The Chapter 46 - And I Further Deduce

Sherlock let his head drop onto the back of his armchair. He closed his eyes and felt his body slacken and sink into the shape of the cushions. His mind wasn't functioning, so why should his body? He had spent most of midday and the early afternoon straightening Rose's flat. He had determined that her lamb korma stained sheets couldn't be salvaged, so he'd stuffed them into a garbage bag and had disposed of them in the bins at the back of her building on his way out.

Once home, he'd emptied his pockets, pausing to turn over the bar of coconut-scented soap in his hand that he'd retrieved from his dressing gown when at Leinster Gardens. He couldn't bring himself to throw it out, even though Rose had bought the same soap to keep in Sherlock's bathroom months ago. Now she would have two bars here that she would no longer use.

Sherlock had inhaled its scent one more time, triggering a small release of dopamine, before a heady rush of love and a mild touch of panic twisted and twined themselves in his mind, until they sank heavily into the pit of his stomach. He stowed the soap in the cabinet underneath his bathroom sink, filled the kettle, then sort of collapsed into his chair.

His mind remained blank and ineffectual. He didn't want tea, he needed coffee. No, not coffee, nicotine.

But not nicotine... something far stronger to give his brain the kickstart it needed. He was supposed to be working on Rose's case. He and Tonya had determined that the best way forward was to have John Garvie removed from the joint parliamentary committee and therefore out of Magnussen's line of sight. Tonya had left it to the detective to gather more information on the Member of Parliament, but how was he to progress? He needed something to aid him sharpen and refocus.

What was he thinking? More chemicals to counter the sludge his mind had become because of other chemicals he'd ingested? Where was he going with this?

Sherlock kept his eyes shut tight and let his mind wander where it wanted to. In less than five minutes, he was fast asleep.

There came a soft "Woo hoo!" accompanied by a rap of knuckles on the door.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he raised his head to find his landlady standing in the doorway.

"Sherlock, client!" she bid him in a stage whisper.

Sherlock quickly roused himself, both mentally and physically. He stood, his brain shaking off the last vestiges of sleep just before a stout man and a slim, rake of a teenage girl crossed the threshold into the detective's living area.

Not ten minutes later, the pair performed the same feat, but in reverse, but this time they were weighed down with the burden of disappointment and disillusionment the detective had gifted them with, due to his lack of insightful responses and the absence of his usually snappy deductions.

His excuse?

"Boring! You're wasting my time."

Sherlock listened to their footsteps die away on the stairs. Scanning the pair from head to toe had revealed not even a fragment of useful information. He was male, she female. Old, young, fat, thin. Nothing. He didn't even listen to the man's whining; there was no point.

He only had one case that was of the utmost importance to him, and he didn't even possess the mental capacity at this moment to focus on it.

He wondered how Rose was faring?


Rose returned home after her very short Friday shift at the home entertainment store to find her door wide open. Her moment of panic was cut short when she caught sight of a familiar hand creeping around the door to test the latch, accompanied by the dark, wavy locks and furrowed brow of a Consulting Detective. He grinned broadly at the sight of her, and stood up from his crouched position behind the open door.

"Hello Rose," he said, before bending over to kiss Rose's cheek. She tilted her head to receive her mandatory Sherlock Holmes greeting.

"What are you—"

"I've just improved your locking system," he said, jiggling the door handle by way of demonstration. "Much more secure, and a design even I can't break into... easily."

"Um..."

Sherlock offered two keys to his stunned companion, dropping them into the palm of her hand when she opened it automatically in response.

"One key for you, one for your landlord, and one," he said, holding up a third key and popping it into his trouser pocket, "for me."

Sherlock closed the door behind Rose as she slowly shed her coat.

"But why—"

"And I've taken the liberty of making a booking with a leading cleaning company; they specialise in end of tenancies, but I asked them to do your carpets, upholstery and curtains only. They'll also wash the walls and ceiling if you like. Get rid of that permanent cannabis smell you've got lingering. They'll be here in a fortnight, just before your landlord's inspection at the end of the month, if I'm not mistaken."

