Sherlock Holmes is working as an undercover agent for Mycroft after losing a bet. He is prepared for everything, and anything. Well, with the exception of a certain John Watson.

How did it come to this? He inwardly inquired, as boxes were loaded off the truck, carefully carried up the stairwell, and stacked in a great pyramid at his front door. He reluctantly maneuvered to unlock the door, with the spare key the land-lady had given him, temporarily until she had a new one pressed. His nose wrinkled at the slight scent of mildew and collective dust. The space was manageable, but judging by the vast amount of boxes outside, they'd soon cluster the area. He did a quick walk about, cringing as the flat was about the size of his bedroom back at the manor. Already, he became nauseous of the thought of the dozen mid-way experiments he was forced to desert. It had been promised, as a part of the terms, they'd be looked after, but it wasn't like he put much faith in the word.

So, he began to transfer the load from his front step, to a pile in his temporary quarters. Finally, the end of it came, and the truck pulled away, with his signature- which was cleverly forged to Mycroft Holmes, all was fair, the least the man could do was play the expense. Sherlock already had to do all the manual labor. The ground work, god, how he hated it. Approximately twenty minutes later, he had managed to transfer everything from his doorstep, making it manageable for the other tenants to walk about, and had lined them against the wall. A few were opened, contents laid against the floor, simply unpacking only when he needed, or wanted, something. There was no use settling in- he'd finish his business here soon, and leave to his spacious home, comfortably tending to his experiments.

Everything was planned. Down to the last pin. He rummaged through, stopping to pull out an official looking envelope. Along it was stamped confidential, yadayada, his curiosity was savored, as Mycroft seemed to be in the possession of many envelopes like this. He had seen in all. Tentatively, he opened it, a stack of papers slid out into his fingers. Glancing down at the information he had already memorized. New name, identity, job, friends, and family. Finally the past, apparently, Ben was a bit of a delinquent, now cleaned up. He inwardly sneered at his brother's snide notes written; Ben had been afflicted, in the past, with substances- namely heroin, as his own abuses were not unknown.

Tomorrow, he would officially begin, as an undercover agent. Losing a bet, this was the inevitable consequence, Mycroft forcing him onward, to do his dirty work. Falling back onto the stained, old carpet, he felt his phone buzz. Tossing it, irritably, as it was the devil himself. And so he fell asleep there, stretched out on the empty apartment's floor, too exhausted to do little than think.

Sherlock had calculated everything, every possibility and consequence that could go dreadfully wrong in this mission. He configured a plan for each, an escape route, and only when there was a satisfactory course for each, he allowed himself to drift to sleep. Peacefully unaware of what was ahead of him, and the small, direly important possiblity he had not considered... Sherlock had not prepared himself to fall in love.