Apologies for the delay! School started back and I've been busy and tired and as well as my roleplay with Sherlock, I've had little time for actual writing. But I'm in bed with a cold at the moment so I thought I'd finally touch up the chapter and post it. Thanks to Sherlock for helping with this.

A lot going on in this chapter; new case, domestic bliss, an introduction of Harry, and more. Let me know if you don't understand anything in it.

Thanks!

Disclaimer: I only own the plot.

John was slowly becoming a better cook. He would joke to himself in the mornings before Sherlock got up from bed that he was like a little house-husband (except, you know, he wasn't a husband yet). He took some pre-made, overnight chilled pancake mixture from the fridge and heated up a little frying pan. Using a ladle, John carefully dropped a dollop of the pancake mix into the sizzling pan and squeezed some lemon juice over it. He was so intent on getting that first pancake absolutely perfect, that he didn't even register the presence of his fiancée until two arms slid around his waist from behind. The doctor gave a little start, but relaxed into those warm, familiar arms.

"Goodmorning, my love." John smiled and turned down the heat of the pan. "I'm making your favourite."

"Mm…" Sherlock kissed John's temple once and stepped aside to give him more room. "You remember how I like them?"

"With a smile and a kiss?" John grinned and flipped the pancake – almost missing the pan, actually. "I'm kidding. A sprinkle of sugar and a dollop of whipped cream." John felt almost proud of himself; he had learned off most of the detective's favourite foods (that he would actually eatmost of the time, save for the times he would secretly scrape all the food to the edge of the plate – but that was becoming less of a regular occurrence and usually happened when he was sulking.)

They ate in silence, just watching each other and smiling. John's eyes kept flicking to the silver engagement ring on Sherlock's ring finger and his features would soften. Since John proposed, things had been very up and down on the emotional scale; they'd go through phases of utter bliss, looking up suits and shoes and wedding rings. But then they'd have the hectic days; Sherlock would pace around and mutter "I'm getting married… Married…" while looking somewhat stunned and John would have little bouts of panic when it came to the thoughts of telling the people they knew.

Of course, they needn't have worried about that. Mycroft was delighted when they told both him and Greg at dinner in Mycroft's house in Kensington. He had congratulated them both and assured them he'd find the perfect venue to get married. Even though Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship was stronger, there were still obvious unresolved childhood feuds that stayed around (especially when it came to their Mother, Sibyl Holmes, and how she should be informed) and although they didn't 'hate' each other anymore, Sherlock was adamant that he and John would take care of most of the wedding.

Lestrade was happy for them and just a tad jealous; Sibyl Holmes wasn't even aware of Mycroft's relationship with him. Mycroft just caught his hand, promising that he would tell her 'soon' and that it was just a bit early.

Finishing their pancakes and coffee, John reached out to take hold of Sherlock's hand, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock's fingers. The detective smiled and leaned over to table to kiss John.

"I love you, John." John answered that with another kiss. He murmured his response over the detective's lips and stood up, skirting the table so he could sit in Sherlock's lap and lock his arms around his neck. It was mornings like these that made John's heart warm.

Then his phone rang.

Rolling his eyes as he expected it to be Sarah at the clinic asking him to work today (he had gone back to work a week after they got engaged.) Instead, the name on the phone made him blink in surprise.

"Hello?" He answered the phone and slid off Sherlock's lap, ignoring the detective's pout. "Harry… How are things?" His eyes flicked to Sherlock's, mirroring his questioning ones as he shrugged. "That's wonderful, Harry, really." John leaned against the countertop and smiled. His smile faded and he swallowed. "T-today? Um…" Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "Right, yeah, okay. See you this afternoon, then. And Harry? I'm proud of you." John hung up the phone and let a breath escape him.

"Your sister?"

"Yeah. She and Clara got back together a few months ago." John collected their plates and added them to the already full sink. "She just wants to come around and see me. She's been sober for quite a while."

"Well that's good, isn't it?"

"Very. You don't mind meeting her do you?" Sherlock shook his head and stood up, stretching.

"Not at all. I've always been interested in meeting Harriet Watson." Sherlock smiled and made his way to the stairs. "But I've got to go see Lestrade first. I'll be home by one, though."