Rose nodded slowly, her mind finding it difficult to keep up.

"But..." she began, faltering a little as Sherlock headed to the kitchen. This was going to be awkward, she thought. That sort of thorough cleaning costs money. "Sherlock, I can't really afford—"

"It's all paid for," he said without turning around as he filled the kettle in the sink. "Pay me back when you can."

Rose studied the detective as he turned around and responded with a broad smile. It seemed they had reached an understanding in regard to Sherlock gifting Rose hundreds of pounds of his money. Not for services rendered. She was only reluctantly allowing him to shout her a trip to Paris at the end of summer, because it was, well, Paris.

Sherlock strode toward her, his smile still in place.

"Hello, Rose," he said. "Did I give you a kiss already?"

Sherlock reached for her arms, and drew Rose in for another kiss—a soft, tentative, brushing of her lips this time.

When they parted, Rose said, "Well, your mood's picked up. Have you been here all day?"

She turned away from Sherlock, and scanned the rest of the flat.

"No, I cleaned up... a bit," Sherlock replied, loosely gesturing around the room. "Then I went home and worked on a case, and..." He paused, clearing his throat before continuing. "My mind wasn't operating at my usual capacity so I felt that a few hours spent performing manual labour would do the job of jumpstarting my brain—much like push-starting an old car with manual transmission. I felt that my time could be better spent here. It seems to have done the trick."

"You've done an amazing job," Rose gushed. "But I only wanted you to deal with the sheets. Are they still… soaking?" Her eyes darted to the kitchen sink, the only place her linen could have fit.

"Check the bedroom," he said.

Rose left the detective to head in the direction of her room.

"I hope this isn't a trick to get me into the bedroom," she called back.

Sherlock followed after her, and said, "I don't need tricks to lure you into the bedroom, Rose."

Rose gasped, then chuckled. Dropping backward onto the crisp, white sheets, she sighed, then smoothed a flat palm across the linen.

"This feels like yours," she said, her eyes twinkling up at Sherlock.

"It is," he replied, making himself comfortable beside Rose.

They lay with their feet hanging off the end of the bed in companionable silence for a while, both suddenly feeling the exhaustion from their late night the previous evening. Sherlock rolled to his side as Rose turned her head in his direction.

"I have half a dozen sets of exactly the same sheets," he said. "Yours were practically ruined, so I thought I'd bring one of my sets over. I'm here most nights anyway."

Rose was relieved that Sherlock was mindful of spending money on her unnecessarily.

"Well, thank you," she said. "That was really thoughtful of you. But where's…?" She raised her head and shoulders, propping herself up onto her elbows to scan the rest of the room. "Where's my quilt?"

"Upstairs," Sherlock replied, pulling himself upright to sit at the end of the bed. "Ms Small's washing machine is bigger than yours, so I borrowed hers. She didn't mind. It's currently going through its drying cycle now, so you can pick it up after you walk her dogs. I understand she's already spoken to you about that?"

Rose chuckled lightly at Sherlock having his finger on the pulse of her life.

"Yes, she has," she replied, also rising from the bed. "Some tournament thing she always goes to. Boxing, I think."

Rose pulled open her drawers to retrieve her fitness wear. Tonya's puppies would be getting quite anxious for their afternoon walk by now.

"Bare knuckle boxing," Sherlock said. He leant forward, resting elbows on knees as he looked over at Rose. "She's one of the organisers."

"Is that right?" Rose asked, laughing lightly. She began to shed her clothing as she spoke. "Although I think she also wanted to check how I was faring today. Why were you up there? Not just for my quilt?"

"To discuss the case," Sherlock replied.

