"You look fine" Serene whispered across the back seat.
"I look like a policeman"
"No, you think like a police man. Can you try to look like a man in love?" Her smile is sensual, persuasive. She leans in to him, looking into his eyes, pleading.
"Serene, what are we playing at? You're an entomologist, I shouldn't have asked you. What was I thinking? Nearly got fired for the Sherlock thing-"
Serene rests her hand on his knee. He stops talking, his eyes focusing on her slim brown hand. "You think too much"
"That's rich, coming from you."
The cab had pulled up in front of a brick building, its imposing black windows throb with unseen dancers and a crowd was gathered out front. Women huddled against each other waiting their turn. Serene squeezes his knee affectionately before popping out of the cab.
From the doorway of the building across the street Sherlock Holmes watches the club. He is breathing heavily, leaning into the darkness. He wills his body to stop pulling in air so harshly, and thinks briefly of the fine cotton of his shirt soaking up the sweat beading up along his body beneath his heavy coat. The obvious choice after sending John in the taxi had been to run to the next location, rather than hope for a cab winding its way through the increased police presence. Just as he begins to doubt that he has chosen the same club, a black taxi pulls up.
He doesn't allow himself to think too hard about his assumption that she would pick the same club. He often makes these assumptions only to have everyday people fail time and time again to use their minds. It is not his assumption, but the missing urge to over explain to her that itches beneath his skin. It is rare that he can be simple with people, state the facts without revealing the trick. He sees the scientist emerge from the cab.
Her body language has changed, she moves with the same grace, but it is hidden behind a swaying and laughing pantomime. She is a competent actress; if he had not observed her so carefully he may have been taken in by it. Lestrade is wooden next to her, a self-conscious block. If this plan went wrong it would be his fault. He questioned her choice to use Lestrade instead of himself.
They join the queue and he watches Lestrade begin to move to the front of the small group. His hand reaches into his jacket pocket.
"No, no you fool" Sherlock curses under his breath, but the woman has seen too. She catches Lestrade's lapel in one hand, effectively blocking access to his badge. She pulls him close; she fiddles with his collar her lips moving soundlessly. He supposes she is warning him to have patience, wait in the queue without revealing his badge. He smiles at her smoothness. At that moment she glances over her shoulder, looking so directly at him, he feels like she must see him. He argues this is nonsense as the masonry and darkness conceal his dark coat entirely, but her eyes in that moment burned into him.
She had said her name, he had pretended not to hear it, but he had. 'Serene'. Her muddied french accent made it sound so different from The Woman's name, but every time he heard it his brain sorted it out again. Ser-ene, I-rene, Se-rene. The Woman had looked at him too intensely too, and offered a dangerous temptation.
He wasn't sure what this woman was offering him. Or what was being offered to him by Lestrade. He couldn't find the link between the entomologist and the crime. What qualified her to be at the crime scene, why Lestrade had invited both of them. He assumed it was sentiment about John and the baby. Yet he watched them interact together, there was a familiarity between them. He wondered how he had never even had a hint of her before this moment. He had been back almost a year; this woman must predate his return. And yet she had remained so hidden from him. Was it the baby that made Lestrade offer up his prize to Sherlock now? Could sentiment so easily displace attraction? He felt blind to the answer.
The queue began shuffling forward and Lestrade and the woman disappeared into the club. He emerged from the shadows to follow them inside the Lionhead.