Sherlock Holmes isn't the only one who can read the clues.

Sergeant Sally Donovan knows it's going to be bad news the second she walks into Lestrade's office. Her first clue is that Sherlock is already there, sitting in one of Lestrade's hardback chairs so imperiously you'd think he built the chair himself using nothing but superior intellect for a hammer.

Of course where Sherlock is, Dr. Watson is never far behind these days. He's in the other chair, ready as always to mop up the latest verbal mess made by his idiotic new BFF. He seems a nice enough bloke; she can't fathom why he wants to spend his days with someone who treats him like a cabana boy. Having said that, rumour has it he just might be a cabana boy with benefits, which would explain a lot. Her mind veers away from that image like it's a horror movie chainsaw massacre.

The three men fall silent as she shuts the door behind her. This is clue number two that she isn't going to like what they have to say. "You wanted to see me?" She pointedly ignores the two of them who aren't her boss.

"I suppose she'll do," Sherlock says. "She's a bit plain and scrawny, but there really isn't anyone else, is there?"

Lestrade shrugs. His suit jacket is hanging over the back of his chair and his tie is loose – they're all great pals now, it seems. "There's Constable Sims. She's been a beat cop for a few years, so she could handle herself fairly well."

"The one with the thing on her face?" Watson asks, wincing.

"That's her."

Sherlock dismisses the idea out of hand. "No, Sally's the only female in your department who's the right age and physical description. It has to be her."

"What are you going on about?" she asks him. She doesn't call him a freak in front of Lestrade, but she likes to think they both understand it's automatically implied.

Sherlock slaps a newspaper down on Lestrade's desk with all the drama of a Coronation Street murder trial. It's not a daily, just a community newsletter that focuses on good news rather than bad – that's why it's free. He's circled a story about a small local hotel that'll be closing its doors at the end of the month due to the owner's impending retirement. There's a photo of the owner and his staff looking rather relieved about the whole thing. "So?" she says.

He points to the names listed under the photo. "Guy Guyford, maintenance man." There indeed is Guy Guyford at the edge of the photo, a lumpy brute of a man who's wearing his coveralls and scowl with equal aplomb. "His name stuck with me because I found it odd his parents would strap him with such an awkward moniker."

"That is very odd, Sherlock."

He lets that one sail right on past. "I knew I'd seen his name before, so I tracked it down." He produces a photocopy that he now hands her. It's from a year-old newspaper, with the subtle headline: VANISHED. It's one of those crime flashback stories that details a cold case from fifteen years ago, regarding a couple honeymooning in Scotland. They got in a raucous fight in their hotel room, and the hotel staff had to intervene. All was then quiet until morning, when the groom reported that his brand new wife was missing. Suspicion fell directly on the husband, of course, but without a body or some other physical evidence nothing could be proven. In fact, there was no proof of any crime at all – the fight of the night before gave the wife motive to run fast and far. So the police sat tight and waited to see what would happen next. Nothing ever did, and the case was never solved.

"So?" Sally says.

He points past the part she's read to the reaction quotes at the end. "See who they've interviewed for the story?"

"The hotel owner and the caretaker, you mean? Oh, wait."

"Yes, the caretaker. One Guy Guyford, who claims not to have heard or seen a thing."

Sherlock hands her a second photocopy. This newspaper article is seven years old, but the story is the same: A hotel room (this time in London), newlyweds, a fight, a disappearing bride, a dead end. Interesting, but not enlightening.

He points again. "Do you see who's in the photo accompanying this story? Behind the distraught husband?"

She peers at the grainy image. There's Guy Guyford, skulking in the background, arms crossed. Damn. She'd never admit it out loud, but Sherlock is entirely gifted at seeing patterns no one else can. "So you think the caretaker murdered these women?"

"I do. The paper said he's also going to retire at the end of this month when the hotel shuts down, and that'll be it. Essentially he'll get off scott-free with two murders. "

Uneasiness creeps into her stomach. "And?"

Lestrade leans forward. "And we'd like to do a sting operation to see if we can nick this fellow before it's too late. Sort of a last-ditch attempt."

She looks at the photocopies one more time. "Based on this? This is your evidence? Sounds like it'll be a job to get clearance for a wire tap."

Lestrade clears his throat. "Yes, well. This case isn't exactly on the record. You'll get paid for overtime, of course, but it's not...that is...I'd like to keep it on the down low if possible."

She doesn't even know where to start. She's always thought Lestrade smart as a whip, practical, handsome, cunning, and also charming and yummy-smelling. But ever since Sherlock Holmes has cozied up to him, he's lost his senses. Lestrade has developed such a man-crush on Sherlock's detecting abilities that he can't seem to stop himself from going along with these crazy schemes. "So no wire?"

