Property of Sherlock Holmes
The characters of Sherlock Holmes belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The 21st century brilliance belongs to Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. No infringement on my part is intended.
I have no editor, Beta, or other such charming person. All mistakes are my own.
Part 1—Socks, Sex & Sherlock
Rae had been told that Sherlock Holmes was the best in the business. Her car had been stolen. She was sure in had fallen into nefarious hands so she had made her way to Baker Street. The door was opened by a lovely, older woman who was wearing darling shoes. The kind maybe you could steal when no one was looking.
“I am Mrs. Hudson and I just did the floors, dear, please leave your shoes here and go on up.”
Going up the stairs barefoot was a sensual experience. It was like she had already begun to get undressed for the man that waited at the top of the stairs. She had read Dr. Watson’s blog about Mr. Holmes. It was all so very delicious. Like having tea with an x-lover nude while he poured. “Love him in that hunting cap,” she sighed as she knocked on the door and when told to enter, she was hoping that was just a general invitation to anything she wanted.
She stated her business. Damn, pictures did not do him justice!
Then he spoke—
“Yes, Rae, which would be the bases for your nom de plume. Here you stand barefoot and reeking of coffee…something from Sumatra. Please check with Mrs. Hudson about your lack of shoes before you leave. I do believe that you will find them missing once you exit here. You both have shockingly small feet and she does so enjoy the latest in footwear, no matter how uncomfortable or the extent of skeletal injury it does to the female anatomy. Fuck-me pumps are a particular kink of hers. I f you go to Hudon’s Hellish Hottness.com, you will not want them back. I am sure video has already been uploaded.
Now, your car was not stolen to be used in a series of bank robberies. Instead it was borrowed by your half-sister. When she illegally parked it and it was booted, she has not had the money to pay the ticket and impound fees so it sits in the Marble Arch impound lot.”
“Do,” she hesitated, eyeing the tall, handsome, brilliant man. “Do I owe you?”
“Well yes,” he smiled as he leaned in, his nose delicately about her neck as his tongue took a low, lazy taste.
“What?” came the sigh as she felt her body trying to seek out more of his touch. His body was still close to hers. My gawd, he smelled divine. Like a man. Just soap and water and sex. And those curls that fell in ordered chaos about his face. Angelic in a devilish way!
“I would judge from the time I leaned and licked your neck you were already wet, anticipating paying for my services in the oldest coin known to man. Just tell me, yes or no.”
“Yes,” she breathed out heavily.
“I thank you,” he said, righting himself. “There is a basket of socks by the door. Please help yourself to a pair on your way out. Good day.”
Part II—Property of Sherlock Holmes
Clearly she had been dismissed and his interest now lay elsewhere. “How did you know?” she had to ask. Since she could not be eaten by him, she was eaten with curiosity. “How did you know about my half-sister and my auto and the boot? How did you know?”
Turning from the mallet that he was examining, his eyes held hers. For a moment, it was visible to watch him process the last of the information that he had gleaned from the mallet. There was now a different focus on his face. She held no interest for him. She could see that. He had moved on and she was now wasting his time, but she did not care. Curiosity be damned! She was smitten!
“Your accent tells me you are from North London. Two of your diphthongs are Yiddish. And the origin is not German. But Polish. There was a young woman that resembled you three days ago, where I stopped to purchase buns. She had the same accent. Her gene pool and yours say the same father. But her eyes were brown and yours are grey. Two different mothers. And then there is the matter that you both have very small feet. Interesting that you father was granted custody of your older sister. However, the way your sister was drinking, alcoholism was probably the reason.
A gentleman at the bar offered to purchase her another Pimm’s No 2. Instead they left together. The car was booted and then towed. Marble Arch is the closest impound lot.”
The door opened and I watched as his eyes went to the male that entered the room. This had to be Dr. Watson. He had a soldier’s bearing and for his quick smile, I could tell that he was evaluating the situation. I did not see a weapon, anywhere, but I think this man could kill you as well as heal you.
“Have we a new case?” he asked, being polite and nodding his head to her.
“No,” the voice was bored. “Just a booted auto. Now, did you bring the blow torch?”
“Yes, of course, I saw Mrs. Hudson on the way up, ummm…”
“Oh John,” he sighed, “we will be requiring another torch. The pyro in her will not be giving that back. We now need to check the batteries in our smoke alarms.”
