"Good evening," the man stated solemnly. "I believe you will find our names in the VIP section of your guest list."

The concierge looked down on the two men before him from his elevated position on the stairs, safe behind his small lectern, and sniffed disdainfully. "Your names, please," he asked, acting as if the 'please' had been almost painful.

"Of course," the second man stated somewhat hurriedly, as if worried about what his companion would say. "I am Jatan Waman, and this is my colleague, Saakaar Himanshu. We are representatives of His Majesty's interests in India."

The concierge consulted his list with an air of impatience, before his gaze reached the afore mentioned names. He seemed to freeze, recalling his earlier dismissal of them, and gulped slowly. "Of course," he stammered. "Please proceed onwards. A waiter will be on hand to take you to your seats at the table of Lord Roland."

The two men of Indian appearance who spoke perfect English, London accent and all, smiled in response and began to move up the stairs towards the manor. As they passed the concierge, the man who had been identified as Saakaar paused and turned to face the nervous man holding the guest list.

"I'll be sure to relay the quality of your greeting," he confided in the now sweating concierge. "I'm sure Lord Roland will be pleased to hear of the sterling service enjoyed by his guests."

Jatan Waman and Saakaar Himanshu continued on their way, leaving behind a man who was now deeply regretting the manner in which he had greeted the two VIPs.

"That was evil," Jatan informed Saakaar as soon as they were out of earshot.

Saakaar raised his eyebrow in response. "Me, evil? Whatever do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean. That poor man, however rude, will be sweating bullets for the rest of the evening now, only to find that you never spoke to the Lord."

"Jatan, my dear fellow. You act as if you would never expect such a thing from me."

Jatan gave an eloquent snort that spoke volumes. "That sort of thing I've come to take in my stride, but," here he gave his companion a long suffering look, "'Saakaar'? As in, 'manifestation of god'? Do you have any aspirations you need to talk about Sherlock?"

"I've no idea what you mean Watson. You chose 'nurturer', so I merely assumed I was to follow suit and choose a name that most fitted myself."

"Manifestation of god indeed..." Watson muttered to himself as they passed through the Manor doors, before slipping back into character smoothly.

The first impression that one received upon entering the estate of Lord Roland of Blakely was opulence. Sheer, overwhelming opulence. Two sweeping staircases that led to the second floor predominated the entry room, with carpets of a rich red covering the floor and extending up the stairs themselves. The walls and other wooden furnishings were of a dark, polished oak, giving an air of money and age. The sable black curtains were bordered with gold trim, adding to the impression of money, and completing the impression of noble superiority that Lord Roland wanted to convey to his guests.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, currently in disguise as rich guests from the colonies to Lord Roland's bi-monthly 'Charity' Ball, were not impressed.

"Remind me why we're doing this again?" Watson muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

"Because we owe Irene a favour and this is what she asked of us," Holmes replied evenly as he surveyed the room.

"Oh, so it's 'Irene' now, is it?" Watson smirked.

"Because if she decided she didn't need our help in this matter, you would not have been rescued quite so efficiently from your erstwhile kidnappers, and most importantly," and here Sherlock turned to face Watson with mischief in his eyes, "it will be oh so much fun."

Watson sighed, conceding the point. "You and your logic," he replied, shaking his head as if humoring a small child.

Without further banter, the two men approached the finely polished doors located between the supports of the two staircases on the other side of the room and pushed the doors open wide, drawing all attention in the next room to them.

The tables in the room were focused around a dance floor, with the main table raised slightly above the others. The dining tables were about half full, members of the aristocracy filling the air with inane chatter about this lord's political maneuvering or that lady's dalliances.

A waiter appeared at their side, and with a small gesture, indicated that they were to follow him. They were quickly led to the head table, receiving the occasional glance as they passed other guests. Watson and Holmes remained quiet, as their roles required them to—quiet sons of governors from India, born and bred in an English environment and on their first visit to 'the mother country'.

