her lover was fully engaged in the act. The echoing vibration of his lips against her was confirmation enough.
Her eyes snapped open, clear and alert, incongruous with the torpid dance of seduction. She took in the heavy velvet of the curtains and the glitter of refracted light and shadows, and felt a moment of hesitation. She would miss this life, the glamour and glitz of it all; the anticipatory rush of desire as she learnt of their next meeting; the heady hum of simultaneous lust and satiation that remained with her for the days following each encounter. Yet she knew that it could not continue.
It had started a month ago with that letter. Four neatly typed words that had caused her to drop the coffee-mug she had been holding.
'I KNOW ABOUT HIM.'
Four little words that spelled the end not only for her crockery, but for her forty-three years of marriage. She recalled shoving the offensive note in her dressing gown pocket as she hastily swept the broken pieces into the bin. Who could have known about her and the banker? What did they want? Why send the note? The rest of the day had been a blur of noise: children screeching in the playground, staff gossiping over their tea and biscuits, and her husband grumbling as he despaired at the latest political offerings on the six o'clock news.
It was only when she had climbed into bed and popped her ear-plugs in (her spouse's snoring really was the limit) that she could clear her mind a little and think. So somebody had sent her a note – a jealous wife? No, couldn't be, he had always told her he wasn't married. Girlfriend, then? Possibly. For all she knew it could be just a kid from school, a trouble-maker trying to wind her up, there were plenty of those. And as to what the sender wanted, well that, she thought grimly, was anyone's guess. What should she do? Again, no idea, and if she was being honest, she didn't want to do anything. The hotel room meetings were clearly forbidden fruit and the danger of being discovered was primarily a turn-on; if anything, the note that morning added an extra edge. So she had decided to ignore the threat for the moment; there was nothing particularly damning about what was written, and besides, she thought lasciviously, the rewards far outweighed the risks.
So she let the affair progress and when another note followed the first, and more followed that. The notes, which had grown more explicit and threatening, fluttered sporadically through her letter-box and were immediately swept away, a dark secret burning a hole through her dressing gown pocket. The reactionary flames fear and lust built steadily as each new note stoked the pyre she had built for herself, and she, sitting astride it like some deviant Guy, had known that there must be an ultimatum soon. When the package had arrived that morning, she knew that her day had come. The day the lies must end and when she would have to pick a side.
There was a note which simply read:
'YOU CHOOSE.'
And wrapped in a lightly oiled cloth was the revolver.
She groaned, her consciousness shifting back to the present moment. At the foot of the bed, her lover hummed a reply between her thighs, taking her vocalisation as an indication of his sexual prowess. However the noise was one of grim enlightenment, of realising that the time had come to make that choice and that there could be no going back. It had been simple really, she supposed: the lover or the husband? As she reached down for the stashed weapon, she allowed a slight smile to twitch her lips – her lover was good, but let's face it, plenty more fish and all that. There was only one man who might continue to pay her mortgage.
Her hand reared up, an ugly metal erection clasped in it. She held her breath, squeezed the safety off, and fired off the brass load…
Present day, 221B Baker Street
"BANG!"
"Sherlock, really –"
"Bang, John, BANG!"
"Yes, I did hear you the first ti-"
"Oh come on, John! You're telling me that someone has been murdered, possibly with a revolver, and there is absolutely no evidence of entry or exit wounds, bullet fragmentation, gunpowder traces, or reliable witnesses? Anyone with an ounce of common sense would be able to deduce that the weapon may or may not be evidence-worthy. I mean, you could figure that one out-"
"-is that supposed to be a compliment, Sher-"
"-and it goes without saying that this piece of pipe – I mean, who actually keeps spare sections of plumbing just lying around?-"
"Sherlock."
"– or this other wieldy tool would leave some blindingly obvious indentations in a person's skull or rib-cage –"
"Sherlock."
"- And how could an amateur fail to spot the burns or bruising from strangulation with this cord, even if they failed to spot the stray rope fibers that would undoubtedly litter the floor. I just-"
"SHERLOCK!"
"What?" The great detective shuddered to a forced halt, blinking at his companion as though he had just appeared out of the ether.
"Well, now that you've stopped talking" John's tone was wry, "there are a few things I would like to bring your attention to." Sherlock started to open his mouth and John, raising one pre-emptive eyebrow, carried on.
"Firstly, you're pouring tea down yourself again." The detective looked down in confusion to see that had been holding his cup at an angle (roughly 33° by his reckoning) and, judging by the staining pattern on his shirt, had somehow allowed a third of a cup to trickle, unnoticed, down his chest. John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's futile efforts to dry his clothing with sheets of newspaper and continued.
"Secondly," he swept his hands to encompass the scene before them, "let me put it on record, since you obviously didn't understand me the first time around, I am NEVER playing CLUEDO with you AGAIN."
"But, John-"
"Shut-up. I don't care how improbable the murder is or how inept the witnesses, players and suspects appear to be. It is a game, Sherlock, designed to played once on Christmas Day and then argued over before being put back in its box and shut away until some intrepid child rediscovers it and the whole cycle can begin again. It is not, I repeat, NOT, based upon an actual crime that urgently needs solving by the world's top consulting detective. Games are not cases. Please, please, for my sanity, file that useful fact somewhere on a little 'John' table in that great mind palace of yours."
"It's a drawer actually."
"Listen, it could be in a chest freezer for all I care, Sherlock, just please, let's not play this game ever again?"
Sherlock pouted, "ok, so we won't play Cluedo again. Now, what was the third item that you wished to 'bring to my attention'?"
John looked surprised. "How did you know there was a third thing?"
"Oh come on, John, there's always a third thing. Besides, you mentioned there being multiple topics to be discussed and failed to use a final connective when you mentioned the second item. Assuming that 'four' is too many topics to be considered 'a few', this must be your third and final one. Also, under the assumption that you have grown accustomed to my dramatic flair, it logically follows that your final item of note must be of the most interest to me. That being the case, what is it?"
Slightly unnerved by the speed at which Sherlock's mind worked, even late in the evening, John took a few moments to consider. The detective's entire focus was now on him, but the doctor, knowing how rare an opportunity it was to hold all the cards, deliberately took his time in answering.
"I got a text…"
"Yes?"
"…from Greg Lestrade."
"Was it a case, John? Please, tell me it's a case."
"It's a case."
He could feel Sherlock leaning towards him, his body following the direction of his mind. John unconsciously considered for a brief moment the weight of that gaze which was directed at him. He couldn't say precisely why, but he felt something in him jump ever so slightly in his stomach – nerves? Shaking himself slightly, he decided that the unaccustomed power-play must be going to his head.
Sighing, he held out his phone for Sherlock and motioned for him to look at it.
There was a photo of a Gothic red 'S' and 'B' intertwined, on a pale background. Underneath the image were three word:
'BRANDING? GET SHERLOCK.'
"I take it by your silence that you're interested?" John bent his head slightly to catch his companion's reaction.
He needn't have bothered. Sherlock's grin of morbid joy lit the room.