John walked over to Molly, resting his hand on her shoulder to comfort her. Leaning in, he whispered, "Is he always like this?"

Molly nodded, replying quietly, "Yes. As long as I've known him."

"Right." Sherlock stood to his feet, and pulled out his phone, texting Lestrade:

IS SAM HARTIS CLEAN? SH

"John, tell me the effects of cocaine in the blood system. Not that I don't know, I've got firsthand experience, but so Molly can hear it from an ordinary person and give us her opinion." He looked almost tolerantly in her direction.

"One of the things it can do is reduce oxygen intake by causing coronary vasoconstriction... Which would damage the respiratory system." John looked at Sherlock, astounded. "Is that why you wanted me to look at his lungs?"

He merely smiled. "Don't forget he was also dragged from the river, John. Still, this was not a one-time use." His phone emitted a noise, and he pulled it out. "Aha! Quite the record..." he mused, scrolling through the list of felonies under the name of Sam Hartis. "Irish. Should have known," he added.

John was confused. "Irish?" He asked. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Dublin cricket match, John, don't be stupid!" Sherlock exploded. "But something isn't matching up, still... We should be hearing about some seemingly unrelated nest of crime about now, that will hold all the answers."

"Ah. Seemingly unrelated crimes. You're making MUCH more sense than usual, Sherlock." John looked at the detective. He never knew what was going on inside that man's head; He was a conundrum, a mystery worthy of... well, Sherlock Holmes. "Sherlock, how do you know all these things? It's like you do nothing but think about the next murder."

Sherlock looked at him like he'd suddenly grown two heads. "You're just now getting that? I live for when something interesting happens. It's hardly my fault everyone else is content to live a normal existence."

John chuckled at his response. "I suppose it's got to be difficult, being so much smarter than-" John's phone buzzed. He looked at the screen, eyes widening as he read the message. "Sherlock," he said quietly, "You may want to see this."

"What is it?" he demanded, nearly tripping over Molly in an attempt to instantly be at John's side. "What does it say?"

John held out the phone for Sherlock to read. "Sam was just found murdered in an alleyway. With his hand chopped off. And I'll give you two guesses as to what was on his wrist."

"Tatoo," Sherlock breathed. "Who is that from? This is getting better and better!" Molly looked appalled.

John spoke, unsure: "It's from an unknown number. Maybe the Yard could trace it back?"

"They're too slow, let me try." Sherlock examined the number for a long moment, series of numerals seeming to hover before his vision. "Mobile, obviously, text enabled. Area code 020, so it's local..." He trailed off. "Let me try running a trace from here." Sherlock typed the digits rapidly into his phone. "Molly, text me when Sam is brought in."

"Sherlock, what are we going to do now?"

"Hit- Keiran Conaway!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Current location, 221B-" He broke off and burst out the door.

John ran after the retreating detective. "SHERLOCK!" He yelled, "Why are they at our flat?!"

Sherlock sprinted through the streets of London, oblivious to the angry honks of drivers and the shocked looks of overturned pedestrians. The morgue was only a few blocks away from Baker St, so it was no great distance, but the blood pounded in his ears as he reached the flat and burst open the door, clattering up the stairs and barging in.

He saw no one. Racing back down the stairs, Sherlock burst through to Mrs. Hudson's door. She stood, looking alarmed.

"Sherlock, what is going on?" But he was staring at the teenager behind her at the table calmly dipping Oreos in milk. "Oh- this is my nephew. He's here staying in London for the weekend," she explained. "Keiran, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

John burst in behind him, breathing hard from the sprint. "Sherlo-" He stopped. "Who is he?" He asked, looking confusedly at the teen.

The boy rose and stuck out his hand, swallowing a mouthful of cookie and pocketing his phone in a significant gesture.

"Keiran Conway. She's my aunt." He tilted his head toward Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock was eying the boy narrowly, already reaching several conclusions. Keiran had an unnerving way of staring out from under his mop of strawberry hair and he favored John with a toothy grin.

John looked at Sherlock. "What do you think?" He was confused. Was the teen the killer? Or was he just a bystander?

"I'm terribly sorry for bursting in on you like this, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said with great aplomb. "The fact is, I was just coming back from Devon for the weekend and wanted to pop in and say that... I'm back." He smiled briefly. "Now, if you don't mind, I've got to be off." He drug John from the room by the sleeve.

"Phone Lestrade," he hissed once they were safely in the corridor. "Tell him to send his least irritating men to Baker Street. I'm going to the bank."

