Chapter 47 – Please Do Relax, This is All For a Case

Sherlock slid out of his jacket, and lay it on the wooden bench seat next to him. Tonya Small leant closer, so Sherlock tilted his head, ready to listen. Both had their eyes fixed on the one-sided fight in the arena down below.

"He's tiring," Tonya said.

Sherlock had been watching the bout with a critical eye.

"He needs to step back from his opponent," the detective said, "and give himself room to move. All his punches are being smothered."

"Impressive, Mr Holmes. But I fear your advice has come too late."

The spectators roared, half in protest, the other half in support. The fighter on Tonya's card had sunken to his knees. Tonya immediately stood up, but it was clearly over. The boxer fell forward, favouring the cool caress of the canvas on his face than to go another round.

"Fire his trainer," Sherlock said, once the noise had dulled to a murmur. The organisers began to prepare for the next bout between new opponents and Ms Small took her seat again. "Your guy barely moved his feet."

Tonya chuckled beside him, then reached for Sherlock's right hand.

"I thought so," she mused, studying the detective's fingers, and running her thumb over his little finger. "A misalignment. I noticed when you were drinking tea the other night."

After Ms Small had released Sherlock's hand, the Consulting Detective curled it into a fist.

"A fracture of the metacarpal bone," he said, examining the row of knuckles. "My opponent ducked his head the wrong way. The bone wasn't aligned properly when it healed."

Tonya Small clucked her tongue, then said, "I have room on my card for another fighter. Just before Christmas. You have five months to—"

"No."

"Oh, think about it. I'm serious, darling."

The pair were silent for a moment as a second fight got underway.

"They come from all walks of life," Tonya said eventually.

"Yes, I know."

"But neither of these two belong to me," Tonya added. "The one in the blue shorts is a tax accountant, the other an electrician. I'll put you up against a librarian who's only lost one fight. He has strong shoulders."

Sherlock chuckled. "My boxing days are over."

"Yet you still brawl in the streets. Criminals or not. This will merely formalise something in which you already enjoy engaging."

"I'm not here for the fighting," Sherlock gently reminded his companion. He grabbed at his jacket and turned it over until he found the pocket in which he had stashed his cigarettes. He drew out the packet, offered a cigarette to Tonya Small, which she gratefully accepted, then lit them both.

Twenty minutes had elapsed since Sherlock had joined Tonya in the back garden of a wealthy bare knuckle boxing patron in the south east London suburb of Plumstead. It was the only way he could meet with the Clarence House Cannibal this evening. The detective had spent an ineffectual day debating his next move since taking on Lady Smallwood's case last night.

He hadn't told Rose of the Joint Committee Chairman's visit. He did text her to say that he would stay on at Baker Street that night rather than visit her in Leinster Gardens because he had a new case to work on.

Lady Smallwood's case had brought the issue of Charles Augustus Magnussen's motivations to prominence. The newspaper proprietor was more of a player than Sherlock had initially thought. Rose's case no longer just called for the removal of John Garvie from the committee. He needed to investigate all that was Magnussen.

Sherlock knew he was operating with a distinct disadvantage—he was too emotionally involved. There was no one more important to him than Rose, he thought, his heart stuttering, because he knew it had taken great pains to admit this to himself. But if he couldn't take a step back, like Ms Small's unfortunate boxer, he would definitely lose this fight.

Having Tonya Small on hand to bounce ideas off was a bit like having John Watson around, but in reverse. The Clarence House Cannibal provided a voice of reason, and she was quite intelligent, which was a bonus. While Ms Small also cared for Rose, she could be cool and calculated when the situation called for it. As it was, in the five minutes Sherlock and Tonya had discussed the addition to their case of Lady Smallwood's predicament, just before the first bout began, Tonya had already pointed out that Sherlock had now made the situation worse for Rose.

"As soon as you make contact with Mr Magnussen, his focus will be redirected to you," Tonya had said. "And what will he think of Rose, if he discovered that you were in a relationship with her—the very woman he wanted to use against John Garvie? What would Charles Augustus Magnussen think about coincidences?"