"Oh, a case?" Sherlock hadn't been taking many cases since they came home, but it was obvious to anyone with eyes that he was starting to get bored. John would find him late at night reading news reports and muttering to himself. So maybe this was a very good thing.

"Must be. Don't let Harry leave without me seeing her." With that, Sherlock sprinted up the stairs to get dressed.

Sherlock breezed into Scotland Yard with an ease of familiarity, sauntering right past Donavan (who made no snide comments, just lookedat him like an unwanted disease) and down to Lestrade's office. The blinds were closed so nobody could see inside, and when Sherlock burst in out of the blue, Lestrade jumped.

"A bit of a warning next time?" He snapped, sitting up straight and fixing his collar. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat down.

"Why? Is my brother hiding under your desk?" Sherlock smirked. "I'm joking. I knew he was gone."

"How did you even-"

"Not important. What's the case?"

"Yes, hello to you too, Sherlock." Lestrade brushed down his suit jacket and rolled his neck, pushing a file towards Sherlock. The detective's eyes lit up and he accepted it as eagerly as a child on Christmas morning.

He flicked through the file, skipping the 'unimportant' details and getting to the point. "Three women all in their late twenties found dead. Any connections?"

"All found in the same location, exactly a week apart in their murders and it doesn't look like suicide."

"Anything left on the bodies? A mark or a note?"

"Uh…"

"Can I seethe bodies?"Sherlock sighed and flicked back to the first page, muttering the locations of each.

"In the morgue still." Lestrade leaned back in his chair. "Is there anything that strikes you?"

Sherlock looked at the pictures handed in by the families; three smiling women. "Not much in the way of their hair. The same ginger colour, except the first one looks unnatural, dyed."

Lestrade hesitated a moment before he spoke again. "…Sherlock?"

"Mm?" Sherlock looked up and met a pair of concerned eyes. He sighed. "I'm finenow. And, as John will tell you, bored out of my skull. It's been five months, Lestrade." He held up his left hand, gesturing with his head to the ring. "Do you think this would be happening if I was in such a bad way?"

"No… But what about the nightmares?"

"Nightmares?"

"John said you have nightmares sometimes." Sherlock rolled his eyes again and relaxed into his chair.

"That's not going to affect the case, is it? Look, I can do this."

Lestrade nodded, taking back the folder and handing Sherlock a copy to take with him. "The bodies are in Bart's. Call me if you find anything else."

"Will do. Oh, and tell Mycroft to wear a bit less aftershave next time. It's practically clinging to the blinds." Sherlock winked and left, closing the door on a very red Lestrade.

Bruising on neck – strangulation. Pronounced ligature marks on the wrists – struggled, tied up with rope or some other kind of cord. Fairly thick, judging on the width of the marks.Sherlock peered at photos of the first murdered woman, narrowing his eyes. He stood up straight and gently tugged down the sheet on the gurney closest to him.

Bullet entered directly over heart – would have died right away.

"Molly?" He called. The general pathologist came scurrying over and looked up at the detective. "Gunshot wound, where are the bullets?"

"O-oh, um…" She hurried over an evidence locker and pulled out three separate plastic bags, containing a bullet each. "Let's see, number two-eighty… This is the first woman's – Kate Holding."

"Is there a difference in any of the bullets?"

"The second woman, Madeleine Williams, has a bigger entrance wound." She handed the bag to Sherlock and he pulled it out carefully with his latex-gloved hands. He peered again at the bullet wound and held the slug up to the light, frowning.

"Revolver, .325 Magnum bullet… Quick death." He dropped the bullet back into its little bag and held it out to Molly. "Is there anything else on the body that indicates murder?"

"Rape too, actually." Molly sighed and continued. "On their clothes-"

"What type of clothes?"

"Um… Formal wear, dresses, there were tears and rips, and some buttons were gone from the third woman's dress. There were semen and blood stains on the underwear."

Sherlock nodded. "Anything else?"

"Bruising on the inner thigh."

"Can I see the feet?" Molly had long gotten over Sherlock's strange requests and led him to the far end of the gurney. Sherlock turned that end of the sheet back as well.

Toes blistered and calves short and muscular. Toes turned upwards slightly – regular high heel wearer.

"Were all three of them wearing high heels?"

