A/N- YOOOOOO wassup, home-slice-corn-dogs! How you doin'?

I think we've finally reached the halfway mark on the Blind Banker episode. I know we seem to be inching our way through it, but keep in mind, these episodes are like, super long. Like feature-length movies; not counting that I'm adding my own twists to it with Harley.

This story also now has enough words to be considered a novel. WHOOP!

Disclaimer: I only own my OC.

Enjoy!

"It's an ancient number system — Hangzhou! These days, only street traders use it," Sherlock explained to the Watsons after leaving The Lucky Cat shop, walking farther into China Town and towards the street market.

Harley tilted her head curiously at this new information. Wasn't Hangzhou a city in China? She recalled coming across that word in one of her school history books once. If she remembered correctly, it was the capital of the Zhejiang Province, just along the coast of Eastern China. She didn't recall reading about them having their own dialect; Mandarin maybe. Perhaps they had similar aspects?

"Those were numbers written on the wall at the bank and at the library. Numbers written in an ancient Chinese dialect," Sherlock continued as he approached one of the outside markets, which had various fruits and vegetables on display. He started rummaging through the handwritten signs placed around the goods, written in both English and Chinese.

"It's a fifteen," John said with realization, his eyes widening. "What we thought was the artist's tag— it's a number fifteen!"

Sherlock turned back to face them. "And the blind fold— the horizontal line? That was a number as well." He showed them a price tag that had the same line from the graffiti on top and £1 written beneath it. "The Chinese number one," he said as he grinned triumphantly.

"We've found it!" John said with a smile.

That was when it finally hit Harley on why the symbols looked familiar to her somehow. She had checked out a book from the library once about the history of mathematics (mostly because she was bored that day). It told about how math had changed throughout the ages and how various different cultures used it; a prime example being the Mayans used a vigesimal number system to calculate the calendar. So, somewhere along the way, she must've stumbled upon the symbols in the ancient Chinse number system— dated as far back as two-thousand BC. The horizontal line was the first number, and the almost eight was fifteen.

Nice, Harley thought with a small smile of her own. It was all coming together now.

Sherlock turned around and started walking down the street again. Harley made to follow, but stopped when she realized that her uncle had stayed put. She turned back to see him staring ahead at something she couldn't see, his smile faded.

Uncle John? she thought with concern.

She walked up to him, writing out a note and then showing it to him when he finally looked down at her:

Are you okay?

He put his smile back on. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just thought I saw something," he assured her.

Harley raised an eyebrow. Saw something? Like what? Her eyes darted around them, trying to find anything suspicious that might've gotten John's attention, but found nothing— just a lot of people passing by or selling things.

Okay, then…? she thought, but nonetheless let it go, assuming John was probably just a little stressed out from the case or something. They started walking off again, hand-in-hand, catching back up with the consulting detective.

They had finally discovered what the symbols were. Now they needed to find out what they meant to Van Coon and Lukis, and what business they had at that shop.

The ended up back to where The Lucky Cat was, only instead of reentering the shop, they went into a café just across the street, taking residence of the window seat up front — with a clear view of the shop across the way. John ordered something to eat when the waiter approached them, while Sherlock stared intently out the window at the shop opposite. He asked her if she wanted anything, but she shook her head; she wasn't hungry at the moment. This mystery had been keeping her on her toes lately; she's hardly had the time to think about food anyway. However, she did point down at the green tea label on the menu.

"That's it?" John asked her, and she gave an affirmative nod.

"Fine, but you have to eat something when we get back to the flat," John said, subtly bringing up his stern uncle voice.

She shrugged. Fair enough.

Sherlock took a napkin from its holder and reached into the inside of his coat, searching for something but coming up short. It took a moment for Harley to realize that he was looking for a pen to write with. Without hesitation, she took her own pen and notebook, opened it up to a fresh page, and slid it over in front of him. She figured it was better than using a napkin for starters — so long as he gave it back, of course.

Sherlock looked at the offered journal, then up at her wordlessly, but she had already turned away from him; the waitress had arrived with her steaming cup of green tea. She picked it up and blew on it softly before taking a sip, staring straight ahead out the window inquisitively. It wasn't until a minute later did she finally move her gaze from the window to what Sherlock was jotting down— the two Hangzhou numbers with their English translations underneath.

"So, two men travel back from China. Both head for the Lucky Cat emporium…" John said, writing down some notes of his own. "What did they see?"