Rose tried to stifle a deep sigh. She really didn't think Tonya and Sherlock had anything to work on. Magnussen had given her an opportunity to have her fifteen minutes of fame—by exploiting her affair with a Member of Parliament and telling all to one of Magnussen's rags, for which she would be financially well compensated. She had declined, so there was nothing further to discuss.

Tonya had made the point that if the media proprietor had wanted to encourage Rose to sell her story, then why did he put her offside by making such a lascivious gesture. Sherlock remarked that the man was a sick pervert, and he had probably thought it was a turn-on for Rose. The trio had then lapsed into silence at that remark, although Rose had internally shuddered.

"Rose," Sherlock said once she had finished changing out of her clothes. "Please don't take what I'm going to say next the wrong way."

Rose grabbed at a hair tie on top of her dresser and said, "It's not like you to pre-empt saying something offensive."

"It's because I realise you're in a delicate state at the moment."

Rose smiled ruefully as she swept her hair up into a ponytail. "Sherlock, I'm fine."

Sherlock rose from the bed and tapped his fingers against his thighs. Rose's heart stuttered in anticipation when she saw his furrowed brow.

"It's just that I…" Sherlock began. "I don't feel like I could have sex with you again… for a week at least. After last night, anyway. It was…"

Relief rippled through Rose, and she began to laugh.

"It's fine, Sherlock," she said, moving toward him. She reached out and squeezed his arm, her eyes shining with affection. "I think I'm the same. I don't want to have sex with you either."

At that remark, Sherlock's face suddenly slackened and his eyes grew huge and round.

"What?" he said.

Rose was surprised by his reaction. Thinking he had misunderstood, she added, "It's fine; I'm the same. I can't bear the thought of another round with you just now either."

Sherlock's expression remained unchanged.

"Why don't you want to have sex with me?"

"Sherlock," Rose said, laughing lightly. "For the same reason you said."

"But you've had more practise. You've had nights where you've had client upon client... well, not client upon client, more like you upon client—"

"I'm trying really hard not to get offended."

"You know what I mean. You've had sex," he explained, waving a hand at her, "a lot. And I would think you've developed quite a stamina for it."

Rose opened her mouth to explain about the different mindset, the faking of her arousal with clients, and the endless tubes of lubricating gel. Surely Sherlock knew all this, so instead she threaded her fingers through his and said, "But I don't have enough stamina for Sherlock Holmes."

She locked eyes with his, her mouth curving into a smile, and Rose was relieved to see Sherlock's eyes crinkling at the corners as a smile grew on his face.

"I suppose so," he said, trying to maintain an air of nonchalance. But he gave up, and his grin broadened.

Rose stood on her toes and planted a quick kiss on the detective's lips. Turning from him to retrieve her trainers from the wardrobe, she said, "Are you going to wait here for me while I'm out walking?"

"God no," he said. "And listen to Scanlan getting off during the evening news?"

The pair left the bedroom for the living room where Rose sank into the armchair and began putting on her shoes while Sherlock explained that he had to see a man about some information he needed for a case, but he'd be back later that evening. The detective then drew on his coat, and Rose met him by the door.

"Ms Small said to bring her dogs via here before you take them back to her flat," Sherlock said as they exited into the passageway, "because they'll bark—"

"Yes, I know, she told me. They'll bark if anyone's inside."

They exchanged weary, knowing smiles with Sherlock reaching for Rose and drawing her into an embrace.

"And stay in her flat if you're at all worried," he advised her.

"I know."

"And I'll be here tonight."

"I'll be fine."

They regarded each other in a comfortable silence before Sherlock said, "See you later," and ducked his head, pressing a soft kiss to Rose's lips.

"Do you love me?" she whispered after Sherlock drew back a little.

His mouth hovered over hers as he whispered, "Yes."

"I love you, too."

One more kiss, and their goodbye ritual was complete. They parted ways with Sherlock striding the length of the passageway, and Rose turning for the stairwell.