"Yeah. They were all quite classy dressers." Sherlock paid no attention to Molly's fashion ramblings and wound his scarf around his neck.

"Thank you Molly. Keep them fresh for me. Now, I must get going." The woman blushed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, nodding. There were things she wanted to ask him, but she kept her mouth shut.

John was making two cups of tea in the kitchen, his mind reeling with things he could talk about with his older sister (who was currently in the sitting room) to make things less awkward. Harry had arrived looking fresh faced and a damn sight better than John remembered her. Her mousy brown hair had been cut shoulder length and it was tucked behind her ears on either side, and her eyes (almost the same shade of blue as John's) were bright and alert.

The siblings had exchanged a hug and a brief kiss when Harry knocked on the door, and John had made a comment on how good she was looking. She waved it off and toed off her shoes, leaving them on the mat by the door.

"Do you want a cup of tea, Harry?" John led her into the sitting room, which was littered with Sherlock's books and bits of paper. One of John's jumpers was thrown over the back of Sherlock's armchair, and he scooped it up so Harry could sit down.

"Yeah, that'd be nice." She dusted a bit of cat hair off the chair before sitting down, crossing one leg over the other.

John nodded and got the kettle boiling. "I meant it, Harry, you're looking muchbetter."

Harry smiled a bit, looking down at her socked foot. "Clara's been doing wonders for me. Keeping me fed and all, like you'd expect from her."

"She always was a sweet girl..." John trailed off, clearing his throat. No matter how much better Harry was, this was still awkward.

"John," she started, just as John tried to start up again with a quiet "Harry..."

"No, no, go ahead, you first." She smiled up at him, and for a brief moment John was strongly reminded of their mother.

"Ah, right. Um." He sat down in his usual chair, the one with the Union Jack cushion. How to tell her?He was saved further deliberation by the appearance of Bitsy, now full grown and slowly getting quite fat. The white cat yawned expansively and leaped into Harry's lap without a care for her black pants. Further intervention came from the kettle, which chose that moment to emit its piercing whistle and summon John back into the kitchen. As he poured the boiling water into two mismatched teacups, he slid his phone out of his pocket and quickly texted Sherlock.

Are you coming back yet? Harry's here and I can't keep up a conversation. Besides, she really wants to meet you and we have to tell her about us sometime. - JW

He received a reply almost immediately, his phone vibrating against the counter and nearly sliding right off the edge.

I'm in a cab just outside the Tesco's down the road. Should be home in five. Do try not to frighten her off. - SH

John laughed quietly and carried both cups of tea into the living room. Harry nodded her thanks and took the cup out of John's hands. "Ah. As I was saying... I mean, it's not going to come as a surprise to you, but... Ah, how do I say this..." John stared down into his tea, feeling a bit out of sorts. "Sherlock and I... We're engaged. I'd show you the ring but it's on Sherlock's hand and since he's not here yet I can't very well do that and I didn't go and get two rings..." Harry started giggling into her tea and John flushed. "I'm babbling, aren't I?"

"Mhmm. John, that's really lovely. I know Mum and Dad would be thrilled to hear you finally found someone." Her smile turned a bit sad and she took a sip of tea. "Since we're talking about news and all, I've got a bit of my own."

"Oh?"

Harry nodded, looking down at her toes. "Clara's pr-"

"John!" Sherlock burst into the room in a flurry, his coat flaring behind him and the light of discovery in his eyes. He stopped in the door and blinked twice, finally noticing that Harry was in his armchair. Suddenly much more subdued, he pulled off his gloves, tucked them into the pocket of his coat, and hung the garment on its peg behind the door. "Oh, hello. You must be Harry." He padded over, holding out a hand.

Harry stood to shake it, apparently unfazed by the way he'd burst into the apartment or by his height. John excused himself to make another cup of tea and Sherlock perched on the arm of John's chair.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you." Sherlock folded his hands on his knee, left uppermost so the silver band on his third finger was clearly visible. "I have a feeling you were about to tell John something important?"

"Er... Yes, I was, actually." Harry looked quickly toward the kitchen to see if her brother was coming out yet. "Congratulations by the way," she added, with a nod toward the ring on Sherlock's hand.

