Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

Inspired by: "Wonderful Tonight" by Eric Clapton.

August 24th, 1891: 4:15 PM

"Madeline!"

The poor woman groaned, knowing full well that Sherlock Holmes was calling. Of all the times he had to drop decorum, it had to be during a bustling summer day on a busy street. So much for tarrying at the bookshop across the road from her friend's residence, she thought to herself. On such a beautiful day at the end of the summer, she fully intended to draw her friend out of his stale apartment, but it appeared he had other designs.

"My dear lady!" the detective's voice boomed from the upstairs window. "Madeline St. James! Come in at once!"

A hundred eyes turned to look at her semi-mortified face, but she brushed them off. Madeline shook her head, crossing the busy road of Baker Street hurriedly. She had already promised a social visit outside of fencing practice for this day some time ago, and now she wasn't certain if it was a good idea anymore. Gathering up her skirt, she hastily padded through the entrance and nodded hello to the housekeeper. Take the steps in quick strides, she noted smugly that she was fully recovered as she skipped every second stair.

"Now what is so urgent that…" she started, not bothering to knock before going through the door. However, Madeline trailed off in her tirade when she saw a most peculiar sight: Holmes was absolutely clean and dressed in his best. Pressed shirt, cravat, jacket with tails, the whole deal. His dark hair was washed, combed, and styled into place. The ever-present stubble she'd gotten used to seeing peppered on his cheeks and chin were shaved away. The distinct smell of cologne was in the air, and a cane was clutched in his right hand. Only until her teeth snapped together did she realize her mouth had been hanging open.

He raised an eyebrow before saying, "Would you mind shutting the door behind you, please?"

Blindly complying, Madeline managed to gasp out the words, "I believe I must be underdressed for afternoon tea."

Sherlock smirked. "No, you're underdressed for the end-of-summer ball at the house of Sir Arthur Camden."

"I suppose so," she replied, before blinking and shaking her head in confusion. "Wait, a ball? When did I agree to this?"

"You didn't. But as I've received the invitation this morning, and I am loathe to attend such an affair without a guest to keep me sane, I thought you might agree to fraternizing with the peerage."

Madeline seated herself on the step ladder, as the nearest chair was occupied by a massive carpet bag.

"How did you retain such an invitation?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest.

"Excellent question. I may have cleaned up some affairs in Scotland Yard for the man, procuring his thanks in the form of this social request. And so I dressed beforehand so we can take you back to your home to change into your best faire."

"You never struck me as a cotillion kind of man, Holmes."

Grinning, he turned to pocket some banknotes. "I'm not, but as the man is associated with another man who is a suspect in my latest case, I feel the pressing need to do some onsite investigation. And who better to provide a distraction than a pretty girl that could possibly make the suspect look the other way for a moment?"

She snorted and frowned, turning bright red. "You flatter me, Holmes, really. You do realize I've not consented to this at all, correct?"

"And what's to keep you from saying 'no'?" he queried facetiously. "Previous engagement?"

"No."

"Calling on friends?"

"No, again."

His face held a look of complete triumph. "Then why not indulge me? Shall I be forced to call upon Watson? I don't think he'd fancy being forced into a corset and dress."

Snickering, Madeline shook her head yet again. "I think he would be quite insulted to play the female."

"Is that assent I hear in your voice?" he asked hopefully. "It would be a dreadfully boring place to be on my own. Who knows what I would have to do to keep myself entertained?"

"It's a begrudging assent, Holmes," she wearily sighed. "I shudder to think what could happen were you left to your devices there."

Only recently had she'd heard the story of one night earlier in the month that Watson went with Holmes on an outing to a client's home and, once he'd received his accolades, the sleuth had wandered off and accidently set the library there on fire. The doctor kept shooting death glares at Holmes when she went on a walk through the park with them two days after the incident, his eyebrows showing signs of singeing and Sherlock sporting an ash mark on his forehead, but neither would speak on the subject until a few weeks had passed.

"Very well, then. We best get you back to your home to dress. The invitation says that the festivities begin at eight o'clock, and it may take you that long to ready yourself," Holmes muttered, hauling up the carpet bag and shooing her down the staircase. Catching his last remark, she completely ignored the curious presence of the bag and placed her hands on her hips.

