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The Thinker Challenge	By : marksandspence Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 2251 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This story is based solely on the television show Sherlock that airs on BBC1, written by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I borrow their universe to play in and do not claim any ownership or intend to make any money off of this fun hobby of m

Chapter List
- 8
- 9
- 10
Chapter 8: Dating for Dummies
Part 2, Date Night.
Author’s note: I had a lot of trouble with this chapter for some reason. Which stinks, because it is roughly in the middle of the story and I can’t *really* post any of the other chapters I have written until after I finish this one. Other than the smut, obviously. But I feel like I need to finish this first (or I may never get to it). The problem is that when I conceived of this chapter, I only had a vague notion of what it would entail – a few plot points, some bits of relevant dialog, a little exposition. But the context of it all got very complicated, very quickly. Maybe it is the inclusion of so many characters and trying to integrate events into the melee of conversations. Anyway, I gave it a good college try….
Also, more smut is definitely on the way. For some reason for this particular narrative, I felt compelled to flesh out the story before detailing the sex. But there will be more soon, I promise!
*
As it happens, a car had been arranged by Mycroft to pick up Sherlock and his date at Baker Street on the evening of the ceremony. The event itself was to be a rather upscale cocktail party with drinks and heavy hors d’oeuvres during which Sherlock and his “team” would be official recognized for their service to the state, along with other individuals thought deserving of such an honor. Mycroft had insisted on putting his brother on the list of recipients as a way to dislodge the public perception of Sherlock as a sort of vigilante, particularly after the most recent spate of high profile cases, which had gotten an embarrassing amount of press coverage. In addition, he needed to improve Sherlock’s reputation with TPTB, as his methods were often described as sloppy and careless. And yet, his involvement in affairs of state were needed from time to time, so this was a seemingly harmless way to smooth things over a bit.
Sio and Sherlock are sitting in the back of a car, on the way to the dinner. They both seem rather tense. Sio is dressed in an appropriately formal, yet feminine yellow evening dress. Her hair is tamed, but worn down; She is wearing more make-up than usual, including a set of modest false lashes, and a pair of tall leather boots with a significant heal. Sherlock is wearing the same suit he wore to John’s wedding.
Sherlock gives her a once over and observes, “You look…unprofessional.”
“That’s what I was going for. I think Harry used the term ‘arm candy,’” she responds.
“Don’t know if I’d go that far,” he says without thinking.
Taking no offense, she responds, “Hopefully just enough to divert attention away from my conversational skills. For women at least, the more attractive you look, the less attention people pay to what you say.”
“In that case, probably better to have diverted their attention downward,” he offers with a glance toward her cleavage.
She frowns, fiddling with the top of her dress. “Not much to work with there; its my Nobel dress, for gods sake. Can’t look like a pop star in front of the Swedish Royals.”
Sherlock smiles, addling quietly as he looks away, “You look lovely.”
Sio starts rooting around in her tiny glamour handbag, pulling out a bottle, “I’m going to take a pill. Is there any water in here?”
“Can I have one?” Sherlock asks, half joking.
“These aren’t the kind of drugs you’re used to,” she dismisses, popping one in her mouth.
“What is that supposed to mean?” He asks casually.
She looks at him rather sharply, “In case you hadn’t noticed, Sherlock, I’m rather clever. Of course it is entirely your business what you get up to when you’re not with me, but do not take me for a fool.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
After a pause, Sherlock says, “we’re picking up John and Mary on the way.”
“Mary?”
“John’s wife.”
“So that’s why you had the suit. Looks much better on,” she says with an approving eyebrow raise.
He squints at her and says, “Your hair is straight.”
“And you are getting an award for detective work? It’s been five minutes,” she playfully points out.
“It’s only hair,” he dismisses.
“I don’t know why I let Harry take control – dressed me up like a bloody doll. He was downright giddy. And maybe a bit drunk.”
“Perhaps I should have brought him as my date.”
“I think he’d swoon if you said that in his presence. But back to tonight – I can’t go in blind. What does Mary do?”
“I have no idea,” he responds without thinking.
She thins her lips, “That’s informative.”
