Margaux sat at her desk, staring at the clock and absentmindedly chewing on her index finger. She wondered why people said 'tick tock', because when she really listened to it, there was no difference in sound from one second to the next, if anything it was more of a 'tick tick', she thought, or a 'tock tock'. God she was bored. She shook her head, tucked her hair behind her ears and returned to the files spread out on the desk in front of her.
A man found dead in the middle of a field; no Wallet or ID, no water for miles, yet the state of his body and the autopsy clearly showed he was drowned.
"It has to be…" Margaux whispered to herself.
III
The lady on reception was young with short, dyed ginger hair. She was typing on the computer, tilting her head to one side and chewing on a sweet from the bowl next to her.
A whoosh from the revolving door revealed Sherlock, fixing the collar of his coat as he walked towards the front desk, followed shortly after by John who brushed away the hail stones that had fallen on his shoulders.
"You need a pass to get beyond this point," said the receptionist as the two men flitted past her.
They stopped, turned around and walked to the desk.
"Well then give me a pass," replied Sherlock.
"That's alright I'll just wait here then," John added sarcastically.
The receptionist rolled her eyes and pushed another sweet into her mouth, "I can't just give you a pass," she began, "you need to be registered as a visitor and have the reason for your visit confirmed by an agent or member of the bureau."
"Well I'm here to see Dr Cave…" said Sherlock.
The receptionist typed on her computer for a moment before leaning back in her chair and looking up at them slowly.
"She's in the offices upstairs. And you still don't have a pass, so…"
"This is ridiculous. Can you just call Doctor Cave in her office and she'll tell you who I am, then you can just let me through." Sherlock was growing increasingly frustrated as John stood calmly beside him, bracing for the eruption.
"Well you'd still need a pass to get beyond this point," the receptionist sneered.
"Is this a joke?" Sherlock laughed in disbelief, holding his arms out and turning around as if he was being watched. "Has somebody–"
John stepped forward, "Hi…" He glanced at her name plate, "Sophia. I'm Dr John Watson. My friend here is Sherlock Holmes, he's a consulting detective, and we're working closely with the police on a case at the moment. We've enlisted the help of Dr Cave, can you just… let her know we're here please?"
The receptionist rolled her eyes and began to tap slowly at the keys on her computer. Agonisingly slow.
Sherlock placed his hands on the desk "Can you please just…!" He took a deep breath and turned to John. "You know I could have very well gotten myself through there by now–"
"Yes I know, but we agreed no more breaking and entering. At least not for a while."
"This is exactly why I don't follow the rules, John, because anyone can enforce them."
"I find your tone extremely offensive," said the receptionist.
"Offensive? Ha! You know what I find offensive? The fact that you're taking your break-up out on me."
"Excuse me?"
"Here we go." John sighed.
"It's not my fault he ran off with someone else!" Sherlock shouted.
"I don't understand…" The receptionist could barely speak.
"And with your best friend too, ooh harsh. Y'know I could feel sorry for you if you weren't such an imbecile," Sherlock continued.
"How did you…"
"It's obvious!"
"Alright Sherlock, you made your point," said John in an attempt to save the girl's feelings.
It was too late.
"Your eyes are still swollen from crying and there's a faint red stain around your mouth, no doubt from the red wine you were drinking last night… while crying. There's still an indent on your ring finger which means you only removed a ring recently and I noticed three photographs of you with the same girl that have been torn from your cork board and tossed in that bin over there. Your best friend. You're wearing…" He inhaled. "Chanel. Number five. Expensive. He bought it for you. So the fact that you're wearing it to sit behind a desk all day means he must work here too. The worn out 'camera room' label on that phone makes me think he's security of some kind. Am I right?"
The receptionist sat in silence for a moment. "Yes," she muttered.
"He doesn't want you back. You weren't a good match. Move on."
"Sherlock?" Margaux's voice echoed across the reception.
Sherlock turned to see Margaux standing on the other side of the turnstiles in her grey blazer and matching trousers that hugged at her thighs. Her hair was still tucked gently behind her ears as she stood, eyes wide, staring across the room at him.
"I didn't realise you were here," she said. "Sophia, are you okay?"
Sherlock and John turned to the receptionist who was sat sniffling behind the desk.
III
"She was right, you know? You do technically need a pass to be up here right now," Margaux laughed as she sat down at her desk.
"I'll send her some flowers." The corners of Sherlock's mouth curled into an endearing smirk.
"So…" John awkwardly interrupted. "The plan? I mean the ball is tomorrow and we have nothing to prove this man is a fake."
"Ah!" Margaux lifted a finger into the air before pulling the pile of papers from her draw and spreading them across the desk.
She lifted several photographs of the drowned man, along with a sheet of DNA tests.
"I think this is the real Bart Mentford. And whoever is sending the death threats knows this." She was still proud that she had beaten Sherlock to the answer. "This is all DNA results extracted from the body, all we need is something we know belonged to the real Bart Mentford and a sample of DNA from the imposter. We run tests against the DNA from my drowned man and there we have it; case solved thanks to me." She winked and gave the men a smile.
"This is perfect." Sherlock stood up, carried away in his excitement for the case. "You're brilliant Margaux, just brilliant."
"How are we going to get the samples? The guy's on lock down until the ball," said John.
Sherlock thought to himself for a moment, his eyes darting back and forth as he came up with a plan. Then it came to him, suddenly, like the striking of a match. He pivoted on his feet, shifting his gaze between John and Margaux.
"What?" asked John.
Sherlock fixed his eyes on Margaux, allowing them to scan her just once.
"No," she said. "No! Not only is that ridiculously dangerous, but I'm not some bloody Bond girl you can just throw a sparkly dress on and use as bate!"
"Am I missing something?" said John.
It was as if Sherlock and Margaux were having their own, unspoken conversation. From a single glance, she knew the plan he was concocting.
"Sherlock thinks we should attend the ball; dress up all nice and get the samples ourselves," she said. "Aren't you, Sherlock?"
"Would it help if I said 'please'?" He asked.
Margaux let out a laugh.
"It would be a good way of distracting him; stalling the check-giving..." John added.
"You two are mad! No wonder you've ended up living and working together; you're bloody kindred spirits," she said.
"Seven o'clock tomorrow evening, 221B Baker Street," said Sherlock as he and John stood up, beginning to leave the office. "Wear something pretty," he added with a smile, purposely trying to annoy her.
III
Somehow, Margaux had found herself standing in the dressing room of a shop, examining her body in an array of different dresses. She couldn't believe they had convinced her to do this. She lifted her hair up and turned to look at the back of the dress. This was her favourite so far. It had a space in the side to hide a DNA swab. She decided to buy it. Maybe it would be exciting; she had always wondered what it felt like to be on the front line of the investigation instead of in her office, or the labs of St. Bartholomew's Hospital.
She walked back to her apartment, hanging up the dress immediately and examining it for a moment. Was it too much? It was a ball, of course it wasn't too much. Why did she care? Was she really getting excited to see Sherlock again? Stop it, Margaux thought. Maybe she should call Dr Grant and go for that drink. Maybe.