"It will not take me that long to dress!"

"You're a woman. And women, I have found, take hours to prepare for events that could only last a good forty-five minutes."

"…That's not totally right," she shot back, nodding again at Mrs. Hudson and going out to flag down a cab. Sherlock smiled, skirting around her.

"But it's not entirely wrong, is it?"

"Don't make me use my sleeping powder on you, too, Holmes."

xXxXxXx

7:45 PM

As much as it annoyed her to prove Sherlock right, it did end up taking three hours to dress and prepare for the ball. The gown she'd decided on was a light pink, with roses delicately trailing from the waist of the skirt down to the hem. With her hair swept up off her neck, it was easy to hide the butchered cut of it. Another rose was laced into her hair for effect, but other than that, she wore no jewelry or decoration of any kind. It was something Holmes stipulated, and so she was suspicious of that, but Madeline refrained from commenting. Rather she just tried to make herself presentable, elegant…things she never really felt she was. Dusting some powder on the stitch scars on her arms, she wondered maybe if cerulean gloves went with pastel pink.

"Hurry, woman! Time is of the essence!" came Holmes' gruff voice from the ground floor sitting room, creaking floorboards indicating his movement. The man had utterly no patience for this sort of thing, she'd come to realize. Bracing herself, Madeline sat still and waited as he bounded up the stairs and past the indignant maid to barge into her room. The door swung open, and only then did she rise from the seat in front of her vanity. As she flushed scarlet, he in turn staggered back and almost appeared to pale underneath his dark tan; his eyes raked over her body, taken aback from her drastic change from average Londoner to true beauty.

"Well, since you just plowed through my door, will you give me your honest opinion about how I look?" she lightly reprimanded him, performing a small twirl to let the gown flare out slightly.

"…You look…different," he choked out, cocking his head to the left. "Quite an improvement over the sweat-stained fencing togs."

"I'll take that as a compliment. Shall we, then?" Madeline murmured, a bit pleased despite the smart-mouth comment tagged on to the end. Motioning out her now-dented door, she supplied, "Forgive me, I did not want my scars to be the topic of the evening."

Diverting his gaze to the powder, he nodded. "I understand. It is simply that we must be there no later than 8:15."

'What are you planning, Sherlock?' she thought, allowing herself to be guided carefully down the stairs into yet another waiting carriage. Within twenty minutes, they made it to Camden's house, and were greeted enthusiastically by the man in the grand foyer. The house was truly a mansion, built to show off the man newfound wealth. It seemed that Holmes had discovered through mislaid clues and misquoted workers, Sir Arthur, accused of fraud, was actually innocent of any insurance swindle. As he was framed, Camden had rehired Holmes to discover who set him up, suspecting it to be his partner. The detective had debriefed Madeline on the ride over, intent on searching through Mr. Langdon's belongings in the shared office on the third floor.

"And where is he now?" Sherlock asked the host, putting on a show of smiles for anyone who would chance passing by. Camden followed suit, waving at a tall, red-headed man standing off to the side in the ballroom. He resembled a rat in appearance: beady eyes, elongated nose that twitched, sharp teeth. Langdon seemed to be repulsive in general; it was a wonder that Camden could find the stomach to work with the man.

"Right there, that's where the foul fiend is," he replied snidely, his guise threatening to drop. "He claims he will only stay down here for a half hour at most, and then go up to the office again. Are you certain you can find anything on him, Mr. Holmes?"

"I'll discover something, I'm sure."

"And tell me, who are you escorting this evening?" Camden changed tack, noticing the lady in pink clutching onto the sleuth's arm. Pressing his hand against the small of her back, Sherlock propelled her forward.

Allowing the host to take her hand, she responded, "Madeline…Madeline Rogers."

Holmes hid his curiosity well, until the introductions and well-wishings were finished and they departed for the ballroom. Dipping his head closer to her ear so he could heard clearly, he asked her to reveal why she'd used her maiden name with Camden. She shrugged, not wholly sure of the reasons. Perhaps it was because she didn't want to be known as "The Carriage Lady", as she'd been dubbed by the newspapers, and therefore be put in the spotlight at the party. Maybe it was so she could not be held accountable for the actions that Holmes was about to make her do; that way, no one would find a Madeline Rogers if they hunted for someone to blame.

