"What's my name again?"
"Henry Farthing, do try to keep up," said Sherlock. He adjusted his hat (which was not a deer stalker, thank you very much) in the reflection on the window looking out of the sleek black vehicle.
"Got it, Horatio Shelton," John returned from the driver's seat. "Why did you get to choose? I'm perfectly capable of picking my own name."
Sherlock sighed. "You would have picked 'James Bond' or something equally transparent."
John gave him the eye through the rear view mirror. "Excuse me? You weren't creative enough to even change your initials."
"I switched the order," Sherlock protested.
John scoffed. "You couldn't resist a posh name like 'Horatio' either."
"Shut up, Mr. Farthing, if you please," Sherlock cut him off. He had already slipped into his faux accent. "Our suspect is here." He gave a final tug to the hat hiding his signature dark curls and stepped out before John had brought the car to a complete stop.
"Odessa!" Sherlock warmly greeted a proper-looking lady on the corner. She was wrapped in an expensive fur shawl that was out of place with her short pencil skirt.
"Horatio, do try to be subtle!" she scolded, glancing apprehensively at people passing on either side. The streets had cleared enough after dark for anything spoken to be easily overheard.
"Oh but I've been dying to see you," Sherlock's voice dripped with dishonesty in John's ears, to the point where he had to turn away to hide his amusement, but to anyone else his charade was perfect.
Odessa rolled her eyes and slid into the car when Sherlock opened the door for her. "Hello, driver," she said blandly. Apparently John's cover name didn't matter much after all.
Sherlock got in on the other side and John pulled back into traffic.
"Let's get right to it, then," Odessa removed her gloves and tucked them into her purse. "Do you have it?"
"On to business so soon?" Sherlock pouted.
"I must insist," Odessa said firmly. "I haven't much time to spare."
"Of course, of course," Sherlock produced an envelope from a compartment concealed in the seat between them. Odessa snatched it and gingerly broke the seal to check its contents.
"Is everything in order?" Sherlock asked, eyebrow raised.
"Yes, quite." She appeared dissatisfied despite her words.
"And your end of the deal?" Sherlock prompted. "As long as we're strictly on business."
"Of course," Odessa sat back in her seat, all her worry leaving her. "I assume your driver is already taking us there."
John had a moment of panic. He thought that he was only meant to drive around aimlessly until Sherlock had gotten his information.
"Yes, yes," Sherlock waved a hand at nothing, the action drawing the suspect's attention away from John. "He's been to Harper Street countless times."
Odessa was clearly impressed. "So you are part if the order."
"I'm offended that you haven't noticed me before," Sherlock replied lightheartedly.
"I do apologize, but you must understand what little trust I put in those I have only met through correspondence."
"A precaution we all must take," Sherlock agreed.
It didn't take long for John to navigate his way to the order's base. Lestrade's men were already there waiting for them.
"What's this?!" Odessa asked in a shrill tone. The blue flashing of police lights did not suit her at all.
"I would say that I'm terribly sorry, but I've done enough lying for one evening," Sherlock said, dropping his accent. "You really shouldn't put such trust in people you meet on the Internet, Miss Odessa Worthington. Also, your application process for hired help is quite lacking, the servant girl you hired-"
"She betrayed me?!" Odessa shrieked.
"Oh no, you betrayed yourself. I was merely suggesting that you could find a much better launder if you didn't require them to have the same shoe size as yourself."
"I don't understand."
"You wouldn't. Ta," he waved apathetically as Lestrade hand cuffed her and led her to a police car.
Sherlock explained on their way to return the car.
"She thought she was being clever," he said from the passenger seat. His hat was abandoned in the back along with his disguise personality. "On nights that she went to the order, a presumptuous name for a first tier drug ring, she wore her maid's shoes. She thought it was the only characteristic that could be gained from the evidence she left on Harper Street."
"We didn't know the trade was on Harper Street," John pointed out.
"We didn't, until she appeared before us tonight in that hideous fur. The dust on it was a distinctive color, a tan that is only found in that area of London. Also, there was a patch that was damaged on her right shoulder and upper back from turning in a confined space. The space could only be a narrow ally between the shoe shop and library on Harper Street. It is constructed of tan brick and covered from the rain and therefore prone to be dusty."
"And when you said that, she assumed you were part of the drug ring because you knew where their base of operations was," John nodded in understanding.
"Precisely," Sherlock continued. "Her acceptance of the envelope of product was incriminating enough as to her connection with the ring, especially as a supplier and not a consumer."
"But she looked disappointed in it."
"Yes," Sherlock grinned. "The amount was lacking, by her standards, but she didn't complain because she was on her way to making an even bigger deal once she was done with us."
"Have you told Lestrade?" John questioned.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It was all in the text."
"And what was the deal?" John asked, keeping his eyes on the road.
"It was all in the gloves," said Sherlock. "They hadn't been worn in and wouldn't have fit if they were. The receipt was in her purse."
"So...?" John glanced over at him when the light was red.
"She was planning on returning them, John, I thought it would be obvious."
"Gloves, Sherlock?" John was incredulous. "The woman runs a drug ring and she is more interested in gloves?"
"They were expensive gloves, John," he said. "Not hers, sister's maybe? Left behind, a mix up in the laundry is possible, worth nearly ten thousand pounds."
John's eyebrows shot up. "Ten thousand?"
"I'm as shocked as you are, they were quite hideous-"
"Blimey, ten thousand-"
"The shop that sold them closes in less than half an hour, which explains her hurry."
"There's one more thing I don't understand-"
"I doubt it's just one, John."
"Shut up," said John. Then, "Why the jumper?"
Sherlock stiffened. "I needed her to trust me."
"And people trust people in jumpers?"
"People trust you."
John didn't know what to do with that statement.
((I'm not a fan of PWP, and now that the plot's over with... -author's note))
