Mary was lying in her bed; it was probably too late in the afternoon to still be lying in bed, but Molly was out for the day with the boyfriend none of them had yet to meet, and it was Saturday after all, so she didn't feel too guilty. She was just starting to think about giving up on the whole day, and letting herself drift back into sleep when her phone buzzed on the nightstand next to her. She reached out blindly from underneath the covers, and slid open the lock screen to a new text message.

Hello. This is James Moriarty; Leslie's friend.

She gave me your number the other day, and I just wanted to make sure that you are truly Mary. Wouldn't be the first time she's given me the number of some bent bloke for a laugh. JM

James Moriarty. Mary vaguely remembered telling one of her regular clients; the mother of two well behaved, yet mischievous daschaunds that she could give out her number to the brother of her boyfriend.

It wasn't that Mary was so desperate she was just handing her number out to anybody who could have the faintest of interest, but, she was nearing that point of being so desperate she would hand out her number to anybody who could have the faintest interest, so when daschaunds mom told told her about the lawyer with his own flat, a country home in Sussex, and his own car; bought, not leased, Mary couldn't help but be a little bit curious.

She rubbed some of the sleep from her eyes, and typed out a response to him.

Yes, I truly am Mary.

Cheers. So, Li, seems to think that you and I would get on, then. JM

No offense to you; she made out to sound like a lovely person, but she at one time thought I would get on well with a man who bred cats in his mum's basement.

David? I know him! I bought a cat from him. Lovely thing; I call her socks. JM

Mary laughed, and snuggled down into her blankets a little deeper.

I bought one as well. I named her lulu.

There was a pause between her last text, and his reply. Mary tried not to be impatient; she didn't know this man; and what they were doing could hardly be called a conversation, but the butterflies of anticipation had started to flutter around her stomach. After about a minute there was another buzz from her phone.

A drink? Tonight? JM

She thought for a moment; it wouldn't be crazy; this was how these things started, and it wasn't like he was a complete stranger she had met over the internet or anything; someone she knew, knew him after all.

Why not?

Wonderful.

I'll meet you at the London club; 2030. JM

I look forward to it.

As do I, Mary. JM

Mary dropped her phone into the blankets of the bed, and closed her eyes tight with a smile grazing over her lips. She would sleep a bit longer; best to be as fresh as possible, have a bowl of strawberries and cream, check in with the clinic, and have a nice hot shower with a wax to her legs and a few other intimate places (just in case a drink became a little more than a drink, not that Mary was the kind of girl to roll into bed on the first date), and properly get ready. The London Club was no joke; she likely wouldn't even be allowed in there if she wasn't meeting someone who obviously had his own membership.

Maybe being a little desperate was going to pay off in the end.

"Are you wearing pants?" John asked when Sherlock came sauntering out from his bedroom and through the kitchen the next morning. John had managed, surprisingly, to survive through the night, as did all of his prized possessions, and those that weren't so prized. John thought to himself, that maybe Sherlock was capable of being a decent human being after all.

Sherlock yawned, and tightened the belt of the dressing gown wrapped around his pale frame.

"No." Sherlock answered, swiftly.

He sat across from John in his chair, crossed his ankles over each other, and picked up the unread section of the paper.

"Why?"

"I wasn't in the mood to get dressed."

"Oh. Alright then."

It was as good enough of an answer as John thought he was going to get out of Sherlock, and while it didn't make sense to John to sit around with your same sex flat mate, naked but for a thin piece of silk, Sherlock didn't exactly ever make a lot of sense. Besides, if Sherlock didn't want to get dressed, it was his prerogative not to.

"Wait, if you weren't in the 'mood to get dressed', that means you woke up undressed."

"Yes, John."

"You sleep naked?"

"Most of the time."

John had to shake away a suddenly intrusive image of Sherlock, naked between his sheets. "But I've seen you change into pyjamas at night. I've seen you come out of your room in pyjamas."

"I like comfort as much as the next person. I don't want to wear my trousers all night, especially when I don't always know if I'm going to sleep or not"

"So, when you go to bed, you take your pyjamas off and just get into bed?"

Sherlock nodded, and continued to try and read the paper.

John had no idea why he was asking so many questions about Sherlock's apparent nakedness, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

"If it's going to bother you I can get dressed." Sherlock offered.

