Author's Note: It hasn't even been two weeks, but I couldn't resist publishing something again. One of my Christmas gifts this year was the complete collection of Sherlock DVDs, and with a day offa work, well . . . I couldn't help m'self. They were calling out to me!

So, now, fully satiated with my fill of Benedict Cumberbatch, I decided that the time had come to make two of my favorite barely-sociable geniuses to make one another's acquaintance. It seemed like loads more fun than writing some more of my Yeast Breads research paper, certainly. *Sticks out tongue*

Next on my queue is another installment of "Criminal Heroes," I'm sure; I've been dying to write something about Peter and Spencer in college together, orsomethignlike that . . . I'll haft think. So much flailing; I've missed my boys!

In the meantime, here's another bloated oneshot for you lot. This takes place pre-Sherlock, and about season five of Criminal Minds; if they don't overlap like that in real life, well . . . call it AU. Sherlock mentioned that he had spent a brief time in Florida once, when he was getting the adulterous mafia-boss husband of his future landlady put on death row . . . Not that he ever mentioned how, of course. Anyhoo . . . this is my take on that time, when the BAU just so happens to have a case in Miami as well. Fun!

Warnings: Okay . . . This isn't supposed to be slash, but if you squint, anything's possible, I fuss. Mentions of drug use, some serious smart-assert . . . well, if you watch either of the shows, you know how it works. Both my dears are potential BAMFs. *Smiles*

Disclaimer: I'm not affiliated on any professional level with either Criminal Minds or Sherlock. I'm just a disturbingly dedicated fangirl for both series. :)

Reviews are fine, but there's no obligation; this is up, and it's staying here!

Keep Calm And Enjoy.

"In Genius"

Late on one of those many warm, humid evenings that Miami was so famous for, Spencer Reid stood hesitantly outside of a small bar in the central hub of Florida's most famous party town. Perfectly comfortable in the heat, he ignored the strange looks he got for his button-down shirt, cords, sweatervest, and Converse, choosing instead to direct all of his attention to the establishment in front of him.

Las Palabras. 'The Words.'

An intriguing name to be sure, especially for what looked like a fairly small and inconsequential roadhouse. Leaning as he was by one of the windows, Spencer could hear the sounds of chatter and laughter seeping through the boards.

He sighed. It looked much quieter than the crazed, coked-up, neon nightmare of a club that Garcia had dragged Morgan and Prentiss to earlier tonight; and also like more of a place for solitude than the jazz lounge where Rossi, JJ, and Hotch had all decided to spend their last evening before heading out of the Sunshine State.

Normally Reid would have gone with one of those two parties, opting either to sit uncomfortably at a dance club and watch as Morgan got his 'groove thang' on, or to quietly tag along with the grown-ups, and make edgy conversation with the more senior members of his team while pretending to sip a brandy.

Shaking his head again, Reid tried to banish the thoughts from his mind. After the case they had just had, after chasing an unsub through countless dark streets in the metropolitan area, after having to watch the sociopath kill himself right in front of his eyes, and especially after the headache that had been boggling his mind for hours, Spencer really didn't feel like he needed any company of silent, too-knowing looks from his friends – nay, profilers.

What he really needed was peace, quiet, solitude . . .

. . . and a drink.

He never drank – well, nearly enough never. But right now, he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep at all, and he just wanted some silence, an end to his never-stopping brain.

The only legal, nonlethal way he knew to do that would be found in the bottom of a liquor bottle.

Biting his lip, arms wrapped tightly around himself, Spencer gathered what courage he could, and pushed forward into the bar.

Immediately, his senses were slightly overwhelmed. Music was playing, but it was instrumental, mostly piano and drums . . . something Irish, he would guess, although the genius really couldn't pull the answer out of his hat like he could with most things. It was loud, steady, and soothing. He liked it.

The lights in the building were low, but not dark. Good – he hated the dark. The smell of stale cologne and warm wine filtered in the air, mixing not-altogether-unpleasantly with the scent of cigars and hyacinth flowers. Fans on the ceiling blew the air around, and the inside temperature was somewhat cooler than it had been out on the street.

