Jane and Sherlock investigate the break-in at the bank, and some of Sherlock's past is revealed.


After being dragged back out for the third time that day, and manhandled unceremoniously into a cab, and left to endure her flatmate's pensive silence, Jane is beginning to regret ever waking up at all.

"So the bank?" Jane says as they pull up to the massive business district with glittering skyscrapers and important business types bustling to and fro amongst the square. Sherlock weaves in an out of the crowd nimbly, and Jane struggles to keep up because, apparently, she's invisible. She represses a growl of frustration as another man with a briefcase and a palm pilot runs into her. She has to trot to keep up with Sherlock as he disappears into a building with glass revolving doors. "You bank here?" she snorts as she joins him on the escalator.

"We're meeting an old acquaintance of mine. Apparently there's been some sort of break in…" Sherlock says in a distracted manner, and Jane notices how his eyes flit about absorbing absolutely everything. They look extra blue today, cerulean even. But it's not his eyes that catch her attention. It's the hard furrow of his brow and the tension in his mouth that belies something other than his trademark scrutiny and concentration. He seems…nervous? But that couldn't be right, could it?

"An acquaintance? From where?" Jane asks.

"We were at Uni together," Sherlock says and turns up his collar with a stiff tug indicating the conversation was over. He marches up smartly to the desk marked Shad Sanderson and takes off his gloves. "Sherlock Holmes. I have an appointment," he says to the receptionist.

"Of course," she says and leads them through a maze of cubicles to an office with the gold lettering of 'Sebastian Wilkes' on the front where a man in a sharp suit and oiled hair sits behind an ostentatious desk.

"Sherlock Holmes," the man says getting to his feet with a toothy grin.

"Sebastian." He comes over and grips Sherlock in a firm handshake.

"Howdy, buddy. How long's it been? Eight years?"

"Eight next Thursday," Sherlock says as if by rote. Jane turns to him. Dates aren't really important to Sherlock. Half the time he doesn't know when one week ends and the other begins, but for some reason next Thursday is important. Wilkes doesn't seem to register this fact, but Jane can feel the tension practically rolling off Sherlock as if in waves.

"Right," he says smiling widely again, and he turns to Jane his eyebrows raising to his hairline. "And who is this?" he says smoothly and extends his hand.

"This is my friend, Jane Watson," Sherlock says a slight edge to his voice that would otherwise be imperceptible to anyone who didn't know him.

"Friend?" he says incredulously and Sherlock bristles.

Trying to keep the peace, Jane jumps up and says, "Colleague." Sherlock reels back slightly, and she realises she misinterpreted. Bit Not Good.She clears her throat.

"Right," Wilkes says unctuously, drawing the word out, and Jane can't wait to get her hand back from the pompous sod. He holds her fast and turns her hand wrist up so he can place a kiss to her skin. Jane has to fight the urge to gag. "Well it is my pleasure, Ms. Watson."

"Doctor," Sherlock interrupts. He sits crisply in the leather chair in front of the desk.

"Is that so?" Wilkes says and makes his way back to his chair. "Do you want anything, Jane? Water? Coffee?"

"Erm. No. Thanks," Jane says and takes the chair next to Sherlock. She smoothes her hair back nervously.

"So," Sherlock says putting an ankle atop his knee. "You're doing well. You've been abroad a lot."

"Ah well. Some."

"Some? Flying all the way 'round the world twice in a month?" Sherlock say arching an eyebrow. Jane looks at him and waits for the whirlwind of deductions.

Wilkes leans back with a chuckle and that smarmy grin crawls across his face again. "You're doing that thing." He looks at Jane. "We were at Uni together. Holmes had this trick he used to do —"

"It's not a trick —" Sherlock says.

"— He could look at you and tell you your entire life story," Wilkes says right over Sherlock almost with a sneer. Sherlock looks at the ceiling and bites his lip impatiently.

"Yes I know. I've seen him do it. It's amazing…" she says and his eyes snap to her.

"Amazing! Hah!" Wilkes says. "He put the wind up everybody. We hated him!"

"You didn't used to hate me, Seb. Before you fell in with your mates from Chi Epsilon. Or maybe you forgot?" Sherlock says with a polite biting acerbity. Wilkes's smile is quite literally wiped from his face for a second.

"I'm afraid the hero-worship was Victor's area of expertise," Wilkes returns with the same amount of vitriol in his tone lurking under that false smile that Jane is really beginning to hate. "How is 'ol Vick anyway?"

Sherlock pales, and his eyes drift to the floor. Jane shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

"So go on, then," Wilkes continues, twisting the knife. "Tell me. How did you know I'd been abroad? You gonna tell me there's a stain on my tie from a special kind of ketchup you can only get in Manhattan?"