They had chosen to visit Lord Roland's estate to peruse the unique wares that he had for sale—elder teenage girls kidnapped from the slums of London and cleaned up in order to 'serve' the Lord's wealthy friends. At least, that was what 'Jatan' and Saakaar' were attending for.

Watson and Holmes were attending for a very different reason, but one that was much easier to understand.

Lord Roland had irritated Irene Addler. And Ms. Addler had called in a favour.

Ms. Addler's favours were not called in lightly, and were rarely pleasant.

The mere fact that she had called in a favour owed by Sherlock Holmes and John Watson themselves rather than hold it over their heads for an unspecified amount of time spoke eloquently of the lengths to which she was prepared to go in order to inflict a certain amount of...unpleasantness upon Lord Roland.

"Good evening, gentlemen," a cultured voice greeted the two of them as they reached the head table. "Allow me to welcome you to my estate." The voice belonged to a middle aged, slightly portly man. His paunch belied a figure that had been powerful in it's youth, but had succumbed to the ravages of age and rich foods. As it was, he was still an imposing figure.

"Lord Roland," Watson greeted respectfully, subtly elbowing Sherlock as he did so. Holmes inclined his head briefly, before returning his attention to the relief set in the wall behind the table.

"If you would like to take to your seats, I believe we are only waiting upon several more guests," Roland continued, dismissing 'Saakaar's' behaviour out of hand.

Watson murmured a quiet, "of course," before making his way to the remaining two seats at the table, Holmes following a moment after.

"Rather interesting artwork back there," Sherlock commented idly.

Watson raised an eyebrow, knowing that Holmes would continue without his input.

"Yes, Prometheus," Holmes stated. "An interesting theme for an English Lord." Then he chuckled, "but quite fitting when one considers the request by Ms. Addler."

Further conversation was cut short by the arrival of several more guests, leaving only a few places at the three long tables surrounding the clear dance floor.

"If you'll excuse me," Sherlock announced to Watson, "I feel a visit to the bathroom is in order before the meal begins."

"Don't be too long," Watson warned, noting the way that their sole neighbour, seated at the end of the table as they were, was listening intently to their conversation while trying to appear as if his interest was elsewhere.

Watson spent a number of minutes simply observing his surroundings, taking note of the other guests and their conversation. While everything he managed to overhear consisted of what could be expected at a typical high society gathering, something about the conversations of the eight men at the head table gave him pause. Their comments and topic were the same as their neighbours, but it was if they had no real interest in their talk, as if it were the precursor for something more. Pre-game banter, as it were.

"Miss me?" Holmes joked as he slid back into his seat. Watson hadn't even noticed his approach.

"Yes," Watson made a good attempt at a drawl under his breath. "I've been positively distraught in your absence."

Any response that might have been made by Sherlock was cut off as Lord Roland rose to his feet and rang his wine glass with a nearby fork. "As I believe all of our esteemed colleagues and guests have now arrived, I would like to say a few words before we begin tonight's meal." He cleared his throat before continuing on, "please enjoy yourselves, and remember, the main order of business tonight will commence after we have each partaken our fill, and as always, I would appreciate it if all topics concerning said business were left until that time."

Roland returned to his seat after a polite acknowledgement from the room at large, and without further command, waiters and serving men began to flood the room from several small doors that were decorated to blend in with the wall on either side of them, carrying steaming plates of meats and bread.

The meal passed in a flurry of chatter, during which Sherlock and Watson did their best to participate in. However, their minds were on other matters, namely the aforementioned 'business' to which Roland had alluded during his speech.

Despite having 'asked' the pair to attend the dinner in their current disguises, Irene Addler had given them scant other information—save for their instructions. Upon hearing what Irene wanted them to do, Sherlock would have gladly performed that task even without the debt of a favour purely for the enjoyment of orchestrating such an elaborate scheme.

After some time, the meal began to wind down, and the stream of food issuing from the kitchen began to slow. Lord Roland surveyed the room before him as the chatter died down, and attention turned to him with an expectant type of hunger.

