Chapter 5: The World's Only Consulting Detective

Sherlock eyed the bank transactions greedily. He scanned his screen, muttering, "Deposit, deposit...good."

John had been surprised when Sherlock had ruthlessly insisted to a new client that they pay him a deposit before he even took their case and negotiated payment in full within three days of solving it. He hadn't let his client know that he had already solved their case while speaking to them. He'd waited twenty-four hours to give the illusion of having done some research before giving them the information, then promptly emailed them an invoice.

"Simple business economics, John," he had commented when John complained. "I have to remain competitive."

"With who? You're the world's only consulting detective, according to you!"

And John was completely stunned when he saw Sherlock 'tidying up' their flat.

"What's happening? Is the Queen coming to visit?" he asked, eyeing Sherlock as he shuffled papers around on his desk.

"Establishing a workflow. In-tray, out-tray," Sherlock had replied, gesturing to items on the living room table, "files, folders..."

"Uh, yeah, I know what these things are. The question is, why do you? What's going on Sherlock? I can even see the surface of the dining room table now that you've moved your experiments to the sideboard."

"Efficiency in my physical work environment, leads to efficiency in my mental capabilities," Sherlock stated, holding a piece of paper and frantically turning this way and that until he spied the folder he needed.

"Right, well, I'll leave you to it then. I'm off to work. You going out again tonight?"

"Hmm? No," said Sherlock, not looking up.

"Oh. Case finished then?"

Sherlock was momentarily confused. "Case?"

"The case you said you were working on the last few Tuesday nights when you had to go visit that mysterious government department, only open in the evenings," John stated in disbelief.

The penny dropped. "Ah. Yes. All done, John," Sherlock lied, as he avoided making eye contact with his flatmate.

"Good. Well goodnight then."

"Night, John."


Sherlock fidgeted nervously. He was seated in his armchair by the fire, plucking at the strings of his violin. The flat was tidy, John was at work again, it was—he looked at his watch—a quarter to four. Wednesday had finally arrived. He'd showered and shaved and was back in his shirt and trousers, but no jacket.

His phone rang.

"Detective Inspector..." Sherlock said, speaking into the phone and standing up. "No...yes...text me the details...I'll be there tomorrow... no, morning."

He listened for a bit longer as the details of a new case were narrated to him by the Scotland Yard detective. He half listened as the sound of footsteps on the stairs gave him pause. He looked on in horror as John strolled through the door.

"Before you ask: two cases of influenza, a Pap smear, gout, Mrs Turner's grandson with a piece of Lego in his ear, a viral infection of the..."

John stopped talking, taking in Sherlock's expression.

"I'll hear the rest of the details tomorrow, Lestrade," Sherlock muttered into the phone before ending the call. "Why are you here?" Sherlock asked in a panic.

"I live here," John answered, shaking his head. "What was that?" he asked, indicating Sherlock's phone with his eyes. "Another one of those Whitechapel murders?"

"What? Oh, dunno...why are you home now? Your shift finishes at 6pm Wednesdays!" Sherlock asked, incredulous.

"I told you," John stated, looking slightly annoyed at his flatmate who yet again demonstrated his inability to retain any information John gave him. He walked over to the kitchen and filled the kettle while saying, "I have to take Stephanie's early shift tomorrow morning, so I got to finish early today... tea?"

"No! You have to go!"

"What?" John asked in mild amusement.

"I've got a client coming. She..." He thought quickly, "...gets overwhelmed at ... too many people..." he was faltering, "...looking at her..."

John gave Sherlock a look of confusion as the sound of Sherlock's doorbell pierced the air.

"I'll get it!" Mrs Hudson called out.

Sherlock's stomach dropped a few centimetres. This is turning into a three ringed circus, he thought.

Looking at Sherlock suspiciously, John suggested, "I'll just...go down and have tea with Mrs Hudson then."

Sherlock began breathing again. "That would be best. Perhaps for about an hour...and a half," he said. What's the worst that could happen? John will just pass her on the stairs, say hello, maybe make a silly flirtatious comment and that would be all. She knew Sherlock had a flatmate...John.

John!

He was 'John'!

Sherlock had forgotten to tell 'Shelley' his real name! In a panic, he walked over to the living room door, and stopped on the landing as voices floated up to him.

"Yes, I'm John. John Watson," he heard John say. Probably extending his hand or something, thought Sherlock.

"I...have an appointment?" he heard 'Shelley's' voice. She was speaking carefully and Sherlock noted the confused tone in her question.

"Ah, yes. With Sherlock," John replied pleasantly. "I'll just take you up."

Sherlock quickly stepped back into the living room. Stand up? Sit down? Lean on the mantelpiece nonchalantly? He finally decided on putting the kettle on as John and Rose entered the room.

"Ah, Sherlock?" John called, not immediately seeing Sherlock around the corner.

"Yes?" Sherlock tried to stroll out casually, his back awkwardly stiff due to the stress of the situation.

"Your...client? I'm sorry, what was your name?" John turned to address Rose.

"Shelley."

Rose looked over at Sherlock, detecting a mild panic-stricken look behind his usually sparkling grey eyes.

"Hello," she said shyly, not exactly sure what was going on. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock remained rigid, then shifted his eyes to John, willing him to leave.

"Ah, Shelley asked for me, so...did you want me to stay?" John quizzed Sherlock. He was also confused as to why Sherlock's client had said to Mrs Hudson that she wanted to see 'John.' "I'm Sherlock's colleague," John explained to Rose, "but I guess you knew that? I can just sit quietly at the back of the room and take notes if you like," he said reassuringly.

Rosie's eyes widened and she stared at Sherlock.