Sherlock followed one of his usual backstreet routes for entering and leaving Rose's block of flats, in case he were ever followed. And these days, in light of Charles Augustus Magnussen's interest in Rosemarie Sulford, he was all the more cautious. The only person who had ever come close to finding Rose's place of residence was Philip Anderson, Sherlock's old time forensics foil, but more recently, the president of The Empty Hearse, the detective's fan club. Anderson had only stalked Sherlock as far as the corner of Leinster Terrace and Leinster Gardens, and had seen Sherlock entering number 23, the empty house he'd won from Tonya Small.

Tonight Sherlock's destination was Shoreditch and a tiny basement flat in Commercial Street. But first he stopped at The East Pizzeria for a very particular type of pizza, and for an odd assortment of groceries, he dropped into the nearest Bread and Milk shop that sold just a little more than bread and milk.

Once he reached his final destination, he pressed the buzzer by the door, and waited for the familiar, "Yep?"

"Pizza delivery," was his succinct reply, and he juggled pizza and groceries in one hand while he pushed on the door with the other after hearing the latch buzz in response.

He carefully navigated into the tiny entrance and through a slightly warped door to the stairwell that lead down to the basement. Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the stale odour of the well-worn, mouldy red carpet on the stairs as he wound his way downstairs. The door at the bottom was already ajar when he reached the basement level. His host, a heavy, sweaty twenty-something computer geek, gave Sherlock a vague nod in recognition and said, "You right?"

The young man stepped back to allow Sherlock to enter. The detective placed groceries and pizza onto a tiny black IKEA dining table that had one leg propped up by a tightly folded leaflet of some description.

"No capsicum, extra mushrooms?" the man bid Sherlock.

"On a tomato and basil base," Sherlock replied. "Frogger," he added, smiling amiably.

"What can I do for you, Mister 'olmes?" the man, Frogger, said, as he eagerly rifled through the plastic bag that held his treats, holding up each item in turn and emitting noises of delight.

Sherlock moved away from the table to the room that would have been a living area had it not been cluttered with tables and shelving crowded with electronic equipment from various ages. From his coat pocket he fished out a piece of notepaper, rolled around a wad of fifty pound notes and said, "I'd like a copy of the electronic diary of this man."

Frogger held a Lion chocolate bar in one greedy fist, its wrapper already torn open, as he retrieved the notes from the Consulting Detective. Sherlock folded his hands behind his back and strode further into what Frogger called his 'control room.' His breathing became shallow as the sweet smell of sweat mingled with the all-too-familiar residue of marijuana, and—dare he imagine it—semen all permeated his olfactory system.

"Government official," Frogger said eventually, his mouth already full of chocolate. "Gonna cost you more."

"No it won't," Sherlock said smoothly.

"When do you wannit?"

Sherlock made a point of looking at his watch.

"In five minutes?"

Frogger snorted, grabbed a packet of Doritos, and brushed past Sherlock on the way to one of his desktop computers.

"If you wannit that urgently," Frogger called over his shoulder, "could you at least remove the onions from me pizza?"

Small creases appeared in Sherlock's brow as he turned back to the pitiful excuse for a dining table. Seemed like a small price to pay.

"I don't recall you ever telling me you didn't like onions on your pizza," the detective said, as he opened the lid and quietly scanned the toppings to determine how involved this task was going to be.

"I like 'em to flavour the pizza," Frogger replied, as he rapidly typed away. "But I don't like to eat 'em."

Sherlock huffed a sigh as he removed the obvious slices only. He had no intention of digging around for them.

"Done," Frogger announced not three minutes later.

Sherlock wiped his fingers on one of the paper serviettes that had accompanied the pizza, and joined Frogger in the control room. The computer geek had just finished copying the file onto a memory stick.

Frogger swivelled around in his chair and held out the stick to the detective.

"You do realise it's only a static copy?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

"If the geezer updates 'is version—"

"I'm well aware of the problems inherent with offline copies of dynamic databases," Sherlock cut in. He only required an overall picture of the man's likely movements, but he didn't need to tell the likes of Frogger that.