"Before we being this evening's transactions," Roland smiled, "I would like to welcome two new members to our circle; Messrs Jatan Waman and Saakaar Himanshu."

A polite round of nodding followed.

"With these two new additions and their astute business acumen, we hope to be able to extend our activities to India, providing a more...exotic selection for our clients in the future."

Watson and Sherlock exchanged a glance at this. Irene had not deigned to inform them of what exactly Roland had done to irritate her to such a degree, only saying that their performance would run much more smoothly if they were to find out for themselves.

"And so without further adieu, let me present to you, ladies and gentlemen, tonight's selection!"

Holmes and Watson affixed polite smiles to their faces as they applauded along with the rest of the room. The smiles were discarded rapidly as 'tonight's selection' was paraded into the room.

A line of young women in clean white robes were shuffling in through the doors, their left wrists manacled and chained to the person in front and behind them, were being led in by a group of three men, men whom Watson recognised with a start as belonging to the gang that had abducted him only days earlier. Several of the young women had obviously been crying, and one had a red hand print displayed across her face.

For a brief moment, a look of absolute fury played across Sherlock's face, before quickly being schooled back into a polite, slightly interested mask.

"As usual, you will be given several minutes to peruse the merchandise before bid--"

Roland paused in his announcement and looked to his side as he was interrupted by a slight cough. Sherlock rose smoothly from his seat and stepped out from behind the table, moving to what he had originally thought to be a dance floor where he could be seen by all in the room.

"Terribly sorry to interrupt you, old boy," Sherlock began with a grin. "But there is something I would like to give you before we get down to business; a gift from a mutual friend."

Roland looked intrigued, and returned to his seat before he gestured for Sherlock—or Saakaar as he believed him to be—to continue. Watson left his seat to join his friend, bringing with him the bottle of wine that Sherlock had returned with after his trip to the 'bathroom'.

"As such, I would like to present to you this gift, and invite you to join me in a toast."

As Holmes spoke, Watson uncorked the bottle with a pop and poured three glasses; one for himself and Sherlock and one for Roland. After presenting Roland with his glass and Sherlock his, he waited for his partner to propose the toast.

"To enemies," Sherlock announced to the room at large. "Never turn your back on them until they're dead."

Watching the way Roland's sharp eyes followed himself and Holmes as they drank, Watson noted that he himself did not partake until his guests had done so.

"Ah," Roland stated as he swirled the rich red liquid around inside his glass, "a find drop."

Sherlock's grin became just a tad feral as he dropped the bomb. "Courtesy of Ms. Addler."

Roland began to choke violently, coughing out curse words as he did so. "Are you mad?" he demanded. "You drank from the bottle before I!"

"Why yes, so we did," Watson agreed.

"And that would be because the wine is not poisonous. Well, not on it's own, in any case." Sherlock finished.

There was a growing unrest in the room as the other guests watched the confrontation, yet none made any indication that they were leaving any time soon.

"Explain," Roland ordered.

"You recall that slightly bitter taste as you sampled the lamb?" Sherlock inquired.

"Yes," Roland answered immediately, thinking hard. "The chef overdid the lemon seasoning. I shall have words with him for that."

"No need," Watson told him cheerfully. "I'm afraid my dear friend here took the liberty of adding a dash of seasoning while the chef was distracted."

"Not to worry" Sherlock soothed the room at large, "there is nothing poisonous about my seasoning...unless you add it to a certain ingredient in the wine here."

"But you drank the wine and ate the meat!" Roland accused, knocking his chair back as he jumped to his feet once more.

"I'm afraid I didn't quite have the time to sample the lamb tonight," Sherlock stated with an air of sadness. "Did you find yourself with the opportunity, my friend?"

"'Fraid I didn't, old boy," Watson replied just as glumly. The effect was rather ruined by the satisfied smirks threatening to break out across his face.

