The next day at seven o'clock in the morning, John received a text with an address: 221B Baker Street. 19:00. SH. His head hurt, though he hadn't drunk, and he felt slightly resentful of his new colleague for waking him. He set his phone back on the nightstand and rolled over to try to grip onto a precious few more minutes of sleep. Just as he felt himself sinking into a blissful state between waking and dreaming, his phone buzzed noisily. John grabbed at it with little patience to reveal a second text: Meet at the club in twenty. SH.

"For god's sake!" he groaned. The Bluebell was easily fifteen minutes from his flat by taxi, which meant he had less than five minutes in which to become decently awake, not to mention get dressed and ready. "If it weren't for that bloody contract…"

Exactly nineteen minutes later, John arrived at the club and dashed in out of the rain to find Sherlock in his dressing room half nude. "Mister Holmes-oh, dear!" said John by way of announcement, spinning on his heel so he could turn his back to the man. "I am so sorry."

"It's Sherlock, and I don't mind. I am a sex worker, you know," Sherlock reminded him. "You don't need to avert your eyes."

"Yes, well, I will anyway," John sputtered quickly, not daring to glance back even a bit. He heard a deep chuckle and kept his eyes glued on the wall instead of on the man wearing nothing but what appeared to be a leather thong. "Why am I here?"

Sherlock shuffled behind him to grab something heavy. "You're a doctor."

"That's right-is someone hurt?"

"Hmm. Not yet." Sherlock paused. "John?"

"Yes? …yes?" John received no answer. "Yes, Sherlo-oh, god." He had turned his head to see why he wasn't getting a response. Sherlock was standing in front of a full-length mirror, still in the same state of undress save the addition of thigh-high leather boots, shifting his weight from one foot to the other with his hand tucked under his chin, examining his reflection.

"What do you think, not enough?" murmured Sherlock. "I've got red ones in the trunk."

"F-for dancing?" John gulped and stared at the spiked heels. "This early in the morning? You need a doctor for that?"

Sherlock turned to him with an amazed look. "Oh, don't be stupid! We've got a client."

John jumped. "We? Oh, no, I'm not… I don't… I really couldn't-" He waved a hand aimlessly but didn't manage to explain himself too well. Sherlock gave him a very derisive smirk and turned back to the mirror.

"Of course you're not. Try to keep up, will you? I've got a client, and you're here to be sure he doesn't get too injured. We suspect he's an M, and the best way to get him to talk is with a bit of encouragement. Nothing too exciting," he quickly explained.

"But if he's an M, and I worked for the Ms, what if he knows me?" John worried. He didn't much care to be outed to the Ms as working for the Division-what seemed to be the crime syndicate's greatest enemy, if he'd understood Lestrade correctly.

Sherlock pulled black, satin opera gloves over his arms delicately. "You'll be behind a two-way mirror. Try not to enjoy yourself too much," he replied dryly. "Off you go. Door C in the left corridor. Don't stop us unless his life is in danger."

John allowed himself to be shooed from the room before walking down the hall and taking a left. Lestrade had given him a brief tour, so he knew that he was walking through the employee entrance to the private rooms. He found Door C and opened it, squeezing into an incredibly thin room with a single barstool and a mirror looking into a private room. He sat, tapping his hands quietly on his legs as he waited.

Soon a short, squat man was ushered in and was made to wait on the plush bed in the centre of the room. John recognised him, which meant he was almost definitely an M. He made a mental note to inform Sherlock. The other door opened, and it seemed the devil himself stalked in, eliciting a sharp inhale from both the client and John. Sherlock hadn't changed his outfit after chasing John from his room, but now he came armed with an array of toys that looked more like weapons than instruments of pleasure.

"Hello, Sir," the man said. Sherlock lobbed a heavy, wooden bat at his head, and he didn't miss. John nearly jumped up in alarm when he saw it connect with the client's temple, but he merely held a hand to the point of contact, wincing. Even though he'd never in his life witnessed any sort of scenario like this, he was fairly certain that Sherlock's approach was unconventional at best.

"You'll speak only when instructed. Is that clear?" he spat. The man didn't dare look up. "Speak!" Sherlock barked.

"Yes, Sir!"

Sherlock didn't even allow him a moment to recover before continuing in a silky voice, "Mister Clarence, tell me: have you behaved since your last visit?" Clarence seemed to bite back a reply. Sherlock swooped in next to him, dropping his armful of toys on the bed and licking his ear-John grit his teeth in what he felt must surely have been disgust.

"You're a fast learner. I like that," he purred to Clarence. "Speak."

"I've been so naughty, Sir!" Clarence choked out.