A look passed between the men that I do not think I care to understand.
“I’ll just be going,” I said as I leaned over and thrusting my bum into the air, I pulled on one sock and then the other.
As the door closed John sat down. “There goes another one that just wants to fuck you. I do not see the attraction.”
Picking up the mallet, he regarded John with a quizzical stare. “John, please, I have superior intellect, long legs and I have been told, I am not unpleasant to the eyes. The only reason she wishes to fuck me, as you so crudely phrased it, is so that she may have my highly evolved child and contribute their greatness to the gene pool.”
“No, I think she just wanted a quick ride and came prepared, just in case, not caring what you preferred.”
Putting the mallet down, he turned to face his roommate. “What makes you say that?”
“When she bent over and pulled on her socks, she was wiggling her posterior around in the air and she was not wearing any knickers. It was a full monty and then some. It was just a little hard to miss the lust that was on her face as she was looking at you from between her legs.”
“Oh John,” he sighed. “How do you know her ministrations were not intended for you?”
John could only shake his head in wonder. Brilliance came at a price. “Because she had tattooed on her bum Property of Sherlock Holmes.”
Part III—Seventeen Steps to Hell
Rae stood for a moment with her back against the door and lightly pushed herself into the smooth wood.
“M-m-m,” she wiggled just a bit, “his wood would be smooth and roundish and a bit overly long. Enough of him to give a girl a very good time.” Her mind lingered as she wet her lips. “He will be a lovely salty taste. Just a hint of the ocean from whence we all ascended. But nature dealt him a cruelty. There is none to understand him or serve him with the adoration and submission and the control that I could.”
With each step that she took, her fantasies preceded her down the stairs. The pain would be exquisite as she lay on these steps and his long, hard, body was above hers, his hips thrusting into her. His hair, like silk between her fingertips and his head resting gently on her breast, afterwards. There would be no words passed between them. There would be no need. Their bodies would have said all that was required.
Passing Mrs. Hudson’s door, she knocked lightly. There was no answer. A bit louder and still no answer. She paused for a moment, wondering how she was going to explain her shoes and the lack there of. Not that they were her favorite, but they were her sister’s. Just bad timing and all that.
Taking out her phone, she now had to make decisions. Just exactly how much did she reveal? Hailing a taxi, her sister Reggie picked up.
“I was there. Saw him and Dr. Watson. Very easy to gain access, actually.” A taxi stopped and she hopped in. It was just best to lie. “He does not know about Shawna so there are no worries.”
“There are always worries,” Reggie replied.
Sherlock, with his attention to the everyday mundane, heard the change in air pressure against the windows. John heard it at the same time. That hiccup in time, those microseconds as the pressure changed and before the flash when a bomb went off. It had saved his life times over in Afghanistan.
“Take cover,” both men yelled as they hit the floor and placed their hands over their heads. The smell and the fireball whooshed past their window.
Clearing away the glass, both men sat up, their ears still ringing. “Mrs. Hudson,” they both shouted as they started down the stairs, only to see her lying on the steps, midway up, her tea tray broken and scattered.
“I don’t see any blood Mrs. Hudson, so upstairs, now,” Sherlock hissed. “Get into the bathtub. Now!” he yelled at her as he picked her up and shoved her towards the top of the stairs.
“The crime scene is even now, deteriorating,” he stated as he pulled open the door. Taking his mobile out of his pocket, he hit one on his speed dial. “Bomb has gone off at 221B Baker Street.”
Standing in the doorway, he blocked John in.
“Sherlock, there are wounded…let me pass.”
“No, not yet. I am assessing the area for a secondary explosion. You know this John. A small explosion so they draw the masses to set off the second.”
There was a taxi that was the vehicle for the bomb. Everything else on the street was as to be expected. Shock, panic, screams of pain and quiet moaning. Death and destruction. But there was no one who was watching the scene and there was not a box or valise sitting about unattended.
“Sherlock!” he felt his friend push on him trying to get past. Bugger that! He began a visual sweep of the upper floors and then the roofs for the tell of a sniper.
Safe. It was now safe for John step out. Moving aside, John was out into the street, stopping, mentally doing triage. Those that were gasping for their last breath, he stepped aside, intent on saving those that he could.