"No, it doesn't bother me. I just-I didn't know is all. Like I said, I've just always seen you dressed." John nervously laughed, and set his paper down on the small table next to his chair, "I think I'll go down to the dry cleaners; see if your coat is done."

"That's a wonderful idea, John."

"Do you want to come with?"

"No; I have an annoying meeting with Mycroft in about twenty minutes."

"Right, well, you enjoy that."

Sherlock turned the page of his paper, and glanced over the top at John, "Oh believe me; I won't."

When John was gone, Sherlock put down his paper, and went into the kitchen looking for tea, but the kettle was empty of water. He sighed, and filled it up and clicked it on. He took down one of his mugs, or maybe it was John's; Sherlock wasn't sure anymore what belonged to whom. He dropped in a tea bag, and waited for the water to boil. A meeting with Mycroft was not on his list of favorite things to do; and the frustration and anger it was causing to churn inside of him made him want to run up to John's bedroom, pull down all of his jumpers from his wardrobe, and throw them in a bathtub full of acid, despite the fact that he spent the majority of the night talking himself out of doing that very thing. He had decided that he would only ruin John's jumpers if the stain couldn't be gotten out of the coat; after all, it was only an accident, and John did take a quick and correct course of action; no need for a punishment that didn't fit the crime.

The water was boiling, so Sherlock poured it over the tea bag, and let it steep. From the window in the kitchen he heard a car door close, and then the creak of the front door to the building.

Mycroft.

Sherlock sighed, and took his mug into the living room to sit back down in his chair. He popped a cigarette in his mouth from the pack in the pocket of his dressing gown, and lit it just before Mycroft opened the door to the flat, and greeted him with a disapproving smirk, his umbrella (ever present at his side) tapped against the door while he closed it again, behind him.

"Really, Sherlock; smoking just to annoy me?"

"Don't flatter yourself. I'm smoking, dear brother, because I have never been good with deadlines."

"Having some trouble with your composition?"

"Not trouble; it's just been a while since I've been pushed into composing. I generally like to do it at my leisure; when I'm inspired."

"Hmm, yes. The last was two years ago? Well, if you're having that difficult of a time with it, we can always make this season a reprise of your Tribute to the 60's and 70's."

Sherlock gritted his teeth, "I'll get it done."

"I see you've had no trouble with your solos." Sherlock grabbed the paper Mycroft had picked up was holding in his hands so quickly he was sure that it must have sliced into his finger, but if it had, Mycroft made no indication of any such injury. "Tell me, Sherlock; are you having trouble because you aren't the one to be conducting, or because of who is conducting in your stead?"

"I assure you, Mycroft, that I have no issue with Victor."

"Good. Keep going with these, and I'll be back in a week. Victor changed his schedule, so he will be here the third week in May rather than the last."

Mycroft opened the door to leave, "So, start preparing yourself to see him again." He said, and closed the door, before Sherlock had the opportunity to say anything back to him.

Sherlock bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from shouting at the door, and picked himself up from the chair, only to throw himself back down on the couch, where he set his pack of cigarette and his lighter on his chest, and stayed until John came home.

He must have drifted off into some kind of sleep, because the sound of John yelling upon his return made Sherlock jump, and slide off from the couch a little.

"Oi!" John had Sherlock's coat in a plastic bag draped over his arm. "If you're going to faff about naked, could you at least wear a longer dressing gown?"

Sherlock arched his neck up from where it laid against the couch, and smiled briefly at the sight of his coat; clean and home where it belonged.

"Honestly, John; it's the same bits you have. Do you not shower on your weekly visits to the gym?"

"Well, yes, but that's a bit different. I'm not saying you can't be naked, I'm just asking you wear something longer, so I don't have to accidentally catch a glimpse of more than you than I care to. Just keep your cock out of my eye sight, alright?"

"Keep my cock out of your eye sight?" Sherlock repeated, with a laugh. "This is a gay thing, isn't it?" He asked.

"What? No. You know I don't care in the slightest that you're gay, Sherlock."

"Yes, but, you do care that you are."

John laughed, "I am not gay."

"I'm inclined to believe you, but you are at the very least bi-sexual, and you've never dealt with it."

"Sherlock. I am very comfortable in my sexuality. There is nothing to 'deal' with."