John complied, still confused, as he left the flat.

"Lestrade, Sherlock wants your least irritating men to 221b Baker street as soon as possible. There may be a criminal there."

"There IS a criminal there," Sherlock called over his shoulder as he waited to hail a cab. "Coming?"

"There's a criminal there." John hung up and followed Sherlock. "Where are we going now?"

"The bank, obviously." Sherlock yanked open the cab door and ducked into the roomy backseat. "This is going to be a disaster for their record keeping. It was about time, really."

John spoke up. "What do you mean by that?"

"Don't you see? Piracy being revived, but not of goods. Hands missing? What's on a hand? Think, John!" Sherlock gestured passionately. "Thumbs. Thumbprints. Clothing being switched, canceling matches and other registered events... Identity theft. It's brilliant!" The cabbie regarded them in the rearview mirror like they had lost their minds.

John gasped. "Oh my..." He looked at the cabbie. "Drive faster!"

"Hold your horses, I can't break the law," the cabbie retorted. "You don't think everyone says that to me? Golly..."

Sherlock, however, seemed oddly calm, his hands pressed together beneath his nose, eyes closed in thought. A tiny smile played over his features, as if he were very pleased with himself.

"Sherlock," John whispered, "How did you know?"

"I am surprised I didn't figure it out sooner," he mumbled, eyes still closed. "But we're not through. We can't prove the Keiran Conaway doesn't have accomplices in this, and we need to discover what his motives are in killing people secretly to assume their identity... Poor Mrs. Hudson," he chuckled. "What a nephew."

"Well, you do know what happened with her husband..."

Sherlock laughed again. "He was quite a character."

"Bank of England," the cabbie announced, and Sherlock said, "Wait here," jumping from the cab, and turning to John. "This won't take any time at all. Run in, tell them their entire data may be falsified, ask for copies of the prints of Andrew Lewis, Keiran Conaway (if he has an account), Sam Hartis, and oh - what was his name..." Sherlock thumbed through his phone.

John ran in and asked for the prints as Sherlock had requested. "Sherlock," he said as he came out of the bank, "I got the prints. What do we need them for?"

"To decorate with. What do you think? How on earth did you get them?" He stared at the ex army-doctor. "You don't have that kind of security clearance..." Sherlock mentally counted to ten before the scream of security sirens were heard. He grinned at John.

"You're rubbing off on me, Sherlock." John grinned back and began to run. "Back to Baker Street?"

"We've got a cab!" Sherlock called after him, laughing and ducking within. "We're not on the run from the law yet!"

John doubled back and grinned at the detective. "What are we going to do when we get there? Arrest him?"

"Oh, don't be silly. I can't arrest anyone- can you? Didn't think so. No, we try to kick Lestrade and his team out as quickly as possible, and then we start examining these prints." Sherlock watched as the cabbie expertly reversed into the flow of traffic and sped them on their way.

They reached 221 to an interesting sight; Ms. Hudson attempting to keep police out of the flat. "Sherlock, how do we get them to leave?"

Sherlock, ignoring John, leapt from the cab, the driver protesting he still hadn't been paid.

"What's going on?" he shouted over thr hubbub, pushing his way through to the door.

"Sherlock! What should we do?" John asked, ignoring the cabbie's request of payment.

"Calm down, John." Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a slight pressure. "Lestrade!" Sherlock hurried over to the Detective Inspector, and demanded, "What is going on? Did you go inside?"

"I did, but as soon as Mrs. Hudson opened the door, the kid bolted past us and took off running. I sent several men after him, but he disappeared."

Sherlock cursed under his breath. "When are you going to learn not to be such fools?"

Lestrade continued, "I couldn't very well give the order to shoot, nothing's been proven. Mrs. Hudson has been so upset that she won't let anyone in. Says it's illegal without a warrant, and that we're mistaken about her nephew being suspect."

John walked over to a frantic Ms. Hudson, speaking to her quietly. "Ms. Hudson, your nephew is a suspect. We need you to let us in. Please."

Mrs. Hudson covered her face, her shoulders shaking. "Oh, make them go away, John," she sniffled. "Keiran is a good boy, and I don't know what -"

"He's not a good boy, he's been implicated in a piracy scandal, and probably is more closely involved than anyone could imagine. Now, please stop making yourself ridiculous and open the door." Sherlock was suddenly at John's side.

"Sherlock! Her nephew is a suspect in a police investigation! Don't be so rough!"