Reid looked around, taking in the low hum of conversation, the small handful of people scattered throughout the room sitting in low chairs at tables garnished with candles, the billiards table that was in use right then, the window seats occupied by what looked like a group of college kids, and, finally, the bar to the right of him, armed with a full stock of glimmering bottles, seven cushioned barstools – only one of which was occupied – and a friendly-enough looking tender who shot him a small smile before turning back to his work.

Slowly, focusing all he could on not stumbling, Reid made his way over to he bar, dodging a few patrons and smiling in apology when his leg brushed up against someone's purse.

At last reaching the low, wooden bar, Reid sat down with a hidden sigh of relief on the first available stool, and waited for the man behind the counter to meet his eyes.

"What'll it be, junior?"

Though he had a profound knowledge of over 6,834 different kinds of cocktail combinations that were offered and popular in the Americas, Reid really wasn't a drinking man, and he was more than a little clueless as to what to order.

"A, ah . . ." He glanced around, willing himself to think. "A . . . rum and Coke?"

The man snorted, barely keeping a straight face, and Reid flushed, turning his eyes down and focusing heavily on his knees until, several minutes later, he heard a tiny thud and looked up to see his glass in front of him.

Taking just a moment to appreciate the way the dark liquid glimmered in the light, Reid held his breath as he reached out and gripped the drink in his hand, silently thinking bottoms up before he did just that, tipping the beverage into his mouth.

As soon as it hit his tongue, he knew that the order was wrong. Although Reid was far from a soda drinker, he knew what a Coca-Cola tasted like, and this was exactly that. Just pop. No alcohol.

"Uhm, excuse me – ?" He called out shyly to the bartender, whose back was turned to him. "Sir, I – I, ah think you got my order wrong – ?"

"No, he didn't," came a smooth voice. Startled, Reid glanced over to see that the only other man sitting at the bar was the one who had spoken. His voice was quiet, but Reid could still hear the commanding tone from two stools away.

"I'm sorry?"

"Why should you be? You committed no error. At least, not towards me." Still, the man wouldn't turn to face him. Reid shook his head, slightly flustered.

"I wasn't apologizing, I was instituting that I hadn't heard you correctly."

"Strange. I see no sign of hearing impairment – nor have you expressed any deficiency in your auditory abilities, so, one would deduce that you understood just fine. However, for the sake of niceties, I shall say again – he did not get your order wrong."

Starting to get just a little irritated at the man's superior tone, Reid snapped back, "Actually, he did, since I ordered a rum and Coke, and this is just a Coke – "

"Yes, I told him to hold the alcohol in your drink. Just a Coke, now."

"You – you told him?" Reid spluttered, completely unsure of just how inappropriate this kind of thing was for bar etiquette. "That was my drink, you had no right – !"

"Obviously, I did, or I wouldn't have done it; I seldom do things to which I have no entitlement."

"Oh, really?" Reid quirked an eyebrow. "And what exactly entitled you to interfere with my order?"

"You're on duty, officer; a man of the law shouldn't be impaired when he's collecting a paycheck off of it."

How did he – ? "How did you know – I mean, what makes you think that?"

Realizing that Reid wasn't going to leave him alone, the other man heaved a great sigh, and finally turned to face the BAU's resident genius.

He was tall, and thin – though not as much so as Reid. He had more of a wiry build. His skin was paler than Reid's – more of an alabaster – while his hair was the color of pen ink, shoulder-length, and very curly. Dressed tastefully in all black – slacks, shirt, vest, and trench coat – he exuded a sort of relaxing grace about him; a mood that was immediately tempered by cheekbones that looked sharp enough to cut glass, and bright blue eyes that gleamed electrically with intellect, sparks of interest that immediately captured Reid's attention.

Giving him a similar once-over, it was a moment before the other patron spoke again.