"Thank you... And thank you, John." He took the cup of tea from his fiancé with a soft little smile. John coloured and sat down in his chair again, his own tea mostly forgotten.

"Sorry, what were you saying, Harry?"

"Ah..." She looked down at her toes again. "Clara's pregnant."

John gave a little start and if he'd been holding his tea he surely would have dropped it. "Clara's... But you're a girl!"

Sherlock muffled a chuckle in his teacup and tried hard not to look at his lover.

"Er... Yes. Thank you for noticing." Harry frowned lightly at John, but continued anyway. "We went and got a donor. She's a few months along, wanted to be sure it was going to take the way it should before we told anyone."

John still looked a bit stunned, and looked up at Sherlock as though he expected the same expression on the detective's face. Instead, Sherlock just smirked lightly down at him. "You knew?"

"Well, I walked in and cut your sister off. It was either going to be 'Clara's pregnant', 'Clara's pressed for cash,' or 'Clara's Presbyterian aunt is coming to town and needs a place to stay'. Given how happy Harry looks about it all I ruled out the last two."

Harry stared blankly at Sherlock for a moment before letting out a hearty laugh. "Oh, John, you've got yourself quite a catch." She finished off her tea, glancing down at her watch as she set the teacup on the little end table. "I should really be going. Clara's got an ultrasound this afternoon to find out the sex of the baby... I'll keep you updated, alright?" She picked herself up out of the chair and John followed, reaching out to hug her. "Take care, baby brother. And you!" Releasing John, she stepped around him and jabbed Sherlock playfully in the chest. "You take care of him, you hear? I expect him to be in one piece when I come back next time!"

"Yes ma'am." Sherlock managed to look sheepish, though it was ruined by the smile crawling across his face. John and Harry hugged again before she actually turned and left, waving a final goodbye over her shoulder.

"So, the DNA matches this James Mayfair?" Sherlock turned the corner onto another row of terraced red-brick Georgian houses rather quickly, and Lestrade almost tripped himself trying to keep up.

"Yeah, twenty-nine, works in the warehouse that the three victims were found in." Lestrade squinted at the brass numbers screwed onto each front door. "Here, number 90."

The two made their way up the steps and knocked on the door. Sherlock could tell by the hanging baskets filled with red pansies that this James Mayfair definitely had a girl. The 'home sweet home' sign hanging on the door was another indication. Decorating doors; women do that.

His theory was proven when the door was opened.

"Yes?" The woman at the door peered up at Lestrade and Sherlock, eyes narrowing. "Who are you?"

Lestrade held up his badge. "Police… Mind if we come in?" The woman looked Sherlock over again before sighing and widening the door to allow entrance. She was pretty, with bright blonde curls swept up in a ponytail. She must not have been long out of bed, going by the slightly shadowed brown eyes and the fact she was in nothing more than an oversized shirt and some underwear.

"Why are you here?"

"We're looking for James Mayfair." Lestrade said. "Do you know him?"

"I'm his wife, actually. Why? What's he done this time?" She scowled and shut the door. "Broken into another shop?"

"Murder." Sherlock said this with such a casual voice, that one would think he was commenting on the weather. The woman's eyes widened and she leaned against the patterned wall for support. Her right hand clutched at the hem of her oversized shirt and it stayed like that until after she spoke.

"Mur… What? James?" She shook her head. "No. James wouldn't do that… James is a good man." Sherlock had to stop himself from rolling his eyes; they were always 'good men'.

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, can you tell us where he is? We found his DNA on the bodies of three women. And give us your name while you're at it." The DI took out a notepad and pen (he was going to write it down this time) and waited for her to speak.

"Um-"

"Stella Mayfair?"

"How did you know?" She looked genuinely shocked, and Sherlock pointed to the wall, where a culinary certificate was hanging up with her name on it. Sherlock noticed her hand clutch her shirt again and narrowed his eyes. "Oh. Yeah. Stella Mayfair. James is… Working. Since six this morning."

Sherlock was peering down at her hands, legs, feet, deducing whatever he could about the woman. When she caught his eye he simply smiled. Of course, Stella blushed – everyone blushed when Sherlock smiled at them.