"It's not what they saw; it's what they both brought back in those suitcases," Sherlock replied as he ripped out the page he wrote, folded it up and put it in his pocket, then gave Harley back her notebook and pen. That theory made more sense to Harley now. Back at Van Coon's flat, when she and Sherlock had looked into his suitcase; he said that there was something tightly packed inside of it. It must've been the package he delivered.

"And you don't mean duty free," John said jokingly, making Harley smile slightly under her tea cup. The waitress came back with John's food and placed it down in front of him. John thanked her before she walked away, leaving them alone for good.

Once she was out of earshot, Sherlock leaned forward. "Think about what Sebastian told us — about Van Coon, about how he stayed afloat in the market," he said.

"Lost five million—"

"Made it back in a week. That's how he made such easy money."

Harley frowned. That, she did not know until now. That must've been what they were talking about in the restaurant. She had already figured out that Van Coon had the Hong Kong accounts from when she visited his office that day and when she saw on his calendar that he flew to Dalian. But to make that much money in so little time after losing it…

"He was a smuggler," John said with realization before taking a bite of his food.

Her frown deepened. What?

"A guy like him, it would've been perfect," Sherlock muttered, staring out the window. "A businessman, making frequent trips to Asia. Lukis was the same, a journalist writing about China. Both of them smuggled stuff out, and The Lucky Cat was their drop-off."

Ah, of course, Harley thought. That made more sense.

John looked back at Sherlock. "But why did they die? It doesn't make sense. If they both turned up at the shop and delivered the goods, why would someone threaten and kill them after the event — after they had finished the job?"

There was a moment of silence between the three of them. Harley looked down at her half-drunken tea, lightly swirling it around in the cup as she thought about John's question. She may not have been an expert on the smuggling business, but she understood enough of it that if you didn't do as you were ordered — stepped even a toe out of line — there were some serious consequences, depending on who the bosses were. So she wondered…what if something that they were supposed to deliver wasn't there? Or better yet…what if they took it without asking?

"Harley," Sherlock's voice brought her back, and she looked up at him. "What do you think?"

Seriously, how does he do that?!

After contemplating for a moment, she put her cup down, wrote down one word that Sherlock would get, and showed it to him:

Thief.

And just as she thought, he got it. His lips quirked upward as he nodded in confirmation.

"What?" John asked, looking between them in confusion.

Sherlock looked from Harley to John. "One of them could've been light-fingered," he said.

"How do you mean?"

"Stole something — something from the hoard."

John's mouth opened slightly as he understood. "And the killer doesn't know which of them took it, so he threatens them both. Right."

What, and he just up and kills them, just like that? Harley wondered as she stared out at the shop. Talk about shoot first and ask questions later. Moron.

"Remind me…" Sherlock said, his gaze suddenly locked on something across the street, "…when was the last time that it rained?"

Then, without waiting for a reply, he stood up from his seat and took off out of the café, Harley just on his heels. John rolled his eyes and sighed before getting up and following as well, leaving his half-eaten meal behind. They crossed the street until they approached the flat next door to The Lucky Cat. Propped up against the door was a Yellow Pages phone directory that was sealed in plastic wrap; the wrap still had drops of water from rain and the top of it had been broken open. Sherlock bent down to have better look at it, running his thumb over the top of the wet pages of the book.

"It's been here since Monday," he murmured. He straightened up and pressed on the doorbell. On the nameplate above it was a handwritten sign that bore the name, Soo Lin Yao. When no one answered a few seconds later, Sherlock looked to his right and headed off in that direction. He led them into an alleyway right next to the flat. "No one's been in that flat for at least three days," he said, looking up at the flat.

"Could've gone on holiday," John argued.

"Do you leave your windows open when you go on holiday?" Sherlock countered, turning to face the flat and backing up a little. Then he took a running start and jumped, grabbing onto the fire escape ladder above them. The hinges groaned as he lowered the ladder until it hit the ground. He quickly ran up it, the ladder lifting back up to its usual position as he climbed toward the open window.

"Sherlock!" John shouted up at him, but the detective had already started to go in. John looked like he wanted to follow, but he was too short to reach the ladder. And if he couldn't reach it, there was no way in heck Harley would be able to get it.

Knowing that following him in was no longer an option, Harley and John opted to run back to the front door and wait for Sherlock to let them in.

John rang the doorbell before shouting, "Do you think maybe you could let me in this time?"

When no answer came, John bent down and opened the letter box. "Can you not keep doing this please?" he yelled. Still no answer. He straightened in exasperation.