"Well, clearly you're in law-enforcement, as the bulge beneath your shirt looks a bulletproof-vest – standard issue, one I'm guessing you've had for at least five years, meaning that you must be above the vice-level of entry. And you hardly seem the fashionable type to wear such things for fun, so unless you're preparing for Halloween eight months early, the reasonable deduction is that you yourself just got off of work. The way you're sitting indicates that you usually have a gun holstered to your dominant side, in this case, your right, although I don't see one now – probably for the best, an underweight picayune like you would certainly be challenged when carrying something so prominently on their hip. Your hands, though you seem to be unaware of it, reach for your pocket every time you hear a loud or potentially distressing noise behind you, as though you're just longing to whip out some sort of badge and tell people to get down on the ground. And, let us not forget, those same hands are covered in a light navy residue – gunpowder, if I am correct, and I always am – which looks and smells to be less than a few hours old – meaning that, proving the cliché of most American cops to be at least somewhat accurate, you've recently been gallivanting around with a loaded weapon that was at some point discharged before opting to wile the night away in an establishment that serves alcohol while you attempt to drown your troubles in an amber-colored snifter, am I correct?"

Reid gaped, his mouth hanging slightly open. No one on Earth could possibly talk that fast, let alone process information in such speed and at such length and depth.

Well . . . very few people, anyway. Himself being one of them.

The other man smirked at the dumbfounded expression, mentally patting himself on he back for having put it there before again turning away from Reid and taking a sip of his own drink.

It took the genius a few moments to collect himself; and when he did, he cleared his throat, waiting for his barmate to look up.

No sign that he'd been heard. Reid tried to gesture again, shifting in his chair while looking keenly at the other.

When that too failed, he counted to six in his head before speaking.

"Are you a profiler?"

The other man scoffed. "Profiler?" The word was said with so much derision that Reid tensed. "No, of course not. I have little use for the law, and none for the agencies that are associated with it. Besides, stretch," he added, not-so-subtly eyeing Spencer's lanky form with a critical eye, "there isn't an FBI in England; surely someone of your intelligence could figure that out?"

"Someone of my intelligence?"

"Yes. It must be slightly more in abundance for you than for most people; it's not like you got into the field for your physical skills."

Inside, Reid fumed. On the outside, his voice was collected, and utterly calm. "I'm sure that you could say the same about yourself."

Now his compatriot perked slightly in barely-concealed interest."Pardon?"

"You're in law enforcement too, right?

The other man looked amused. "Interesting conclusion." he waved his free hand in front of him, encouraging a performance with a gesture full of contempt. "Go on."

Reid pushed back the brief flare of irritation that those snide words gave him. "You're right about the hand-to-hand combat stuff. I'm not much for fighting; I got the job I have because I can do this." He leaned back in his stool, taking a moment to fully drink in the appearance of his comrade, before sucking in a huge breath and speaking rapid fire.

"White male from New England, born and raised; most likely in the States for official reasons, as the manner of clothing and posture suggest you're a workaholic, and you've yet to demonstrate any leisurely action, other than attempting to irritate me."

"Hardly an attempt; I think I've been more than successful at irritating you," the man cut in, smirking.

Nonplussed, Reid continued. "Antisocial to the point of reclusion, but that's owed more to the high levels of narcissistic personality disorder you make no attempt to hide in social settings than what I suspect are less-than-demanding hours from your career. You aren't above acting like someone else to get the job done; hence, the reason you're out on the town and making conversation, but haven't taken more than a few sips of that gin and tonic that I would hazard a guess is just a tonic, right? Obviously, you're here to observe someone, and the way you're sitting up straight would suggest it's someone of status, otherwise you'd be sitting in the back trying to keep yourself more hidden – which, clearly, you're not. You don't carry a badge or a gun, because you foolishly assume your authoritative personality and own cleverness will be enough to keep you safe. But you're not above using violence; I've seen you have to clench your fists three times since I came in, as though you're trying to contain yourself physically. Which, of course, means that this must be a highly personal stake-out, else you'd have come knocking at a different time of day, with a partner and a firearm, too. But then, you don't play things by official rules either, do you?"

Throughout his profiling, the other man had simply sat and stared, the bemusement in his eyes flickering to surprise, then keenness, then a small hint of stoicism as he listened to many of the truths that surrounded him turned into bullet-point for some kid's analyzations.

And he could not help himself; the man was impressed.

As soon as Reid stopped for breath, the other patron, never taking his eyes off of the genius, lifted his glass and, raising one eyebrow, merely commented, "Good boy," before taking another swig of the drink that, as Reid had correctly surmised, was nonalcoholic.