"Alright, Mrs. Mayfair." Lestrade clicked the pen and put it in his pocket. "We'll be bringing him in for questioning. Is there anything at all you feel might be important?" The DI saw the sorrowful look on her face. "Look, even if he is innocent, we have proof he's been around these women."

She gave a brief nod and took in a shaky breath, her hand relaxing and flexing and partially hidden by the shirt. "There is one thing… I think his best friend, Hugh Bones, I think he's who you'd much rather be looking for."

"And why is that?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Because," Stella started, looking fazed. "Hugh is no saint. He's such a bad influence on James."

"Think that's why James started drinking?" Stella's eyes practically bugged out of their sockets.

"Wha- Who are you?" Lestrade looked between the two, knowing exactly what was coming next.

"Sherlock Holmes. And yes, you should be impressed." Sherlock smirked. "You're wondering how I know."

"…Yes…"

"I saw. Behind you, under the telephone stand." He pointed with one leather-gloved finger, both Lestrade and Stella turning to look. Under the telephone stand was a plastic bag full of empty beer cans "You don't look like a beer lady Mrs. Mayfair."

"But those could be from a party, how do you know it's a drinking problem?" Lestrade folded his arms, questioning Sherlock.

"Please, look around you! Scuff marks on the keyhole of the door – every night he comes home and his hand is shaking so much that he misses they keyhole." Sherlock whirled around, pointing to the bottom step of the staircase. "There's a dent here, where he trips at the first attempt to climb the steps. The carpet here has stains of months old cider, too hard to wash out and starting to smell…. Your wall there has a crack running down it. If James wasn't spending so much on drink you would probably have it cleared up. It's about three months old going by the mould. And to be quite honest, there's a feint smell of whiskey from your shirt. Do you want me to continue?"

Stella frowned and crossed her arms over her shirt. She cast her gaze down, and licked her lips before speaking. "No, you're quite right. But he's not an alcoholic. He just… over does it sometimes… But Hugh brings him out most nights a week. Look, is my husband really a murderer?"

"Looks like it." Lestrade sighed. "I know this is hard-"

"No you don't!" Stella snapped and immediately shook her head. "I'm sorry. What should I do?"

"Well, we're going to bring James in for questioning, and Hugh too, if we find him." Lestrade's eyes softened at the woman and he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Would you feel safer with someone watching over you?"

She shook her head. "No, no… I'll just keep indoors. You can find Hugh in the warehouse too. He works with James." Stella opened the door. "Thanks detective, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock nodded and left without another word, his coat flapping out behind him and his fingers tapping the keys of his phone. Lestrade followed behind after thanking Stella, and caught up quickly with Sherlock's long strides.

"I ran a search." Sherlock said, pocketing his phone. "Hugh Bones, he's not a drinker anymore. He joined an AA group two years ago and has been off the drink ever since. And his record is clean; not even petty crimes or drugs."

"So…?"

"So, either Stella has forgotten and still thinks he drinks, or Stella is lying. I think the latter."

Lestrade shook his head; she just seemed too innocent looking, too vulnerable to lie. But then again, it was her husband being charged with murder and of course she's going to try and defend him. They walked on in silence to the warehouse, intending to bring both Hugh and James in.

Sherlock sat on the opposite the interrogation room at Scotland Yard, drumming his fingers on the metal table he was sitting on. He stared at the blonde haired man beyond the two way mirror, Hugh Bones, who was sitting on a cold plastic chair across from DI Dimmock and another policeman, Sergeant Dave Hunt. The room was mostly empty, save for the small metal table and three people, with a camera pointed at Hugh. Sherlock and Lestrade were kept safely out of view.

"Alright, Mr. Bones," Dimmock started, sitting up straight and locking his hands together on the tabletop. "We need you to be completely honest with us. It will save us time, and save you a lot of trouble. Alright?" He spoke slowly and clearly, and Hugh glanced up at him with his bright green eyes.

"Well?" Hunt's voice was deeper, more nasally than Dimmock's, and came across as a sort of sneer. Dimmock gave him a sideward look and Hunt cleared his throat.

Hugh swallowed and nodded; it was obvious he was frightened. He was dressed rather sharp, in a white shirt with little topaz cufflinks, and a black fitted waistcoat. His trousers had been recently pressed and his tie was strung loose around his neck.

