Sherlock scanned the room. None of the women fit. There were a few who were close, but each one was just a bit off. Right weight, wrong height. Right height, wrong weight. Right height, right weight, wrong age.

He glanced at Ms. Tyler, who was also taking in the room, but he knew if he wasn't so adapt at reading people he might mistake her demeanor as that of a woman looking for a bit of company and not a woman hunting for a serial killer. That was a ruse, of course, on her part. She was good.

Her eyes stopped roving and she sat up a bit, telling him she honed in on a possible suspect. He followed her gaze. The woman was in her early twenties, red dress, black heels, six inch. He watched the woman weave her way around the club, eyes wondering over every man in sight. Ms. Tyler must have taken her actions as that of a serial killer looking for her next victim. He could see that the woman had an entirely different motivation.

"That's not our killer," he said.

Ms. Tyler glanced at him, raising her brow.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

He gave her the same don't be an idiot look he usually reserved for John. She smiled. Wait. Why would she smile? No one ever smiled when he gave them that look, granted the one he gave John was less intense because he didn't actually think of his friend as an idiot, at least, not like the others, but still smiling was…well, why would she do that?

"Go on then," she said in that same coaxing manner she'd used earlier.

"You…" he began, but his voice came out just above a whisper. He cleared his throat, focusing his attention on her suspect. "You believe she's searching the room for her next victim, but you're wrong."

"Who's she looking for then?"

"Watch," he said, nodding at the woman who was crossing the room, eyes locked on a man at the far end of the room.

The man, middle aged, blonde, beard, white suit, pale blue shirt, sat at a table chatting with a ginger woman wearing far too much make-up and far too little dress. The man got to his feet as soon as he noticed the other woman. She stalked across the room and slapped him before he could open his mouth. The red-head stood up and began arguing with the woman.

"How did you know?" Ms. Tyler asked.

He glanced at her.

"It was obvious."

She smiled. That smile. The one she'd given him in the coat closet and caused every thought in his mind to flee in its wake. He planned on going over the details he observed, but, at that moment, his mind couldn't latch onto a single one.

"Did it hurt?" A man asked, interrupting them.

Sherlock eyed the bloke who had drawn up in front of Ms. Tyler while they spoke. Dress shirt, early twenties, worked in an office, menial salary, idiotic grin plastered on his face as his eyes wondered from Ms. Tyler's face to her…Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Sorry?" she asked, as if she was taken a bit off guard by the man's strange question.

"When you fell from heaven?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, letting out a distasteful sigh.

"Idiot," he scoffed.

Ms. Tyler shot him a glare and then turned her attention back to the…idiot.

"You're sweet," she said, laughing, but not at the idiot.

Wait. What? Sherlock eyed her. Why was she laughing at the man's moronic attempt to pick her up? She was clever, more than clever. Far out of this idiot's league.

"Buy you a drink?" the idiot asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"That would be nice, but, actually I'm with someone so-"

Yes. Precisely. Sherlock picked up his drink and eyed the idiot.

"Why don't you sod off back to your table of meagerly paid office workers barely out of their parents flats," Sherlock finished, shooting the man a smile.

"Sherlock," Ms. Tyler snapped.

"Look here," the idiot growled.

The detective shrugged, taking a sip of his bourbon.

"I'm sorry," she began, talking to the idiot.

"I'm not," Sherlock replied.

Ms. Tyler opened her mouth, eyeing the detective, most likely to tell him off if her body language was any indication, but he noted the way the man's muscles in his right arm tensed and set his drink down. When the bloke swung at him he easily caught the man's wrist. The detective twisted the man's arm behind his back as he stood up and then gave him a firm shove toward the table.

The idiot turned around, shooting the detective a glare as he rubbed his sore wrist. Sherlock picked up his drink and gave the man another smile as he lifted it slightly and then took a sip as the idiot crossed the room back to the table of other idiots.

"Brilliant job of blending in," Ms. Tyler snapped.

He glanced at her.

"Sorry?" he asked.

"We're supposed to be trying to find a serial killer without being noticed and now half the club's looking at us."

He glanced around the room. Seven people were looking at them. It was hardly half the club.

"I believe you're overreacting."

"I'm overreacting? What the hell was all that about anyway?"

He glanced at her. What did she mean by that? The man was distracting them from their search. He was simply getting rid of the distraction.

"As you said, we're searching out a serial killer," he replied.

"He was harmless," she argued.

"He was a distraction."

She rolled her eyes as she stood up.

"Well, we might as well-"

The rest of what she was going to say was cut off as another bloke bumped into her spilling his drink down her dress. She gasped as the cold liquid splashed her skin. Sherlock shot to his feet, eyeing the man.

"Oh, my god, I am so sorry," the bloke apologized.

"No, it's…it's fine. It's probably my fault," she said, which it wasn't, the man's body language told him that.

"What are you playing at?" the detective accused.

"Nothing," the bloke insisted, grabbing a handful of napkins as if he was going to…that bloody well wasn't going to happen. "I-I didn't see-"

Sherlock pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, blocking the man's attempt to clean off her dress.

"Sherlock," Ms. Tyler snapped, taking the handkerchief from the detective and wiping at her dress. "'S all right. My mate's just a bit…" She glanced at Sherlock, "…overprotective." Wait. What? He eyed her, but she turned her attention to the bloke and gave him a smile. "I'll just pop in the loo and clean this off."

Overprotective? He was not…he'd never…he didn't do that sort of thing. He focused on the man, the one who caused the accident. Early thirties. Black suit jacket, tan dress shirt, slacks, loafers, wedding ring. He didn't at all like the leering way the bloke watched Ms. Tyler as she wove her way through the crowd.

"I believe you've done enough damage for one evening," Sherlock snapped, resisting the urge to punch the bloke.

The man turned his gaze on the detective becoming apologetic once again, which, he of course, wasn't.

"Sorry if I ruined your evening, mate."

"Are you?" Sherlock asked, eyeing him.

"What's that supposed to mean?" the bloke snapped, taking on a defensive stance.

"You had every intention of running into her."

"And why the hell would I do that?"

Why indeed? There was a reason and it wasn't simply to clean off her dress. There was…he glanced at the bar. The bloke had grabbed a handful of napkins, but he'd taken something else as well.

"I'll have her pocketbook back," Sherlock insisted.

"Sorry?" the bloke asked, eyes widening for a moment.

"You can either hand it over now or you can hand it to the police. It's entirely your choice."

The man's eyes darted around the room as he took a step back. Sherlock reached into his trouser pocket, his hand wrapping around the cool metal of the gun John left in his flat.

"I really wouldn't," the detective replied.

The bloke's eyes snapped to the outline.

"Fine," the bloke growled, pulling Ms. Tyler's pocketbook from his inside pocket. "Take it."

Sherlock took the pocketbook and watched as the bloke hurried off into the crowd. Ms. Tyler seemed to have a way of attracting trouble. Well, evenings with her would never be dull…Wait. He shook his head. He wasn't with her. He didn't do that sort of thing. They were working together. That's all. Trying to locate a serial killer and he was only working with her to find out what she was up to because she was merely pretending. What the hell was wrong with him? She was distracting, purposely distracting. He couldn't forget the role he was playing, couldn't let his pretenses slip.


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