"No I —"

"Or-or maybe it's the mud on my shoes!" he says barking out a laugh.

"Actually your secretary told me. I was just chatting with her outside," Sherlock says inspecting his fingernails casually.

Wilkes laughs humourlessly, and claps his hands together. "Yes. Well let's get down to business, shall we? It appears we've had a break in."

"Lead on," Sherlock says, and rises imperiously to his feet. Wilkes nods and rises likewise.

As they are walking back through the forest of cubicles, Jane grabs Sherlock's sleeve.

"A break in? This is hardly worth your time, Sherlock," she says under her breath as Wilkes stops to chat with his secretary.

"Why don't I be the one to judge what is worthy of my time," Sherlock says dangerously. "If I require the opinion of my colleague then I will ask for it."

Jane snaps her head back as if Sherlock's words physically stung her. Which in a way they did.

"Look I didn't —"

"In here," Wilkes says and presses a card to the electronic key pad. The door clicks open and he ushers them into another office lavishly overlooking London. Jane gasps.

On the white wall hangs a painting of a respectable and serious looking man. Or what was once respectable seeing as how a stark slash of spray paint has been leveled across his eyes. On the wall next to the portrait is a sigil of some sort that almost resembles a figure eight. The paint runs in some places making tracks down the wall.

This, however, isn't what causes Jane's surprise.

"It's yellow!" she exclaims. And Wilkes and Sherlock turn to look at her at the same time, Wilkes with a condescendingly amused expression and Sherlock with a curious frown. She doesn't really notice either of them as she walks up to the paint to examine it more closely. It's yellow, and more importantly, she can see it. She's positively thrilled.

"Erm, yes. Sir. William's former office. He used to be the bank Chairman. This office has been left as a memorial of sorts. The break in was late last night," Wilkes says.

"What did they steal?" Jane asks stepping closer to the wall.

"Not a thing. Just left the message."

"How many ways into this office?" Sherlock asks suddenly.

"That's the thing…" he says, and holds the door open for them to follow him out. Sherlock begins to follow and then stops, rolling his eyes. He walks back over to where Jane is stood, and drags her away from the novelty of the yellow paint.

"As you can see, every open door, every cupboard — every toilet — gets logged in here," Wilkes says showing Sherlock the records back at the reception desk.

"Ah. That door didn't open at all last night," Sherlock says straightening from his half stooped position.

"It seems as if we have a hole in our security. If you find it, I'll pay you. Five figures," he says and pulls out a cheque from his breast pocket. "This is an advance. If you tell us how he got in there'll be more on the way." He holds the cheque out to him, and Sherlock's eyes narrow before he plucks it from his fingers. That greasy smile has returned on Wilkes's face, and Sherlock hands the cheque out to Jane.

"Take care of this will you?" he says, before turning back to Wilkes. "I'll need to look around. Shouldn't be long." He breezes passed them in a whirl of his coat.

Jane looks down at the cheque and she stutters. "This is five thousand pounds," she says.

"And there's more where that came from if your colleague can figure all this out," Wilkes says.

"If any one can figure out what's going on it's Sherlock," Jane says, and she goes off in search of him tucking the cheque safely into her wallet.

She finds him on the balcony of Sir Williams's office surveying London, and leaning over the rail to look below. She comes out and goes to stand beside him. He stiffens at her presence, his knuckles turning white from gripping the railing. Jane notices how he sways slightly and has to close his eyes at the sudden onset of vertigo, but he addresses her in a steady voice nonetheless.

"The door to the balcony was unlocked," he says shaking his head a little before looking at her.

"You think they got in through here?" she asks incredulously and leans forward to look over the edge. Before she can ask anything else, she is being hauled back from the railing and shoved roughly into the office. "Hey! What —?"

"I don't know how they got in, but could you just — just —" he falters.

"Just what?" she demands.

"I don't know! Stay out of my way, perhaps?" he shouts, breathing heavily. His eyes are wild and he has a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. She looks back out the window and for the first time realises how high up they are. And how they were practically dangling over the edge a moment ago. She's suddenly reminded of a conversation they had months back when they had first met:

"Penchant for rooftops?" she asked as he walked up to look over the ledge of the roof of the Canadian Embassy. He inhaled sharply as she leaned over likewise to look at the ground below.

"Not really, no. I hate heights," he said and hopped up on the ledge so he could sit facing the London skyline. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before looking down.

At the time she thought he was just being contrary, but when she remembers how his voice shook ever so slightly, she now began to think otherwise.

"All right," she says holding up her hands. "Go do…what ever. Just don't hare off without me."

Sherlock nods and adjusts his scarf. At first he makes an abortive gesture towards her, but then thinks better of it and turns on his heel.