The bastard! That's why he was so keen to fuck her in his flat. He wanted his flatmate to watch and... take notes?

"I'm not sure exactly what we've negotiated here," she began, carefully choosing her words. She didn't want to make them both angry, although she was standing near the door. She could always make a run for it.

At last Sherlock came to his senses, formulated a half-assed plan in his mind and found his voice. He cleared his throat first.

"Ah, Shelley's a student, John. She's come to interview me about my cases for a ...school..ah...university report. There's no need for you to take notes, John. Shelley will be doing all the writing." He turned to Rose, "Sorry, it's a bit crowded in here. John came home from work unexpectedly. Do have a seat."

Sherlock was relieved to observe a look of realisation cross Rose's face, and without missing a beat she said, "Um, yes. Thanks for seeing me."

"Sherlock's cases? Excellent. Have you read my blog?" John asked, taking a seat next to Rose as she sat down on the couch. "Sherlock, were you putting the kettle on?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw as Rose looked up at him and said, "Tea. White with one thanks."

"Ah, yes," said John, rubbing his hands together. "Where should we start. Was there anything specific? What's your major exactly?"

From the kitchen Sherlock heard Rose say, "Psychology."

She's on the ball, he thought. He fussed about with the tea things, his mind in a fervour, trying to come up with an idea, any idea, to get John to leave. Immediately.

Laughter emanated from the living room. Sherlock had nothing. With a sinking heart he carried the tea tray into the living room.

Rose had her bag open, and had a notepad on her lap, and she was scribbling away.

"Sherlock, what was the occupation of the murderer in the aluminium crutch?" John asked him.

"Chef," Sherlock replied sullenly.

"There you go," John said to Rose. "Could be the physical demands of the job affecting his mental state. Good point."

Sherlock frowned. John poured the tea as Rose asked pointed and intelligent questions about the perpetrators of the crimes of many of Sherlock's cases that John could recall. Sherlock sat back in a chair he had pulled over from the living room table and answered John in monosyllables whenever he posed questions to him for clarification. Rose, though, directed all her questions to John. It seemed as if, in this weird parallel universe, that she was actually a university student taking notes for an assignment on the psyche of the criminal mind.

Presently there came two almost inaudible beeps from the confines of Rose's bag. Sherlock's heart fell and he glanced at his watch.

"Oh, my train," commented Rose, closing up her notepad. "Thanks ever so much. That was wonderful!" she remarked, looking from John to Sherlock.

Sherlock stood up when she did, his mind reeling at what he had just let happen—for an hour.

"Yes, well, if there's anything else you need, just give us a call," John said, also rising from the couch.

"I'll walk you out," Sherlock said quickly, resulting in John giving him a questioning look.

Sherlock ignored his flatmate, and grabbed his jacket from the back of his armchair.

John picked up the tea tray and addressed their visitor. "Lovely to meet you, Shelley," he said. "And if you're ever interested any other aspect of the medical profession..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tutted at John's attempt at a flirtatious smile. The detective followed Rose downstairs in silence, then stepped out onto Baker Street with her, letting the external door click shut behind him.

Rose started laughing, almost doubling over.

"Oh my sweet Lord!" she said finally, wiping away tears. "I will never forget that as long as I live!"

Sherlock wasn't impressed, and neither would he forget that. For as long as he lived.

"I'm sorry," she said, gently touching his sleeve. "That was so awkward."

Sherlock let out a sigh in frustration. "Yes, well, he wasn't meant to be home."

"And...does't he know about you and..." Rose asked quizzically.

"John's fairly conservative. He likes to date first, and have sex much later. Much, much, later. I'm sorry you had to sit through that... conversation."

Sherlock was internally seething. His well-meaning flatmate, ever eager to help on a case, had fucked up his chance for his weekly round of sex. Sherlock would never admit to being sexually frustrated, but he was certainly something right now.

"Oh, but...that was so interesting! What an amazing life you have together!" she exclaimed, her hand still resting on Sherlock's arm.

There it is again, he sighed, rolling his eyes in his mind. "We're not together," he remarked, his voice flat and his spirits low.

She rubbed his arm again. "Well I really do have to catch a train."

"Oh," Sherlock said in realisation, reaching into his jacket. All this money for a tea party of three. How wonderful, he thought, his head full of sarcasm.

"No, I didn't mean that," Rose said, removing her arm. "I don't want payment."

"But the cancellation fee. And anyway, I took up an hour of your time," Sherlock protested.

"And so did I. Consulting Detective. Well, that's a new one! I could actually use all the notes I took for a paper later this year. So let's call it even."

Sherlock's head reeled at her words. "You really are a psychology student?"

"Yes! Mature age student...so, well now you know," Rose replied resignedly. "In fact you're only one of three people who know about both sides of me...so..."

"I can keep a secret."

She smiled faintly. "Thank you."

Rose stepped closer to Sherlock, then reached up and gently caressed his cheek. "We'll reschedule. Okay? Come see me in Lyceum Street Thursday or Saturday." Then she dropped her hand, stepping back when Sherlock nodded faintly. "Well, goodbye John...I mean, Sherlock," she said, turning to leave.

"Bye Rose."

Rose stopped. "How did you...?"

One corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked into a smile. "Consulting Detective, remember."

Rose furrowed her brow in confusion.

"It was written on the cover of your notepad," Sherlock said simply.

Rose managed a smile in appreciation, then turned to walk down the street toward the tube station. As Sherlock spun on his heels to re-enter the flat, John closed the small slit in the curtain he had been watching from. He had no idea what he had just witnessed.

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UPDATE 13th Jan 2016: This chapter has been edited to be consistent with changes made to chapter 1.