He pauses a moment and then adds, “Wait. I believe she works with John in some capacity. A nurse, perhaps?” Scanning her face, he gauges her level of stress. “I am genuinely surprised. You interact with people all the time.”
“I can flirt and I can discuss work. The idea of being in a room full of people with whom I have nothing in common terrifies me. I tried it once before – similar situation to this and it was a bloody nightmare. I felt like an alien.”
“From a vastly advanced culture.”
“Your words,” she replies with a nod.
“What happened?”
“Never saw him again.”
“Oh.”
She takes a breath and glances over at Sherlock. “I’d rather that didn’t happen. So I’ll try. And knowing I have to try is what’s making me tense.”
“You don’t have to try too hard. I never do,” he responds.
“Who else?”
“At our table, there is just Mary, John, Lestrade, Molly Hooper and dates if they’ve brought them.”
“Lestrade is the Detective Inspector – I think you’ve mentioned him. And Molly?”
“She’s a chemist*.”
[*Author’s note: Ok, so I seemed to have gotten this wrong. I thought Molly had a chemistry specialty, though she worked in the morgue. But when trying to verify, I could find no mention of it. Balls. Leaving it in for now…]
“Oh, thank god. I love chemists. I look around the room and see mass, motion, potential, equations; chemists see molecules, reactions, altered states. I can totally relate to that.”
“She works in the Morgue.”
“Still.”
“And…” Sherlock begins.
“What?” Sio asks.
“She rather fancies me.”
“Right.”
“In a pretty serious way. She’s drawn to sociopaths, poor girl.”
“So what you’re saying is she is going to hate me.”
“Well…”
“It is never a good idea to be on the bad side of a chemist. Especially at a drinks party.”
“She’s harmless. She’ll probably just drink too much and cry.”
“Will your brother be at our table?”
“No. He’s much too important for that.”
“Is he like you?”
“Absolutely not,” he answers quickly. Then bobbles his head, “Depends on how you look at it, I suppose. He spent our entire childhood convincing me I was stupid and until we interacted with other children, I believed him.”
“Like a typical big brother, then.”
“Nothing about Mycroft is typical.”
The car stops and John and Mary climb into the limo. Brief greetings are exchanged, followed by mostly awkward silence for the rest of the ride to the venue, which is thankfully short. There are some cameras at the entrance and general mayhem. Inside, there are tables with food and staff members milling about with trays. Mostly, people get drinks and stand near the table they were assigned, chatting.
Mary, John, Molly and Lestrade are standing around with drinks. After brief introductions, Sherlock and Sio disappear to the bar across the room. There is a flood of whispering.
Mary says to John, “I thought you said she wasn’t very pretty.”
John replies, “I had no idea she would clean up so well.”
“She’s not that pretty,” Molly says, taking a gulp from her cocktail.
“I’m sure I’ve met her before. It’ll come to me,” Lestrade says.
“So are they actually dating? Or did she just agree to a date?” Mary asks.
“Makes quite a difference, that.” Lestrade chimes in, widening his eyes.
“Why would you say that?” Molly asks, perplexed.
“Oh Molly. I adore him, too, but grant that he is a bit….odd,” Mary answers.
Lestrade shakes his head, “Not everyone’s cup of tea, that’s for sure. Wouldn’t really peg him as a ladies man,” he adds with a laugh.
“They’ve been seeing each other, but who knows what he’s up to,” John shrugs.
“He’s not exactly doting,” Mary observes, watching them from across the room.
Molly smiles.
Lestrade puts his drink down on the table, loudly. He smiles, devilishly. “Got it. I met her at a Christmas party once. She was there with a guy from the Yard, name of Tim Riordan. He told some stories. Interesting choice. Would not have seen that coming.”
Before anyone has time to react, Sherlock and Sio return to the group. Sherlock lurks without speaking, glancing around the room.
Molly asks Mary, “How’s the baby?”
“You didn’t bring it, did you?” Sio asks in horror, glancing around the table.
“No, thankfully we found a sitter. A much needed night out,” Mary responds, perplexed.
Sio responds, nervously, “People always seem to want to push babies at me; Because I have breasts, I suppose. I have no idea what to do with them.”