"Not as such, no."

"And no backup?"

"I'm your backup. You can bring your PAVA spray, of course."

"And you want me to go undercover and pose as a bride? Will you be the groom?"

"I'd rather remove myself from having a direct hand in the case," Lestrade says, displaying at least that much good judgment.

"Then who?" She looks at Sherlock in case he wants to tell her.

He steeples his fingertips under his chin and smiles at her.

"No." she says at once. "Not a chance. Not him."

"I'd do it," Dr. Watson says, offhand, like he doesn't want to sound too eager.

Sherlock is petulant. "I want to do it. I discovered the connection to the caretaker. It's my case. Besides, you're too short to marry Sally. And old."

"I am not! I'm practically the same height as Tom Cru – oh, forget it." It seems he's now been friends with Sherlock long enough to know he lost this battle before he even left the house that morning.

Lestrade steps in. "Sally, I'd consider this a personal favour if you'd do this for me. Plus, think how lovely an arrest in this cold case would look on your record."

She mulls it over. Having Lestrade owe her one is no small accomplishment. And he's right about the arrest; it's not every day you get to nab a serial killer. It would be fantastic to bring this fellow to justice after all these years. Wait, what is she saying? She shakes the logic back into her head. "You have no proof Guy Guyford is the killer. None. It's total conjecture on his part." She glares at Sherlock.

Sherlock is ready with an answer, because he's always ready with an answer. "Then you have nothing to worry about. If you're so certain I'm wrong, we'll spend the night free-of-charge in a relatively nice hotel room and be none the worse for it. If I'm wrong."

And what can she say to that? There is no response that won't lead her directly into his trap. One of the many things she can't stand that about him. "All right, I'll do it. But if you try anything – anything – I'll spray you with my PAVA."

"You have absolutely nothing to fear in that regard," he says in such a way that it makes her feel like the most undesirable woman in the entire country.

She turns on her heel and stalks out of the room. Lestrade can give her the details by email. She's half way out the door when Sherlock calls after her, "For God's sake, do try to put on some makeup and fix your hair. Otherwise we might as well just use Constable Sims, ugly be damned."

Constable Sims, who's ten feet away from Sally in the hall and in plain sight of Sherlock through the glass wall of Lestrade's office, gapes at him, appalled. "Sorry about that," John Watson says with an awkward wave to Constable Sims. Sherlock, of course, has already forgotten any of them exist as he maps out his next move with Lestrade.

Sally stomps to her desk and riffles around the top drawer for a Pepcid AC. She slams the drawer shut so hard that a couple of the other detectives look up from what they're doing. They quickly look back down, though; they know better than to attract her attention now.

Wear some makeup, indeed. Sally doesn't care how unreasonable her dislike of Sherlock Holmes appears to others, he's earned every bit of it. She's spent the last six years clawing her way up the ranks in this office, enduring the mean-spirited jokes and the smarmy come-ons, passed over for promotions that apparently required a penis to successfully navigate them, and relegated to every shite assignment because that's "just the way it is". She's had to be twice as clever, twice as hard-working, and twice as bitchy as most of the other cops in this office to get where she is, and that's all right. She can accept that.

But here comes Sherlock Holmes – untrained, a bloody civilian, autistic or psychopathic or whatever the fuck he is, barging in and taking over and trampling on the rules that she's had to live by. He's snotty and mean and his methods are ridiculous. Nothing more than a magician's trick that doesn't stand a chance of holding up in a court of law. He had a tan line, your honour. That's how I knew he was a human trafficker. God! Of course, he doesn't care about that, about justice being served. He just wants to be right. Every single time.

Sally can't help but wonder what would happen if Sherlock Holmes disappeared from a hotel without a trace instead of another bride. The thought gives her a measure of comfort as she tries to brace herself for having to spend a night with him. Alone. In a hotel room. She reaches back into the drawer for another stomach acid tablet, which will have to do until she can get her hands on some booze.

Two days have passed since the meeting in Lestrade's office, and Sally and Sherlock are presently in the back of a cab, up the street from the hotel where Guy Guyford is winding down his last days of employment. Sherlock has already bribed the cabbie with an impressive fifty quid in addition to the cab fair, to bugger off for half an hour so they can go over the details of their undercover operation in private. She is, in fact, wearing makeup and a sparkly hairband, and feeling all the more ridiculous for it.

"Remember, when we get in there let me do the talking," Sherlock orders her.

"Do I have a choice?"

Even though the question is rhetorical, he still says, "No. Now, how long have we known each other?"

