Thanks, guys so much again for your support and comments! I appreciate it. They will from now on be a cure (to be re-read) for whenever I get the frownies ;) But for now...
Revenge: A dish best served...with toilet paper?
Sherlock had been studying the upper echelons of the Dominican cartel in the city, trying to assess how to exact revenge without starting a tit-for-tat feud which, with the cartel's resources, would be impossible to win or survive. He settled on a couple of points: Retribution would have to be subtle and anonymous. Secondly, Watson wouldn't want anyone harmed- at least not physically. This was important since he'd have to tell her everything eventually.
After thrashing out a few theories, he noticed that among the cartel members, some had relocated to the USA illegally. His contact in Immigration admitted that they were aware of a few of the names on his list but due to a lack of man power (or corruption) had been unable to track them down at proven permanent addresses. Following a few successful stake outs on his own (one that had him witness a brutal beating) he was happy to assist them in deporting four murdering gangsters, all thankfully single men- two who happened to be second and third in command of the ring that had targeted Watson.
Their boss, however, remained untouchable. At least legally. Finally, in a fit of irritation, Sherlock came up with a plan. His second point: "no physical damage" was amended to "no lasting physical damage".
The jefe made no secret of his nightclub of choice. It was a gaudy hotspot that the man owned and held court in. Most nights, he could be spotted at the back of the club in a white leather lined booth surrounded by a bevy of surgically enhanced, scantily clad females. They chugged champagne like extras from Scarface. Sherlock sighed. The man clearly thought he was the Trujillo of Manhattan. Oh, he was going to enjoy this.
One seedy Saturday night in Sabor, a hot New York City club rumoured to be run by the Dominican cartel, a scruffy British man of average height changed into a waiter's uniform. He was not a waiter.
He ducked behind the crowded bar undetected and brought out a magnum of the club's most expensive champagne- one reserved only for the club's owner, Rafael Luis Hernandez.
He placed it in a bucket and crossed the club's red carpet through a parting sea of dancing poseurs, arriving at Hernandez's booth. It was the VIP section- a section elevated from the rest of the club, cordoned off by suited thugs, steps, pillars and glitzy beaded curtains that looked like strings of glittering diamonds. Hernandez cheered at the sight of champagne, his girls squealed, clapping as he slapped one of them on the ass before pulling her into his lap. The man's wife was at home, asleep with his children.
Sherlock pulled the magnum out of its bucket and popped the cork. He made a show of trying to stop the foam, turning his back and tipping the white soluble powder from his sleeve into the bottle as the foam stopped. It would dissolve almost instantly. He stalled by getting them to move their glasses to the centre of the table. Intoxication never equals speed. He filled their glasses, smiling pleasantly as they drank. He left the bottle, the table and then the club after a half bow. Ah, extra strength laxatives, he thought. Great for the constipated, not so great for drunk kingpins and their lady friends. It was apt to cause explosive diarrhoea- quite quickly. And as luck would have it- very publicly.