Then the bout had commenced, leaving Sherlock to watch it with an uncomfortable churning in his gut.

"I should drop the case," Sherlock said, as the bell rang and the fighters were confined to their corners with their respective cutmen in attendance. Forget Lady Smallwood's case, he thought. Just deal with Garvie.

"You'll do no such thing," Tonya replied.

"But you said—"

"We must be prepared for Magnussen's counter move. We will lay the foundations first, so that everything is in place before you even make contact with him."

"Foundations," Sherlock repeated. Why couldn't he keep up with Tonya? He was usually thinking miles ahead of everyone else; at the moment he was the mental equivalent of a straggler. Clearly the nicotine wasn't working.

"Charles Augustus Magnussen makes it his business to know everyone's darkest secrets, and to exploit them," Tonya explained. "You need to hide your strengths, and only show him your weaknesses. Do you see the electrician?" Tonya asked, indicating the boxing ring with her cigarette.

Sherlock blinked, to refocus both his gaze and his mind.

"He's keeping his left too low," he replied, "leaving himself wide open—"

"—for exploitation," Tonya finished. "But watch. I've seen him do this before."

Sherlock concentrated on the action before him. The electrician suddenly used his left hand to block a blow to the head from the tax accountant, momentarily surprising his opponent. The former then delivered a swift right hook to the accountant's jaw, followed by alternating blows to the man's abdomen. His last and final strike was to his opponent's face, and a dull thwack told everyone that the man's nose had been broken.

"They'll call it," Tonya said, and Sherlock knew she was correct. Blood was flowing in two thick streams down the accountant's face; this fight was over.

Sherlock took a deep drag on his cigarette. Some part of him missed this life—the adrenalin, the noise, the smell. He subconsciously balled his right hand into a fist.

"What's your main strength?" Tonya Small asked him, redirecting her gaze to the detective.

"My mind."

"And your weakness?"

Sherlock only hesitated for a second before answering, "My heart."

That would never have been his answer years ago. But Sherlock knew his heart was already a vulnerability that James Moriarty had exploited. And these days, it was even more so, with his feelings for Rose being expressed so freely whenever he was under the influence of something.

A smile lingered on Tonya Small's lips and she took a drag on her cigarette while she considered her next statement. The smoke curled around her mouth before she exhaled.

"We already know that it won't be a good idea to parade your romance with our darling Rosebud. So we'll have to remove your strength. Everyone knows who Sherlock Holmes is. Your reputation precedes you, and a man like Magnussen would definitely consider you a threat. Therefore we have to make Sherlock Holmes lose his mind. You've already hinted at that. You have a therapist."

"No," Sherlock quickly replied. "If you're thinking of touting Rose as my therapist then you're still connecting her to me. As far as Magnussen's concerned, there is to be no relationship between Rose Sulford and me, professional or otherwise."

"Then let's get you a new therapist."

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly as he exhaled.

"No."

"You can pretend to—"

"No."

Tonya sighed deeply and both of them continued to smoke in relative silence.

"Then let's highlight another weakness of yours, if not your heart," she said.

"I don't have any other weaknesses," Sherlock replied, taking a drag on his cigarette.

Tonya made a point of staring at the offending object, before a sly smile spread across her face.

"Nicotine?" Sherlock said with a scoff.

"Mr Holmes," Tonya began, tilting her head to one side. "We both know you've had a substance abuse problem with something a little stronger than nicotine."

Sherlock scrutinised the cigarette pinched between his middle and index fingers. He barely remembered lighting it.

"So what are you saying?" he asked, knowing full well what Tonya was suggesting. He didn't like to go there. His mind hardly ever went there these days.

"I think it's about time Sherlock Holmes had a relapse, don't you?"

Sherlock huffed a derisive laugh. Tonya was taking this case to new levels of stupid.

He said, "I'm not—"

"Pretend, darling. I'm not suggesting you actually use any of the drugs you may purchase."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to smile. Tonya was actually a genius. Why hadn't he thought of that? What had he been worried about?