"Six months. A whirlwind romance." She pretends to gag.

"At what church was the ceremony?"

"St. Andrew. My mother cried buckets when I married you."

He digs in his coat pocket. "Here's your wedding ring." It's a modest affair, plain gold, no diamonds. She puts her hand out, fingers splayed, but instead of slipping it on her he turns her hand over and slaps it into her palm.

She shoves it on herself, wondering how he knew her ring size. "Don't you get a ring?" she asks him.

"I'm a chauvinist pig who's going to be drunkenly slapping you around in a few hours. I don't believe in wedding rings for men."

"Fair enough. So, are we ready to go in then?"

"Don't be stupid. You're not even sexually aroused."

Her hand freezes on the car door handle. "Pardon me?"

He speaks every word with extra emphasis, as if she's a precariously few IQ points away from being a cooked parsnip. "This fellow, the killer, wasn't born yesterday. If he suspects anything, smells the faintest whiff of trickery, he's not going to take the bait less than a month before retiring, is he? Too big a risk. As he's doubtlessly seen thousands of newly married couples, he's going to expect us to not only behave a certain way, but be a certain way."

"Give me some credit. I can pretend to be in love with you for a few minutes if that's what the job requires."

"Although I highly doubt you could pull off even that minor feat, it takes more than acting to subconsciously convince someone who sees lovers on a daily basis. It takes body language and even physiological manifestations which can't be faked. Certainly not by you, in any case. Dilated pupils, flushed face, that sort of thing."

She can't help but think he's overestimating just how much anyone who isn't him actually notices things like that, but far be it from her to question the great Sherlock Holmes. "Then what's your plan, exactly?"

"I'm going to stimulate you until you've reached a convincing level of arousal."

She blinks. "You are so not going to do that. So not, not ever."

He pinches the bridge of his nose like a migraine's coming on. "May I ask why?"

"Because I find you repulsive."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't.

"Yes, I bloody well do."

"No, you...all right, you do. But not physically repulsive – it's only my personality that disgusts you."

"How would you know if I think you're ugly or not?"

"Because of my facial symmetry, height, and physical prowess. I have unusual features, yes, but still fit the genetic markers that females seek out in a potential mate. In other words, I'm tall, dark, and handsome, even to you."

"You're the colour of tapioca! Even your lips are pasty."

"Perhaps, but UV ray avoidance will undoubtedly extend my life and reduce future laugh lines, therefore making me all the more attractive to the fairer sex. Plus, my hair is dark."

"You're round the bend. And I'm not doing it." She crosses her arms to show she means business.

His answer to that is to push a speed dial button on his cell phone with one emphatic thumb. Lestrade picks up after less than half a ring. "What's happened?" he asks without preamble. Sherlock has helpfully set it on speakerphone.

"Sally won't do as I say. She's putting the entire case in jeopardy."

Lestrade's voice is not happy. "Put her on."

"Oh, she can hear you."

Sally, I know this isn't ideal, but please be professional enough to put aside your personal feelings and go along, all right? For once can you be a team player?"

Sally is nothing short of outraged that he could possibly suggest she's less of a team player than Sherlock Assholian Holmes. "Sir, he wants to do things to me. He wants to...dilate my pupils." She can't quite bring herself to say anything more graphic than that. It's just too awful.

"I don't care if he wants to wrap you in cellophane and call you a present – he knows what he's doing. This is your job, Sergeant. I suggest you start acting like it." She's sure he slams the phone down, even though it's just a click on their end. So much for him owing her one.

The silence is excruciating, but as always, Sherlock doesn't let it last long. He tugs his ridiculously pompous scarf free from his neck, followed by his equally pompous coat. "Now where were we?" He's so smug it clouds the car like a noxious fume.

A new word would have to be invented to adequately describe just how much she hates him at this moment. She takes a deep breath and tries a last appeal to his better judgment. "The people walking by will be able to see what we're doing."

He barely gives the tourists and office workers a glance out the window. "No, they won't."

Unless they're all suddenly struck blind, she can't understand how to avoid it. "Yes, they will."

"No, they won't."

"Yes, they...stop contradicting me!"

"Then stop saying things that need contradicting."

His ego is so massive it's a wonder it doesn't collapse into itself like a black hole and crush them both. Sally suddenly realizes that this is her grand chance to finally prove to Sherlock Holmes that he isn't always right, he can't always get what he wants, and she isn't a puppet in the play that passes for real life in his head. He wants to turn her on, huh? Him and his bad haircut and weird cheekbones? She'll see about that. "Fine," she says. "Try your best, you creepy git. That'll be the day the likes of you can put me in the mood."