He bid his computer hacker goodbye, and left the stifling confines of the basement flat for the relatively fresh air of a London summer evening.

Let the surveillance of John Garvie begin.


Sherlock had retreated to his flat to retrieve the necessary files from his own computer that he needed to access Garvie's electronic diary. When he returned to Leinster Gardens later that night, he was disappointed to discover Rose out on her balcony toking with the young man who supplied her with her weed—whatever his name was.

After Sherlock had ducked his head out through the sliding door to let Rose know of his arrival, he was briefly introduced to 'Billy.' Rose then followed Sherlock back inside when it became obvious that the detective was not going to join them.

"Are you sure you don't want to sit outside with us?" she asked, twining her arms around Sherlock's neck, her heavy-lidded eyes glazed and red-rimmed.

"No, I have work to do," Sherlock replied evenly. But he didn't want to let his disappointment with Rose's toking show, so he lightened his tone. "But you continue socialising. It's probably not a good idea for me to sit outside anyway. I might be visible from the street."

"Okay," Rose said slowly, easily convinced, if she had at all followed anything Sherlock had said. She pressed a kiss to Sherlock's lips and floated away outside.

Sherlock made himself comfortable in Rose's bedroom. He shed his shoes and jacket, opting to sit on her bed in his shirt, trousers and dressing gown, with Rose's computer perched on his lap.

He read through John Garvie's appointments and meetings for the next month, committing to memory the MP's usual weekly routine both within Parliament and in his constituency of Rockwell South. Sherlock noted, with a lead weight in his gut, that this coming week had Garvie sitting on the joint committee that was investigating the media's work ethics, this being the committee's second week of sittings but the first time they were hearing from Charles Augustus Magnussen. The detective needed to work quickly if he wanted to find a way to remove the MP from the committee.

Garvie's diary also contained a list of contacts, their addresses, and business names, where applicable. All were then filed somewhat haphazardly in Sherlock's Mind Palace.

From his position in the bedroom, Sherlock eventually heard laughter and conversation coming from Rose's living area. Obviously Rose and her visitor—Sherlock was never going to remember the guy's name—had come inside for snacks. The detective scowled to himself and tried to block them out. After an hour or so, when it was considerably quieter, the bedroom door slowly opened and Rose peered in.

"Billy's leaving now, if you want to say goodbye," she said.

"Why would I want to say goodbye?"

The confused expression on Rose's face prompted Sherlock to mentally kick himself. She was still traumatised by Magnussen's visit, despite her frequent mentioning of being "fine" and she had wanted to take away her stress by getting stoned, again, with a friend, and he, Sherlock, wasn't being supportive.

Sighing internally, Sherlock cast aside the computer and slid from the bed.

"Fine," he murmured, noting Rose's face light up before he followed her into the living area, and over to the front door where Billy stood waiting and pulling on his jacket.

Sherlock forced a pleasant smile to his face and extended a hand.

"It was good to meet you, ah..."

"Bill," Billy said, swiftly returning Sherlock's handshake. "Bill Wiggins. Rosie says you're a detective or summin'," Billy added, standing a little taller for reasons Sherlock couldn't immediately deduce. "Couldja gimme the once over 'n say summin' 'bout me?"

A challenge, Sherlock thought, narrowing his eyes. Standing next to him, Rose wrapped her arms around one of Sherlock's and said, "Something nice, Sherlock."

Billy's eyes widened in anticipation, and he tilted his chin up a little as if Sherlock needed to see all of him. Sherlock found the whole idea of someone getting excited about his impending deduction highly amusing. Then again, the guy was as high as a kite, so Sherlock decided to keep his observations to a fairly basic level.