Reid frowned. "I'm hardly a boy."

The other man set his drink down on the bar, keeping his voice low. "And yet, with the unassuming manner of naiveté and the starry-eyed way in which you speak and glance around, one could only assume that you've just barely absconded from puberty."

Flushing, Reid fired back, "And with the high levels of arrogance you emit mingling with your obvious penchant for cynicism, one would have no choice but to conclude that you're well past your mid-life crisis."

At that, the other man actually grinned, his eyes finally breaking contact as he blinked, chewing something over in his mind.

A long pause, and then . . . "I'm thirty-one."

Surprised at the compliance, it took Reid a moment to respond back. "Same here. I'm Spencer Reid."

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"Interesting name."

"I'm sure I wish I could say the same to you." The man, Sherlock, it seemed, leaned back slightly in his seat, once more looking Spencer up and down. "Hardly fascinating, in any sense – yours is a moniker about as Biblical as they come, meaning 'protector, virtuous and affluent in fight' . . ." he paused, seemingly chewing something over in his mind. "Yet, I sense your personality is hardly as dreadfully boring as most of the people I've the misfortune to encounter. Tell me, how many doctorates?"

Reid glanced at him sharply, trying to hide his surprise. "Pardon?"

Now Sherlock looked slightly irked. "Unlike a terrible many people in this nation, I'm no fool, Spencer Reid. You're obviously a man involved in whatever meager upholding of the farce of American law – and, given your proximate affinity for the job and apparent knowledge in the analytical, it doesn't take much of a brain to deduce that you are, as you previously thought me, a profiler. A member of the FBI, if I'm not mistaken – and I rarely am. Behavioral Analysis Unit, yes?"

At Reid's jerky nod, the man continued on, completely unaware of the maddening effect he was beginning to have on his conversation partner. "Anyone with eyes can see that you're clearly not the most comfortable agent in the field, and I can hardly assume you were brought on for your innate physicality; thus, one would have to assume that your obviously eminent intelligence contributed greatly with the assistance in guiding your way into one of the slightly more interesting groups of the Bureau. Counter-terrorism, I doubt, since you've displayed no interest in the foreign bartender." He gestured to their left, where said man was wiping off a glass with the filthy wash towel slung over his apron. Reid blinked in surprise. He hadn't noticed.

Sherlock smiled victoriously."From your youth, you must have something under your belt more than high Uni scores, and the way you talk clearly demonstrates a deeply-instilled verbose manner, indubitably from a long-held secondary education. I assume you're a genius?"

"I – I don't believe that intelligence can be accurately measured." Reid spoke quietly, still more than a little in awe of this man's deductive skills.

Seeming to expect his response, Sherlock nodded. "Quite correctly. And yet, you're clearly of a superior intellect. In layman's terms; a genius."

"As you yourself obviously are," Reid countered, shifting on his stool so he was sitting closer to the other man.

Only a brief flash of flattery over Sherlock's face, and then he waved the words away with a slight look of petulance. "I dislike such terms; I prefer to think of everyone else as dim-witted. Slow. Stupid."

"How uncharitable for a man of your caliber." Reid's tone was biting. Sherlock responded in kind.

"How chivalrous of you to care for the more common of society, doctor."

"How good of you to notice."

He smiled. "You never did answer my question; how many degrees?"

Reid took another sip of his Coke, musing as he mustered the man before him. As the silence between them dragged out, Sherlock began to feel the light chafing of irritation at the back of his eyes. Oh, how he detested this sort of knowing, judgmental wordless evaluation! Quiet was fine and good when it was himself trying to think, holding his skull and musing about another case . . . but being observed like this, especially by a mind he had already deemed keen enough to at least associate with, was maddening!

Just when the man wasn't sure he could take any more without snarking a bit, the agent before him spoke. "Three. I have three doctorates. One in Mathematics, one in Engineering, and one in Chemistry. I also have Bachelors' Degrees in Psychology and Sociology, and one I'm getting in Philosophy."

"A man of books, are we?" Sherlock murmured, refusing to show how impressed he was at the extensive schooling this other genius had had.

