AUTHOR'S NOTE: Late update this time...sorry about that. We've had some internet issues and I didn't want to sacrifice quality just to get it up earlier. Anyhow, on with the show!

"I don't suppose we can negotiate—ouch!" exclaims John, his army-tuned instincts launching his head out of the path of the bodyguard's club. The swing clips his shoulder instead, pain blossoming just centimeters away from his bullet wound. "Right then," he says, backing up as far as he can go. His back hits the wall of the hallway, unforgivably solid, and as the man slowly approaches him, baton raised over his head, John mechanically elevates an arm in front of his face. The man poises himself to strike, and John knows, with his height and strength, the blow will likely be fatal.

Right as the man's arm descends, John does an awkward shuffle that saves his life, the baton cracking horribly against the wall, leaving a hole in the plaster where John's head was a second before. Unfortunately, the move also costs him his upright position, as some misguided footwork results in John toppling over his own ankle, leaving him helplessly backed up against the end of the hallway.

The gray suit grunts angrily and swings around to face John with heated eyes. The light fixtures are still shaking from his last hit, and John's breathing comes quick and shallow as he raises his arm again, determined, this time, to hit his target…

Then, from behind the bodyguard, a thin hand appears, latching on to the middle of the baton. The man does a one-eighty and finds himself face to face with Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm afraid I'll have to take this from you," says Sherlock calmly, effortlessly plucking the instrument from the surprised man. "Irene's done such a nice job with the décor; such a pity you've already managed to muck it up."

The man gives an irritated yelp and lunges for the baton. Sherlock drops it, instead grabbing the man's wrist and folding the arm behind his back, effectively pinning it down. With his other hand, Sherlock presses two fingers into the struggling man's flesh, in the dip between his neck and shoulder. The man's eyes roll back into his head. His whole body goes limp.

"Shoulder," says Sherlock, suddenly changing to a serious tone and dropping the bodyguard unceremoniously to the ground.

"Sh-" John starts.

"Yes, shoulder, your shoulder," Sherlock interrupts, quickly kneeling to face John. "Is it alright?"

Sherlock doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, he grabs John's collar and begins unbuttoning John's shirt with long, white fingers. When he gets to the fifth button, Sherlock shrugs the shirt down to John's waist, exposing his injured shoulder.

"There's going to be some bruising," he says, running his fingers over the red patch. "Any tenderness?"

"No, I'm-" John begins until Sherlock presses firmly on the wound. "Ouch!"

"Sorry," says Sherlock, and after he's sat himself down next to John, he tilts his neck back and says again, defeatedly, "I'm sorry."

"What…have you got to be sorry for?" says John, only now realizing he's out of breath.

Sherlock turns his head down and stares at his knees. "I didn't…realize she'd have sent someone. As soon as you walked up the stairs I knew. She sent me this text."

Sherlock pulls out his phone, showing the screen to John without turning to him. I know how to get my girls to talk. Consider this a warning. CAM.

"Sherlock, it's not your fault," says John reassuringly. "If you're going to apologize for something, it should be about the fact that these situations always end up with you pulling off my clothes."

"Oh my," says a feminine voice from the end of the hall. "I'd only gone to buy groceries. If I'd have known you boys were going to be at each other, I'd have stayed out longer."

Irene prances cattily into the hall, stopping to glance casually at the unconscious bodyguard.

"Ooo, Sherlock, I figured you'd like it rough, but not that rough."

The detective springs to his feet, offering John a hand before tearing forcibly away from his side. "We have to be more careful," he says angrily, making his way to the staircase. "We can't let anything like this happen again."

"And how will we do that?" calls Irene as Sherlock descends the stairs.

"I have a theory!" he yells, now completely out of sight. Irene turns back to John, and they exchange hopeless smiles.

"Hungry?" says Irene.

"Starving," replies John.

"Oh, you're no fun," she shoots back, winking. "How about chicken picatta?"

John absentmindedly chases the capers on his plate with a fork. The rest of the meal had been quite good; Irene, admittedly, is a decent cook. But he's never been able to stand capers, acrid little orbs they are.

He hadn't been surprised when he'd seen that Irene had only set the table for two. Sherlock rarely eats, and he'd had that look in his eye as he dashed down the stairs that told John he'd be contemplating something for the next few hours. He and Irene had managed some thoughtful, albeit completely forced, conversation, avoiding the topic of Sherlock Holmes as entirely as possible. They found that, without the detective, there wasn't really much they shared.