He slowly raked his eyes over Rose's friend, from head to toe, then said, "Your fingertips are stained with food colouring, and the way you're holding them tells me the relative adhesive quality of the substance is definitely tacky, so high in sugar then." The detective narrowed his eyes in scrutiny, before giving in to his over-dramatised pause for the entertainment of the two stoners. "You've been eating jellybeans."

Billy chuckled and murmured, "Tha's brillian'. Go' any more?"

Rose squeezed Sherlock's arm in appreciation. A smile threatened to break on Sherlock's face, but instead he managed to produce an overly exaggerated pensive expression.

"I further deduce," he said, formalising his tone, "that you're wearing a recently purchased shirt. It hasn't been through the wash yet; the horizontal and vertical creases are very sharp, pressed to the degree you'll only find on shirts fresh out of the wrapper. People don't normally iron folds into their shirts."

Billy gaped, and Rose rubbed Sherlock's arm affectionately. She was leaning in to him quite heavily now, so Sherlock thought she would fall asleep at any moment.

"And that's enough to be going on with," Sherlock concluded.

"Man, tha's... tha's..." Billy looked at Rose for confirmation. "'e's good, in 'e?"

Rose released Sherlock's arm and chuckled. Then she held out her arms to her friend and said, "Good night, Billy."

Bill Wiggins returned her embrace, and murmured, "'Night, Rosie."

He released her, then stuck out his hand for Sherlock again.

"You're all right... ah... Mister...?"

"Sherlock, please," the detective said, making a concerted effort for Rose's benefit, and briefly shaking Billy's hand once more.

"Never met anyone called 'Sherlock' before. Is it Sco'ish?"

"I believe it is," Sherlock replied, and he pulled open the door and held it ajar for Billy.

"Can I call you Locky?" Billy asked before stepping into the passageway.

"No."

"Sherl?"

"Never."

"'ow 'bout 'Shezza'?"

"Nope," Sherlock replied, finally closing the door on their visitor.

Rose seemed to have been oblivious to the exchange and she wound her arms around Sherlock again, her eyes half-slits.

"Tired," she sighed.

"Then go to bed," Sherlock suggested, rubbing Rose's back affectionately. "I won't be far behind.

Rose wordlessly drifted away, leaving Sherlock to pack away the cereal boxes and turn out the lights. He used the bathroom before joining Rose in the bedroom. His girlfriend lay curled up underneath the quilt, fast asleep, the bedroom light glaring down at her from the ceiling.

Sherlock changed into pyjamas, switched on the sidetable lamp, then turned off the overhead light. He slid in beside Rose, and grabbed her computer once more. It was just before 10pm, the knowledge of which was a cause for concern for reasons Sherlock initially puzzled over.

Then he remembered: Rose was supposed to start work on her crisis centre email service, her shift being 10pm to 2am on Friday nights.

He regarded her inert form. Even if he managed to rouse her, she wouldn't be able to stay awake, nor would she be lucid enough to provide anyone with quality support. There was a duty of care at stake here.

Sherlock opened Rose's crisis centre email account. He knew her password, and he quickly retrieved a previous email she had sent to her supervisor on another night she had called in sick. He copied and pasted the same message, 'Feeling poorly. I can't take my shift tonight. I'm so so sorry. —Rose,' and sent it to the same supervisor's email address as in the original message.

With Rose's work commitments taken care of, Sherlock resumed his study of John Garvie, further familiarising himself with the MP's movements.


The rest of the weekend followed along the same lines as previous weekends. Rose had her early Saturday morning shift at Roches, the home entertainment store, waking with her alarm and managing to appear fresh and alert even before Sherlock woke fully. The detective, who would usually return to Baker Street to work on cases, or drift over to Bart's to work on corpses, spent this Saturday afternoon skulking around Rockwell South, where the local member was holding a meeting for his constituents to rally support to keep a GP clinic in the area. Sherlock carefully observed how the man who had on several occasions fucked a prostitute wearing a school uniform interacted with his community.

