"I need you to be my trophy wife."
"What do you mean 'trophy wife'?"
"A trophy wife is-"
"I know what a trophy wife is Sherlock! Why me, I'm not exactly trophy wife material, if you catch my drift."
"Oh, come on, a little dressing up, some make-up, breast implants, you'll do fine."
"Implants? No. No way. Count me out. I'm not getting implants just for a case."
"Eleanor, be reasonable."
"Sherlock, you are attempting to order a sixteen year old girl into purchasing size H boobs just for the sake of one case."
"Well if you're that unenthusiastic you can use temporary ones... and it doesn't have to be H... Double D is ample..."
"One, you're a dick and two, why do you need a trophy wife anyway?"
"I'm investigating a string of gang and mafia groups with some pretty good links to Moriarty and his henchmen, I intend to infiltrate them, but I need to look believable. Trust me, if these were normal circumstances and I was back at 221B with John, I'd be strapping the implants on, myself."
The look that Eleanor gave Sherlock was somewhere between a "seriously" and a "what the f***". Sherlock, however, continued on with his monologue.
"But since I don't have John here, I need someone to be either a boy or a girl. I trust you, so you'll be fine. Now, I saw this little red dress earlier that would be perfect for you..."
Sherlock had walked over to a little bag he had placed in the corner during that final sentence. He reached inside and pulled out a small, tight-fitting, long v-necked, red...
Shirt is the most appropriate term given its length, but I think it's supposed to be a dress. Oh gods, I have to wear that thing in public?
"I'm not wearing that."
"Okay then, I'll wear it. But I'll have to teach you what to say when you encounter different bosses."
The sudden thought of Sherlock Holmes wearing that thing caused Eleanor to mentally recoil in horror. There was absolutely no way Sherlock would be able to cover everything downstairs with that dress, let alone the fact that he would need some serious shirt stuffing to get away with it...
Why am I even thinking like this?
"Sherlock, I'll wear that damned 'dress', I do not want to think about how you would look wearing it ever again."
Sherlock just shrugged and threw the dress to her.
"Put that on while I get the make-up and hair products."
"You're going to do my make-up and hair?"
"Your point?"
"If you make me look like a clown or a male 80's rock singer I will murder you in your sleep."
"I won't, I promise."
Sherlock made a little motion of making a cross over his heart at that comment. Eleanor just sighed and went to her room to change.
She came back out of her room 5 minutes later, glad she had shaved all over in her shower from before. The dress didn't leave a lot to the imagination.
"Sherlock, are you trying to be a paedophile?"
"Huh?" Sherlock didn't look away from the mirror which he was adjusting his bow-tie in. He looked pretty good in a suit, even though the purple with black shirt underneath made him look like a pimp.
If he's a pimp, does that mean I'm his...? I'm going to murder that man in his sleep.
"Sherlock, I don't have any shoes that match this dress, nor do I have any make-up that works with my complexion."
Sherlock turned away from the mirror and inspected Eleanor for a moment, and then he reached into his bag and pulled out a pair 9 inch red high-heels (of the same shade as the dress) with straps that tied up all the way to her knees. Eleanor looked at the shoes aghast.
"How am I supposed to walk in those?"
"I think you are more supposed to drape yourself over me whenever I walk anywhere."
"If we get caught by the cops, you are so getting pulled up on charges of paedophilia."
Sherlock just laughed as he threw her the shoes.
"Me? Get caught by the police without intending to? Now you're being ridiculous."
She rolled her eyes as she tied up the shoes. She really hoped she wouldn't have to get out of them fast.
When she had finished with the shoes Sherlock leapt over to her and inspected her face and hair all over. Then he began to apply her make-up and style her hair.
After five minutes Eleanor had a more professional look than a movie star.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock," she breathed, gaping at herself in the mirror.
"Does it look okay?" he asked, almost insecure about the job he had done.
"It's brilliant, how can you possibly be so good at this?"
"I've had experience..."
Eleanor snapped her head around to look at Sherlock.
"Do I really want to know about that?"
"Probably not. It didn't involve any sexual activity though."
She was about to face palm, but reconsidered it when she realised she might smudge her make-up.
Aw hell, I'm becoming normal. What is this mockery?
"You ready Eleanor?"
"Uh, how are we getting to... wherever it is we are going? I don't think they would like us rocking up in a taxi."
"Don't worry, I have it sorted."
Sherlock stood and offered his arm out to Eleanor who took it and began to take wobbly steps forwards. By the time they had left the house, she could almost walk normally in the shoes.
When she noticed the car she almost fell over.
But if you saw a Rolls Royce parked in the front of your house, you probably would too.