"Okay, tell us first why you're dressed like that." Dimmock gestured with his head towards the man's ensemble. "Not many people who work in warehouses dress in formal."

"No, I… I was trying it on. Then you brought me in."

"Trying it on for what?" Hunt took out a packet of cigarettes and slipped one into his mouth. His moustache was illuminated a deep red from the flame of his lighter, giving him a sort of evil glow.

"Formal Ball. It's for the worker's and their other halves."

"And I assume you have an 'other half' then?" Dimmock passed an ashtray to Hunt, who was glaring at Hugh like any bad cop would.

Hugh's eyes dropped and he pursed his lips (which looked slightly raw red against his pale skin.) It took a good twenty seconds before he answered, with a very quiet, very meek, "yes."

Sherlock smirked on the other side of the room. "He's not your murderer, Lestrade. Look at him."

Lestrade frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Maybe. But he might be able to tell us where James Mayfair is… Oh good lord…" The DI groaned and looked at Hunt, who stood up rather dramatically.

"Mr. Bones, I don't care for this 'Formal Ball' bullshit. Cut to the chase and tell us where your little friend is." He slammed his hands down on the table, the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He inhaled, and sent a puff of smoke at Hugh, who coughed and shook his head.

"I don't know! James…" He shook his head. "I don't know."

"Sit down, Dave." Dimmock touched the Sergeant's arm and gave him a stern look. "Mr. Bones… We know he murdered those three women." Hunt sat down with a grunt and let Dimmock continue. "Are you or are you not involved?"

"No."

"But weren't you 'sick' on the same days as James?"

"No!"

"Oh, so you were with him when he murdered the women?"

"No!" Hugh was getting more defensive now, and he had the edge of the table gripped in his hands.

"Tell us where James Mayfair is!"

"No!" Realising his mistake, the blonde man slumped back, looking stricken. "I mean-"

"You do know." Hunt growled, stubbing out his cigarette. "You little bastard!" He stood up and reached for Hugh by the lapels of his waistcoat, lifting him off the seat."

Lestrade opened the door and burst in, his face a twist of anger and displeasure. "Sergeant Hunt!" He roared, slamming his fist down on the table. "Leave. Now."

Hunt hissed in Hugh's face and dropped him, kicking the plastic chair out of his way and stomping out with a string of curse words. The poor sod had a vein throbbing at the base of his neck.

Sherlock quietly slipped inside and leaned against the wall, watching the fireworks die down. His mouth curled up at the edges in an attempt to hide a smirk. Dimmock caught his eye and stood up, going over to stand before him.

"I hope you can get around him, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock smiled. "I will."

"You already know more than we do, am I right?"

"Quite so." Sherlock gestured with his head to where Hunt had stormed out. "Make sure he gets some strong tea and sits down a while. And tell him his daughter won't be marrying the butcher boy, so he can stop worrying."

Dimmock shook his head with a sigh, but left anyway, muttering a 'will do' and trailing after the Sergeant. Sherlock looked back at Lestrade who was talking quietly to Hugh. The young man was whiter than a sheet and he looked scared out of his wits.

"Coffee please, Lestrade. Black, two sugars." Sherlock strode over and sat himself down on the plastic chair, folding one leg over the other. The DI gave him a weary look, but seeing as Sherlock knew what he was doing almost all of the time, he had no choice but to trust him.

He left and closed the door quietly behind him. Sherlock reached over and turned off the camera. "Pointless thing, really." He placed it on the floor and wiped some cigarette ash from the table. Hugh looked up at him from under his blonde fringe, eyes wide.

"Who are you? I don't know where he is, I swear."

"Oh, I know that. But you do know what he's doing, don't you? When he takes a 'sick day'. He doesn't spend it at home…" The sudden shift in Hugh's position made Sherlock smirk. "Name's Sherlock Holmes. Call me Sherlock."

"Sherlock…" Hugh sounded thoughtful. "How come you believe me over the other cops?"

"I'm not a cop." Sherlock sighed and sat back. "You love her, don't you? Stella."

Hugh coloured lightly and cleared his throat. "What are you talking about?"

"Stella Mayfair."

"I don't love her." He bit his lip. "I despise her. I am infatuated completely, but I despise her."