John Garvie appeared affable and warm to young and old alike. Sherlock watched as the Member for Rockwell South stooped to talk to an elderly member of his constituency who was confined to a wheelchair. He took the woman's hand and held it between both of his as he spoke to her. Sherlock wondered if it were possible that the politician could feel Sherlock's eyes like daggers upon him.

Sherlock intended keeping an eye on the Member of Parliament when he attended a charity dinner with his wife that evening, but the detective was concerned that Rose would be at home again, slowly getting high by herself. He called in at Leinster Gardens in the early evening, when he knew that Rose would have finished work. He was relieved to discover that Rose had been invited to an engagement party for one of her workmates, from 7pm onwards, but she would only stay until 9pm, after which she would return home to take up her crisis counselling shift at 10pm. And if Sherlock liked, she said, she could come to his place to stay the rest of the night after she finished at 2am. They could then spend their usual Sundays cuddling in Baker Street.

This plan was fine by Sherlock, and he was content to leave Rose to her social outing. Meanwhile, the detective returned to Rockwell South and stalked around the grounds of a state school while the MP was inside eating quail scotch eggs, and mackerel. Sherlock was curious to see if a day of performing formal duties would result in Garvie opting for a late night visit to a seedy hotel where he would take in the services of a hired escort. Or were those days behind him?

With the politician and his wife returning to their modest home in one of Rockwell South's leafy suburbs, Sherlock resolved to return to Leinster Gardens and share a cup of tea with Rose and perhaps watch a late night movie on telly while she worked. For John Garvie's future obligatory outings, Sherlock decided to enlist the aid of his Homeless Network. There was no point in him wasting time, waiting for Garvie to finish dining, on the off chance the man would indulge in some lascivious activity later.

When Rose finished work at 2am, she nudged Sherlock awake. The pair took to the backstreets of Bayswater, before catching a cab somewhere in the vicinity of Kensington Gardens, arriving in Baker Street in the early hours.

They slept late, ate in, and snuggled in Sherlock's armchair by the fire until late on Sunday night. In the early hours of Monday morning, Rose left for home so she could get ready for work. Sherlock opted to stay awake since he was feeling particularly apprehensive for the week ahead.

This afternoon was the first session of the Joint Select Committee, Media and Communications, where they were calling for oral evidence from Charles Augustus Magnussen. Sherlock didn't tell Rose his plans for the day, in fact, he'd told her very little about his investigations into John Garvie's movements, and he quietly noted that she hadn't expressed any interest in his and Tonya's 'case.'

Sherlock left Baker Street for the Palace of Westminster just after lunch, intending to sit in on the committee meeting as an interested member of the public, since all evidentiary committee sessions were open to viewing by the general public.

As the cab drew closer to St James's Park, Sherlock opted out, deciding to walk the remainder of the route to the Houses of Parliament so he could smoke. And think.

Did he really believe Magnussen would let something slip if cornered—some off-handed remark about the Member for Rockwell South's predisposition for fucking sex workers? Specifically one named Rosemarie Sulford? It may never come up. And besides, Magnussen only knew Rose as one of Garvie's former mistresses. But he could still reveal her identity.

But what would Sherlock do if he did? Hasten to Rose's place of employment, safely squirrel her away to some place abroad—Paris—until the media attention died down sometime within the next five years?

Sherlock didn't know what use it would be to watch the committee meeting live, but he soon found himself before the Cromwell Green security entrance, finishing his cigarette—his third.

"And what brings you here, Brother Mine?"

Sherlock slowly tilted his head skywards as he exhaled, and watched the last of his cigarette smoke billow upwards before he turned to find the owner of the officious-sounding voice.

Mycroft Holmes, umbrella in hand, and looking quite out of place in the open air of a uncharacteristically sunny day, managed to look down at his younger brother through narrow eyes.

How much did Mycroft know, Sherlock thought. Obviously the omniscient prick had been alerted to Sherlock's presence in the area via his annoying CCTV network.