'Or perhaps it's time to let the past go. Simon has been dead for three years. I won't be the wife of a dead man forever.'

The man at the door announced them, at Sherlock's behest, as Mr. Holton Stamford and Miss Madeline Rogers, and once the crowd's collective gaze fluttered over them, they received the unsaid affirmative to enter.

"So what do you need me to do?" she said aloud, maneuvering past a woman with peacock feathers jutting out at odd angles. Holmes grinned falsely at the woman, leading Madeline out across the dance floor. Pulling her into an impromptu waltz alongside six other couples, his eyes covertly scanned the crowd.

"At precisely 8:20, you are going to start arguing with me. Doesn't matter about what, just make it convincing. The quarrel will escalate accordingly, until I shout that I will not take any further abuse from you. I will then leave the ballroom, offended by your lack of propriety-"

She laughed, nearly forgetting the steps of the dance. "Oh, my lack of propriety?"

"Yes," he rejoined, sweeping her to the left. "It will appear as though I am going to collect my faculties and calm myself. I will, in fact, be searching the upstairs office. In the meantime, you, feeling bereaved and guilty, will rely on Mr. Sherman Langdon to soothe your distress. He's a known…erm, chivalrous gentleman, as it were."

"I see. Is there anything specific you need for me to say or do at that time?" she said, seriousness outlining her face.

"Keep his wine glass full and his attention on you for thirty minutes. That's all the time I can allow for this."

The small band finished with the waltz, and the crowd surrounding the floor applauded the dancers. Curtsying to her partner, Madeline quirked up an eyebrow.

"Eager to get away from the ball early, 'Holton'?"

He performed a shallow bow, shooting her a quick wink. "In a manner of speaking, yes."

As she turned away and left him on the floor, a sudden thought occurred to her: she was actually assisting Holmes with a case. Granted, she wasn't actively participating like Watson always had, but she was lending aid to the Sherlock Holmes. It was a mildly exciting thought…she just wished she didn't have to be a form of bait, using her womanliness to throw the suspect off the scent. Quickly a group of ladies descended upon her, asking her all sorts of questions about her escort. They all thought the duo was in the process of wooing, that "Holton" was her "beau". She almost chuckled, but held it firmly down. They women could think what they wanted, since it wouldn't affect anything at all in any case.

"Oh, I don't-" she tried to correct one lady, a girl who couldn't have been more than sixteen years old if a day.

"I can see it plain as day, he hasn't taken his eyes off you for a moment!" the girl responded, pointing her fan discreetly in Holmes' direction. Indulging in the teenager's misguided notion, she flicked her gaze across the room, and caught Sherlock watching her. Seeing that he'd grabbed her attention, he slowly loosened his cravat, and raised it little by little while no one was looking. The ladies kept chattering around her, unaware of what the gentleman by the violinists was doing. Tilting his head to the side and letting his tongue loll out of his mouth, he made it appear as though he was being hanged by the garment, like he wanted to kill himself out of sheer boredom.

Madeline abruptly snorted, excusing herself from the gaggle of women when they asked her what was so funny about the death of Mrs. Connelly's canary. Glancing at the ornate clock at the end of the hall, she knew the time had come to "argue" with her escort. Pacing over to the floor, she timidly tugged on Holmes' jacket, causing him to turn and "notice" her there.

"Yes, my dear?" he asked, sounding a trifle smashed. The empty glass leant credence to the façade, and if she didn't know him any better, she'd think him on his way to being thoroughly drunk.

"I thought we'd agreed that you would give sobriety a chance," she muttered, stumbling upon a fuse to light. Her companion did not disappoint, picking up on the act right away.

"No, you agreed. I never declared that I would give up the creature," he guffawed mirthlessly, dropping the glass onto a passing waiter's tray and swiping another one. "What's the harm in it?"