"Yet you continue your affair with her? When James is away, Hugh will play?" Sherlock smirked and shook his head. "If it's not true, why do you blush?"

"I'm not- Look, Stella and I are over. Have been for over a month." At this Sherlock frowned. "James changed. He became… violent. Or so Stella said. I went over there and gave her some comfort."

"And then one thing led to another, right?"

Hugh nodded. "But it was over before it really started. Honest." The held eye contact – firm and true – made Sherlock frown again.

"This ball…" He said, changing subject after a few seconds. "Tell me about it."

"There's not much to tell, really. It's just a Ball for the workers and their partners."

"But you don't have a partner… Do you?" Hugh shook his head.

"No."

"Then why dress up?"

"Well," He snorted. "I assumed you had that one figured out already."

"Stella." Sherlock said. "Tell me this, Hugh, why did you and James take the same days off? If you didn't go around to Stella Mayfair's house then where did you go?"

Hugh coloured an even deeper shade of red and his eyes dropped to his feet. The fluorescent light over their heads flickered. "I went shopping…" His voice dropped to a mutter. "For a suit…"

"Yet you have no partner to go with?"

"I was hoping to find Stella that night and convince her to be with me." Sherlock had to refrain from rolling his eyes at Hugh; he was so innocent, and so desperate. He sighed and sat forward.

The door clicked open and Lestrade came in with two cups of coffee; one for Sherlock and another for Hugh, who took it gratefully. The DI shared a look with Sherlock before speaking.

"Everything going okay?"

"Fine." Sherlock held his eyes, flicking them to the door once as a gesture he should go. With a nod, Lestrade went back to the other side of the room.

"Okay Hugh, you knew what James was doing, correct?"

"Yeah."

"Because you're his best mate, and he tells you everything, correct?" Hugh nodded and took a sip from his coffee. "So why didn't you tell anyone?"

"Because, like I said, James is violent."

"And Stella?"

"…What about her?" Hugh narrowed his eyes and set his cup down a little too hard. "She's another one of his victims."

"Is she?"

"What do you mean 'is she'? Of course she is!"

"Do you have proof?" Sherlock whirled his coffee around the cup down and knocked it back. Hugh was silent, his mouth slightly parted. "Thought not. You shouldn't believe everything people say to you, Hugh. Even Stella."

"But…"

"But what? But Stella is so mild? Stella is so fair and beautiful and vulnerable?" Hugh shook his head.

"Stop it."

"I'm not doing anything." Sherlock stood up and stepped away. "Look, Hugh, don't judge the book by its cover. You should heed the same warning with Stella." Sherlock began to slowly walk away, and Hugh stood up. His chair scraped on the floor and there was a wild look about his eyes.

"Wait… Wait." Sherlock spun on his heels, his expression questioning.

"What are you telling me?"

"I'm telling you looks can be deceiving. Stella is an actress yes?"

"Yes. Sort of. Stage actress." Hugh sighed. "Looks beautiful under that light…" He shook his head. "Mr. Holme- Sherlock… This ball. James will be there. Stella too."

Sherlock smirked. "I know. So will I." With a grin he strode out.

Sherlock looked at himself in the full length mirror from the hips down. He had his trouser legs rolled up past his knees, exposing a pair of long, pale calves. His attention, however, was not focused on said calves (which were beautiful really, but they needed a wax if this was going to work). Instead his silver-blue eyes were staring at his feet, which were sporting a pair of black patent high-heels. He took a wobbly step backward, then another, and then pivoted (almost) smoothly to face away from the mirror.

Buying the shoes had been one of the strangest things Sherlock had ever done, at least in terms about how he felt while doing it. He had small feet for his height, but it had taken three shops before he'd found ones he liked that they also had in his size. He had claimed they were for his girlfriend and had gone off with them.

He wasn't all that fond of them in terms of wearing them. They were a bit too small and they pinched his toes. There was no arch support at all and no cushioning under the balls of his feet. The heels were thin enough that they would make good chopsticks should Sherlock be so inclined. But even Sherlock had to admit that they looked fabulous. He could certainly see the logic behind wearing them.

He looked back at the mirror over his shoulder, trying a couple different ways of holding his hips to take some of the pressure off his feet. Standing just so, with one hip cocked lightly to the side, actually gave him the illusion of curves. "Fascinating..."