"I might go on a tour," Sherlock said casually. "I've never been."

Maintaining his same expression, Sherlock's older brother replied, "I believe the tour office is located outside Portcullis House."

"Oh, really? How bizarre."

"And while you're stalking the halls of Parliamentary offices," Mycroft said, narrowing his eyes even further, "Perhaps, as a small favour to me, you could set my office clock five minutes ahead. I do believe it's out."

"Couldn't you just get the people at Greenwich to move their clocks back to match yours?"

"Most amusing, Sherlock."

"Well, I'd better be off," Sherlock said, dropping his cigarette butt to the ground. "Big Ben beckons."

He strode away, back along St. Margaret Street to the familiar tune of his elder sibling calling out, "Sherlock!"

The Consulting Detective ignored him, as always. But now he had to use his alternate plan for viewing the Joint Select Committee session, and one he should've decided on earlier: watching the live webcast from the comfort of his armchair via the UK Parliament TV website. What an idiot he was to venture out. But why had his brother suddenly appeared? The lazy arse would've had to high-tail it from either his office in the bowels of Portcullis House, or from his equally out of the way office hidden in Parliament House. Or perhaps he resided in Whitehall today, specifically Downing Street or the Ministry of Defence? The man's presence was as pervasive as a rash. But Mycroft Holmes didn't have the physical attributes necessary to perform such an amazing feat of movement if he had just been notified of his brother's proximity in the area. So perhaps he was already on his way to viewing the session himself?

Sherlock stopped via a Boots pharmacy on Bridge Street to purchase nicotine patches before catching a cab back to Baker Street. Since he wasn't allowed to smoke inside his flat, he felt he still needed some sort of stimulant if he was going to study the committee meeting. At least that was what he felt he was about to do. Witnessing the destruction of the reputation of the woman he loved was an alternative he didn't like to contemplate.

Sherlock drank tea, and paced his living room rug while the meeting was in session and was being broadcast onto his laptop. Intermittently he studied the players. Charles Augustus Magnussen appeared cool and unaffected throughout proceedings, while John Garvie was a bumbling idiot. On the whole, there didn't appear to be anything to worry about. For the entire three hour session, Magnussen smoothly skirted around answering questions about his meetings with various Prime Ministers and Cabinet Ministers of the current age.

Once the meeting was concluded, Sherlock decided to venture out once more, and put his Homeless Network people in place to keep an eye on John Garvie and the benign locations he typically frequented. On his way downstairs, he bumped into Mrs Hudson, who was just on her way up to see him, it seemed.

"Oh, Sherlock," she said. "I was just coming up to ask if you wanted supper. You aren't usually here."

"Just stepping out, Mrs Hudson," the detective replied. "I'll only be an hour."

Sherlock decided that he would return, for supper, before leaving for Rose's flat for the night. He was usually too late to join Rose for dinner, and he found that he didn't normally like to eat the food she prepared anyway.

Once the Consulting Detective accomplished his task and was a hundred quid lighter in the wallet, he returned home to find a platter of cold meats and pasta salad waiting for him. He stared at the unappealing meal, suddenly longing for hot chips and ketchup, when he heard his landlady's footsteps on the stairs.

"Do you have any salad cream?" he asked, upon turning to the older woman.

Mrs Hudson held an odd expression on her face, and she had folded her hands together as if keeping herself composed.

"Mr Holmes," she bid him, and Sherlock tilted his head at her use of such a formal title, "You have a client."

Sherlock immediately recognised the stately woman who crossed the threshold; she was the chair of the Media and Communications Select Committee. Her lips were drawn into a thin line, and there was a quiet desperation in her eyes, that Sherlock read as 'you are my last hope.'

"Mr Holmes," she said, as Mrs Hudson retreated downstairs. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am—"

"—Lady Elizabeth Smallwood," Sherlock finished for her, and he extended his hand out to hers.

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A/N: Please review x