Sherlock tugged at the ties of his dressing gown, loosening the right knot, until it came undone, and the gown split open. "Then this won't bother you." Sherlock said, letting the fabric slip from his shoulders and fall onto the floor.

John tensed, and he swallowed hard. It bothered him. It very much bothered him, but he wasn't going to let Sherlock knew that. Sherlock wasn't going to win whatever this strange, twisted game was that they had stumbled into.

"No. It doesn't bother me."

"And it won't bother you if I were to just sit down... like this?"

"I insist that you do. Spend the rest of the evening naked, Sherlock. I don't care one bit."

"Fine, then, I will."

"Fine." John said, and brought Sherlock's coat back into his bedroom.

Mary had followed her plan from the morning quite well. She slept, ate, did one of her exercise DVD's, showered, waxed, drank several cups of tea to calm her nerves, and when that wasn't working well enough, opened a bottle of wine to have just a glass (which, after the second wax, turned into two glasses).

She was standing in her bedroom, in a pair of Molly's newly bought black kickers, and her favorite red bra. She had every pair of nice trousers, and every blouse, and every dress that she owned lying across her bed, and she had put on nearly all of them; three times over, but she had no clue as to what she should actually wear, and only two more hours to figure it all out.

Molly still wasn't home, so she had to go to her next best option.

She sighed, and still clad in only her underwear, bundled up the clothes in her arms, and struggled up the steps until she made it into John and Sherlock's flat, where she dropped the bundle onto the floor.

"I need help." She announced.

Both John and Sherlock looked up from their chairs.

"I can see that." John said.

Mary started to explain what she was doing in their flat, in the state that she was in, when she realized that something was a bit off in their flat.

"Why are you naked?" Mary asked Sherlock.

"I'm proving a point to John."

"Is that what you're doing?" John asked, "I thought you were just being an idiot."

"What sort of point needs to be made without clothes?" Mary asked.

"Sherlock thinks that I'm bothered by his nudity because I have some sort of repressed sexual identity crises."

"You are. And you do."

"I'm bothered by it, because it's just common decency to stay dressed in front of your friends."

"If you recall, I was dressed; I had on a robe this morning-you made me take it off."

"You took it off on your own!"

Mary opened her mouth to say something else, but it just sort of hung there open like a fish for a second, before she shook her head, and was able to bring herself back into reality; or as close to reality as one could get in John and Sherlock's fat.

"Right, if you boys could stop for just one second; I need your help."

"Why are you naked?" John asked.

"If you would shut your mouth for a second; I'll tell you."

John crossed his arms over his chest, and nodded for Mary to continue.

"Thank you. I have a date tonight, and I don't know what to wear."

"And you want me to help you figure it out?" John asked her.

"No; I want Sherlock to. Say what you will about his appalling social skills, but the man knows fashion."

Sherlock grinned toward John, and lifted himself up from the chair to walk over to Mary's pile of clothes, "Let's see what we have here." He picked up a pair of dark brown trousers and threw them aside, and then another pair of black ones, and a purple, sheer blouse.

"Where are you going for this date?" he asked.

"The London Club."

"The London Club?" John repeated, incredulously.

"Yes, John; The London Club. He's a lawyer, and he has a membership."

"How did you meet him?"

"I haven't yet."

"A set up? Oh, Mary."

"Don't 'Oh Mary' me; you don't even have a date at all."

"Yes, I do actually; tonight." John glanced down at his watch, and took notice of the time, "Shit."

He got up from the chair, and went to go shower, and Sherlock, still naked, rummaged through the clothes in the middle of the floor.

"And this is the underwear you've chosen to go with?" he asked her.

"Yes."

"Hmmm. Just drinks, or dinner as well?"

"Drinks; I think."

"And you've waxed, so obviously you're hoping for the night to end in a shag."

Mary laughed, "Do you know how ridiculous we must look right now?"

"I'm sure people have looked much more ridiculous that this before." He held out a black piece of fabric to her, "Wear this one."

It was thigh length; a solid black strapless dress with an intricate lace that scalloped at the bottom and went down a few inches longer than the dress underneath to give an extra peek of thigh. The neckline had the same scalloping that formed into a plunging "v". The lace had sleeves as well that would go down to Mary's elbows. It was tight, and sensual, and feminine, and Mary thought it would be absolutely perfect.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

"Of course."

Mary picked up the remainder of her clothes from the floor, and ran back downstairs to finish getting ready.