Mentally, the manic that lived inside of him spun up and with a frenzied energy began cataloguing, everything. The crime scene had to be preserved. Those that were uninjured were moving into the area to help.
There was the wail of sirens in the background and now phones were out. Snapping pictures and running video. That was good, the police could call for those, later, and the good citizens that would come forward would verify what he told them.
John, the soldier of multiple such horrific experiences, was walking towards him, bloodied.
“Grisly. Fucking cowards,” John seethed. The last thing he had done was to remove the door of the bombed taxi off a body. Now that the casualties were in capable hands, he approached Sherlock and said quietly, “You need to see this.”
Together they walked over to the other side of the blackened shell. Several feet away, lay the lower half of a female, face down. Tattooed on her posterior was Property of Sherlock Holmes.
“The game is on,” Sherlock said quietly as he noticed photographs being snapped of the deceased.
“That black car is going to be coming for us, is it not?” John said.
“Yes,” he said as he took another look around the crowd. “Yes it is.”
Part IV—Smart is the New Sexy
His name really was not Greg. He had just made that up when he was five. Even his wife thought it was Greg and at times he believed it as well. That was why everyone else did. Sherlock still had his doubts, though. Good on him. There was much in a name and he was here to do a job, not be mocked. And this was very serious. Murder was one thing, a bombing was the stuff of nightmares.
Lestrade was standing in front of 221B Baker Street. Some damage had been done to the building; windows blown out, but structurally it had not suffered. At least not as far as he could tell. This building had survived the bombing raids during the war. Hitler had thrown his best at it to no avail. It was going to take more than a mobile phone bomb to bring it down.
His eyes went once more to the remains of the young woman who was now zipped into a body bag and on a gurney being loaded into an ambulance. With Property of Sherlock Holmes tattooed on her ass, no matter what her name, from this day forward, this was now how she would be known.
Those photos were probably trending on some feed, somewhere. Since Watson’s blog site, Holmes had his share of followers. Hopefully, it would help to identify the young woman. The bomb had destroyed all other I.D.
Who, he could only shake his head at the wonder of it all, would be crazy enough to have that tattooed on their ass? Fucking, fucking, bloody fuck! There were a lot of crazies in the world. This he knew from first hand experience.
Thoughtfully, his gaze went back up to the broken windows. Just what the fuck? If she was into anal, no other man was going to park it there. Unless, of course, he hated Holmes. Or if he was into role-playing Holmes. Or if…or if…or if…
There were a lot of crazies that admired, Holmes. Men and women. Just why did this crazy have a thing for the crazy that lived upstairs? There was no answer for that. Many nights he had lain in bed trying to figure that out. One morning he put the particulars out there and asked his wife.
“Smart is sexy,” she said. “That is one of the reasons I married you.”
Several females on the force detested Holmes. So maybe smart was not always sexy. Maybe sometimes it was just infuriating. And maybe sometimes smart and good looks were just a lethal combination. It could be sexy but you could also piss someone off that was not as smart and sexy and that could get you killed. But he did not think Holmes was the target. A mobile bomb was target specific. So it was the woman that was wanted dead. The looming question was why?
The body was on its way to a special laboratory where it would be analyzed piece by piece along with everything from the crime scene. Bombings had a tendency to upset everyone…and it upset some more than others.
His eyes went back to the door that had withstood the blast. It had some scars on it and a burned spot or two, but the lock would still hold and those three people who lived behind that door…well, that is where he was headed next. There were officers up there right now collecting the glass from the broken windows and taking their statements.
When he had first arrived on the scene, processing was well under way and he was not immediately needed. Intently he had watched while Holmes and Watson had been told to wait upstairs and the two men begrudgingly walked away.
No telling how many lives they had saved.
Holmes, because he was an arrogant asshole and crazy enough to stand in the middle of the carnage and look for the killer. Then give chase if he thought that was warranted. Watson, well, he was a doctor and those first minutes of care could mean life or death. John was covered in blood. Fuck AIDS and any other blood-born disease that might lurk out there. The man was fearless, just like his partner.
The man in charge upstairs, Sgt. William Walker, had spent enough time with them, alone. The bomb’s squad job was not an easy one. But the morning so far had been a bitch and he could use some lighter moments before he started working this scene, even if it was at Walker’s expense. Up the stairs he went and then he was in the flat. He could hear a couple of officers asking Dr. Watson questions. He was in the bathroom still washing up.