"Challenge accepted." He reaches for her with both hands and she gives a little involuntary scream. He lets his arms drop and peevishly rolls his eyes. "Please spare me your theatrics. It's not as if you're the virginal maiden about to be assaulted by the heartless cad. Just pretend I've bought you supper and drinks in a mid-scale restaurant – that's probably all it usually takes to get you in this position."

And that was his seduction line of choice. Splendid. Did anyone deserve to be knocked down a peg as much as him? "You don't know anything about me."

He's already bored with her bickering and pulls out his phone so he can play around with it. "I know you slept with a married man with whom you work. I expect that's a pretty good start to knowing who you are."

Sally feels her cheeks burn. "That was a mistake. I had too much to drink at a bar after work and things got out of hand. I barely remember going home with him."

He sighs as he tucks his phone back into his coat pocket. "Really, now you're just pleading my case for me."

How she'd like to club him to death with a golf club. She settles on seething silently. It's not as satisfying as the beating would be, she guesses.

"Anyway, how awful can it be? You're fully dressed, in a public street. It's not like I'm going to ravage you." The way he says it, with a wrinkled nose, reassures her as well as hurting her feelings. "And it won't take long," he promises. "Five minutes, tops."

"Five minutes? You think you're going to have me begging for it in five minutes?"

"Five minutes tops."

"Shut up now, seriously. Do whatever you want, because it's not going to work anyway. All I ask is that you tell me what you're going to do before you do it. No more surprises."

"Agreed. Take off your coat and roll up one of your sleeves."

She does so, groaning at the idiocy of it all, although she leaves her coat underneath her as a barrier between her and whatever else has touched this car seat. "What are you going to do, take my blood?" she asks as she hikes the sleeve of her silk top above her elbow.

"I'm going to tickle the inside of your arm. It's a nonspecific erogenous zone."

"It is?" Sally's not sure anyone has ever paid special attention to her there before, seeing as how the blokes she dates invariably leap toward either her boobs or crotch if given half the chance.

He must sense her doubt because he spells it out for her. "That area has heightened sensitivity due to the thinner skin there. All the nerve endings are closer to the surface. You see?"

Only he can make sex quite this dull. She holds out her arm in sacrifice as if she's Bella and he's Edward, which he is most certainly not. "Go ahead then."

He takes two fingertips and begins to gently stroke her skin at the pulse point in the crook of her arm. It's the first time he's ever touched her. The world instantly narrows and slows until all she can feel is his touch. It's more exciting than she imagined it would be. She supposes it's true that she doesn't find him ugly, as such. He's almost exotic-looking, especially his eyes. And his self-confidence is attractive enough – at least for the first two minutes after you meet him. Then...ick. That snaps her out of it. She's been pawed by better than him, by god. She makes a production out of covering an enormous yawn with her free hand. He gives her a piercing look, then turns his head away and gazes into traffic. Good. She does the same.

They're both still staring out their respective windows as he draws lazy figure eights on her, when Sherlock says, his voice sympathetic, "I completely understand why you were reluctant to do this. It's obvious, of course."

She peeks at him, but his eyes stay on the cars in the street. "No kidding," she retorts. Pauses. Then, suspiciously, "Why?"

He shifts his long legs into a more comfortable position. "Think about it. I have carte blanche to do any shameful thing I want to you in the back of this cab, all of it against your will. Imagine if I can get you hot and bothered even though you detest me. That would make you a very wicked girl indeed, wouldn't it, Sally?"

And just like that, with two short sentences, Sherlock Holmes has conclusively gone all-in. Because Sally is a good girl, and always has been. She flosses every evening and gives to the homeless, she recycles and sends bad guys to prison. She can't possibly be a wicked girl, and most especially not a wicked girl in the back seat of this cab with Sherlock Holmes. Suddenly the most important thing Sally has done, must do, will ever do, is refuse to be turned on by whatever he decides to do to her.

His fingers haven't changed they're rhythm, but now what she feels in those two square inches of skin is ten times as dirty as a moment ago. Her body goes rigid, because there's no bloody way she's going to let him see how his words have affected her. She should punch him and storm out of the cab, but what would Lestrade say about her team player abilities then? Sally retreats against the door, hoping for a moment's respite to pull herself together, but of course his hand just moves the extra six inches to follow her. He's not going to let her off that easy. "I am not hot and bothered," she says shrilly. "Your stupid finger tickles aren't doing a thing for me."

He stops at once, which leaves her simultaneously overjoyed and bereft. She sits up and straightens her clothes as if her dignity might have fallen there in the creases. He lifts her chin with the edge of his finger and examines her face, her eyes, then says, "Mm, you might be right. Tilt your head. I'm going to have to bite your neck instead."