"And while you're working on sullying your good reputation," Tonya continued, "I'll find out all I can about Mr Magnussen's media empire. Perhaps together we can infiltrate it. I know a few people."

Sherlock knitted his brows together. "You do?"

"Look around. What do you see?"

Sherlock had been looking around. He knew these crowds, and as Tonya Small had pointed out soon after he'd arrived, there were less low life, and more respectable members of society in among the spectators, fighters, handlers and organisers. Tonya and her fellow promoters were attempting to legitimise the sport, and had eliminated all gambling on the outcome of the matches.

So there were solicitors, police officers—both retired and currently serving—chefs, students, carpenters, plumbers, and the odd journalist or two. The bout had a referee and a paramedic on site.

"I know people," Tonya was saying. "And I know people who know people. And somewhere along the way, somebody may owe me a favour or two."

Sherlock nodded faintly in recognition, thinking he knew what kind of favours Tonya called in.

"Magnussen's empire is vast," Tonya said, looking out amongst the crowd of spectators. "But it's made up of people just like this. And that may be his only weakness. But it's a weakness all the same, and easily exploited."

Tonya fixed Sherlock with a triumphant grin, one that cheshired her face from cheek to cheek. He couldn't help but smile in response. She was clearly enjoying this, he mused. But it was time to leave, he thought rather regretfully. He was actually enjoying watching the fighting. But he had a lot to do; who knew just how long this select committee would run for, or what pressures it would put on Magnussen, prompting him to expose people's dark secrets left, right and centre.

Sherlock now had another trip to make to Shoreditch—this time to a little curry place off Brick Lane. It was time to revisit his old haunts.

"Ms Small," he said upon rising, and he stooped to retrieve his jacket.

"Mr Holmes."

Sherlock cleared his throat and made to shuffle past Tonya Small, when she said, "We'll talk tomorrow, darling. But in the mean time, I'll add you to my card."

A smile played on Sherlock's lips, but he retorted, "You'll do no such thing."

"Perhaps autumn is too soon. How about winter?"

"I'll... think about it."

Tonya rose from her seat, and spoke to Sherlock in a low voice.

"So let's make it interesting. If you don't beat Charles Augustus Magnussen by a knockout after learning where to deliver the fatal blow, then I expect you to redeem yourself in the ring. A winter bout early next year. We're holding it in Leicestershire."

A dangerous glint flashed in Sherlock's eyes, and his mouth curved into a smile. Why was he making all of the sacrifices? What did Tonya have to lose? She seemed to be holding all the cards, he conceded.

"Fine," Sherlock replied. And the deal was struck.


Sherlock was barely through Rose's door when she was upon him, and she was obviously upset.

"Why are you here?" she said. "You shouldn't come here anymore!"

"What? Why?" Sherlock quickly shut the door behind him, but remained standing there, where Rose had accosted him.

"Because he'll be following you now."

It took a moment for Sherlock to catch on. Had Tonya already spoken to Rose tonight about Lady Smallwood's visit, in between the time it took Sherlock to leave south east London, withdraw cash from one of his many bank accounts then travel to Brick Lane via a circuitous route and purchase a few wraps of coke? Admittedly, that had taken him a bit of time. He tried to avoid his brother's CCTV network, and he had more than one contact to re-establish a business relationship with. Of sorts. But now it was quite late.

"Rose," Sherlock said, gently reaching for her arms. "It's okay. I've haven't made contact with Magnussen yet. He doesn't know I'm involved."

"I'm sorry. I don't think I really understood what Tonya was going on about." Rose moved away from Sherlock, allowing the detective to discard his coat at least. "She speaks so calmly," Rose continued, turning to face Sherlock, "like nothing is a big deal."

"Yes, I know," Sherlock said, a smile creeping onto his face. "But it's good to have her in our corner." He smiled again, to himself this time, as he hung up his coat. He'd better quit with the boxing metaphors. But he had missed that life. Winter, did she say?