“Most people usually just make some silly noises and give them a cuddle,” Molly snips.
Sio continues, speaking light-heartedly, but too quickly, “Babies are a complete enigma to me. Luckily, none will be subjected to my ignorance – the minute I turned 21, I had my tubes tied. Eggs frozen, of course because, you know, what a waste and if someone else wants to raise the little buggers, more power to them.” When she is finished, she takes a large drink from her glass.
Molly shakes her head and turns back to John, “Do you think you’ll have more?”
“Ask us once we’ve slept for more than 4 hours in a row,” John quips.
<More intermittent chit-chat>
Sio turns to Mary, “I love what they were able to do with your dress; where did you get your alterations done?”
“Excuse me?” Mary asks, confused.
“Obviously it is your wedding dress, altered for the occasion -- tinted, let out a bit to accommodate the baby weight. They did a lovely job.”
Mary gives a look to John before responding. “Thanks. Seemed a waste to go out and buy a new dress just for this.”
“I completely agree. I will have to do something similar with this one, so if you could let me know where you took it….”
“Planning on getting married in it?” Mary jokes.
Sio blinks wide-eyed in obvious confusion. “I’ll need it for the Nobel banquet,” she responds.
“Oh, have you been nominated?” John asks.
“Not yet. But isn’t that what all girls spend their youth dreaming about? When I saw the dress, I knew it would be perfect.”
Awkward glances around the table.
There are other attempts at conversation, some terribly awkward, others not so much, some even a bit fun. Things generally get better, the more everyone has to drink and the less hard Sio tries to make what she thinks is appropriate conversation.
Later on, after the formal commendations have been presented the atmosphere becomes more casual. There is music playing. Sio, a little drugged, has resorted to party tricks. Namely, catapulting bits of food/paper/ice at various targets around the room. It seems to amuse everyone, and certainly goes over better than her awkward attempts at conversation. Sherlock was particularly impressed by her landing a pea in Mycroft’s scotch glass from across the room. People start to dance.
Lestrade asks mischievously, “You two going to dance?” He has been plotting to get a picture of Sherlock and Sio together, but they have spent most of the evening simply being in proximity.
Sio looks over at Sherlock. She can’t read his expression. Sensing his conflict, she responds, “Lets make it a game, shall we? How about … if I can get this cherry to land on that piece of cake – second one from the end of the table – after bouncing it off of the ice sculpture in the far corner, I will dance.”
“Impossible,” Lestrade scoffs.
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Sherlock says, secretly disappointed.
Sio scans the room. Through her eyes, we see the movement trajectory of all the catering staff. We see the various potential trajectories of the cherry bouncing off the ice sculpture, we see her adjust the spoon catapult she has on the table. She sucks on a piece of ice to get it the right shape. She sucks the excess juice from the cherry and places it on the spoon. When everything is in place, she slams her hand down on the spoon. The cherry flies over one table, hits the ice sculpture, bounces off the hat of one of the staff and heads directly for the cake on the targeted table. But just before it reaches its target, a staff member steps in the way and it bounces to the side.
“Bugger!” She says.
Sherlock face brightens as he stands up. “Did you do that on purpose?” He asks.
“Not at all. I don’t know how I missed,” she replies, confused.
On the way to the dance floor, they are intercepted by Mycroft. Sherlock makes the introduction.
“Sio Stanton, my brother Mycroft.”
“A pleasure, Dr. Stanton. I am rather cross with my brother for keeping you to himself all evening. Perhaps I can have this dance?”
“I suppose,” Sio answers tentatively. And they continue to the dance floor for a slow waltz.
“I must say, I am rather a fan of your research. I saw your talk at Cambridge. Intriguing.”
“You are interested in astrophysics? I thought you were a government man.”
“I have a great many interests, I assure you. Yes, I always thought one of us should have gone into science. I am much too lazy, but Sherlock could have done something more productive.”
“He’d be bored to tears doing anything but what he is doing, I imagine. He has even less tolerance for the tedium that I do.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever quite understand what drives him into the sordid,” Mycroft responds.
“So what sort of government man are you exactly? Is it all spies and international intrigue?” Sio asks playfully.
