"The freak is here," said Sergeant Donovan as she pushed open the door to Lestrade's office. "He's on one again."
Lestrade stood up from behind his desk as Sherlock walked in.
"I was just about to call you," Lestrade began. "to see if you'd gotten anywhere with Mr Mentford's case."
"He has one living relative; is that right?" Sherlock sat down, clasping his hands together under his chin.
"He's got an elderly uncle…"
"In a coma. Two- no, three years."
"How did you know… Never mind." Lestrade sighed and sat on the edge of his desk. "What are you getting at, Sherlock?"
"I need access to his uncle. Five minutes, tops."
"Are you having a laugh? Of course not!"
"Why? It's not as if he'll notice I was there." Sherlock's compassion was lacking. Granted, meeting John had revealed a certain kindness he never knew existed in himself before. But there was still a long way to go.
"Sherlock, I cannot grant you a warrant to go snooping around a coma patient!"
"Fine."
"You're still going to do it, aren't you?" Lestrade rubbed his tired eyes.
Sherlock stood up; the perfect posture of his tall, slender frame commanded the room. He looked at Lestrade and huffed.
"I assume you haven't been able to find a source of the threatening texts?" Sherlock asked.
"No. Whoever sent them used some sort of blocker, and they must've known he got the police involved because the messages stopped the second we got the phone."
"You'll want to be at the museum tonight, about nine-ish. Bring a police car. Handcuffs. Oh and you might need a tazer."
Lestrade stood for a moment, processing Sherlock's words. He looked up from the ground to where he had been standing, but he was gone.
III
Margaux tapped her knuckles against the door and gently pushed it open. She peered her head inside to see Molly Hooper pressing her eye into the lens of a microscope, examining a dot of blood encased between two glass slides. Molly lifted her head, her eyes flickered to the doorway where Margaux stood.
"Oh, hello." Molly placed the slide down, "I'm so sorry, I'm terrible with names…"
"Margaux." She smiled and gave a gentle wave.
"Of course, sorry. Did you sort out the… body thing?" Molly asked awkwardly.
Margaux let out a quiet laugh, "I did," she said. "Clean water. Probably done in a bathtub."
"Blimey." Molly shuffled across to her computer.
"I just came in to… well… because Sherlock Holmes sent me. He said… Uh, well it's quite rude actually…"
"He wants me to stay here all night, doesn't he?"
Margaux nodded.
"What does he need?" Molly asked kindly.
"You don't mind?"
"Of course not."
"He needs you on standby to test some DNA samples."
"Right. Okay," said Molly with a nod and a smile.
She was under Sherlock's spell. It was obvious. And Margaux knew that feeling all too well. Margaux turned on her heels to leave the room, but stopped after a few steps.
"Molly…" she began. "Would you say you're particularly close to Sherlock?"
"Well, not as close as I'd like to be." Molly laughed awkwardly. "Oh dear, that sounded a bit wrong. Sorry."
Margaux laughed.
"What I mean is… He's not interested in me. But I don't think he's interested in anyone really. Friendships, relationships, all a bit pointless to someone like Sherlock."
"Yeah." Margaux nodded. "Well thanks." She smiled and left the lab.
She knew Molly was right. It was all pointless.
III
John pulled his tie tight around his neck and fixed his collar down over it. He brushed down the front of his shirt and pulled on his blazer, turning to Sherlock who stood at the window of their flat, looking out onto the dark street below. He was dressed in a clean, well-fitted tuxedo with his hands clasped together comfortably behind his back. His dark curls remained wild, yet he had tucked the sides slightly behind his ears. He was still. Gazing at the glittering frost that lay fresh on the road.
"Excited?" John broke the silence as he fastened his cufflinks.
"For what?"
"For the ball. Dancing, drinks, glamour, nailing the imposter."
"Ecstatic."
"You're nervous, aren't you? I can tell." John smirked.
Sherlock spun around, his movements precise and fluid, his balance perfect.
"Nervous?" He scoffed.
"You are!" John continued. "I've been around you long enough to pick up on these kinds of things. You're nervous. What for?"
"Nothing– I mean, I'm not nervous. Shut up." Sherlock strode across the floor past him and into the kitchen.
John laughed.
"I would have thought this would be right up your alley; pretending to be social, normal, charming. You do that so well," he teased.