“Lestrade,” a bomb expert acknowledged him as he came in and stood next to a wall out of the way. That was when John walked out and sat down on the other side of Mrs. Watson on the couch.
It was interesting to watch the process. The protocol was that all statements were to be given, separately, so that there was no tainting what the witness had seen. Bombings were handled a bit differently because of the shock most victims wore about them. Keep them comfortable but separated if possible.
One down, two more to go.
Mrs. Hudson was approached and informed that she would be escorted into the bedroom so that she could be questioned.
Lestrade was not surprised by the reaction. Holmes stood and refused to let her be moved anywhere.
Oh, best not to chuckle. Sgt. Walker was easy to read. His shoulders squared a bit. His eyes became harder. The Sgt. took that as a personal challenge. It was just best that Willy learned this lesson for himself.
Lestrade was not going to laugh out loud. When he had made Inspector, he thought his intelligence and cunning had finally paid off. Yes, he was at the top of his game and all listened when he talked. It had taken him more than once to understand that when it came to Holmes, he really was not the one in control of the situation. Would just be best if Willy learned this lesson, quickly.
Silently, he watched this little drama play out. Sgt. William Walker had no idea just what he was up against. At times, he did not either, but this brilliant young man had someone very high in the government that had his back. At times he wondered just who Mycroft worked for and if Mycroft really was his name.
Sherlock was not budging. Hudson was staying. Sgt. Walker then suggested that do to their lack of cooperation, perhaps they would like to all come to the station and give their statement. Sherlock took out his phone and punching in a number said loudly so that all could hear, “Mrs. Hudson stays with us.”
It was nice to not be on the receiving end of the phone call that was coming. No matter who you thought you knew, you could not trump who Mycroft Holmes, knew.
Sherlock hung up.
Sgt. Walker got a phone call from their Chief of the Yard. With a shit-eating grin he put it on speaker. Then, there was the Chief saying, “Mrs. Hudson stays there with Mr. Holmes. Fix her a cup of tea and get her something to eat. It’s past teatime and she has been traumatized.”
Yes, there it was. You, Sgt. William Walker, fetch tea for Mrs. Hudson. Just fucking perfect. You fuck with his boy Sherlock, you became a go-for. Was everyone here paying attention to that?
Granted, that had been a hard lesson for him to learn, but learn it he had.
“Styles,” Sgt. Walker said. “Please, tea and cakes for Mrs. Hudson, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.
“Something exotic,” Holmes said. “Hand picked above five thousand feet. Loose leaf, steeped five minutes. Green. And I like the buns from the Cheshire bakery.”
“Oh yes, that sounds lovely,” the older woman smiled. “And cream please in my tea. The lemon tea cakes from there are most delightful.”
“Two sugars, please,” the good doctor nodded. “Nothing sweet for me. An egg sandwich would be most delightful.”
“Oh John, really,” Sherlock fanned the air. “Sulfur flatulence is most disgusting. You should consider Vegan as a lifestyle choice. That way I would not have to suffer.”
Yes, Walker was a most delightful shade of purple. Lestrade thought about adding his name to that order, but enough salt had been rubbed in that open wound. Next time, the Sgt. would know better. Because when he got around to taking the statement from Sherlock, well…he did not think Walker was going to find that smart was the new sexy. Walker just struck him as they type that was going to be furious. Especially when John started farting.
Over tea, Mrs. Watson told her story.
“And you still have her shoes?” Walker could not seem to get past that.
“Well, yes,” she smiled sweetly, “I had just done the floors and the stairs and I do not know why she left here without them,” Mrs. Watson said, and you could hear the curiosity in her voice. “They are very nice shoes. Expensive. Just lovely.”
“We will be needing those,” Walker said. “Thank you Mrs. Hudson for your help,” he smiled.
William knew he needed to keep that smile in place. Before him sat an interesting trio. Holmes, Watson & Hudson. Sounded like a barristers firm. Holmes would prosecute murderers. Watson would handle the civil disobediences and Hudson, divorce. For as soft as she appeared, she had some steel to her.