Jane bites her lip thoughtfully, and ventures out in his wake, always in his wake.

Later she watches as Sherlock bobs his way in and out of the cubicles, dark head disappearing and reappearing like some deranged gopher.

"He's mad," Wilkes says next to her making her jump. "How do you stand him?"

"It's not hard really," Jane says. "Especially when he's being brilliant."

"Brilliant, yeah," Wilkes says trailing off. "So you guys are colleagues?"

"Yes. Friends, actually. And flatmates," she says.

"Oh. And you're not…?"

"Not what?"

"Together?" he chuckles. "I've never seen Holmes really interact with the opposite sex. Never seemed interested..."

"No we're not together," Jane says and clasps her hands behind her back as she continues to watch Sherlock.

"Mm. Shame that. Shame for him," Wilkes says and tucks a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. She cringes, and steps back slightly. "We should get drinks some time."

"Ah no. As far as I'm concerned this is a job, and that would hardly be professional," Jane says. The only thing that's keeping her from chinning the arrogant ponce is the little cheque tucked away in her wallet. Sherlock was apt in taking it, and if that were the case he must need it for something important if he was willing to put up with the likes of one Sebastian Wilkes. The thought had her concerned. She needed to get a job that was for sure.

"Professional? What's a drink among acquaintances?" Wilkes says and he subtly moves closer to her.

"I don't frequent the pub with strangers," she says trying to move away. "How do I know you won't stick me with the tab?" she tries to joke. There was something about him that made her suddenly nervous. As if sensing this, he grins wolfishly.

"Who says we're strangers? I happen to know quite a bit about you, Ms. Jane Watson. For example, I know you probably served in the military, am I right?" Jane freezes and he presses on. "What was it? The Army?"

She raises her chin and tries to answer him casually. "That's right. RAMC. How did you know?"

"Like I said, Holmes and I go way back. He might have taught me a trick or two. Nothing useful, of course, but it's given me insight when it comes to reading people and in my line of business, reading people is everything," he says.

"Well then I think you might need more practice," Jane says scooting away even further. Her back hits the wall where she's literally backed into a corner in the little alcove they were standing in. If any one of the dozens of people in the cubicles are watching, they pretend not to notice.

"You think so?" Wilkes says looming over her. Jane wonders how many other women found themselves in this same position, and the thought makes her ill. That was the problem with these powerful business types: they thought they could take what ever they wanted. "Maybe you can give me a few pointers?" He brushes his knuckles over her cheek.

Suddenly, Wilkes is yanked away from her and slammed into the wall by his lapels in a fury of whirling black. If looks could kill, Jane is sure Wilkes would be nothing more than a pile of ash under the weight of Sherlock's incendiary gaze.

"Woah! Hey take it easy, buddy we were just —"

"I'm not your buddy, Seb," Sherlock bites out and releases him with another shove just as a pair of security guards round the corner.

"No it's all right!" Wilkes says smoothing his suit jacket back into place. "We're fine here." He ushers the guards away and they leave reluctantly, eyeing Sherlock. "Need I remind you that you are under my employ for the time being, Holmes?" Wilkes intones.

Sherlock cocks his head and in a tone dripping with disdain he says, "You may have hired me for my services, Sebastian, but let's not forget who really needs who in this equation. I believe in your correspondence you mentioned a certain measure of discretion which the police cannot afford you, and if you really care about your investors here at Shad Sanderson, you will realise I am the only thing you have that can save your public image." He sneers looking down his nose.

Wilkes smiles bitterly and huffs a laugh through his teeth. "Fair enough, Holmes. Will you still take the case?"

"I will. But after I solve this, and you pay me what is due, I never want to hear from you again. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," Wilkes says in his clipped tones. His eyes travel over Jane one last time, and she represses a shudder. "Pleasure doing business."

Sherlock gives an ironic tilt of his head and he holds a hand out to Jane. "Come on, we're done here."

Jane doesn't say anything and gratefully takes Sherlock's hand and lets herself be dragged away from that hateful office. He doesn't let go of her until they are out of the building.

"So, erm…you didn't want to sniff around here for a bit longer, then?" Jane asks trotting to keep up.

"Got everything I needed to know, thanks," Sherlock says striding back across the plaza.

"You did?"

"The graffiti was a message for one of the traders on the floor. If we find who the message was for, then…"

"…they'll lead us to the messenger," Jane finishes triumphantly.

"Obvious."

"But there must have been over three hundred people up there. Who was it meant for?"

"Pillars," Sherlock says stiffly. "And the screens. Very few places you can see the graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And the fact the message was left at eleven thirty-four last night. Traders come in at all hours, some doing business with places like Hong Kong in the middle of the night. Edward Van Coon," Sherlock says pulling out a door tag and showing it to her. "Hong Kong Desk Head. He was in at midnight, and the message was meant for him."

