A/N: The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade

Today's the day. Thursday. Man, I'm starting to stress about it. "Why, Greg! What on earth could have you stressed?" one might ask. Well, let me tell you, I've got a lot to worry bout. Mostly, I'm worried I might spoil this whole thing. I mean, I'm probably one of the more well-known Detective Inspectors in the London area. Been in the media quite a few times. Someone in that gang might recognise me.

Also, we're going to a night club. I don't do night clubs. Not normally, anyway. I'd probably be one of the more awkward souls at that thing. Further, going to one of those places usually involves being good-looking. Now, not to sound narcissistic, but I do look fairly well for my age. Even so, I'm greying. I've got some wrinkles here and there. My metabolism's gone straight to Hell. I don't look as fit as I used to. Hell, with all the long-night cases I get on a fairly regular basis, I look tired. Hardly all that appealing for a night club.

Still, Sherlock must think I have some potential. Otherwise he wouldn't have asked me to come, right? Don't remember what time he wants me to pop over, though. Better text him.

What time am I supposed to head over again? G. Lestrade

I plunk down in an old armchair in my sitting room. I take in a deep breath... and immediately regret it. In reflex, I pinch my nose shut. God, my flat's really turned into a bachelor pad. ...Or a man-cave. Either way, I need to attack this chair with some sort of air freshener/fabric cleaner thing. Or, I could actually get up off my lazy arse and go and buy a new chair. Damn well overdue for a new one. It's coming apart at the seams. I mean, I've had it since I moved into this place years ago. It's got stains and worn spots and-

My phone goes off. I snatch it up from the coffee table.

6 sharp, chap. Don't forget! MC

...'MC'? 'Chap?' I clap a hand over my eyes and run it down my face with an exasperated sigh.

"...Oh, boy."

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

Sherlock's dyed his hair again, remembering his eyebrows this time. He even got the bluer contacts I recommended the other day. He's holding him self a little more aloofly (if that's even a word). He's even changed his speech patterns. He's really become a different person. Just like with the old man, if I didn't know it was him already, I probably wouldn't have recognised him.

"Sherlock?" I call. He doesn't turn around. Oh, that's right. Even changed his name. I clear my throat. "Mike?"

"Yes? What? Something the matter?" he asks, posh-sounding as ever.

"When are we going out?" I ask.

"To the club? Oh, about 6:30 is when we'll leave. We'll get there before seven. I just texted Lestrade, let him know to come by six."

"Ah. Hey, is that a new phone?" I notice that there's a red phone on his desk.

"Yep. Mycroft gave it to me when I was dead. Different number and everything. Good for undercover stuff, yeah?" he reasons. I nod. Makes sense. After all, he left his real phone with me.

"So, when do you want me to send for the sitter?"

"Text Rhonda at about 6:20, 6:25. She only takes about five, ten minutes to get here, right?"

"Rebecca. And, yeah, something like that." It's really weird having Sherlock being Mike Cabin. I mean, I obviously know that it's really Sherlock under all that hair product. It's just... weird.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes (In the Guise of Michael Cabin)

Hmm.. John's been staring at me oddly all day. He's probably been thinking too hard, trying to process the differences between Cabin and Holmes. I am grateful to him for the tip about the eyebrows and eyes. Very helpful. Now, before we head out in about forty-five minutes, I need to make sure about our attire... make sure I stand out to the League to get their attention as a potential member.

I head into my room, careful to step over any discarded research tomes, science equipment, papers, and socks, and begin to peruse through my closet.

Light blue? Might bring out the eye colour, but blue is a more innocent colour. Also close to the colour of a police box. Not good for a potential gang member.

Purple? No, I wear that one too much as it is.

Grey? I want to stand out, not blend in. Plus, I think I need to take it out a bit. The buttons are a bit tight.

...What the- Yellow? Good god, I still have this wretched thing? Mycroft, if you planted this in here while I was away, I swear...

Hmm... this maroon looks nice. Should work, since red is their signature colour, and all.

Though, this yellow-green is good, as well. Don't think it's for me, though.

"John? What are you wearing?" I call. It takes him a few seconds to reply. Did I say something wrong?

"Um... a sort of blue-greyish jumper... jeans... um... argyle socks?"

"No, no, to the club. What are you wearing to the club?"

"Oh! Sorry. Ah... A dress shirt and some black trousers."