"I'll tell you the harm: it will cause you to forget yourself. Need I remind you what happened to my mother's new patterned tablecloth?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed significantly; the tablecloths were always an untouchable point in everyday conversation, and once taken to the imaginary quarrel stage, it became almost taboo. And so they sniped back and forth, her struggling to keep her voice low and him raising his to the rooftops. After three rounds of chastisement, Holmes threw his hands in the air, splattering his drink onto the previously clean dance floor, and yelled about her being a nagging shrew. Applying a mask of shock, Madeline tried to force out some tears when he said he was going to step out for a moment. Everyone tried to pretend they couldn't hear or see anything, but soon enough the place was abuzz with titillating gossip. Slinking off to the side, Madeline put herself directly in the path of Mr. Langdon, who was on his way out. That is, he was going to go until the light brunette's pleading looks drew him over.

Proffering a handkerchief, the rat-faced man gaped at her sympathetically.

"Here. Will you be alright, miss?"

Dabbing her eyes, she worked her voice up a couple of pitches. "I, I, I think so. It's just that he promised…"

The red-head listened to her, intrigued by her woes with "Holton" and pressing herself closer and closer. She noted with glee that Langdon had trouble swallowing, and that his beady eyes were entranced by her flushed pink appearance. All the while, though, she viewed the clock and had the wine glass in his hand replaced with a fresh one every time it was emptied. The minutes ticked by, with her easing into nonsensical chatter and a short dance with the abhorrent man to pass the time. Sure enough, at 8:50 Sherlock emerged from the shadows, a triumphant glean in his eyes. He stood back, avoiding the crowds and beckoning her over whenever her head turned his way.

"I must go, Sher-uh, Holton's waiting," Madeline whispered, stopping Langdon in his tracks. Before she'd taken two steps, his thin fingers locked around her wrist. Enough with simpering sad act, she decided. Pivoting on her heel, she told him icily, "Sir, I have to ask you to release me."

"You mustn't go back to him, he'll hurt you even more," he uttered passionately. "Just think about it."

"Mr. Langdon, I appreciate your concern. Truly, it's sweet," Madeline said, nearly gagging on the words, "but apart from the use of your handkerchief and your kindness, you have no reason to judge this affair at all."

Wrenching her arm out of his grasp, she dropped a curtsy and scurried to the outer hall, Holmes shuffling ahead to get their coats. The tapping of shoes behind her indicated Langdon's tracking her to the entrance. Her nerves began to get the better of her, and when the detective stepped forward from behind a pillar and pulled her to him, she had to choke down a yelp of surprise. Immediately the red-headed suspect started backpedaling, subdued by Sherlock's somewhat infuriated dark brown gaze.

"Shall we?" he said drily, wrapping her coat around her and slipping his arms into his own sleeves. With one more possessive glance darting over the fallen pursuer, Holmes curled an arm around Madeline waist and walked her out the door. "A bit assertive, isn't he?"

"He felt we weren't a good match, that's for certain," she muttered, shivering despite the heat of the night. Briefly Holmes' arm constricted on her waist, and then he let her go. Desperate to change the subject, she continued, "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Indeed. My evidence was gathered and stowed in the carriage within the thirty minutes. It seems Mr. Langdon is looking at a few years in the penitentiary for his part of the framing," Holmes conceded, tapping his recently retrieved cane keenly against the cobblestones. "You did well, dear Madeline, very well."

The carriage finally clattered up to them, and Madeline jumped into quickly. She definitely did not want to go to another high-class ball anytime soon. The carpet bag bounced into the seat next her, followed swiftly by Holmes. The horses began to gallop, racing towards their destination.

"We have one more stop before going home, Mrs. St. James," he announced, shucking off the cravat and jackets.

"What?" she crowed in disbelief, her eyes grow wider as he pulled out a semi-dirtied frock for her use.

"It's not often I'm attempting to close two cases in one night," he explained, donning a ripped waistcoat. "But it is imperative to my livelihood that I do so. Care to help me in one more endeavor tonight?"

A short silence descended, with Madeline alternately marveling at Sherlock's duplicity and wanting to strangle the man. The battle raged in her mind for a moment, and then she deflated.

"…Give me the frock. We're pulling over long enough to allow me to change," she demanded, grabbing the garment out of the sleuth's nimble fingers.

Author's note: Aha, this but Part One of the night's adventures! Where is Sherlock taking them? What is the other case he needs to work on? How did Madeline not strangle him for deciding that she should be dragged along for the night's long ride? Well, that last one I can't answer entirely, but the first two will be dealt with next week! Thanks for reading, I hope you review, and I'll see you guys later!