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    Summary

    James pressed one hand to his chest and affected a little bow. “You flatter me.”

    Sherlock shifted his chair an inch or two closer to James’, the little tart. His eyes were intent, and hungry. When there was something he wanted, he would pursue it until he’d chased it down, and then, once he had it in his teeth, he would be gone again. There was no point getting upset about it; he didn’t do it on purpose. It was simply the way the glittering, ticking machinery of the Holmeses was made.

    “I could do more,” he said, quietly, “than flatter you.”

    It was the sort of thing he said when he was only playing, but his gaze was steady.

    “Careful, now,” murmured James. They weren’t the only people in the bar. “You wouldn’t want me to get the wrong idea, would you?”


    Sherlock Holmes needs a favour.

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