Sherlock paced the kitchen, checking his watch every few moments.
"What is it, Sherlock? I've never seen you so apprehensive…"
A knock at the door sent the flat into silence. Sherlock's eyes flitted to the door and back down to the floor. He began pacing again. John's mouth curled into a smile. He was nervous because of her.
They hurried into the living room. Sherlock wandered around for a moment, searching for a place to stand. He settled on the fireplace; standing with his back to the door, hands behind his back, watching the empty fire as if there were blazing, crackling flames inside. John opened the door. His eyes widening for a moment before smiling and welcoming Margaux inside.
"We said seven," Sherlock quipped as he turned around.
He stared at Margaux as she stepped into the flat. She smiled, biting her lip for a second. Nervous. She ran her hands across her hips, smoothing down the pearlescent lace that hugged every curve of her body. Uncomfortable.
"You said seven. I, however…" Her thick, dark hair had been tamed in smooth waves. She flicked it off her shoulder. "Didn't."
Flirting. She was flirting and she didn't even realise it, he thought.
"You look beautiful, Margaux. You scrub up well." John smiled. They laughed.
"That would imply that there are times when she looks not 'scrubbed up'. Which she does not," Sherlock added.
"It's a figure of speech… a joke." John shook his head in amazement. "You know you could just say she looks beautiful, Sherlock, it won't kill you."
There was an awkward silence.
"Tell you what, the sexual tension," John began, "you could LITERALLY cut it with a knife." He aimed his words at Sherlock. Margaux blushed. Sherlock's nostrils flared.
"You can't LITERALLY cut–"
III
A waiter outstretched his hand which carried a tray of champagne glasses. John took one, nodding to the waiter in thanks. Margaux followed, taking a sip of the cold, bubbling liquid. Sherlock shook his head, the waiter walked away.
"He's by the bar," Sherlock whispered.
"Stay close by," said Margaux before walking off in the direction of Bart Mentford's imposter.
They watched as her walk grew increasingly smoother and more alluring; her hips rocking more noticeably from side to side the closer she came to the bar. She took another sip of champagne and flicked her hair, stepping between a crowd of people, catching the bartender's attention almost instantly.
John looked up to Sherlock, his eyes fixated on Margaux.
"Have you?" John asked.
"I told you, no."
"No, not with Margaux. I mean ever. Have you ever… loved someone, fancied someone, been with someone?" It was as if the question had been bursting at the seams of John's body since he first met Sherlock.
"Now isn't the time, John. Let's go before he sees us watching." Sherlock gently nudged him.
"A large glass of your darkest red." Margaux smiled, resting her chin on the back of her hand.
She hated herself right now; Dr Margaux Cave PhD, the girl who solved Sherlock Holmes' case before he did, with one look, was using her body hugged in a tight, backless dress as bait. How did she get to this point? Sherlock owed her one.
She took the glass and sipped at it, catching Mentford's eye, pretending she hadn't noticed. He left his group and stepped along the bar to join her.
"Hello." He grinned.
"Hi." She smiled.
"I'm not sure we've met…"
"Oh, I came with a date but he's disappeared." She looked around. "I don't think he was interested in me."
"Not interested in you? He must have been blind." He gave her another slimy grin, revealing a gold tooth at the back of his mouth.
Margaux continued drinking her wine, almost finishing the glass in a few large gulps.
"To be honest…" she put her lips to his ear. "I don't think he liked the fact that I'm quite drunk," she whispered, letting out a giggle as she returned to finish the dregs of her glass. She could feel herself losing brain cells every time she spoke.
"Well at least say you're going to stick around to watch me receive my check?"
"Oh, you're Bartholomew Mentford!?"
"Yes." He laughed. "And I'm about to become very, very rich."
Sherlock watched from across the room, taking a mental photograph as Margaux reached out and touched the man's arm. He couldn't hear her laugh, he was too far away from her, but it was as if he could feel it; warm, inviting, attractive. The plan was going well. She was luring Bart in and soon, he would invite her into the private lounge where she would be able to get his DNA and try to extract a confession. Just keep going, Sherlock thought.
"Sherlock…" John directed their attention to the museum attendants bringing out the painite stone in a large glass box and an envelope containing the check. "We need to buy some time."
Sherlock fixed his tuxedo jacket and ran a hand through his hair, making his way over to the attendants. His cold, chiselled face softened as he grew closer, almost warming to a smile when he touched one of them on the shoulder.
