Eleanor was leaning heavily on Sherlock as he helped her get back on her feet.

"Sherlock..."

"Yes?"

"A Rolls Royce is neither discrete, nor is it common in Australia. Not once do I remember there being a Rolls Royce in Australia that wasn't one of the royals when they came over."

"What's your point?"

She looked at Sherlock. He wasn't great with emotions, but he got the impression that she was a bit ticked off at the moment.

"Get something more normal, Sherlock. No-one has a Rolls, it's obviously fake. It'll blow our cover the moment we turn up."

"Oh... Then what is 'more normal'?"

"It needs something fancy as hell, but still needs to be believable... hmmm... how about a... Mercedes Benz AMG C63, those are pretty fancy..."

"That's specific, how did you know-"

"Ex-partner."

"That's a bit non-gender specific..."

She looked at Sherlock with a poker-face.

"That's part of the point, Sherlock. When someone is being non-gender specific it means they don't want to talk about it."

"Does that mean you don't want to talk about it?"

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Okay, well, I'll just go make a call and get a new car sent over then, shall I?"

"And how am I meant to stand?"

"You'll learn."

And with that Sherlock slid out of her grasp and went to go make the phone call. Eleanor fell over immediately. She decided to wait on the floor until Sherlock was finished.

When he was finally done she made a quick little coughing noise. He looked at her for a moment, puzzled. Then he realised what she meant and reached down to help her up.

A couple of minutes later, a silver Mercedes Benz AMG C63 slammed around the corner and stopped in front of the two.

"Get in," Sherlock stated as the doors popped open.

The two of them slid into the backseat. Once they were buckled in the car sped off.

"Okay, here's the run-down; your name is Hayley Dukeford, you've been my wife for eighteen months, you're nineteen years old, you're a beauty pageant winner in Adelaide, Melbourne, Sydney, Perth, California, and London. We met in London after I rigged a beauty pageant to make you lose; I thought you were the perfect accessory so I married you. You are obedient; you'll follow any command without question. You are an overdramatic bride, playing up every opportunity for public displays of affection. When you were working the beauty pageant scene, some of your rivals spread rumours that you were a prostitute and that was the reason you kept winning-"

"What's your name and occupation, Sherlock?"

"My name is Lachlan Dukeford, I'm a smuggler and I gather information for interested parties, whoever they might be. You use the nick-name 'Locky' for me, if anyone asks you why just say it is a secret, but you can hint that it involves locks or whatever else you can think of-"

"Any other bits of information they might try to glean off me?"

"Make it up as you go along, but try to keep it believable, okay?"

"Got it. Hey, can I get something to eat, I haven't had anything since the plane."

"There should be snacks at the party."

"I mean actual food, Sherlock. I have no idea if they put anything in that party food. Knowing about gangsters and criminals, they could have only set this up so they could try and kill each other. Therefore, get me something to eat," Eleanor gave Sherlock a stern look at the final sentence.

Sherlock just looked at her.

"Fine, but when we stop you have to put in the fake boobs."

"One, I hate you, and two, fine."

They pulled up to a restaurant that had take-away and Sherlock went to go make the order while Eleanor stuffed her shirt... dress. She did remember to ask the driver to step out of the car while she stuffed herself.

Sherlock came back to the car with a small bag about seven minutes later.

"Happy now?"

Eleanor grabbed the bag, opened it and started to woof down the food.

"Yes," she managed to say after a couple of mouthfuls.