Chapter 2: The Game Is On

I was sleep deprived when I agreed to this ridiculous game, and now, while I'm waiting for the text telling me when and where, I'm having fifteenth thoughts on this one. She already humiliated me just by being in the same room and treating me like an old friend of the family ... what she could do with a little forward planning and my cooperation didn't bear thinking about.

And then it came at exactly 5.45pm that Thursday night as she'd said:

yr good jeans, yr Loake shoes, shirt - none of those checked things please - t-shirt fine, no tie - await instructions - XX

And then we were on ... The phone bleeped again the moment I'd changed. I got the uncomfortable feeling of being watched and even checked what Sherlock was doing, but found him pouring over papers on his desk, oblivious to anything going on outside his head.

POST CODE 7pm

It was like working for MI5 - or what I think it would be like working for MI5 - though I have to say that Mycroft sends a car, so maybe so would they ...

So there I was, standing on a street in the middle of a London high street, feeling like a complete twot when she walks up, takes my arm, like the most natural thing in the world, and leads me into a very ordinary London pub. So what's the catch! I have to start a pub brawl? Take on armed gunmen? ... Do a striptease! Oh good grief, no, not the last of those, please no, ...

Ok, John, I've heard you hum, so here it is - your challenge." ... She handed me a 'menu' with a list of songs ... oh my good grief and I thought taking my kit off was bad! ... And enjoying my discomfort. "There's a word for what you're doing", I said with a mouth as dry as a small desert. "Schadenfreude!"

She was still grinning.

"In the spirit of the game, I'll go easy and take a turn first. I'm not entirely merciless, John."

How exactly was that going to help! I'd heard her sing and she didn't sound anything like a crow or a startled goose even. Oh my good grief!

I have a picture perfect memory what happened next. She got up and held the room for the duration, I'm not sure I breathed the whole time she was up there. She was stunning - the sway of her hips mesmerizing - and I forgot for a moment that I'd be next. She got me to breath before going up, handed me a glass of dutch courage, which I downed in one, and then it went reasonably well considering. People laughed, but I'd like to think that they laughed with me ... at least by the end when I'd started to enjoy it a little ... must have been having a good time - I found I was dancing - ok, that wouldn't get by the trades description act, but I was moving roughly with the music!

And then we were looking again at the 'menu' and holding onto each other laughing at the possibilities. It wasn't a busy night and we could have taken over the mic the entire evening, once the party of gigglers on a Hen Night had left - who she made me sing with incidentally - but I believe that between us we did: two ballads, three miscellaneous love songs, something very grungy and a comedy duet before she made a short announcement while we were both up at the mic ...

"This one's for our good friend Sherlock - stand up and take a bow, Sherlock!" And then the slightly sleazy looking old man who'd been sitting in a darkened corner, nursing the same half pint all night stood up, raised his peeked hat and took an exaggeratedly elegant bow! "John, close your mouth - if I'd wanted to be particularly cruel, I'd have pointed him out before you got up here ..."

And then she was singing - I thought I'd recognised the long sax intro, but it still made me smile when she sang the lyrics 'Baker Street' ... oh very droll! We took the verses in turn and everyone in the room joined in the chorus - Sherlock excepted of course, though he didn't leave I notice!

Sherlock decided to join us when told we were going to "Mrs Wong's" afterwards - I had visions of brothels or at least a strip club which was making me feel very uncomfortable. I had a strong feeling that Sherlock's enthusiasm was at least partly related to whatever humiliation was coming next - sometimes his motivation is plain enough even to me.

Mrs Wong turned out to be a lecherous old Chinese friend of hers who might have been 97 or 137 depending on which calendar you went by or something. Mrs Wong did a lot of smiling and chatting away in Hakka apparently - which both my companions appear to speak fluently - while gesturing towards me. I got her to translate much of what was said, but still had the strong impression that there was some censoring going on and that some of the content was missed all together. Apparently I have a 'nice bum' and Mrs Wong would like me to 'sit on her knee' while we ate. Sherlock was severely reprimanded for trying to provide alternative translations - but I think on balance I'd rather not know.

Mrs Wong served us something undetermined in a large soup tureen, which she was very insistent that I ate saying I was too skinny. I'd swear I saw chicken legs and a few large eyes in there. But the worst part was X laughing as if her sides would split when she told me that it was all vegan and that the 'legs' were rubber from a joke shop that Mrs Wong had added as an extra when she'd heard I was on a 'dare'.

I'd get her next, I thought, as I considered what I could do to, if not exactly shock her, bring her up short a little. Far too blinking cocky, Missy!