Reid tilted his head in confirmation, raising an eyebrow calculatingly. "Meanwhile, you're one of reasoning, of strictly science. I doubt you put much thought into the art of human behavior?"

Sherlock nodded. "I believe in matter over the mind. No matter how a person keeps themselves, no matter the ruse they so vainly attempt to project, the truth lies just at the surface for anyone champing enough to seek it out. It's a problem most people have; they look, but they do not see. You have to observe."

"And you're just that sporting sort, of course."

"Obviously."

"Obviously." Reid repeated the word back, seeing how it felt on his tongue. He looked back up, somewhat flustered by the look of amusement on Sherlock's face. Brushing aside his nerves, Spencer tried once more to gain control of the situation.

"So, a person of analytical reasoning with an eye for details . . . You're some sort of police investigator?"

Snorting in derision, the other man tilted his head back and swallowed the rest of his drink in one gulp, then signaled to the barkeep for another. It was only after the second serving had arrived – and Reid delightfully took note that it was just tonic water – that Sherlock finally answered the almost-forgotten question.

"I'm no private eye," he said, wrinkling his nose as if the word had a bad taste to it. "I'm a consulting detective – the only one in the world."

Reid gave a slight huff of a laugh. "And there goes that ego again."

Raising an eyebrow, Sherlock beckoned his free hand. "There goes that all-knowing tone again. Please, doctor, if you've had some keen insight into my mind, don't keep it all to your little self. Do tell."

Reid took a sip of his drink, that evaluating gaze never leaving Sherlock's equally penetrating eyes. At last, he spoke, settling more comfortably in his chair.

"As I pointed out earlier – you have narcissistic tendencies. A point you've just proven in spades, as only someone truly vainglorious would make up a job title for their occupation, just to say that they're the only one in the world."

"And yet, doctor, I hardly find the fact that I created my own job to prove some sort of fallacy. I am, in fact, a detective who solves crimes by consulting with other agencies. I work with no one, for no one, and by no one, except myself."

"Because all of the other people are too stupid, too intolerable to work in close proximity to?"

"That's certainly part of it."

Reid smiled victoriously. "Narcissist."

Trying to avoid rolling his eyes, Sherlock gripped his drink a little more tightly, and lifted one corner of his mouth in a near-smile towards the other man.

"You're quite relentless, Dr. Reid. I'm sure that must drive your boyfriend positively mad."

Seemingly unfazed, Reid smirked confidently at the detective. "Oh, Sherlock . . . I should imagine I'm every bit as straight as you are."

Sherlock took a moment to be surprised, and then chuckled.

"I do believe I like you, Spencer. You've a . . . good humor."

"And you've a way with words." Reid countered, mirth still written on every inch of his face.

"I know," the other man said matter-of-factly. "It's gotten me in trouble a number of times."

"Hmm," Reid murmured, signaling for another Coke. "Is that why you're hiding out in a greasy-spoon bar?"

"Hardly. As you ascertained earlier, doctor, I'm here on official business for my current client."

"Looking for proof of an affair? Perhaps some black-market dealings?"

Sherlock shot the other genius a look of mild disgust. "As if those would be worth my time. I'm here to observe, Dr. Reid – or, I must ask, do you prefer agent?"

Reid waved the question away. "I'm both – or whichever you're in need of at the time. What's your current investigation looking into?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Something of a private matter. However, suffice to say that if I am successful, a certain drug-selling, wife-beating waste of human life will be receiving a guilty verdict and death sentence in court within the month."

"Heady," Reid commented, stirring the ice cubes at the bottom of his drink. "And apparently personal, if you're this dedicated."

A shadow of contempt passed over Sherlock's face. "I abhor his sort."

"A drug user hating judging one who deals . . . And here, I thought that someone of your wit was above hypocrisy, Mr. Holmes." At the other man's somewhat startled look, Reid shrugged. "Your fingers are shaking, you're pale and sweaty despite the temperature being barely sixty in here, and you've been scratching at the crook of your arm all night."

Glancing the other man over in one fell swoop, it was a moment before Sherlock got his bearings back again. This time, he faced straight ahead at the wall as he spoke. "Stranger still for one abuser to judge another, Dr. Reid. You've been fingering the medallion in your pocket ever since you walked in this place. Do tell me – how long sober?"