Harley knelt down and turned her head, her ear facing the open letter box.

"I'm not the first," Sherlock's voice floated from somewhere in the flat.

Harley frowned. What did he mean by that?

John bent down once again. "What?"

"Somebody's been in here before me!" Sherlock called back.

"What are you saying?" John asked. Since Harley was taking up most of the space on the front door in front of him, it was harder for him to hear.

She heard Sherlock's voice again, except it was softer than last time. Harley strained her ears and pressed as far as she could against the open letter box, trying to listen. "Size eight feet. Small, but….athletic."

John walked away, pacing a bit. "I'm wasting my breath," he grumbled before coming back to ring the doorbell again.

Harley shot him a look, then proceeded to listen. But Sherlock was no longer speaking — not loud enough for her to understand, that is. For a minute, she couldn't hear anything as she waited with anticipation.

Then she heard it. A strained cry, then a choking, struggling noise.

John bent down once more and shouted right next to her. "Any time you want to include me!"

John straightened back up, so he wasn't able to catch the sound of Sherlock's voice cry out with difficulty, "John…John!"

Harley's eyes widened in alarm. She didn't know what was going on in there, but one thing was for certain: Sherlock was in trouble.

"Oh, I'm Sherlock Holmes, and I always work alone because no one can compete with my massive intellect!" John yelled before going back to pacing on the front step.

Am I the only one hearing this?! Harley thought incredulously. She shot to her feet and rang the doorbell, keeping her finger pressed against it as she used her other hand to knock on the door; she had to know what was happening. She hastily thought back to what Sherlock had said earlier; that someone else had entered the flat before he did. Whoever it was was small and athletic. It had to have been the same person who broke into Van Coon's and Lukis' flat.

The only difference was, the first two times, he left no trace that he had been there. All the windows and doors were locked tight when he left. But this time, the window had been left wide open. So that could only mean…

Harley's stomach dropped faster than a falling elevator. Oh, CRAP!

Forgetting about the doorbell, she tried to wrench open the door, but of course, it was locked. When that didn't work, she started pounding madly against the door with both fists. She had no idea what good this was accomplishing, but maybe — just maybe — the loud noise would scare the attacker away. It was all she could do. Of all the times she wasn't able to scream…

Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh God! Her mind was practically going into overdrive. If she had a hairclip, she could probably pick the lock to get in. But noooo! My hair had to be short, like every other thing about me!

She soon stopped banging on the door, panting for air. She couldn't hear anything anymore from the other side of the door.

…Sherlock?

She slid down and pressed her ear against the letter box again, waiting for something, anything, that could tell her that Sherlock was alright.

A moment later, she heard a loud cough, followed by heavy, wheezy breathing. Was that Sherlock? It had to be…right?

She straightened once more and, very cautiously, she started knocking in a prompt rhythm against the door, spelling out Sherlock's name in Morse code. Then she waited anxiously.

Suddenly, the door flew open. She stepped back with a startled gasp, both hands over her mouth, while John turned to face him with a glare. Sherlock stood in the doorway, looking a little worse for wear. His hair was disheveled a bit— at least, more disheveled than it usually was. His scarf also hung loose, which allowed Harley to clearly see the bruises beginning to swell around his neck.

She swallowed thickly as she stared at him with comprehending dismay. Someone had tried to strangle him to death.

"The, uh, milk's gone off and the washing's starting to smell. Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago," Sherlock said, his voice raspy and almost giving away at that last sentence.

"Somebody?" John asked him, while Harley just kept staring at him worriedly.

Sherlock nodded, taking a huge breath. "Soo Lin Yao — we have to find her."

"But how, exactly?"

Sherlock looked down, spotting something, and picked it up. It was a used, folded envelope. Harley squinted at it. There was a note written on it:

"Soo Lin, please ring me. Tell me you're okay. –Andy"

Sherlock unfolded the envelope and looked at the front of it. Printed on the bottom right corner in black letters was National Antiques Museum.

"We could start with this," he said, his voice still hoarse as he walked out, and they started down the street. Harley swung her backpack around and started digging through it.

"You- you've gone all croaky. Are you getting a cold?" John asked.

"I'm fine," he barely managed through his coughing.

Yeah, right.

She finally found what she was looking for: an unopened bottle of water. She pulled it out and ran up beside Sherlock, offering it to him.

He shook his head insistently. "I'm fine," he repeated, his voice still just as croaky as before.

