Track: Cell Block Tango.

Artist: Various Artists.

Album: Chicago Soundtrack (2002 Film)

YouTube Link: .com/watch?v=joZb3so4tww

WARNING: Mystrade, and suggested pre-slash Sherlock/John. I think that's it. OH. And all the descriptions of murders, except Sherlock's, are part of the song, just FYI :D

Sherlock wasn't used to being the one behind bars. It was his job to put people in prison, not himself. It wasn't that Sherlock didn't commit crimes, he frequently broke into houses, stole people's personal possessions and, occasionally, burned down buildings- some times deliberately, sometimes accidentally. But Sherlock was never the type to get caught, he was far too intelligent.

Which is why it wouldn't surprise you to realise that Sherlock was undercover for a case- he needed to find out how heroin was being sold within a prison- but whereabouts in this prison might.

When John saw him walk downstairs in an orange jumpsuit, lipstick and mascara, he'd made a rather undignified noise, somewhere between a laugh and a splutter. It sounded rather like a small animal being trodden on.

"Don't stare," Sherlock said coolly to him, taking a sip of his tea. "It's unbecoming of you."

"Sherlock," John said, a giggle barely suppressed in his voice. "You're wearing makeup."

"A startling deduction," he replied, glancing at the paper on the kitchen table.

"You never told me you had to be in drag for this!" John laughed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't, I just dress like this when I visit prisons," he said, words dripping with sarcasm. "Please."

John glanced at a box that Sherlock had placed on a chair beside him. "What's in there?"

"Oh, nothing much really. My fake possessions, some shoes, a wig for me to wear…"

"You bought a wig?"

"I already had the wig."

John widened his eyes, his eyebrows raised. "You already had a wig?"

Sherlock gave him a half smile. "This isn't my first time in drag, John." He went to his room, leaving John blushing like a school girl and indecently wondering what Sherlock had looked like in something more flattering than an orange jumpsuit.

"Ready?" said Lestrade, patting him on the shoulder.

"As I'll ever be."

They walked down the long corridor, Sherlock cuffed, looking for his cell.

"Nice wig," Lestrade murmured, failing in hiding his grin. "You make a charming woman."

"Would it surprise you if I said that wasn't the first time I'd heard that?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Not in the slightest."

Sherlock smiled. "I believe this is my stop. I'll see you later."

Lestrade gave him a curt nod before unlocking the cell and ushering him inside. He quickly locked the door behind him, leaving Sherlock alone.

He stared at the blank walls, so uninviting and cold. He sat down on the bed, searching through his box to find his fake property. He placed a few books he had been given by his bedside- Sherlock frowned at the choices made by Lestrade. A Mills and Boon esque novel, a science fiction book and a series of short stories about a fictional detective. He found the last particularly insulting- he despised crime fiction.

There were a couple of photographs placed within, and he frowned at these too. Lestrade had clearly thought that giving him personal photographs might help him a little. There was one of him and Mrs Hudson, another of Mycroft, and several of him and John at a party a few months ago.

"Very funny," Sherlock muttered, scowling at the pictures. "How bloody hilarious."

He sat down at an empty table in the canteen, half heartedly prodding at some disgusting looking food. Starving children would refuse to eat this crap. He sighed, taking a sip from his cup of water, attempting to think.

A tall woman with her hair in a dark bob sat down beside her, smiling. "Hey, you're new, right?"

"Yes," he said, cursing his naturally low voice. "I am."

"Ah. Well, welcome to Whiteleaf prison. I'm Velma." She turned to a table of women, who had been observing their conversation. "Girls," she called. "Come sit by my friend- what was it?"

He paused for the briefest of moments. "Abby."

She smiled again as the other girls sat down. Together they made seven, Velma sitting at the end of the table, a sort of mother figure for them all.

"This is June, Liz, Mona, Annie and Katalin," they each waved at her in turn, Katalin a little sadly. "This is Abby."

Sherlock gave them a weak smile. "Hi."

"So Abby," said Velma, pushing her food around her plate. "What did you do to get locked up in here?"

"I…" Sherlock thought madly. "I killed someone."

All the girls except Katalin laughed. "We've all killed someone honey," said June. "That's why they call it 'Murderer's Row'. We just wanted to know the specifics, is all."

"Come on," said Liz. "Give her a break. It's her first day, someone else say their story first."

"Alright then," said Mona. "Why don't you do it?"

"Fine," Liz replied. "I will." She cleared her throat. "You know how people have these little habits that get you down? Like… Ernie." She grinned. "Ernie liked to chew gum. No, not chew," She picked up her knife and looked at her own reflection in its surface. "Pop. Well, I came home this one day, and I am really irritated, and looking for a little sympathy… And there's Ernie, lying on the sofa, drinking a beer and chewing. No, not chewing," She slammed the knife down flat onto the table. "Popping. So I said to him, I said, 'If you pop that gum one more time'… and he did. So I took his shotgun, and I fired two warning shots," She smirked. "Into his head."

Sherlock joined in with the laughter, secretly sickened at her throw away attitude to her crime.

Liz chuckled. "You next, Annie."

Annie put down the glass she was holding and smiled dreamily. "I met Ezekiel Young about two years ago, and he told me he was single, and we hit it off right away. So we started living together. He'd go to work, he'd come home, I'd mix him a drink. We'd have dinner." Her smile ended abruptly. "And then I found out. 'Single', he told me? Single my ass. Not only was he married, oh no, he had six wives. One of those 'polygamists', you know? So that night, when he came home, I mixed him his drink as usual." She threw back the remains of her drink, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. "You know, some guys just can't hold their arsenic."