Sherlock pulled away from him, holding up a plastic rod with a hand shape at the end of it. "I see. I'll have to punish you, you know. You must atone for your… sins," he purred. "Take off that jacket and tell me, Mister Clarence, whom did you see the last time you visited the Bluebell?"

John looked on with a curious sense of revulsion and intrigue as the client undressed and Sherlock quite literally booted him around as though he were a piece of rubbish on the street. Sherlock asked him a great deal of questions, but the man's answers were more evasive than not. Once he was entirely naked and kneeling on the bed with the side of his face pressed into the mattresses by Sherlock's foot, the situation became markedly more heated.

"What have you done, you awful child?" Sherlock scolded. He smacked him once again with the plastic rod, which made a loud clapping noise and left a welt on his right buttock. "Speak!"

Clarence let out a moan. "I-I've killed a woman, Sir." He was rewarded with another spank, but Sherlock suddenly pulled away and stepped off the bed.

"Is that all? Speak."

"Yes, Sir, but it was gruesome," whimpered the man, who remained in the same position, clearly hoping for more torment. "I tortured her, really."

Sherlock pulled a many-tongued whip from the pile of toys. "Oh." He sounded disappointed. "They told me you'd done something truly awful. But this? Child's play. You called and begged for me on the phone, they said. 'I need the Consultant!' you simpered to the scheduler. Well, here I am, and you're wasting my time." He let out a loud sniff.

John gaped in horror as the man insisted that how he'd murdered the woman really was despicable and deserving of punishment, but Sherlock kept treating him as a fool, refusing to lay a finger on him-which evidently was what he wanted.

Finally, Sherlock wheeled around and shouted, "Liar! I don't punish lies here, and I don't waste my time with criminal pretenders like yourself. Now unless you've done something truly heinous, I want you out. Speak!" He pulled back his hand with the whip in it, preparing it for a wicked blow.

Clarence was practically salivating, sitting up on the bed at this point, his eyes trained on the whip. "Yes! Yes! I lied, Sir! But only because I may not reveal what I've done!"

A frightening crack filled the room, and blood started to flow from the gashes left across Clarence's torso. He cried out, too, in a way that made John shiver violently, but Sherlock silenced him. "That was only a taste of what's to come," he growled. "Now be good and tell the Consultant what you've done, Mister Clarence, or I'll see to it you never have another sin to absolve in this life. Speak, damn you!" He roughly kicked Clarence in the chest, pushing him back on the bed and grinding the pointed heel into one of the fresh wounds on his chest.

John watched in complete horror as the client writhed and made pleasurable sounds before a steady stream of confessions tumbled from his lips, and the confessions continued even once Sherlock tired of whipping his front and turned him onto his stomach so he could whip his pasty, white back, too. John couldn't tell if the scene in front of him was making him ill or if it was the man's recounting of his misdeeds, which ranged from making deliveries for 'some criminals'-surely the Ms, John thought-to blackmail, poison, and heinous murder. John felt more than a little green by the time Sherlock decided he was through, and the blood spatters on the mirror weren't helping any.

"Your time is up, Mister Clarence," Sherlock huffed. "And do try to behave from now on." Clarence nodded weakly, and Sherlock strode out of the room and directly to see John. He shut the door to the tiny room and glanced at his client, who could do nothing but lay on the bed and catch his breath. "He won't lose enough blood to die?"

John swallowed with difficulty. "Ah, er, no, I don't believe so," he said.

Sherlock frowned. "Oh, well. Do you recognise him?"

"He's definitely with the Ms…" He smiled helplessly, fighting the churning in his gut. "And I have to admit his injuries make a lot more sense now."

Sherlock grinned. "Excellent! With your witness, I'll have a hit put on him, and he'll be gone by noon. I must admit, he was much easier than I anticipated." He looked down at his chest, which was covered with more than just blood. "Semen," he remarked. "How unfortunate, this means I'll have to shower before speaking with Lestrade."

And without another word, he zipped out of the observation room, leaving behind him a trail of heeled bootprints in blood. John glanced back at Clarence, who was whimpering as he dressed. Still, he seemed considerably less shaken than John felt. It wasn't a pity he'd be assassinated by lunch. John quietly made his way to Lestrade's office and confirmed Clarence's affiliation with the Ms, then excused himself. He wondered if he'd be able to eat at all that day.

"Maybe that's how Sherlock stays so thin?" he mused, but he quickly banished that idea. He'd seem the gleam in his colleague's eyes: Sherlock had enjoyed himself thoroughly. John shook his head as he hailed a cab. "And I'm meant to live with that man?"