Rose stood in the middle of the living room, her arms folded in front of her.

"And even if I had contacted Magnussen," Sherlock explained, as he approached his girlfriend, "I'm pretty adept at finding a route that nobody could follow, should I be under surveillance. You don't have anything to worry about." He stopped in front of Rose, hoping sincerity shone in his eyes. "Can we start the evening again?" he asked, embracing her lightly.

Rose nodded imperceptibly, so Sherlock lowered his face to hers, sampling her lips until they parted for him. Dopamine flooded his system as he held her tightly and kissed her with a fierce kind of possession. Definite disadvantage, he thought again of his lack of composure while working on this case. His emotions were all over the shop. And now he had a pocket full of cocaine. Not a good mix.

Rose eased out of their kiss, but she stayed within Sherlock's embrace.

"Are you okay with Tonya's plans for me?" she asked.

Sherlock's heart rate increased until he could feel panic pulsing in his ears. Tonya has plans for Rose? Doing what? Sherlock's mind had already raced to Tonya's plans for himself—a drug relapse. Did the Clarence House Cannibal want Rose to work in a brothel again? To what end?

"What?" he asked, as quickly as possible. His gaze was intense—if looks could will the words out of another.

"Don't you know?"

"Of course I don't know, Rose!"

Rose gaped a little at Sherlock's sudden outburst.

"It's really not that bad."

Sherlock willed himself to exhale slowly. "Sorry," he said. It seemed Rose wasn't the only one on edge tonight.

He released Rose from his embrace, and followed her into the kitchen. It was late enough to share a pot of tea.

"She suggested I work for the ASXX," Rose explained as she filled the kettle.

Sherlock bowed his head and rubbed at the creases in his brow, as if to knead happy thoughts into his mind. The ASXX—the Anti-SeXXploitation Project—was the organisation that gave Sherlock the idea, via Tonya Small, that he had contributed to the ongoing sexual exploitation of women by seeking the services of a sex worker so he could lose his virginity. He slowly raised his head again and asked, "Doing what?"

"Counselling," Rose replied, with a flick of the kettle switch. "Helping sex workers exit the industry. It's exactly what I needed last year, remember? But all I found available was a group counselling session. I can offer individual sessions, and I think some of the women will really benefit from a one on one more private service."

Sherlock bit his tongue. A quip about one on one in reference to sex workers was just begging to be made. But he tilted his head as if ruminating on the idea a bit longer.

"That's... good. I guess," he replied.

Rose drew up in front of Sherlock, and entwined her arms around his neck.

"I knew you'd be okay with it," she gushed. "And I think I can really make a difference. Of course, it will get my counselling hours up too, and I'll even get a little bit of pocket money on the side. And that's always good, isn't it?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Why had this idea just come out of the blue?

"But what's the actual point to this... job? Why did Tonya suggest this to you?"

Rose dragged her hands down to rest on Sherlock's chest. She studied them for a few seconds, before returning her gaze to Sherlock. She slowly exhaled.

"It's just in case I catch Magnussen's eye again, and I somehow get linked to the industry, or the brothel in Lyceum Street, or identified as an escort who visited Garvie in a hotel room. I'll be creating a new connection between me and the sex industry." Sherlock's brow had been furrowed the whole time Rose had been talking, but she continued anyway. "I can always say I was offering counselling to prostitutes, just like I was doing with the strippers at the Rendezvous. And when I was studying at uni, there were all these papers we had to write. I mean, there's the one I wrote about you. No names, of course, but it does mention a prostitute. Who's to say it wasn't someone I'd met in the brothel, who'd agreed to be a subject for me?"

"Sounds..." Weak as piss. "Feasible," Sherlock finished, and was relieved to see Rose's face brighten. It wasn't a good cover story, but it wasn't that far-fetched either, and it seemed to give Rose peace of mind. Who was he to argue with the genius of Tonya Small?

Satisfied, Rose turned from Sherlock to prepare their tea. Sherlock left to change into pyjamas, and once dressed, he joined Rose in the living room. It was time for a late night snuggle in front of the telly. They hadn't done that in an age.