"Excuse me? Sorry to bother you," he began.
The girl looked up at him. Smiling in response to his gentle expression, regarding his well-dressed frame and striking eyes.
"My… friend over here… He's drank one too many champagnes," he laughed, shooting John a look. "I was wondering if you could all help me? Only, I'm supposed to remain in here for Mr Mentford. I'm his assistant."
"Oh, erm…" said the girl.
John began to sway, shouting and slurring at guests who passed by him. Sherlock and the attendant looked at him, he held up his middle finger and took a large swig of champagne.
"I'm so sorry to ask this of you all, I know you're busy with all of this. It's just… This is the first time I've ever brought a boyfriend to an event and he promised he wouldn't embarrass me like this…" he began to cry.
"Oh dear, please don't cry," the girl tried to comfort him. "Of course, we'll help. Our staff room is just back here." She gestured to the other attendants who rallied to collect John and drag him out of the hall.
Sherlock continued to cry until the attendants had turned their backs. He gave John a wink who pretended to struggle as they escorted him away.
Bart had just ordered another glass of wine for Margaux. Her third glass.
"So what do you do for fun?" He asked.
"Oh, this and that you know, I like to attend fancy events in pretty dresses," she giggled.
Margaux glanced over his shoulder. Why was John being dragged away? She focused her gaze on Sherlock who stood near the display case and check, looking at his watch. They had bought time, she had to hurry up.
"Actually… Bart… Do you want to know a secret?" She moved closer to him.
He nodded, in awe of her.
"I didn't come here as someone's date. I'm a geologist. A very experienced geologist. And I'm interested in striking up a couple of deals with you tonight." She leaned in to whisper in his ear again, pressing her body up against his chest. "Some professional, some purely for pleasure." She pulled away. "Can we go somewhere quiet?"
"Follow me." He began to lead her out of the hall.
III
She ran her hand over the arm of the luxuriously embroidered couch. She sat down, taking another sip of wine. He walked to the drinks table and poured himself a scotch from the decanter, turning to her and smiling. She had switched on the recorder in her bra the second they stepped into the private lounge, just in case.
"So… this deal…" he pressed. "The professional one."
"Well, in preparation for tonight, I read a few of your business essays," she began, watching him tense up. "The one where you talk about promoting industries for a fee… what was that called again?"
He had no idea.
"Anyway, I thought it would interesting for you to become a member of the geologists' institute. It would mean incredible exposure for us," she continued.
"I um, I… I'm not a geologist." He pulled at the collar of his shirt.
"No, of course not. But you must have some knowledge to have come across that piece of Painite and known what it was?"
"Oh, yes, well…"
"What's the matter, Bart? Come and sit down." She patted the empty space beside her.
He sat down. She began running her fingers through his greasy hair.
"You know sometimes I want to just run away. This might be the wine talking but… Don't you wish you could just… not be you anymore? Take that money and just… run?" She worried she was being too obvious, but she was running out of time.
"Would you really like that? To just disappear?" He gazed at her.
"Absolutely." She began to lean in. "But only in a dream world, hey?" She laughed.
"Well… What if I could make it a reality?"
"What do you mean?"
He shuffled closer to Margaux, grasping her arms as he spoke.
"My name isn't Bartholomew Mentford," he began. "But in a few minutes, I am going to get a check for a ridiculous amount of money… Then I'm going to disappear."
This was it. She'd got it. Now all she needed was his DNA. She leaned in and began to kiss him. He wrapped his arms around her with ferocity. She pushed herself into him, seizing her moment and biting hard on his bottom lip.
"Ow!" He pushed her off, blood dripping onto his white shirt.
"Sorry, got a bit carried away." She jumped up and ran to the box of tissues on the coffee table.
Swiftly, she pulled the swap from her dress and tore the packet. She disguised the swab amongst the tissue and returned to pat away the blood. He sat calmly, allowing her to clean him up and watched as she stepped away to get rid of the tissues.
She discretely pulled the container for the swab out of her dress and began trying to get the swab safely inside. Suddenly, the door swung open.
"Mr Mentford, they're waiting for you–" A security guard stepped in the room.
Margaux jumped in shock, revealing the tip of the swab and its container.
"What's that?" Bart asked, standing up in anger.