John is extremely thankful when, as he puts his plate and glass in the sink, Sherlock strides into the room, dark trench coat folded over his arm.

"Going somewhere?" asks Irene as Sherlock sits at the kitchen table.

"No. Irene, I need you to look at some things and tell me what you know about them." Sherlock plunges his hand into the coat's pockets and pulls out an assortment of items, lining them up in a neat row on the tabletop. The first object is a bumper sticker, yellow with black text. The second is a coffee mug, the third a small ornamental figurine shaped like a cow. "The sticker, first, can you tell me anything?"

Irene picks up the sticker, cautiously unfolding it and scanning the printed words. Anderson Auto Shop. "It's…one of the companies in the articles I gave you, isn't it? One of the companies Camilla blackmailed into going bankrupt. I remember their ad in the playbill for West Side Story a while ago."

"And the mug?" Sherlock prompts, reading the script on the mug. "Seed Records, have they advertised in your playbills before?"

"Yes. Yes, I think so," answers Irene. "But I haven't heard about them…" She stops talking, eyes flashing momentarily and snapping to Sherlock. "You think she's going after Seed Records next?"

"I don't think, I know," Sherlock declares, clearing his throat to prepare for an explanation. "I saw an email exchange in her inbox on her mobile. We already know she likes to be dramatic—what kind of actress isn't?—so it's not a far stretch to suggest that she keeps trinkets from the companies she shuts down. People do like to have their trophies. The fact that she has the coffee mug means that she's already targeted Seed Records for her next job. Judging by the coffee stain in the bottom, it was taken nearly two weeks ago and never washed. I'd say our next step is to confirm when this mug was taken from the company building; that will give us an approximate window of time for how long we have in between each blackmailing."

John stares hard at the detective, gaping. "How—?"

"Hmm, I actually liked it better when you'd confirm my intellectual prowess with praise rather than question it."

"No," says John, taking a deep breath and tilting his head slightly. "No, I mean, how are we supposed to find who lost the coffee mug? It's a generic logo, there must be thousands-"

"How many CEOs do you expect Seed Records could have, John?" Sherlock asks incredulously. "Camilla wouldn't just take any worker bee's cup; she goes for the high-power figures. She probably paid the CEO a personal visit, threatened him and took his mug on the way out as a scare tactic. If we can find out when the mug was taken, we might be able to stop the killing from happening."

"And what about the cow?" asks Irene, pointing at the figurine.

"No idea; I'm not exactly the most familiar with popular media icons, especially not in America."

"Right," sighs Irene. "I'll keep my eyes open, then."

Sherlock picks up the objects and thrusts them back into his coat pockets. He gets up to walk out of the kitchen, but a question from John keeps him lingering in the door frame.

"So, er," John asks cautiously. "What's the plan, then?"

"I'll spend tonight researching Seed Records. Tomorrow, you and I will have a visit with their CEO; it'll have to wait for the afternoon, though. I've got a date in the morning."

With that, he exits promptly, leaving Irene and John to exchange raised eyebrows.

"I completely agree!" exclaims Andre the next morning, standing once again by the iron gates marking Camilla's driveway. "Roses are totally overused. There are so many other, lovelier flowers that-"

He stops suddenly as a taxi cab rolls up beside them.

"Ah, there's my ride," says Sherlock, pretending to nervously tug at the hem of his dress with one arm; the other cradles a spectacular bouquet of orchids. "I'm glad we got to speak again. I'm leaving for London in a few days so-"

Andre's face lights up. "A few days? So you'll be here for a little longer then?"

Sherlock nods, taking a step backward towards the cab and running a hand girlishly through the long hair of his wig.

A warm relief spreads over the gardener. "Great, that's great. Would you want to maybe stop by again tomorrow? Camilla's out during the afternoon, we could have, um, tea or something? That's what you guys do in England, yeah?"

"That would be wonderful," Sherlock replies in a mock-sincere voice, opening the cab door. "Thanks again for the orchids. They're lovely."

Andre flushes a pale red. In a fast, fluid motion, he crosses the space between them and tilts his head down. Sherlock is vaguely aware of the slight press of lips on his own, just for a moment, before Andre pulls away, cheeks and ears positively magenta. "Um, see you tomorrow then!" he manages to squeak out.