"Oh, just in case you go rifling through my pockets," Sherlock said offhandedly, "You may find a few wraps of cocaine. Nothing to alarm yourself about."

"I know," Rose said, settling by Sherlock's side. "Tonya told me. It's not as if you're really going to be using, is it?"

"No," Sherlock replied, taking a quick sip of tea, burning his tongue in the process.

"What will you do with it all? Flush the coke down the toilet?"

Sherlock gently rubbed Rose's arm as they both stared at the flickering images on the TV screen. Rose had muted the sound.

"Dunno," he replied. "Thought I might get it analysed at the lab. It's been quite a few years. I'm curious to know how much it's cut these days."

Rose stifled a yawn, and Sherlock knew she wasn't far off falling asleep. They both stared in silence at the soundless images.

"Sherlock," Rose said after a fashion.

"Mmm?"

"Do you think this will be over by the time we go to Paris? Because we probably need to book some things, and I'd hate to have to cancel all our reservations if Magnussen's still watching us and we can't go."

Sherlock held Rose tightly, and pressed his lips to the top of her head. A trip to Paris at the end of August? That was three months away.

"I'm certain of it," he replied.

Rose didn't say any more, and Sherlock eventually felt her body grow heavy in his arms. He reached for the remote control and pointed it at the telly, carefully raising the volume until he could just hear it. He didn't know why he'd done that; he definitely wasn't interested in the movie.

He had felt a small twinge, however, when Rose snuggled into his neck—that tiny spark of arousal that would usually result in him pressing himself against Rose and brushing her lips lightly with his until she woke and they could adjourn to the bedroom. How long had it been since they'd made love? Not that he would call what they did when they were both stoned making love. Still, he didn't want to be the one to instigate it, especially since he'd told her that he wanted a break for at least a week.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let his limbs slacken. His thoughts drifted to a little known Tibetan Monastery on the road to Mount Everest, just out of Shigatse, allowing his mind to discard all notions of sexual desire. This state of mind would be a lot more difficult to achieve if he had already started with an erection, but on this occasion, he had begun his transcendental mental exercise at just the right time. Mind over matter. And Sherlock had mastered it to perfection.


Rose was late, both Tonya and Sherlock agreed. The puppies were getting restless and they were yelping. Sherlock couldn't concentrate as he sat in Tonya Small's living room, reading the financial records of CAM Global News. Tonya had done well to acquire so much information in so short a time, but Sherlock was regretting making himself comfortable in her flat in order to study them.

Rose was due to accompany Tonya on their early evening walk around Bayswater with Tonya's puppies. The Clarence House Cannibal's 'babies' were barking at a pitch that Sherlock found quite painful to his ears.

Sherlock cast the end of year financial report aside, and reached for the human resources report. Apparently Tonya knew a business manager who worked in the Human Resources division of CAM Global News. Sherlock wondered how many appendages the HR business manager was missing.

Tonya was cooing to her puppies in the kitchen. It was all too much for Sherlock, so he grabbed the remaining papers, stood up, and left the flat without so much as a goodbye. It was about time Tonya Small learnt about the real Sherlock Holmes anyway, he thought. His mind was working quite efficiently, and he was almost back to his old self. He had little time for social courtesies.

As he strode along the passageway toward the stairwell, Sherlock encountered Rose hastening in the opposite direction.

"You're late," he said, without stopping.

He was almost to the end of the passageway when he heard Rose call out tentatively, "Sherlock?"

He stopped abruptly before turning around. Rose was slowly making her way toward him, her brows arched quizzically.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

Sherlock's insides roiled with the acknowledgement that he had practically brushed past Rose as if she meant little to him.

"I'm... fine," he replied. He suddenly didn't feel fine; a new conflict had entered his mind—dispense with emotion, and allow cold, hard reason to seep into everything he said and did. Is that what he needed in order to succeed on this case?

Rose pulled up in front of him, reached out and gently touched his arm.