Last one on the list. Sherlock Holmes. He had heard the stories, of course. Did not believe most of them. There was one or two on the force that thought Holmes was responsible for the bad and tragic things that went on around him. A modern day Jack the Ripper, well out of the reach of the law. He had not thought that possible with the electronic recording devices everywhere. Now maybe he did. Criminals with relations in high places…just maybe Mr. Holmes was that person of interest.
“Mr. Holmes, why did our victim come to see you?”
The young man’s intense blue eyes leveled themselves on him. “She believed her car had been stolen and was being used in bank robberies. There have been two in the past month, but her car only just went missing.”
“And what did you tell her?” he asked. Holmes was completely at ease and perhaps smirking at him.
“That her car had been booted and that it was at the Marble Arch impound lot.”
“And why would you think that?” That was interesting, why would he think that?
“Her half-sister was at the café where I purchased some buns for tea, on Monday. She left with a man. The car was ticketed and then booted. Marble Arch is the closest lot.“
“You know her sister?” Was that his voice? Really? He sounded shocked. What? They had the victim’s car in custody?
“No, of course not,” Sherlock could not hide the disdain in his voice. “How did you draw that conclusion? I was there to purchase buns and ended up having tea, there, as well. I noticed a brown-eyed woman with a North London accent. Two of her diphthongs indicated Yiddish of Polish descent. Since the sisters were raised by their father, they would have learned his speech patterns.”
“Their father raised them?” he stumbled over the words.
“Well yes, the victim’s eyes were grey, the older sister’s eyes were brown. Brown is dominant. “
Lestrade was relaxing against the wall. It felt good not to be scrutinized by those blue eyes that would stare at you and see into your inner most thought processes and declare you incompetent. Then to support that thought, Sherlock would voice it out loud.
“The sister,” Sherlock picked up where he had left off, his logic not allowing him to do differently, “was sitting at the counter drinking a Pimm’s No. 2.”
“Number 2?” William echoed. Seriously, he had to stop this! He could ask reasonable questions!
“Yes, I could smell the whiskey. The way she had slurred a couple of her words, it was not her first drink. She smelled of vanilla, the region where it was grown was very terroir. The bean was dried on the farm and not mixed with different grades.
The grey-eyed victim smelled the same. Not ingested, but was probably used in the frosting instead of the baked product. Frosting a cake is something that they could do, together, and the smell would transfer to both.
It is an expensive bean. It will not be sold in Marks & Spencer or at Harrod’s. This will require an on-line order or a high-end specialty foods-stuff shop.”
Walker did not know what to think? Was Holmes kidding? Was he making this up to send them on a wild goose chase while the killer sat right here? It was time to get past the unknown and to something tangible. “Was she wearing socks when she left here?”
“Yes, I gave them to her. They are in a basket over by the door.”
“I see,” Walker said, not for sure that he understood.
“Mr. Holmes, have you any idea why she would have Property of Sherlock Holmes tattooed on her posterior?”
“No idea,” he said with a slight shake of the head. “I have never seen her before this afternoon.”
“Are you bi-sexual?” William kept his voice all business.
“No,” Sherlock replied, eyeing the Sgt. “Nor am I interested. I do not believe that this is the time or place for you to ask me out.”
“Good for you dear,” Mrs. Hudson patted him on the hand. “John is a handsome man and a doctor,” she stressed, smiling. “Quite a catch. Anyone would be proud to be seen with him. You have no need to date anyone else.”
“What?” John gasped out. “Mrs. Hudson, were you hit on the head?”
“Well no dear,” she patted John on the face, “I am just so happy that you two have found each other.”
Sherlock turned his head and regarded his landlady whom he knew more about than he should. “John and I are not lovers, Mrs. Hudson, no matter how forward thinking you believe you are, or how badly you want this,” he stated matter of fact. “Nor am I,” he turned to face the officer, “bi-sexual, Sgt. Walker. Please continue with your questioning.”
Mrs. Hudson patted both of them on the arm. “As you say,” she smiled at both.
Yes, Lestrade congratulated himself. It was a good just to observe for a minute or two longer. John looked like he was going to have a heart attack. Sherlock had his eyes closed and was shaking his head. Walker looked interested in Holmes. Well, maybe he was in between partners.
Sgt. Walker regarded the two men. No, they were not gay. He had not seen either one of them at the pubs or anywhere in Soho. Yes, he was gay and those that he worked with knew it. “And when was the first time you saw the tattoo?”