Was this what they did with their time, Sherlock thought, tell stories? It was interesting, yes, but it felt a little sick. And when Sherlock found something sick, you knew it had to be wrong- he had a very strange moral compass.

"Me next," said June, turning to look at Sherlock. "Now, I'm standing in the kitchen, carving up a chicken for dinner, minding my own business, and in storms my husband Wilbur in a jealous rage. 'You been screwing the milkman?' he said. He was crazy, and he kept screaming, 'You been screwing the milkman?'" Her eyes gleamed. "And then he ran into my knife. He ran into my knife ten times."

It seemed like an ordinary conversation, the way that they were joking around. The only one who didn't laugh was Katalin.

"Mona, why don't you go before me?" said Velma. "I'd love to hear the story again."

"I loved Al Lipschitz more than I can possibly say. He was a real artistic guy, sensitive, a painter. But he was always trying to 'find himself'. He'd go out every night 'looking for himself', and on the way, he found Ruth, Gemma, Rose and Iris." She sighed. "I guess you could say we broke up because of 'artistic differences'. He saw himself as alive, and I saw him dead."

"My sister Veronica and I did this double act," said Velma, in an offhand fashion. "And my husband Charlie used to travel around with us. Now, for the last number in our act, we did these twenty acrobatic tricks- four, five, splits, spread eagles, back flips, flip flops, one right after the other. Well, this one night, we were in this hotel Cisero, the three of us boozing, having a few laughs, and we ran out of ice. So I go out to get some. I come back, and there's Veronica and Charlie doing number seventeen- the spread eagle." No-one laughed at this, her face showed that she still felt hurt and angry. She composed herself. "Well, I was in such a state of shock, I completely blacked out. I can't remember a thing. It wasn't until later, when I was washing the blood off my hands, I even knew they were dead."

A few nervous chuckles travelled around the group, but no more. Sherlock found his mouth suddenly dry, a little disgusted by their conversations.

"So," said Velma. "Tell us what happened with you…"

Sherlock swallowed hard. "I… I have a flatmate- had a flatmate, I should say. His name is John. John Watson… He's a doctor. And I found his girlfriend was cheating on him- Sarah, was her name. She was a doctor too." Sherlock paused. It was harmless. It wasn't like he was actually going to kill her. "She was with loads of people- a Gregory, an Andrew, a Toby, even this one girl called… Sally." Sherlock smirked. "She was a piece of work. So I gave her a little… medicine. You know, you'd think that a doctor wouldn't be squeamish at the sight of blood, wouldn't you? Not so true with her."

Velma laughed. "Very nice. This John guy seems cute. Sounds like the bitch deserved it."

"Yeah…" Sherlock sighed. "But- Don't you ever feel a bit- you know, guilty? Like, Mona, you loved Al… Don't you feel bad?"

Mona laughed. "Why would I? The bastard had it coming."

"You weren't there," said June. "You would have done the same."

"I suppose…" said Sherlock weakly. "So, er, Katalin- what did you do?"

She looked up at the use of her name, but said nothing.

"Ignore her," said Liz. "She can't speak English very well."

"Hungarian," said Annie. "Killed her husband."

"No!" said Katalin, indignantly. "Not guilty!"

Sherlock looked her in the eye. "You promise?"

She nodded. "Not guilty!"

Sherlock stood up. "I'm going to get back to my cell. Thanks for sitting with me."

"Not a problem," said Velma. "Just make sure you stick with us, honey. We're the good guys."

Sherlock did solve the case, around two hours after he had finished his conversation with the other inmates- the woman who ran the prison, known as 'Mama' Morton, was smuggling in the drugs in return for sexual favours. It had, overall, been an open and shut case. Still, it didn't stop the other officers sniggering at him for his disguise.

"I heard about your outfit, Sherlock," said Sally, smirking. "Never knew you were into that kind of thing."

"Oh Sally," Sherlock said curtly. "I'm 'into' a great deal of things that you're not aware of."

Having sufficiently freaked out Sergeant Donovan, he met with Lestrade in his office.

"Here," he threw down the box of books and belongings. "You can have these back. And that damn photo of Mycroft too- is that from your own collection, Gregory?"

Lestrade blushed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Please. A three year old could see that you're shagging my brother, detective, which incidentally is the average mental age of the people you employ."

"You're keeping the ones of you and John, then?" said Lestrade, a little tetchily.

Sherlock smiled. "I want you to reopen the case of Katalin Helinski- I am almost certain she's innocent."

"This is unlike you," he replied. "You're not the type to 'reopen' cases."

"Well, I've had a very long and unusual day. And if you don't mind, I'll be at home, resting." And with a swish of his coat, he was gone.

He returned to 221B Baker Street as quickly as he could, where he found John reading the paper.

"You're back soon- it didn't even take you a day!" John beamed at him, looking impressed. He glanced at Sherlock's attire, and sighed exasperatedly. "Tell me you didn't wear that at the police station?"

"No."

John looked relieved. "Good- Wait, then why-"

"I put this on for you."

John choked, spilling tea down himself. "I- What?"

He winked, walking into his own bedroom, revealing some very high heels and very long legs. John bit his lip. God damn that man.