"Sherlock, there wasn't any of that jam you liked at the shops, but I got something else that should be... What the hell are you doing?" Sherlock laughed; he really couldn't help it. Considering the last time that sentence had been uttered in the flat Sherlock had been putting holes in the wall... "No, really, Sherlock! What the hellare you doing prancing about in heels?"

"It's for-"

"A case, yes of course it's for a case!" John put the shopping on the table and very pointedly didn't look at Sherlock. "It's always for a case! Just once I'd like to..." John trailed off into sullen muttering and started putting the shopping away. Sherlock stood in front of the mirror for another long minute before walking (and clicking) into the kitchen. John was still muttering under his breath as Sherlock came up behind him and wrapped his arms around John's waist.

"Is it really that bad? I mean, do they look terrible on me?"

"Well, no that's not what I meant." John stopped moving, a box of tea in one hand and a bag of dried pasta in the other. "They're very nice, it was just a shock to see you prancing around the flat in high heels!"

"I wasn't prancing. I was practising."

John turned to stare at him over his shoulder. "Practising? What the hell do you need to practise walking in heels for?"

"It's for a case..."

"Right..."

"There's also a dress involved..."

"Right..."

"And dancing."

"Uh-huh."

"You don't get it, do you?"

"No, I'm drawing a complete blank here."

"The ball that Stella Mayfair and her husband are attending? I did tell you about that, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did. You also mentioned we would be going and... Oh, Sherlock!" John covered his face with a hand, everything apparently sinking in all at once. "You're not serious about this?"

"Of course I'm serious! You would look frankly ridiculous in a dress... No, please don't take that the wrong way. I mean you're not nearly feminine enough to pull something like this off!"

"Sherlock, you're wearing trousers and high heels. You're not feminine enough to pull that off either."

Sherlock blinked at him, then pulled away to dart into the living room. He'd entirely forgotten about the white box wrapped in red ribbon on the couch. John, much against his better judgement, followed after him. Sherlock tossed the top of the box onto the far side of the couch and pulled the dress out. John went a little bug-eyed when Sherlock held it out at arm's length.

"It's Molly's, actually. Too long on her, but considering the height difference and the fact that her waist is only as big around as mine... Are you alright, John?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine."

"Oh, good. Now, as I was saying. Considering the height difference between us and considering her waist is only as big around as mine... I'd say it'll fit alright. Molly and Sarah have agreed to do my hair and makeup, and... John, you've got a queer look on your face."

Sherlock was so caught up in his plans that he hardly noticed the reason for the queer look on John's face. The thought of Sherlock in a dress had never really occurred to him, but the sudden semi-vision of Sherlock in that slinky black number was a bit too much. He felt behind him for a chair and fell into it, his feet kicking out in front of him.

"John, are you sure you're alright? If this is all too much for you I suppose Lestrade could take me, though I don't think you or Mycroft would approve..."

John let out a strangled noise at the idea of Lestrade taking a dressed-up (literally) Sherlock to a black-tie affair. True, he wasn't entirely reconciled to the idea, but he'd rather go himself than have the DI do it for him. "No, no, I'll go. I just... I expected we'd each be taking a date!"

Sherlock lowered the dress slightly, the black silk pooling slightly on the floor. "We are, in a way. You're taking me and I'm accompanying you."

"That's not really what I meant, Sherlock..."

"Ah, you supposed we would both be taking a lady, then... I could take Molly, perhaps, and you could take Sarah?"

"Something like that, yeah."

"Well, for all intents and appearances you will be taking a lady..." He started folding the dress, finally settling it back in its white box. "There'll be a little work behind it but I think we can do it."

John shook his head, still not quite believing what he was hearing. Sherlock in a dress. By the looks of it, a slinky black dress, too. This was all turning out to be quite odd. He looked up again as Sherlock sat down on the couch and slipped off the heels. When Sherlock wasn't standing in them, the shoes looked much more normal; plain black patent pumps with thin stiletto heels. Nothing extraordinary.

"Remind me again when this ball is?"

"Oh, it's not till next week. You've got lots of time yet to get accustomed to the whole idea before we actually have to go to this ball..."

John groaned and let his eyes close. It was going to be quite a week.