She suddenly changed her look of concern into a hard glare towards him. She was not in the mood for the macho act. He had nearly given her a heart attack earlier, and she was still making herself sick just thinking about it.

OI! I'm trying to be nice here! Just take the damn water already! she thought as she shoved the bottle into his hands. Then, without waiting for his reply, she quickened her pace and walked slightly ahead of him with a silent huff, her hands stuffed into her pockets.

Sherlock watched her go with a frown. He opened his mouth to protest, but another rough round of coughing came out instead. Begrudgingly, he unscrewed the bottle cap and took a gulp of the water, the need for something to clear his throat becoming too much for even him to handle anymore.

Yeah…that's what I thought, she mused when she dared a glimpse back, but otherwise made no indication that she had noticed, looking straight ahead again.

They soon hailed a taxi and left the West End, much to Harley's relief. Hopefully, they won't have to go back there, on the off chance something like that were to happen a second time. In the cab, she often snuck glances over at Sherlock. He had downed the whole bottle in just a few minutes. He readjusted his scarf so that it covered his bruised neck, and his voice had returned to normal— though it was still a bit croaky around the edges. She was just glad that he was okay now. That was the first time in a long time that she had ever gotten so worked up about something — about someone.

She let out a tired, heavy breath. What was this guy doing to her?

About forty-five minutes later, they pulled up in front of the National Antiques Museum, which was a large, impressive building with thick pillars in the front. Once they entered the museum, Sherlock talked with one of the security guards, requesting to talk to whoever this Andy was. It took a little convincing, but in the end they waited for Andy in the main showing room, which had various items on display, like masks, statues and clay bowls and teapots.

They were soon met by a young man with curly brown hair and wearing a red cardigan over a blue shirt and tie, his nametag saying Andy. Sherlock and John explained to Andy that they wanted to ask him questions about Soo Lin Yao. At the mention of her name, Andy's face paled slightly. He knew who she was.

"When was the last time that you saw her?" Sherlock questioned him as he walked around the displays.

"Three days ago. Um, here at the museum," Andy answered nervously.

Harley wandered around the displays while they talked, looking over some of the artifacts and recalling from which culture she had read about the masks and statues. She eyed the teapots briefly as she walked past — one of them was shiny while the rest were dusty and dull. She turned back to the men just as Andy finished explaining with a hint of sadness in his tone, "This morning, they'd told me she resigned, just like that. Just left her work unfinished."

Sherlock whirled back around and walked up to him. "What was the last thing that she did on her final afternoon?"

Andy hesitated at first, but then he started to lead them out of the main room and down a long flight of stairs to the basement archives. He flicked a switch, and the lights flickered on one by one, revealing a long corridor-like room with vaults and statues covered with cloth at the very end.

"She does this demonstration for the tourists— a- a tea ceremony. So she would have packed up her things and just put them in here," Andy explained to them as he went over to a cracked open vault and started turning the handle, opening it up even more.

Harley walked up to him, but then she caught something out of the corner of her eye beyond them, just out of the shadows. She glanced over, and did a double take, her eyes widening. Sherlock frowned ahead, noticing it too. They both walked slowly up to it. On a stand was a life-sized sculpture of a nude woman…except there was yellow paint splashed into an almost eight and a horizontal above that on her chest, and another straight line across her eyes.

The cipher— the one that seemed to follow them wherever they went.

From behind Sherlock and Harley, John and Andy finally noticed the painted statue as well, and gaped at it.

That was why Soo Lin had up and left unexpectedly. Her life had been threatened, just like Van Coon and Lukis. Somehow, she was involved in all of this, and she was in danger.

That is, if she's not already dead.

A/N- When it comes to books, I like to think that Harley is a bit like Klaus Baudelaire from A Series of Unfortunate Events, or Sticky Washington from The Mysterious Benedict Society- basically a walking encyclopedia of random facts and passages that she remembers from every book she's ever read.

Another food for thought: In the movie adaptation of Unfortunate Events, Klaus frequently imagined a library in his mind to look up information from books he's read to figure something out...almost like a mind palace. *wink wink nudge nudge*

As always, thank you to everyone who's reading and enjoying the ride so far! I really appreciate the love...AND FEED ON THE HATE! *insert evil laughter and lightning strike in the background*

P.S.- Someone probably should've told those wacky Mayans that stopping their calendar at 2012 would cause worldwide conspiracy and fear for the apocalypse.

Yep, still making 2012 jokes in 2015. Deal with it.