A/N: On the advice of a review I've split this into four sections
Warnings: Allusions to Alcoholism, Allusions to D/s, Allusions to Prostitution, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Minor Character Death, Mind control/Brainwashing, Racial/Species Discrimination, Serious Consent Issues (Sexual and Non-Sexual), Serious Illness/Injury (Main Character), Substance Abuse,
Prologue
Sally Donovan toed off her sedate work shoes and dropped her dull coat in a heap on the floor as she walked through the door to her beige flat. On the hall table sat the phone, its screen cheerfully flashing new messages. Ignoring it, she walked into the kitchen, focused on a large glass of wine and forgetting the crime scene she had just left.
As she was thumbing the cork out of an open bottle of wine, she felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Assuming it was work, she put the phone to her ear as she corked the wine, thinking foul thoughts about the amount of overtime she was not getting. "Donovan."
"Hello, Sergeant Donovan," a smooth upper-class voice drawled through the speaker.
Sally froze. "How did you get this number?" she ground out.
Without a pause the man on the other end continued, "You are required at the Diogenes Club in an hour, Sergeant." The line filled with static as the man hung up. Staring at her phone, Sally wondered what she had done to draw the attention of the Master of the City.
Taking one last look at her bottle of wine, Sally walked through to her bedroom, stripping out of her work clothes as she went. Grabbing a pair of jeans and a tunic, she lingered before picking a pair of cheap ballet pumps. Worst came to the worst, she could always drop them.
Thinking longingly of her sofa, she decided against wasting more time with makeup. As a preternatural you did not ignore a summons from the Master of the City and stay living.
Sherlock Holmes returned to London to changed locks. When he managed to get hold of his landlord, he was told to take his possessions immediately and not to expect his deposit back.
He quickly secured storage for his belongings in Hackney and a day in the dark room of London Central Youth Hostel, then took his laptop to a public library to begin the hunt for flats, with a side trek to his website.
He was sending an email informing an Isaac Jefferson of who had stolen his grandfather's watch when his brother's pomme de sang, Anthea, sat next to him.
"Your presence is required at the Diogenes club at midnight," she purred, her chest angled to give him the best view of her cleavage when he turned away from his screen.
"Why should I come when he calls?" Sherlock drawled, ignoring her opening gambit by keeping his gaze forward.
"There is a case," Anthea's voice dropped. "You're a part of his Kiss. He can order you, but he wanted you to come willingly."
Spinning, Sherlock carefully eyed her. "I'll make my own way there."
"See that you do." Standing, Anthea left, her eyes once again fixed on her Blackberry.