Sherlock waves to him, a dainty, princess-like wave, before climbing into the cab and shutting the door. He sighs in relief and slumps down in his seat.

"What on earth was that?" exclaims John accusingly from the seat next to him, thrusting a Brooks Brothers box into Sherlock's lap.

"That was a kiss, John," says the detective, wiping the makeup from his face with a napkin before breaking into the box. "I was under the impression that dating was more your area than mine."

"But you just-"

"What was I supposed to do, reject it?" Sherlock cuts across John, unfolding a crisp white shirt, sharp blazer and slacks from the box. "He's my only shot at finding out where Camilla's got her computer. Good thing she's not smart enough to think I'd be seducing the gardener, otherwise I'd have cameras to worry about."

John glares at Sherlock, watery gray-blue eyes searching for something in Sherlock's face, before turning his face down and staring into his lap.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," says Sherlock, pulling his dress over his head and putting an arm through the shirt sleeve. "What's worse, making one man fall in love with me or the downfall of infinite companies?"

John can't possibly tell Sherlock that the reason he's examining the knees of his pants has nothing to do with Andre's surprise kiss and everything to do with the detective's now completely exposed chest, smooth and visible through his unbuttoned shirt, almost whiter than the shirt itself, the flash of a carnation-pink nipple as he shrugs the other sleeve over his milk-pale shoulder…

This is agony. At least Sherlock is wearing boxers, although John will never admit how he knows this.

"That's not the problem," John says finally, realizing he at least needs to try to keep up appearances. "You can't just kiss someone," who isn't me, he wants to say, but instead says, "and not mean it. Besides, doesn't it bother you to-"

"If you're asking if I'm above kissing to gain information, the answer is no. Sorry to disappoint, but there isn't much I'm not willing to do to gain information, minus sex, of course. If my acting skills are anywhere near what people tell me they are—and I know they are—then Andre believes he is seeing a woman, and I have no intention of shattering his illusions. At least, not until I figure out where Camilla's keeping her computer."

John scowls, turning to Sherlock in just enough time to witness him buttoning his trousers. "And just when will that be? We don't have infinite time!"

"If all goes according to plan," Sherlock says deviously. "I'll know the location by tomorrow."

"Fine," John concedes. "Let's just get back to Irene's and-"

"Oh, did I forget to mention? We're taking a little field trip," interrupts Sherlock, straightening his tie.

"Where-" starts John, but he stops abruptly.

Sherlock doesn't wear ties.

Twenty minutes later, the taxi stops in the front circle of Seed Records Inc. Sherlock and John make it a few steps away from the car before the driver yells back at them.

"Hey! Were you planning to pay me?"

Sherlock swings around, clearly annoyed at having been stopped. "There's a very expensive dress and a bouquet of orchids in the back seat, the value of both of which greatly exceed the cost of the ride. Give them to your wife tonight and maybe she won't realize you forgot your anniversary."

The cabby's mouth falls open, and he stares at Sherlock's back until it disappears through the front entrance.

"Do you always have to do that?" asks John as the automatic doors click shut behind them. The lobby of Seed Records is large but crowded, filled with hopeful looking young adults with bright eyes and powerwalking managers talking on cell phones. John suddenly feels incredibly underdressed. Sherlock, however, is wearing a slightly more tailored suit than normal, blue instead of black, and, of course, the tie.

"How was I supposed to hold a wallet in that dress?" Sherlock jests.

"I could've paid," John offers, following Sherlock to the front desk.

"Yes, but then what would happen to your budget for internet porn?" John can actually hear the mocking smile in Sherlock's voice. "I suppose it would also be useless to point out that you don't have any American money."

John rolls his eyes.

"Er, hi," Sherlock says in an American accent to the lady across the front desk. "I'm Peter Jefferson. I'm here to meet with Ms. Eileen Shrew."

The desk clerk looks up over her spectacles. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Yeah," Sherlock nods.

The woman's face remains unchanging. "Seventh floor, go all the way to the left. Her door's at the end of the hall."

"Thanks!" says Sherlock cheerily. He heads toward the elevators, John following close behind.

"You don't have an appointment," says John as Sherlock hits the button for the seventh floor, and it isn't a question.

"Surprising what you can accomplish with a new suit and an executive demeanor."

"No it's not," replies John. "At least, not with you. Nothing you do surprises me anymore."