Reid blanched, but refused to back down. "Four years, almost five. And yourself?"

"Going on eight days, but that should all change when I get to my room tonight."

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Reid spoke cautiously. Counseling was so out of his depth . . .

"It'll kill you, you know – "

"Yes, thank you for that unique and insightful view into the medical mysteries behind cocaine, Spencer. I shall remember these revelatory words for the rest of my life." Sherlock's tone was acidic, his posture tense, and his stinging words making it clear that the matter, as far as he was concerned, was closed.

Not surprised but still a little hurt by the lashing out, Reid stayed quiet, certain that whatever conversation the two men had been enjoying — however strangely — for the evening was now at an end. He mentally prepared himself for the awkward departure to come, counting out the minutes.

However, after two-hundred and sixteen seconds had ticked by, Sherlock surprised the hell out of both men by speaking once more.

"I'm looking to get the man arrested because he frequently leaves his wife covered in bruises, and she is a dear, dear woman. He doesn't deserve to be roaming around free, monster that he is."

Reid spoke slowly, still trying to gauge the man's odd temperament. "You've a keen sense of justice, Sherlock."

The other man smiled minutely. "It's why I do what I do."

"That, and because it's interesting." Reid said before he could stop himself. However, Sherlock nodded.

"Exactly right, Spencer. Exactly right."

They lapsed into silence again, this time a slightly more comfortable one, both sipping on what they knew would be their last drinks for the evening.

The amiable quiet was disrupted suddenly when a loud chirping broke through the layer of calm; a brief look of annoyance passed over Sherlock's face as he pulled out his vibrating Blackberry, his eyes scrolling impossibly quickly through the text before he clicked the end button with a harsh jab and shoved the little piece of machinery deep into his pocket.

Reid raised an eyebrow curiously. "Something wrong?"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "If so, then nothing new, I fear. Mycroft, my brother . . . just checking in on me again, trying to persuade me to come back to London."

"You don't like his concern?" As much as Reid detested the way his team could be overprotective of him, he knew it was because they cared, and he also knew that he would miss their bearing greatly if it was suddenly gone.

Sherlock sneered. "It's not concern, it's despotic! The man couldn't care less that we're family – and I feel the same. He's only checking in on me to ensure that I've done nothing to send harm or public shame either my way or his; there's no love lost betwixt us, Dr. Reid, don't fool yourself into thinking otherwise."

Reid clucked sympathetically. "I'm sorry you see it in such a way, Sherlock. Whether you admit it or not, family is one of the most important things in life." His voice still echoed a lingering longing, and Sherlock picked up on it immediately.

"Is that why you're here by yourself, doctor, trading tales with a bitter Brit?"

Reid swallowed. "No. I came here because I thought it would have to be more peaceful than some dance club or jazz lounge." He took a sip of his drink, and laughed. "Well, at least it's been more interesting."

One corner of Sherlock's mouth lifted up. "I could say the same thing, Spencer Reid. You're . . . a character."

"Pot calling the kettle black," Reid smiled, finger playing nervously with the fabric on his knees.

Sherlock held out his hand. "Give me your phone."

"I'm sorry?"

The detective rolled his eyes. "Dear Lord, not this again." Huffing out a small sigh, his hand shot forward, plunging into Reid's front pocket and swiping his phone before the other man could even blink.

In a moment, Sherlock had pulled the small device close to him, and was tapping in his number as he spoke. "We're going to need to do some serious work regarding your rather improper implementation of colloquialisms."

Reid narrowed his eyes. "And you've taken my cell because – ?"

"Because, you nit, I'm giving you my mobile so that we can continue this conversation at a more convenient time. The hour is late, I've work to finish, and I do believe your friend back there is getting ready to intrude, with the looks he keeps sending my way."

Reid jerked and glanced up, seeing, indeed, that Morgan was standing by the door to the bar, trying to make eye-contact with him. He held up a hand, gesturing that he needed one more minute, and the darker-skinned agent nodded, pointing outside as he made his way back towards the door. Reid turned back to Sherlock.

