"You don't remember me, do you?"

The woman's voice was hardly audible over the sound of the roaring club music. There was something about her that seemed familiar, but rang no bells in his mind palace.

"We went to Uni together, Sherlock," the woman continued. "Though, I suppose you wouldn't remember me."

"Well, you can't expect me to remember every soul that attended Uni with me. Although most people that remember me weren't fond of me during that time anyway."

"I suppose you can't. But, just so we're clear, I was never one of those that tormented you, Mr. Holmes."

"Oh?" Sherlock questioned, hardly paying attention to her words and just trying to place her in his memories. If he had known her at any point in his life, she'd been deleted from his Hard Drive.

Then, her voice took on a quicker pace - similar to the one that Sherlock adapts when ranting off his deductions - which couldn't have been easy to do while staying loud enough to be heard. "It could have been because I, too, was tormented by the same people. Then again, it also could be because I scarcely left my flat for anything besides groceries and classes, due to an overwhelming desire to eliminate the majority of risk of having to deal with human interaction. Though, to be quite plain about it, there wasn't - and still isn't - anything to torment you about, Sherlock."

Though slightly impressed with her, Sherlock's face remained unchanged. He glanced her over and her life story fell before him. Light brown hair, maintained but not to the point of showing a lot of effort; maybe ran a brush through it a couple times a day. Light blue eyes, not accentuated by make-up of any kind. Two piercings on her lower lip and a few tattoos on her left forearm, possible unhappy childhood that she copes with using pain. Maybe she just enjoys the pain, probably so. Dressed in all black, though doesn't seem depressed as most would assume one was while wearing the colour. A pale complexion - not unlike his own - sprinkled with the fair few freckles across her cheeks and nose.

His deductions were interrupted when John cleared his throat. Given how loud he would've had to do that, Sherlock was sure that John had hurt himself.

"My apologies," Sherlock said and turned to gesture toward the doctor. "This is my colleague, Doctor John Watson."

John nodded his head as a thank-you to Sherlock and extended his hand for the woman.

"It's nice to meet you, Dr. Watson. I'm Quinn McKinley."

Still no bells sounded off in Sherlock's brain.

"A pleasure to meet you," John answered. "So, you and Sherlock went to Uni together. That must have been.. interesting."

"It certainly was. Though, I must say, for the few times that I saw Sherlock with people, none of them were quite as good looking as you."

"I.. uhh," John stammered. "I'm sorry. What exactly do those people have to do with me?"

A flare of realization flashed in her eyes. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Seeing you with him.. I just- .. I thought it was a similar situation that I saw him in before. I'm sorry. I should start thinking before speaking. Forget I brought it up."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit at this girl. He knew exactly what she was on about. Though, how she could pick up on it now was intriguing. Had they been so obvious?

"So, Quinn, what have you been up to all these years?" Sherlock asked.

"I joined the army shortly after graduating."

"You're back rather soon, then, aren't you?" John replied rather quickly.

"Yeah, that tends to happen when you get discharged."

From the corner of his eyes, Sherlock saw John wince, slightly. Oh, how the detective hated for his doctor to remember that moment in time.

"You got discharged? For what?" John questioned.

"You see this leg?" she asked, gesturing to her right leg. "Not even my real one. It's a prosthetic they gave me after they took my own. I mean, sure, it was really messed up, but it was still my leg. Now they're uneven and I walk like total prat."

"I sympathize," John said.

"Oh, please, John. You were shot on the shoulder and you're fine now." Sherlock snapped. It was a bit harsh, and Sherlock almost regretted it. Almost.

"I'm sorry, guys," Quinn continued. "My friend brought me out to try and cheer me up over it and to help her find a guy. Going swell so far."

"Where's your friend gone?" John asked.

"We found her a guy for her to paw at. As to her actual location, I haven't the slightest idea. I've just been sitting here for the past hour or so."

"And, what, you don't want to find a guy for yourself?"

"There'd be no point. An asexual amputee who still suffers night terrors, hates physical contact with humans beings, not to mention social interactions - making this outing so much fun - and is unlikely to give a rat's arse what people say, is not a very high-priority target on anyone's radar."

John laughed. "You sound nearly perfect for Sherlock."

The remark earned him a scowl. Quinn had apparently found it amusing, because she began to giggle.

Sherlock's brain began to list off more deductions. Her accented is Scottish, somewhere in the vicinity of Dundee. She says she's asexual, yet dresses to the contrary. Says that she isn't a high priority on someone's 'radar' and yet her clothes suggest she could be. Trousers, of course, because she has a fake leg, but the blouse shows more skin than a typical asexual would like to show. No make-up, either. So, she knows she's attractive and will tease her way into a man's sight if she sees fit, but won't push the subject. Unless she gets bored. Oh, yes, she does sound perfect for me. Too bad, really. Then again, two manipulative people who tease others to get what they want - information, distraction from boredom, the list could go for a while - wouldn't be good. Not to mention there was only one person on my radar.

"Trust me, John. I'm not exactly Sherlock's type."

With the last comment, she gave a wink in the detective's direction. Sherlock could almost feel a slight blush rising in his cheeks. He dismissed the idea, thinking it'd be preposterous that a small remark - from a girl he didn't remember and who knew almost nothing about him - could cause that kind of reaction.

"Right," John said. "And what would Sherlock's type be?"

If any colour had risen on Sherlock's face, it would have been flushed out at that question.

"I'm sure you'll find out one day, John. It's not my place to tell you."

"Of course."

Sherlock released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Close call.

"Well," Sherlock interjected. "We best be off. Work to do, places to be."

"Of course," Quinn said. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Watson. Sherlock, it was nice seeing you again. And it's nice to know you're not actually dead like I've seen on the news. It would have been a miserable world for certain people without you."

Sherlock gave a glimpse of a smirk and turned on his heels, which brought him face-to-face with John, who was wearing a rather confused expression.

"Uhh. Yeah, nice to meet you, Quinn." John replied.

And with that, Sherlock began his stride through the club to the bar, where he was immediately put in front of the line by the barkeep.

"Ah, Sherlock. What can I get for you?"

"Good evening, Stephen. I was wondering if you had anything for me."

Stephen's face went blank as he focused on Sherlock. Making sure not to make a slip of unwarranted expression.

"And what might I have for you, sir?"

"I do believe you have something of mine."

"Ah." The man said with a smile and disappeared into a back room, which seemed to upset the other customers waiting at the bar.

When he returned, he carried a rectangular package in his hand. It wasn't very big, but wasn't small, knew exactly what was in it, but that wasn't the point of all of this. The point of the cryptic questions and vague replies was all for the Game. And like with every game, this one had its objective.

The objective of this particular game.. was John Watson.