“Downstairs,” Holmes said, his focus on Sgt. Walker. “After the bombing.”
“So, you did not see it while she was here in your flat?”
“No, I did not but John did.”
“Oh,” Sgt. Walker turned his focus back on the doctor.
“Yes, when she bent over to pull on the socks, her posterior was fully exposed and pointing at Sherlock.”
“And, why was she pulling on socks…?” William looked at both men.
“Because she had no shoes,” Sherlock replied, “and her feet were cold. Mrs. Hudson does so like her clean floors and she had just mopped.”
“Oh…” for a moment Walker wondered if he was drowning in information. “And Mr. Holmes, what were you doing during that time?”
There was a slight arch to both eyebrows. “I was observing a mallet,” he replied.
Walker thought about what truth he had learned. He knew that for a fact:
- The doctor liked girls, and Holmes liked…liked…?
- Both men cared for Mrs. Hudson.
- Mrs. Hudson liked clean floors.
Lestrade quietly cleared his throat. It was just not polite to laugh. Walker was trying to comprehend all the information he had just been given to him. This poor fucker was on the bomb squad and could talk explosives all day long. Seriously, he should just stick to explosives. Just perhaps, he should take over the questioning and send Sgt. Walker back downstairs.
It was time for the evidence bags. Mrs. Hudson’s shoes were coming to forensics and then the evidence locker.
“Sgt. Walker,” Lestrade stepped forward. “I believe all the glass has been picked up. I will escort them down for the shoes. That will give you another opportunity to look around at the scene. You should have some fresh eyes, by now.”
“Thank you,” he nodded his head and shrugged his jacket around a bit on his shoulders. “Thank you,” he nodded his head to the room and helped his men carry the bags down the stairs.
“I will have to mop, again,” they all heard Mrs. Hudson say as they went down the steps. “Not only did I spill the tea and cream and sugar, but now all those feet have tracked all over that bomb residue.”
Pushing open her door, she stepped in and then stopped. “Someone had been here,” she said, turning to look at Sherlock. “I had a cake sitting here on the table. It’s gone.”
Lestrade motioned for everyone to stand back as he drew his weapon. Walking through each room, after clearing them, he stepped back in and said, “No one is here now. Are you sure Mrs. Hudson?”
“Yes,” she said looking around. “Oh dear,” she pointed to her shoe rack that she kept by the door. “All my shoes are gone.”
“Mrs. Hudson,” the Inspector regarded her. Maybe she had been hit on the head after all. “Your shoes are still there.”
“Not those shoes,” she said, sadness in her voice, “all my fuck-me pumps are missing. Who would do such a thing? Who would steal a woman’s fuck-me pumps?”
“Who would, indeed, Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock said in a shocked voice as he arched an eyebrow at his landlady.
“That would include our victim’s shoes, is that correct?” Lestrade said.
“Yes,” Mrs. Hudson sobbed. “Yes it would.”
The area outside had been righted but it was still a crime scene. Sgt. Walker watched as a black car was waved through and pulled up. Behind it was a truck from a glass company.
A woman got out of the car and went inside and Holmes and Watson were escorted out. He watched as they entered the car. Holmes…he was still not for sure what to think of him. Maybe it was best just to not think of him at all.
But Holmes had been spot on and he could not let this go. Walking over to the car, he tapped on the window. It rolled down and those blue eyes were there, staring at him.
“How did you know?” he asked. “I am the straightest gay guy I know.”
Holmes’ voice was that of a teacher to a student. “You have whisker burn on your lips. There is a distinct pattern. To just a causal observer, you just have chapped lips.”
“You really are what they say you are…” William’s voice trailed off.
“Sgt. Walker, I have no idea what they say I am, but I can assure you I am more than that because they can not grasp the totality.”
With a slight nod of his head the window started back up and the car was put into gear and left.
“Whisker burn,” he chuckled, “so it was not my hard-on that he noticed after all. I don’t know if I should be happy about that or insulted.”
“Whisker burn,” John chuckled. “He had a raging hard-on for you.”
“Yes,” Sherlock sighed, “but I could not tell him that. I would not give him false hope, John.”
“I do not see the attraction,” John shook his head.
“Haven’t you heard,” Sherlock winked at him, “Smart is the new sexy.”