"Good. Do get dressed, ol' chap. Want to make sure we leave at the right time. 'Sides, Lestrade'll be here any minute. Hurry on!" I tell him, trying to recall some of the company I kept back at Uni. It's not enjoyable by any stretch of the word, and it's a bit fuzzy, but it's necessary. I would assume John's gone to do so since I hear his footsteps going up to his room.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade

"Heading out to a do or somethin'?" the cabbie asks me. I can see why. I'm all dressed up just like Sherlock told me. Look like I'm going for a night out, and wearing teal. Even brought the extra jacket like he asked.

"Sort of," I reply. After my first case meeting John, I'm a little leery of some cabbies. But this one seems nice enough.

"Got a date?"

"Trying to make one once I'm there," I say. Which, while not the point of this little venture, it would be a nice bonus. And even if I don't get any numbers or anything, if I can at least turn some ladies' heads (in a good way) I'll call it a good night.

"Ah. Well, best a luck to ya, then," he offers as he pulls up to 221b.

"Thanks," I reply and give him his pay. I then hop out of the car and knock on the front door. I'm greeted by their landlady, Mrs... Hastings, was it?

"Evening, Detective Inspector. The boys are upstairs. Though, I ought to warn you: Sherlock's a completely different person tonight!" she tells me.

"I don't doubt it, ma'am," I answer stepping into the flat.

"Mrs Hudson! Is that Lestrade?" I hear Sherlock call from upstairs. Right. Hudson. I knew that.

"Yes it is. I'm sending him up to you," she calls back. "Go on ahead."

"Thank you." I walk up the familiar steps. Wonder how many there are? Maybe I'll count them at some point.

"Seventeen," Sherlock says.

"What?"

"There are seventeen steps from the front door to here. You came up rather slowly compared to your usual step pattern, so you were taking care as to how you stepped. Since you hadn't injured yourself, given how your footsteps were the same volume as usual, I knew you were pondering counting the steps. So, I tell you that there are seventeen," he explains in his usual baritone.

"Course. So, what's the pla- Good Lord in Heaven! Your hair!" It's an alarming shade of red. I mean, it looks natural, but weird at the same time.

"You don't like it?"

"I mean, you did a good job with it. Definitely not something you'd normally do. Even styled it different. Looks shorter. Did you cut it, too?"

"No, no, just styled it. Borrowed some of John's hair product."

"Did he appreciate that?"

"Don't worry, Lestrade, I gave him explicit permission," John answers, stepping into the room from upstairs, which I gather is where his room is. "Oh, and I've texted the babysitter."

"Good. Unlike those trousers." And Sherlock has the serve.

"What's wrong with my trousers?"

"They're jeans."

"Black jeans."

"They're still jeans, John!"

"It's either A) I wear my dress uniform which will probably attract more attention than necessary, B) these jeans which actually look semi presentable, or C) no trousers at all which will undoubtedly attract more attention than necessary."

"What about the ones you wore for your wedding?"

"You mean the ones I also wore to her funeral two months ago? And have me turn into a puddle of tears and have us leave an hour later than anticipated? No thanks."

Silence. Ball goes out of the court.

"Sorry."

"No, no, it's fine." John gets the point.

"Right. Your jeans will be fine. Now, about your shirt..." Sherlock serves again.

"What's the matter with my shirt?"

"Wrong colour." Hits the net, since he's lost me. He goes into where I assume is his room and grabs a green shirt and tosses it at John. Serves again. "This will do you nicely, John."

"Green?"

"Yellow-green, John. If I am wearing this red shirt and Lestrade is wearing blue-green, you'll wear yellow-green." I think Sherlock gets this point.

"Those actually go together?" I interject. "Crazy."

"Complimentary, my dear inspector," he replies.

"Right. Colour theory. Never knew you took an art class," John admits.

"I didn't. Found some of your old notes on it."

"And now you're rifling through my old papers. Of course." Since I get the feeling this is about to escalate, I decide to call the game.

"While this is a lovely discussion we're having, maybe we ought to actually get an idea on what exactly we're doing this evening, eh?" I offer. The two flatmates exchange a look of agreement and nod to me. "So, Sherlock? What's the plan?"

"That's not my name," Not-Sherlock tells me with a more posh tone.

"Okay, gimme. What is it?" He holds out his hand to me.

"Hi, I'm Mike Cabin. Pleasure to make your acquaintance," he says.

Well, this is going to be an interesting evening.