"Don't count your chickens, John," Sherlock says, a tiny grin playing at his mouth.

The elevator dings. As soon as the doors open, Sherlock shoots down the hallway. Compared to the lobby, this floor appears eerily silent. Despite name plates on every door, John can hear no voices coming from any of the rooms, no squeaking of office chairs, no clacking of keyboards. The lights aren't even turned on in any of the offices, as far as he can tell. The only activity appears to be in the end room, before which Sherlock is waiting for John impatiently; there is a woman's voice coming from inside, speaking loudly and hurriedly.

Just as John gets to the end of the hall, Sherlock raps on the door several times. The voice inside goes quiet for a moment before answering, "Come in."

Sherlock does as he is told, John following closely behind. The CEO was apparently talking on the phone, as there is nobody in the room but her. The office is spotlessly clean but for a very cluttered desk, behind which sits a woman in her late thirties, dark brown hair pulled into a clinical bun, a wild look in her eyes as if she's just been interrupted during something very important.

"Sorry to bother you, Ms. Shrew," Sherlock says in his American accent. "I'm Peter, second floor accounting. This is my colleague, John." Sherlock reaches into his pocket and pulls out the coffee mug. "Someone told me you'd lost this?"

Eileen Shrew looks genuinely touched as Sherlock hands the mug to her. "Oh, thank you!" she exclaims. "I've been so frantic lately, I haven't had time to get another one. Those little paper cups by the coffee machine don't really hold a lot, do they?"

"Not nearly enough," Sherlock agrees. "John, go get Ms. Shrew some coffee, I'm sure she could use some."

John shoots Sherlock a look that clearly says are you kidding me to which Sherlock replies, by raising an eyebrow, it's your funeral. John sighs. He is three minutes down the hall before realizing he has no idea where the coffeemaker is.

As John turns around, coffee in hand, he very nearly slams into Sherlock, who has somehow materialized right behind him.

"Oh, god, Sherlock," he says, startled. "I almost burned-"

"Forget the coffee, she's fine," Sherlock says, taking the cup from John and tipping it into a trashcan.

John casts him a disdainful look. "Did you at least get the information?"

"Of course I did," he responds matter-of-factly, leading John to the elevator. "Had a little chat, too."

"Just because you had all your questions answered the moment you walked into the room doesn't mean I did," John scoffs.

"Her office, John," says Sherlock as the elevator starts heading towards the lobby. "Everything but her desk was spotless, which indicates that she's been spending massive amounts of time there, so much that she hasn't even had time to get a new mug. She's been drinking a large amount of coffee, evident from the coffee rings on her desk from those paper cups. She was also talking to herself before we came into the room."

"She could have been talking on her phone," suggests John.

"And just stop talking and hang up whenever she has visitors?" replies Sherlock incredulously. "She didn't even say goodbye. Awfully rude behavior for a CEO."

"Okay, let's say you're right," says John as they walk out into the lobby. "What exactly does any of that indicate, beyond a very busy woman being driven to insanity?"

"What it means, John, is that Ms. Shrew knows her time is almost up."

"You don't think…Camilla's already threatened her with death?" says John exasperatedly.

"Of course she has," says the detective. "I didn't come here to find that out. I came here to find out when. Now we know Camilla's timeline for blackmailing."

"And the timeline is…?"

"For god's sake, keep up. I predicted the coffee mug was lost two weeks ago based on the stain; I confirmed it with Eileen. So far, so obvious. Camilla made her first blackmail visit and took the mug two weeks ago. I found out that a week later, Eileen moved her entire floor onto a different floor. Ergo, Eileen refused to comply with the blackmailing and Camilla decided to raise the stakes by threatening death. Eileen didn't know how it would be done, so she moved her entire floor and prepared for the worst. Judging by her current state, I'd say her time is up soon."

"Wow, you are just…" John stops when Sherlock scowls at him. "Alright, so we know Camilla's whole plot takes about two weeks per corporation. What's our next step?"

"Isn't it obvious? We try and stop the next one."

John's breath catches. "Next one? Why can't we stop-"

The doctor is interrupted by a buzz from Sherlock's pocket. The detective takes out his phone, smirking when he reads the name of the person calling him. "And here's where we start." He receives the call and brings the phone to his ear. "Go."

Over the phone, John hears a woman's voice. "Hello, Sherlock darling. I've found your cow."