"Should I even ask how you knew he was here for me?"

"I would be insulted if you did." But the other man smirked as he said it. Reid returned the expression.

"I guess I'll have to be leaving, then."

"I guess," the detective murmured, handing back the phone. "If you must, then go."

"Sorry, Sherlock," Reid said, looking truly regretful to have to leave his new friend so soon. "Mine's not really the kind of family I can ignore."

Sherlock smiled sardonically. "I don't envy you that."

"Well," Reid said, laying a few bills on the table to cover his drinks before glancing back at the other man, "It's been something resembling a pleasure, Sherlock. I expect we'll be averring again quite soon." He waved the glowing screen of the phone slightly.

Nodding, Sherlock held up his own cellular. "I'll text you."

"I can't really – "

"Goodnight, Dr. Reid." Sherlock cut him off just to irritate the other man.

It didn't really work. Reid just smiled knowingly and shook his head, and began making his way around the other bodies in the bar, heading towards the exit. He stopped when he heard his name called out.

"Oh, doctor?"

He turned, eyes onc more locking gazes with that of Sherlock Holmes. "Yes?"

The other man didn't miss a beat. "I.Q.?"

Reid replied slowly. "187. And you?"

Scowling briefly, Sherlock muttered, "I don't believe intelligence can be accurately measured."

Laughing, Reid turned away from the sour-faced detective, and pushed his way through the ranch-style doors once more.

Embracing the hot Miami air as he outside, Reid looked around for Derek Morgan. It wasn't a moment before the other man came over from the lamppost where he'd been waiting, and slung an arm around Reid's shoulder.
"Glad to see you still alive and innocent, Pretty Boy."

Reid lightly smacked his arm. "I was fine, Morgan. Please."

The older agent grinned, and began walking them back to the car. "Who were you talking to back there, kid?"

"Just a new acquaintance," Reid murmured, already feeling the drowsiness setting in from the long day. "His name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

Back inside the bar, said pale-faced, slender man still sat at the bar where Reid had left him, warily tapping out a text message to his older brother, assuring the Parliament associate that he was fine, alive, and considering returning to England in one whole piece. And that he also might be bringing a woman back with him.

Sherlock grinned. He did love antagonizing Mycroft. And it was so delightfully easy to do. He hit Send.

That done, the world's only consulting detective slipped his phone back into his pocket, and glanced up discreetly once more at the man he had been keenly observing all evening.

Jeremy Hudson, husband (a term used rather loosely, as the man was more of a bastard than anything else) to his client, a sweet older thing who insisted he just call her Mrs. Hudson. The man was an overbearing, abusive, law-breaking piece of work, and purely out of the goodness of the place where his heart should have been, Sherlock had agreed to have the him put away, and told the woman that it wouldn't be a problem that she couldn't scrape together enough for his usual fee.

"You'll owe me a favor," he had said jokingly.

Someday, maybe, he would collect on that.

For now, though, it looked like his target was getting ready to call it a night. He was wiping his hands and counting down the register behind the bar.

Sherlock took the rest of his drink in one swig, and glanced again at his phone.

Well, look at that. One new message from Spencer Reid. Keeping one eye trained on the bartender the entire time, Sherlock quickly opened the text.

Sherlock, this is Spencer. I just wanted to confirm that you gave me the correct number.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock's fingers were as quick as a flash when he responded.

Dr. Reid, you are entirely too formal when sending messages. The point is quick communication, or didn't you get the memo? – SH

A long moment, and then another buzz.

Glad to know you can be just as much of a tool through technology as you can through person.

I'll keep that in mind while I'm doubling your success rate in the next two weeks. – SH

Right. Good luck with that. And tonight, too.

I don't need luck. – SH

And with that, Sherlock swiftly turned off his cell and slid the thing in his pocket, pulling out a fiver to cover his drinks at the same time. Standing carefully, cautiously, and anonymously, the man made his way out of the bar, deciding to wait for his target outside.

Oh, yes. Tonight was going to be a very good night, indeed.

Author's Endnote: Haha, Reid has a higher IQ . . . But now I think I need to get back to my Sherlock! *Scuttles away*