"Are you sure?" she asked, with a tilt of her head. "Did Tonya say something to you?"

Sherlock forced a reassuring smile to his face. "No. I'm just busy." He held up the folder of papers he was carrying and said, "I have a lot of research to conduct, and the noise inside her flat was doing my head in."

As if on cue, the Clarence House Cannibal's 'babies' commenced yapping once more prompting Rose and Sherlock to exchange weary smiles.

"I'd better get going then," Rose said. "Are you going home now?"

"No. Just downstairs to your flat."

Rose's expression softened at that news, so Sherlock bowed his head and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. He lingered a little longer than necessary.

"I'll see you soon," he bid her in a low voice, and he gave her a tiny smile before he turned and made for the stairwell.

Sherlock's mind was buzzing with a multitude of thoughts, and he mentally took a swat at any guilt-ridden notions associated with Rose. During any true Mind Palace wanderings, Sherlock would physically stop where he was, close his eyes, and engage his mind fully. Without being completely conscious of it, Sherlock had pulled up in front of Rose's door. All of the data he had gleaned from the documents with which Ms Small had provided him whizzed by his mind's eye. He discarded those that he deemed irrelevant, and carefully categorised and filed those that may become important later.

Once he opened his eyes again, it took Sherlock a few seconds to register just where he was. He let himself into Rose's flat, then stood stock still once more. The contents of one document had made itself clear in his mind.

"Phillip Bonce," he muttered to himself, his eyes widening. "Phillip Bonce—PBSS, Phillip Bonce Security Services. I know his work!"

Sherlock strode to Rose's dining table and dumped the folder of papers onto it. He spread the documents across the length and breadth of the table, then swiftly shed his coat as his eyes rapidly scanned the contents of every piece of paper.

Phillip Bonce, Security Consultant for over thirty years, Sherlock recited in his head. He knew this man's credentials because Sherlock, while investigating cases, had worked alongside teams that the expert had put in place in various organisations around the United Kingdom. Bonce was currently the head of the Corporate Security Division of CAM Global News, and well respected throughout the security industry. However, with Sherlock Holmes having the inside scoop in regard to security for many of Bonce's previous clients, the Consulting Detective knew something that many others didn't: Phillip Bonce's security protocols were largely the same in many of the organisations at which he'd consulted. Therefore, Sherlock was quite confident that he knew how security was implemented at CAM Global News.

The composition of the security team would be largely the same, Sherlock mused, shuffling papers around both in his mind and on the table top. He grabbed a thin document containing an outline of the security protocols. It was only an Executive Summary, but it would give Sherlock a start.

Sherlock stretched out on Rose's sofa, alternately examining the document in his hand and recalling from his Mind Palace what he knew about PBSS's Executive Protection plans and Emergency Service protocols. While he tried to fit what he knew into the corporate makeup of CAM Global News, he reached out to grab his cup of tea from the coffee table. He took a sip, then grimaced in pain. It was scalding hot. That means it was freshly brewed. And I don't remember getting up to make a cup of tea. So that could only mean—

"Did you burn yourself?" Rose asked, as she walked into the living room with her own cup of tea in one hand, and a psychology textbook in the other. "I told you it was hot since we only had a little bit of milk left."

Sherlock swung his legs from the sofa and sat up. Two creases appeared in his brow as he watched Rose make herself comfortable in the armchair across from him.

"How long have you been here?"

A tiny laugh escaped Rose.

"Just a couple of hours," she replied. "Don't you remember?"

"If I did, why would I be asking? I bumped into you outside Tonya's flat only a moment ago."

"Okay, now you're scaring me. I came home from our walk, kissed you on the forehead and said I needed a shower. You said 'mmm.' Then I asked how you were going, and you didn't reply at all, so I left you to it. I made a salad for dinner and you didn't touch yours so it's back in the fridge, by the way. When I asked if you wanted a cuppa you said, 'mmm' again. So I put it down beside you and told you to let it cool for a bit because it doesn't have as much milk in it as you usually like. There wasn't much left in the carton."

