For any hardcore Sherlock fans out there, please remember that this story is based almost entirely off of Guy Ritchie's version. When I say "Sherlock", I see RDJ. When I say "Watson", I see Jude Law.

III

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The Wages of Sin

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The third time Watson was unable to pay the rent, Holmes had merely tsked his disapproval and informed the doctor that he would be making it up to him, one way or another. Though the detective hadn't denoted a particular time or place, nor had he exacted the conditions of this payment in a timely manner, Watson was still left with the bitter taste of foreboding that settled in his stomach and rose up in his mouth.

Nothing good would come of this.

He toughed it out, though, and the sense of nervousness was enough to keep him wary of casting his lots for a whimsical care. Every time he passed by an upturned barrel surrounded by a group of rough men playing a game of craps, he had to swallow thickly and force his feet to keep moving. If a third instance of losing the rent instigated an ambiguous payment, he could only wonder what a fourth instance would provoke.

One week passed, then two. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred, and so Watson was nearly able to completely forget the condescending threat.

Looking back, he supposed that had perhaps been the intention all along.

The doctor was working in his study, had been for the extent of the day, and was just settling back into his desk chair after taking a brief moment to stretch his arms and circle once around the room. The light was fading and soon he would have to light a lamp to continue with his work. He had spent the entire day organizing his notes, filing his clients into a nice, neat little stack which was then carefully sectioned off to a corner of the desk. He was at the threshold of completion when a knock on his door broke his concentration and nearly made him jump.

Without waiting for an answer, the intruder pushed open the heavy mahogany wood and sauntered inside the relative sanctity of his private room without a word of salutation.

"You say you're a doctor?" asked Holmes as he leaned against the wall and spared a moment to light his pipe.

"And greetings to you, as well," bit out Watson, his voice too shocked to be indignant.

"'Hello' is for the man incapable of striking up conversation without the tertiary form so ingrained into his perspicuous mind, or for the person whose intelligence is set to abound on plains of familiarity. I have neither the time nor the mental insecurity to bother with the word."

"Yet you seem perfectly capable of bothering to explain this to me."

Holmes gave a little smile, then puffed out a breath of pipe smoke.

"Are you, or are you not, a doctor? If you've been pretending this entire time, I will try not to hold it against you."

Defeated, Watson lifted up from his seat with a sigh.

"Yes. I'll show you my degree if I must prove it to you."

Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal.

"We are both respectable men who happen to occupy the same living space. There is some measure of trust between us."

The doctor snorted at that, not bothering to hide the exasperated smile that danced across his lips.

"What have you need for?"

"A certain corpse has come into my possession which holds an abundance of secrets locked within its unmoving form, and I've come to realize that the only key available to me is tucked safely away within the folds of a doctor's coat."

Watson paused, licked his lips because they had suddenly become very dry, then cleared his throat and pressed onward in as formal a manner as he could manage.

"... Before I ask how you've acquired this dead body, I must make it known that my services are not for free."

"Do this for me, and consider your debt lifted."

The week of rent he had wasted away on a fanciful card game. Right.

"Where is it?"

"In my study," Holmes beamed, then flit out of the room without another word. Watson followed closely behind.

TBC