“Quite the contrary, I am afraid. Mostly a desk man, myself. But there is always intrigue of a sort,” Mycroft responds with a rare twinkle.
“I ask because I have an interest in an area of research that someone suggested to me might already be in development for use in the arsenal of anti-terrorism technology. I’d rather not waste valuable time reinventing the wheel.”
“Now you’ve piqued my curiosity. Is this a new area for you?” Mycroft asks.
Sio nods. “Have you heard of neural transcript visualization?”
As Sio and Mycroft dance, Sherlock walks across the room to where the cherry was meant to land. He scans the area, grabs a piece of cake and takes a bite. He is suddenly struck by something. There is an extra person in the room – an extra staff member. Someone came in just at that moment when Sio let loose the cherry. Odd because the evening was winding down, so why add a new wait staff? He scans the room, going over the image of each staff member in his mind. He recalls an even number; half men and half women. All accounted for, no sign of the extra. He walks back over to the dance floor, not noticing that Sio and Mycroft are engaged in a rather animated conversation. He walks straight up to them and taps Mycroft on the shoulder.

“I’m not cutting in. Who is in charge of the caterers?” He asks abruptly.
“Why?”
Sherlock gives him am irritated look.
“Mrs. Daniels over there by the ice sculpture.”
“There is an extra person,” Sherlock explains.
Mycroft makes the connection instantly. “I’ll alert security.”
“If you had to pick a target from the guests tonight, who would it be?”
“There are a couple of ambassadors from the usual conflict ridden areas. Table 4 and Table 2. Mrs. Strailinsoy at table 4 is currently not with her party.”
“The cake was at Table 4,” Sio offers.
Sherlock nods. “Want to help out? Look for an ambassador in the ladies room.”
Sio blinks a few times, taking in the situation before responding, “What does she look like?”
“Sixty, white hair, blue shimmery dress,” Mycroft responds.
Sio shrugs and heads to the ladies room. Sherlock follows her down a rather narrow hallway to the door while Mycroft bolts off to alert the guards. Sio enters, finds the ambassador and noticing that someone else is in one of the stalls, she waits for her to leave before exiting. The older woman is quickly met with a security guard who discretely shuffles her back into the main room. Sio emerges from the ladies room a few moments later. She takes a few steps toward Sherlock, who is now watching the main room, with his back to the hallway containing the bathrooms. As her strides are less measured this time due to the excitement, she wobbles on her high heals and her left foot collapses to the side and she ungracefully falls to the floor. Exactly at that moment, the person who emerged from the bathroom just after her swings a bat that crashes hard into the wall instead of onto Sio’s head, to which it was most definitely aimed. Sio shouts, “Bloody hell” as she scrambles to get to her feet. The person with the bat tries again, but Sio rolls to the side. Luckily, Sherlock quickly notices the commotion and charges down the hallway, scaring off the person with the bat who drops it and flees. Chaos temporarily erupts, as the security breech is now abundantly obvious and the woman with the bat is pursued. There is a temporary lockdown, etc. etc.
John finds Sio on the floor and asks if she is hurt.
“Just twisted my ankle,” she says, a bit dazed. Looking at the smashed plaster on the nearby wall, she adds, “Someone tried to kill me. That was rather surreal.”
“Any idea who would want to do something like this?” John asks.
“Absolutely not. Everyone likes me. Ok, they may not like me, but I’m just a scientist. What do I possibly have that someone else would want?” Sio responds.
“A parking space, perhaps?” Sherlock suggests as he walks up looking disheveled and out of breath.
“Really?” Sio says.
Sherlock shrugs, “Amateur job; goal to knock you unconscious, not kill you; the woman with the bat was at the meeting at NHM. You said he was a womanizing misogynist. It all fits.”
“I’m bloody Nancy Kerrigan,” Sio observes in amazement. “I have a nemesis after all. How fun.”
Sherlock helps her to her feet. She smiles at him sideways before saying, “So this is what you do? I mean, tonight probably doesn't even qualify as unusual.”
“Not really,” John shrugs.
“What did you think?” Sherlock asks in response.
She looks at him with a light shrug, “I can’t really say – I don’t really think of you when you’re not with me.”
*
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The Thinker Challenge