"I had a hunch, so I looked on the sponsors page of the Milton Opera Company website," says Irene from her armchair. "It's the mascot for Briarwood Dairy. It's last on the list of sponsors so we can assume it's pretty new."

"Pull up the website," demands Sherlock, handing Irene a laptop from the couch. John's laptop.

"Done," says Irene.

"Check when it was last updated."

"Er," Irene mutters, scrolling down through the list of sponsors. "Two days ago."

"Excellent," Sherlock says in a low voice, springing up from the couch. "That means we've got time. She hasn't even attempted to blackmail them yet."

"Sounds like a time for celebration, then!" Irene smiles cattily. "Help me with dinner?"

Sherlock eyes her warily. John thinks he sees her throw the detective a little wink before slinking towards the door. John is certain that Sherlock will disregard her query and go back to surfing the web, and so it comes as a hefty surprise when, obediently, Sherlock rises from the sofa and walks towards Irene.

"Good boy," says Irene as Sherlock scowls past her into the kitchen. "John, there's a telly in the room over, feel free to watch something." She folds her lips into a catlike pucker and follows Sherlock.

Frowning, John shuffles defeatedly into the TV room. The telly, naturally, is enormous, at least sixty inches, and there's practically an entire theatre of seats. He sits down in the front row and turns on the news, seriously considering watching for about two seconds before springing up again and edging, slowly, towards the open doorframe. Sherlock would never follow Irene without reason, and John is going to find out what that reason is.

He leaves the television on; best to convince the two that he is actually watching it. John perks up his ears.

"…you know what he'll do if he finds out!" hisses Sherlock's baritone from the kitchen.

"What, throw a jealous fit because you're looking after-" A newscast from the telly blocks the rest of her words.

"This case may be earth shattering for those involved in the foster care system. Four justices voted…"

Damn, thinks John, inching closer to the door, and he hears Sherlock growl.

"…that's irrelevant."

"Why?" whispers Irene. "Because you're too afraid to admit what this might mean?"

Sherlock gives a low sigh. "No, what I'm afraid of is-"

"Breaking news!" screams the telly. "We've just got word that a bomb was detonated on the seventh floor of Seed Records Incorporated, an up-and-coming recording company. The bomb was small range, and while several offices were devastated, there is only one confirmed death, that of company CEO Eileen Shrew. No details are available as to the intent of this violence, but reporters are on the scene…"

John doesn't wait to hear the rest of the story.

"SHERLOCK!" he yells at the top of his lungs, storming into the kitchen. Irene folds her hands in front of her chest defensively, but Sherlock looks calm and collected, almost…expectant? "You utter bastard! You let that woman DIE to test your theory! You could have... could have..!"

John has to stand several feet away from the detective to stop himself from punching him. He is practically shaking with rage, fists clenches into tight balls, fingernails digging into his palms.

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock says demeaningly. "We had to let the bomb explode, otherwise we never would have confirmed-"

"Don't you DARE!" yells John, and then continues through gritted teeth, "You knew her schedule, you had it all worked out. You just let this happen to stroke your bloody ego! You just had to show the world you were right! Fucking congratulations, Sherlock, a woman's dead!"

Sherlock doesn't respond. John exhales deeply, eyes darting away.

"I'm going out," he spits, still angry but softer. As he stalks away, Sherlock raises an arm feebly, hand outstretched, but John misses the gesture. In a few moments he disappears with a click from the front door.

"He'll be back," says Irene, but Sherlock is not looking at her. He is focusing, instead, on his hand, still outstretched as if beckoning John to return.

"Moved…"

"What's that, Sherlock?"

"When he left, I…moved," says the detective in a low voice. "Instinctively, I tried to get him to stay. I don't do that, I don't…do that. Not for John. Not for anyone."

Irene smirks. "This must be so strange for you," she whispers, putting emphasis on 'strange'. "Caring about things you've never noticed before."

She grabs Sherlock's hand, a motion not unfamiliar to them. Sherlock stiffens but does not pull away.

"Don't worry," she murmurs into his ear, tracing circles with her thumb on the back of Sherlock's hand. "If you're looking for a distraction, I've got an excellent idea."

AUTHOR'S NOTE II: Thanks for reading! Reviews are my lifeblood. Also, if it's any motivation, next chapter is what I've been calling the NAKED SHERLOCK CHAPTER, and not for reasons you'd expect! Stay tuned!