"So…blackjack," I muttered out of the side of my mouth, surveying the crowded tables with unease. Sherlock's face was impassive, though unrecognizable. He had put on a pencil thin mustache, blond wig, and slightly disturbing lack of expression that somehow looked wrong on this new face. I was apparently forgettable enough as I was; it was unlikely anyone would recognize me if they saw me again. "I don't know."

"I thought we agreed on poker?" Sherlock muttered back.

"We'll probably learn more if we split up, we don't know what he was good at." The momentary flicker of his expression told me all I needed to know about what was going on behind that cold mask-he had thought I was suggesting splitting up because I wanted to keep as far away from him as was possible. Well, I was still mad, obviously, but…well, not that mad. I mean, that would be…I don't know, sort of below the belt. He deserves it, said a sneaky voice in my head, but I pushed it away. The important thing right now was teamwork. I was wearing a brown corduroy jacket- I only owned one piece of really formal clothing. I'm going to need to go tuxedo shopping soon…I shook my head incrementally. I didn't even know if she was going to say yes. Of course she will, said the sneaky voice again. How do you think Sherlock's going to feel about that?

Alright, that's ENOUGH, I told myself. Really. I needed to focus. "What do you think?" I asked out of the corner of my mouth, taking a sip of ginger ale-alcohol was the last thing I needed right now, and this looked close enough to beer that no one would be able to tell the difference. I still had a bit of a hangover. The bright lights were hurting my eyes.

"Pick a table with a varied demographic; a reasonably smart person with a gambling problem would win enough times to acquire a reputation."

I turned around, but he was already weaving through the crowd; a hodge-podge mix of well dressed men and women with money to burn and time to waste. The night crowd. They were a noisy, exclusive, and generally drunk population. I wondered, briefly, what the hell I was doing among them, before gathering my courage and finding a table with three other players. One was a slim blonde lady wearing a very low-cut dress. She was twirling a strand of hair around her finger in a coy sort of way, not at all consistent with her sharp blue eyes. The one on her right was a kid, probably barely out of college, with spiky brown hair and a permanently surprised look on his face, probably due to his exaggeratedly arched eyebrows. The third one at the table was an elderly lady-the main reason I had chosen this table. She looked like a regular. She seemed to know her way around the club, and I heard her refer to the bartender by name.

We played a few rounds of blackjack. I lost some, won some. The kid with the eyebrows-I think he had introduced himself as Dan-was better than I thought he would be. After we had all gotten comfortable, I decided to try some small talk.

"Okay, I'll stand. Dan-where'd you go to college?"

He looked up so quickly you would have thought I had asked him what he planned to do with the five of spades up his sleeve. There was, by the way, an actual five of spades up his sleeve. I wasn't about to call the poor sod out, though, he looked terrified. The stakes weren't very high, anyway. It was obvious Anne-as the elderly lady requested we call her-was much better than any of us, but she was holding back deliberately.

"Er, I, uh, applied to Oxford, but I'm, uh, in my third year at Cambridge. Ha ha."

I raised my eyebrows. "Wow. Impressive."

The blond, Monika ("That's with a 'k", yah,"), leaned forward suggestively. "Ooh," she said, smiling, "A scholar, are we? I like the men that can carry a conversation."

"Ah. Ha ha. Your, uh, your dress is slipping."

So's the accent, I thought. I've met Swedish people. I know what they're supposed to sound like. "I knew this kid," I continued. "Friend of a friend, his son-who applied to Oxford. Nice guy, about your age. I think his name was Robert Adair."

"Oh!" interjected Anne. "Oh, my, do you mean William Adair? He used to come here quite often-brilliant child, very good at poker. He cost me quite the pretty penny! Whatever happened to him?"

Dan cocked his head. "I read in the uh, the paper the other day that he was murdered!"

"Really?" I said, feigning a mixture of shock and schadenfreude. It's harder than it looks.

"Yah," added Monika meaningfully. "The police are mystified."

"How sad," said Anne, shaking her head. "I wonder what they'll do about him still owing Sebastian money."

"Sorry?" I asked, perking up, and then remembering too late that I wasn't supposed to be that interested. "Um, I mean, is that…how do they usually handle that?"

"Oh, there's some procedure, I'm not sure."

"Who's Sebastian?" said Dan.

"But I didn't tell you about him yet!" said Anne, sounding as this was some sort of critical oversight. I leaned forward, not wanting to miss a word. This was getting interesting.

"Sebastian's probably the best player here. Very mysterious fellow, though. No one even knows if that's his real name. Poor William was one of the few that could hold his own against him."

I wanted to hear more, but I felt my phone, which was on vibrate, ring three times. I didn't have to take it out to know who was calling. That was Sherlock's signal-meet back at the bar, last seat. I ignored it. This could be important information.

"And so this Sebastian…is he usually here on Saturday nights?"

"He doesn't seem to really have a pattern-he just pops up whenever it's convenient for him. I've heard rumors he's a wealthy businessman."

"Interesting," said Monika, raising one waxed eyebrow.

My phone went off again, three times in a row, each ring lasting about five seconds.

Okay, now he was just trying to annoy me.

"Do you know if-" I began.

Then it rang, three times, again. My heart skipped a beat, because now I recognized the pattern:

Dot-dot-dot, dash-dash-dash, dot-dot-dot.

S.O.S.