Sherlock bowed his head, and ran his fingers through his hair, exhaling deeply.

"You okay?" Rose asked.

"I'm not sure I'm making fast enough progress," he muttered, doubt and exasperation clashing in his mind. This happened to him a lot. He'd look up, and half a day had passed. He might retreat into his Mind Palace, and think he was working efficiently and the next time he came out, the game may be lost. Rose could be outed by Magnussen while the great Consulting Detective was locked away with his own thoughts.

Sherlock abruptly stood. He insides heaved monstrously and he found his breath shortening. He couldn't do this. He wasn't going to win. He rapidly tapped his fingertips against his thigh as he considered his options.

"Sherlock. Can I help with anything? I'm actually quite good with research." Rose had stood and was looking over the documents that covered the dining table. "Tonya said your way in was through the staff. Did you identify anyone?" She turned to face Sherlock once more.

Sherlock's mind slowly kicked into gear. Staff. He had been looking at this case from the wrong angle.

Magnussen's empire is vast, Tonya had said to him. But it's made up of people... and that may be his only weakness.

Sherlock had thought Tonya's people were only useful for getting him this information, but they could still be used to open doors for him. Why hadn't he looked closer at the people! Not the security protocols, or the executive protection plans. The security personnel!

"Wait..." Sherlock said, turning back to the document he had left lying on the sofa. "People, yes, security staff." He stooped to retrieve it as Rose looked on. "Of course!"

Sherlock stepped around the coffee table and gave Rose a peck on the cheek.

"Rose, you're a genius!"

He strode away from her to the door. Grabbing his coat, he said, "The security personnel, of course! His only weakness."

"Where are you going at this hour?"

"To stalk a handful security guards. Don't wait up!"


Rose didn't wait up, but she was woken up rather rudely by the Consulting Detective upon his return from God's knows where.

"What?" she murmured, and then squinted at being blinded by the light of her bedside lamp that Sherlock had switched on.

"You offered to help; now's your chance. Pick one of these three, or all three if you like. But they may talk, compare notes, that kind of thing. Men do, apparently. So maybe just the one. I've even got the names of the pubs they like to frequent."

Sherlock was holding up three pieces of paper in front of Rose's face.

"Sherlock, wait," Rose said, propping herself up onto her elbows. She groggily eyed the digital clock on the table beside her. "Oh, fuck. It's 3am." She sank back down again.

"You said you'd help," Sherlock protested, lowering the sheets of paper that she now noticed held the staff profiles of three CAM Global News male employees.

"Not at this hour."

"The hour's irrelevant," Sherlock replied dismissively. "Just pick one. I have all the information you need. I've got the contents of their rubbish bins, which tells me gym membership, favourite food groups—"

"You what?"

Rose was slowly coming out of her sleep-induced stupor. This behaviour of Sherlock's was bordering on disturbing, she could see that now. But really, what did she know about him when he was working on a case? This one—hers and Lady Smallwood's—was really the first case she'd observed Sherlock working full-time. Perhaps he was always like this? Methodical and contemplative one minute, then frantic, spontaneous and seemingly random the next.

"Pick one," Sherlock said again. "And flirt and... I don't know. Whatever you do."

There were alarm bells now, and they were ringing in Rose's head.

"You want me to what?"

"Just to get his security access card, Rose. And maybe find out shifts and Magnussen's movements and things. You know." Sherlock waved a flippant hand at Rose. "Find out stuff. Do what you do best."

Rose was wide awake now. Her muscles began to tense, and she clenched her jaw before asking, "Exactly what do I do best?"

.


A/N: We're coming to the oh so juicy bits now!

It's my own personal head canon (derived from ACD's character background) that Sherlock used to engage in Bare Knuckle Boxing in his early twenties. Shirtless body glistening with sweat. Oh lordy. Is it just me or is it hot in here? On researching BKB for this chapter, I suddenly had the longing to write a one-shot which would serve as a bit of background that could go with both my multi-chapter fics, and could also stand alone. I've yet to write it though. Would anyone be interested in reading such a thing?