"Fantastic," Jane says looking at the door tag.

"Obvious," Sherlock says again, but the ice has melted somewhat from his tone. "Shall we pay Mr. Van Coon a visit?"

"I think we should," Jane says, and follows him to the street where he calls for a taxi.

"Listen," Jane says sometime later. "What you did back there…thank you, um, for that."

"Don't mention it," Sherlock says, not bothering to turn away from the window.

"Not like I couldn't have handled it myself of course," she says.

"Obviously," Sherlock says quickly.

"Right..." An awkward silence fills the cab once more. Jane won't be cowed by it, however, and she clears her throat.

"He deduced me," she says, and at this Sherlock turns to her.

"What did he say?"

"He said he knew I was in the Army."

"Oh. Anybody could tell you that if they knew where to look," he says dismissively. "You tend to slip into parade rest when you are trying to be formal, or when you are feeling threatened."

She bites her lip. "He said you and he went way back and you taught him a few things. About reading people."

Sherlock stiffens and glares back out the window. She presses on.

"What happened between you two?"

"We had a falling out, if you must know. Other than that there is nothing else to tell," he replies as if by rote.

"Why are you taking this case, then? He's a tosser," she says.

"I have my reasons," he says in clipped, defensive tones.

"Which are…?"

"None of your business," he snaps.

"All right. Fine," Jane says with a sigh. "It's just he was a bastard, is all. I don't see how you were ever friends with him." She turns to look out her own window as silence envelopes them once more. She takes to count the traffic lights to pass the time, because apparently, it's going to be a long and uncomfortable ride. She gets up to seven, when Sherlock starts speaking again.

"He wasn't always a bastard," Sherlock says quietly, and Jane turns to him. "He…he was awkward; an outcast like myself. We shared a common rapport through music. Before he was pressured into banking by his father, he had entertained thoughts of becoming a concert cellist." He drums his fingers lightly against his knee, and Jane recognises that it is the silent melody of a song only he can hear. "For a long time it was just the three of us."

"Three?" Jane asks.

"Sebastian, myself, and…Victor. Victor Trevor." Sherlock pauses here, his gaze still trained on London as it passes them by in a blur. Jane waits patiently, and hopes he keeps talking. "Victor was younger than us by a year. He knew Sebastian mutually, his father working at the bank the elder Mr. Wilkes was Chairman of. The very first time I met him, his dog bit me in the ankle, and I needed to get four stitches." He says it as if he were reading a fact instead of telling a cheery anecdote, and the combination of the two makes Jane laugh.

"His dog?" she giggles, and he looks at her then with a curious expression.

"Yes," he says, a tone of fondness creeping into his voice. "It was a bull terrier. I think he named it Gladstone."

"What a terrible name," Jane remarks.

"I told him the same thing," he grins.

"Did you have a falling out with Victor too? Is that why I've never heard of him?"

Sherlock's smile fades, and his eyes darken. "No. He died. Almost ten years ago, now." Jane sucks in a sharp breath. "Mr. Trevor was embezzling money from Wilkes's bank and Victor got caught in the cross fire. Seb began spreading rumours that the only reason Victor could afford Cambridge in the first place was due to his father's thievery. It wasn't true of course. His grandmother left him an inheritance, but it didn't matter; his reputation was tarnished. And in the upper echelons of society, reputation is everything. Eventually indictments against him went under way, and he was accused of being involved in the process…"

"What happened?" Jane asks in a hushed voice. Sherlock closes his eyes briefly.

"He killed himself before the hearing. The pressure and the lies were just too much for him," Sherlock says in a flat voice. "Needless to say Seb and I never really saw eye to eye after that. The last time I saw him before today was eight years ago when I proved Victor's innocence. We haven't spoken since." The drumming on his knee stops and he swallows almost audibly. Before she can even think about it, Jane takes his hand in hers.

"Listen, I know how you think condolences are a waste of breath, but for what it's worth, I am truly sorry, Sherlock."

He frowns, his eyes the colour of ocean searching her face. What ever he's looking for he apparently finds it because a moment later he nods and looks back out the window.

"Thank you," he says, and if he squeezes her hand before letting go, well, Jane wouldn't be the one to mention it.

Instead she smirks, "Go on. Amaze me with how you knew the pompous toss-pot was abroad. I know you didn't talk to his secretary."

Sherlock chuckles and launches into something about datelines and the newest Breitling wrist watch model that only just came out February, and Jane can't help but grin.


AN: Thanks to everyone who's been reading! I really appreciate it! All feedback and comments are welcome!