A/N: This is all johnsarmylady's fault – she knows why – thanks jack63kids for some help with some questions –you guys are wonderfully supportive!

Warnings- Swearing (Yeah I do that – a lot!) and oh yeah- I know very little about Poker. I'm sure that will be obvious!

As usual I own nothing, except the computer I am working on. That happy pleasure belongs to the lovely men at BBC Gatiss & Moffat as well as the wonderful Arthur Conan Doyle. I wouldn't mind winning John in a poker game. (sighs wistfully - hee, hee JAL).

The chapter titles are from The Gambler written by Don Schlitz & performed by Kenny Rogers (corny – I know).

Any mistakes are mine.

The Hand You're Dealt

Chapter 1. Know When to Fold 'Em

John was a superb poker player. He usually won because people underestimated him. He looked all warm and soft and friendly, but in reality he was as ruthless as an old west poker player in a run down saloon that had nothing to offer to alleviate the boredom but ugly prostitutes and cheep rotgut.

John decided he needed to stop watching westerns.

Instead he was here at Mike's, on a Saturday night. The group at the table was an interesting bunch. Mike, of course, a young, pretty pathologist named Molly Hooper who was actually very good and made a wicked bean dip, the head custodian Barry something who played fast and loose with his money and then there was the alien. A tall, skinny, oddly striking individual who Mike had sworn had never played poker before and yet had been soundly beating everyone at the table hand after hand.

Not an ugly prostitute in sight.

John looked at his cards. He had a great hand. If only he could beat the slightly alien looking man who reminded him a little of the alien at the end of Close Encounters, this once he would be able to enjoy a few weeks of better food and maybe replace the worn jumper he was wearing.

John decided he needed to stop watching science fiction movies as well.

Last round.

Last hand.

Lots of money.

He put down his cards.

Straight flush.

He grinned a little, thinking this time he had him.

The other fellow, Sherlock, what the hell kind of name was Sherlock? didn't so much as raise an eyebrow.

He quietly laid down his hand.

No fucking way.

Goddam fucking Royal flush.

John felt his insides deflate.

"Tough luck, mate," said Barry the custodian.

Molly, the pathologist sighed and looked sympathetic then turned to Sherlock and congratulated him, all stammers and blushes.

Sherlock looked straight at John.

"I believe it is customary to 'pay up' at the end of the game," he intoned quietly with his rich baritone.

"Um," and John blushed. He wasn't usually so quick to play without enough to cover his bets, but he had been caught up in the excitement of a night out and the prospect of winning a little extra for the week. And he tended to a slight gambling addiction. One he had thought he'd broken after getting shot in Afghanistan.

"I'm afraid I will have to owe you," he mumbled and his blush deepened. "I'm good for it. I just didn't…well, I just didn't…"

"Expect to lose?" Sherlock said knowingly. "I see. Well it so happens I have little need for money."

John felt a touch of relief, but then Sherlock continued.

"You do owe me a substantial amount of money. I am in need of an assistant. I therefore have a proposition to offer you. You work for me and I forget the debt you owe me."

John frowned and looked at the man sitting opposite from him. He seemed entirely serious.

"That seems a tad unorthodox, don't you think?"

Mike, Barry and Molly watched the interaction between the two men with a range of bemusement on their faces. And a lot of back and forth head movement.

"No," Sherlock replied, bluntly. "I work helping the police. I am a Consulting Detective. I require an assistant who is not uncomfortable around murder scenes. Knowledge of medicine is also beneficial and seeing as you're a doctor that is a plus in your favour. A well-trained doctor. Also the fact you were a Captain in the army is another advantage for me to employ you as my assistant. Former Army Doctor trained at Bart's, served in either Afghanistan or Iraq, knowledgeable about violent death. Saw plenty of action I assume?"

John nodded tightly, his arms crossed. How did he know all of this? He glanced at Mike.

Mike grinned and shook his head, "I didn't tell him, John. It's this thing he does."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Mike's phrasing. "As I have repeatedly told you, Stamford, it is not a 'thing'. It is deduction."

John shifted uncomfortably.

"Okay, so how did you know? About everything."

"Quite simple really, if one were to observe. I have been watching you all evening. When you arrived tonight you and Stamford were reminiscing about former instructors at Bart's. I also know it's where Stamford studied, therefore trained at Bart's. A doctor trained at Bart's is considered to be top notch. Well trained. Then there is your posture, and your military haircut, as well as the fact that you unconsciously check your surroundings looking for hidden threats. You have recently returned from seeing action and you have not yet given up the habit, so Army Doctor, obvious. Afghanistan or Iraq is easy. You have a tanned face and tanned hands, but no tan above the wrists, therefore you've been abroad but not sunbathing. A doctor serving in a war would definitely be acclimatized to violence and have seen plenty of death."

"And Captain?" asked John.

"Shot in the dark, but good one, though. I could have said Lieutenant but given your age that seemed unlikely and your level of training. My next guess would have been Major, but after watching you play poker, I have noticed that although you can control your temper, you do not suffer fools gladly and you probably have been turned down from further promotions because of telling off superior officers, especially if it involves interfering with a patient."

John's eyebrows could not possibly shoot any higher on his forehead.

"That was…amazing," said John.

Sherlock frowned slightly and then the look in his eyes changed slightly. He wasn't used to receiving compliments. He seemed rather pleased, but in an almost shy and uncertain way. He half glanced towards the floor.

"That's not what most people say."

"What do most people say," asked John.

Barry answered for him. "Piss off."

Sherlock frowned again. John felt almost sorry for him.

"So what would I do? As your assistant that is?"

Sherlock blinked and looked at him as if he were an idiot, "You'd assist me. Did I not make myself clear? I was under the assumption that you were reasonably intelligent. I sincerely hope I was not wrong."

John's eyebrows threatened to take up permanent residence in his hairline.

Sherlock sighed heavily, "I assist the police solving cases. I need someone to talk to and the skull attracts too much attention. As a doctor, your input into cause and time of death, could possible be valuable, although I doubt it. You would not be bored, which you undoubtedly are, a former army doctor sitting around watching westerns and science fiction movies all day."

Skull? And how did he know about the movies? Oh never mind.

Sherlock was awkward and arrogant and incredibly rude. He came to the table with no experience in playing poker and had mopped the floor with them. That was not something that would be endearing to most seasoned poker players. But there was something about him; there was something about his obvious genius that pulled at John. He was intrigued. He also owed this man a large sum of money. It would be better than sitting around the bedsit contemplating his navel. He'd be getting out and about once in a while.

A little surprised with himself, John found himself agreeing.

Sherlock abruptly stood, walked over to where his coat was hanging, put it on, pulled out a blue scarf and wrapped it around his throat.

"Meet me tomorrow at 221B Baker Street. I have a flat there. I could use a flatmate. You could use better accommodations and if you are going to be working for me you might as well be nearby. Night Stamford. This was rather an entertaining evening."

And without a further word he was gone, leaving a feeling that a force of nature had blown through Mike's flat with the only damage being to John's dignity.

John looked at Mike with a rather startled expression on his face.

"God, John," said Mike. "What the hell did you just get yourself into?"

A/N: Not really sure where this is leading – could be fun – could be dangerous!