Roland's eyes began to rove wildly as the beginnings of panic set in, before they settled on the men guarding the young women who had begun to feel the faint stirrings of hope. "You men! Seize them!"

The guards looked at each other for a moment, debating internally as to whether or not it was worth their while to get involved.

"Ten thousand pounds to the man who wrests the location of the antidote from them! Seize them!"

That settled it. The men began to advance on Sherlock and Watson, who despite having the animosity of the room at large focused on them, were looking supremely unconcerned. Watson gave Holmes a quick nod, before producing a revolver from within his jacket.

"One chance to stop what you're doing and flee," Sherlock warned.

The men continued to advance, disregarding the warning.

Watson promptly shot out the kneecap of the largest of the three.

The room watched in shock as the man dropped to the floor with a scream, holding his shattered knee.

"You can't say I didn't give the man fair warning," Sherlock excused himself as if his friend hadn't just shot a man in the middle of a dinner party. "Now, where was I...ah yes," he turned his harsh gaze to the sweating Lord Roland. "You will shut down your operation. You will release all the young women you are currently holding captive. You will never again participate in the trafficking of human beings."

"You've already killed me," Roland sneered. "Why shouldn't I keep this going, just to spite you?"

"Why...because I happen to have the antidote to the poison that is currently coursing through your veins on its way to your liver."

"My liver?" Roland was starting to look faintly sick.

"Yes, your liver," Sherlock mused. "Rather fascinating poison actually. Each day it will attack your liver, but your body will have enough strength to fight it off—at the start, at least. Your body will then spend the rest of the day recovering from the 'attack', only to be struck down once more after 24 hours. It's rather excruciating, or so I've been told."

"Give it to me," Roland demanded, a desperate look on his face.

Watson spoke up again, "ah ah ah. Remember the terms my colleague set out?"

"You can't expect me to do all that," Roland pleaded. "All of the people in this room are a part of it. Cut off the head and a new one will rise to take it's place!"

"Not if they know what's good for them," Sherlock spoke ominously.

The room was shocked; the leader of their 'business venture' had been neutralised and was now being blackmailed by two newcomers.

"All right," Roland caved, "I'll do as you say." He cleared his throat, "now where is the antidote?"

Watson and Holmes exchanged a brief look of satisfaction before answering. "The antidote will be provided once you've done as we say," Sherlock explained with a contemptuous look.

"Until then, you can enjoy the fear of inevitability that all of your...wares have experienced," Watson continued, placing his revolver back in it's holster. "We trust you are capable of returning these young women to their proper homes?"

Roland nodded, slumping forwards to rest his arms on the table before him. He could already feel a burning sensation near his gut.

Sherlock and Watson gave the room a mocking bow to the room before they turned and strode from the room, ignoring the bleeding man on the floor and leaving shocked silence in their wake. They exited the manor proper, Holmes giving the concierge a mocking wave as they passed, before making their way to the waiting carriage.

Without pause or consideration for the state they had left Lord Roland in, the two hopped up into the carriage and took their seats, where they immediately began to divest themselves of the facial hair and putty that adjusted their facial features to validate their disguises. The removal of their disguises was completed as they each used a handkerchief to remove the make up that so effectively adjusted their skin tone.

"Did it work?"

Sherlock sighed, taking a sip of the water provided. "Yes," he answered, "we pulled it off. No problems or unexpected occurrences."

There was silence for a moment longer, before Watson spoke up. "I've been dying to know. A poison like this, especially one that utilises a two part formula designed to stay in his system for a month, shouldn't be reactive to any antidote after that duration."

"My my, you do know your trade, don't you Doctor Watson?" Irene came very close to purring.

"There isn't an antidote," Sherlock stated calmly.

"No, there isn't," Irene revealed. She regarded him for a moment. "After what you saw during the festivities, does that bother you?"

Watson and Holmes exchanged a single glance before Sherlock made his reply.

"No. No, I can honestly say I couldn't care less."