She can't speak; all the spit in her mouth has vanished. She fears she will spontaneously combust, yet finds herself helplessly turning her head to allow him to continue, because if she's going to win, she has to let him do whatever he wants to her so she can show him how little she cares. That still makes sense, right? She's not quite sure, but it's too late, because he cups her cheek with his hand, coaxing her closer. His touch is warm and self-assured. His hair smells like coconuts. He presses his lips against her exposed neck, which sends her body into dizzy shock. They sit there like that, not moving, and for a hopeful moment she thinks maybe that's all he's going to do. Maybe he's nervous and inept and he'll have second thoughts and everything will be okay – and then he actually bites her and her bum comes right off the seat. He works his way toward her collar bone with agonizing precision as shock waves of hot pleasure radiate from her neck to...well, it doesn't matter to where. It takes every ounce of control she has not to make any noises. She grips his shoulder and holds her breath as he toys with the idea of giving her a hickey. Not by any definition can she describe his technique as "inept".

He finally stops. Her body is jelly, but she's survived it; relief washes over her. She's not sure if she's still a good girl, but at least he's not sure she's a wicked girl. Then he says matter-of-factly, "Now open your legs because I'm going to run my hand up your thigh."

As it turns out, him announcing his plans in advance makes the whole thing worse, not better. Her heart is galloping. She tries to calm herself – she's wearing jeans, after all. Thick, sturdy denim. He can't even get to her skin. She slowly moves her knees apart and waits with aching anticipation for what's coming next.

He gauges her reaction as he sets his hand on the inside of her leg and lets it rise higher. She prays her expression is impassive. Bored. The opposite of terrified. Sherlock's thumb rides the seam of her jeans all the way up. He doesn't look down; he knows where he's going.

What she needs to do, she decides in a rising crescendo of panic and hormones, is to pretend to be hot and bothered, because then he'll be satisfied and stop. He'll think he's won when he hasn't, not really, and that will be good enough. She has to do something, because he's searching her eyes, and she's pretty sure he can see straight through her, into her; he's Sherlock Holmes, after all. And that's why this is so thrilling, isn't it? Not because they're getting to second base in the back of a car, but because it's him. His mouth, his teeth, his hands that are doing this to her, that are making her feel this way. She hates him, and she wants him, and he knew it all along even if she didn't. Somebody moans, and she suspects it might be her.

His hand pauses when he runs out of room at the top of the inside of her thigh. She can't breathe and she can't think because there's wicked and then there's wicked, and she feels her self-control crack into pieces like overheated glass. He whispers, "Now I'm going to..." and that's as far as he gets before she grabs him with both hands by that unruly mop of hair and kisses him. Not only is he not surprised, she can feel him smirk as he kisses her back. She doesn't care. She kisses him harder, and lets go of his hair long enough to push his hand between her legs. She's gasping for air, trying with limited results not to thrust against the heel of his palm, her ears ringing like an alarm is going off in her head.

Sherlock pries her off of him and takes his phone from his coat pocket. He pushes a button and the alarm that was going off in her head stops. Oh. "That's five minutes exactly, including all the debate at the beginning," he says, beaming. "I think that should do the trick." He's not even out of breath, the bastard. Her lip gloss is a shiny pink smear across his mouth, but he doesn't attempt to wipe it off.

Sally rights herself, utterly dazed. She realigns her sparkly hairband gone askew and looks out the window to see who's witnessed her spectacular lapse in judgment. But Sherlock is dead on again; the windows are so entirely fogged by her heavy breathing they might as well be frosted. She tries to think of something rude to say. Something scathing. Nothing comes to mind.

He gets out of the cab and comes around to open the door for her. He has to actually help her out, because her legs still aren't working properly. He takes their luggage out of the boot and saunters down the street toward the hotel, pulling the bags by their handles like dogs going for a walk. He's whistling, because he's a fucking idiot that way. She follows him, trying not to stagger. She would very much like to pull her damp panties free, but can't for obvious reasons.

They go into the lobby. Sally has absolutely no doubt everyone will believe they're horny newlyweds; she feels like the lit fuse on a piece of dynamite. She can barely make eye contact with anyone. The owner is standing behind the counter, writing something down. He looks up at them and smiles. "May I help you?" he asks.

Sherlock puts an arm around her shoulder. He grins widely, like he's the most aboveboard, friendly, honest bloke in the world. In a cockney accent straight out of Mary Poppins, he says, "Mr. and Mrs. Sherlock Holmes here, checking into the honeymoon suite."