Part Nine.

They arrived at a block of flats, and as Thea paid the cabbie, Sherlock and John walked up to the buzzer. She approached them as Sherlock impatiently pressed the buzzer for Van Coon's flat.

When no one answered, John shrugged, "So what do we do now? Sit here and wait for him to come back?"

Sherlock looked closer at the names on the buzzer, "Just moved in."

"What?"

"The floor above. New label." He pointed to one that read "Wintle".

"Could have just replaced it when it got too faded," John suggested.

Thea gave a small laugh and shook her head. "No one ever does that."

Sherlock had pressed the buzzer, and a woman's voice came over the speaker. "Hello?" Immediately, his demeanour changed and he put on a fake smile to accompany his overly-friendly voice.

"Hi! Um, I live in the flat just below you. I-I don't think we've met."

Ms Wintle replied, "No, well, uh, I've just moved in."

Sherlock threw a gloating glance in John's direction and continued his charade, "Actually, I've just locked my keys in my flat." Thea could have laughed at the way her father grimaced and bit his lip – he really knew how to overdo being normal. She stepped back and looked at the building a bit before she walked back to her boys.

"D'you want me to buzz you in?"

"Yeah."

Thea pressed close to her father and murmured, "The balcony."

Her father paused, then added, "And can I use your balcony?"

There was a pause on the other end of the speaker. "What?"

Moments later (and after a lot of flirting on Sherlock's part), he and Thea were standing on Ms Wintle's balcony, looking at the ground. Ms Wintle's balcony ran only half the width of her flat, but luckily, the ones below ran the full width, making it easy for them to hop down.

Sherlock looked to her and she nodded her approval, so he climbed over the edge and let go, landing softly on Mr Van Coon's balcony. Thea began to follow, and as if on instinct, Sherlock called up to her, "Careful."

She rolled her eyes at him. "I've done plenty more dangerous things, Papa."

"I'll pretend you didn't say that."

She jumped down next to him and he raised an eyebrow at her.

"Will I have to address said dangerous things?"

Thea gave him a cheeky smile. "I think they can all go untouched for the moment. Maybe in ten years we can reminisce."

Sherlock looked over the side of the balcony one last time before he turned and tried the handles of the door leading into the flat (or onto the balcony, if you prefer). He found it miraculously unlocked and glanced to her, "Pity, I was hoping to see how far your lock-picking skills had come."

"At this rate, there will be plenty of other opportunities for that when the time comes."

"Touché."

They walked inside and found an elegantly decorated living room. It was clearly the apartment of a wealthy person, with white leather furniture, shiny black tables and minimal clutter. They broke apart and examined the room, taking in the same details and processing them in a similar manner. She glanced at the pile of books on the table in front of her, but none of them seemed spectacularly note-worthy. Her father was busy in the kitchen, looking over the counters before he opened the fridge, completely full of champagne bottles. Sherlock looked to her curiously, but she had nothing to go on, so she shrugged and he closed it, seemingly agreeing with her.

The buzzer to the front door went off, but neither seemed to notice it.

"Sherlock," John called from the other side of the door, and finally Thea looked up. Her father was moving into the hall.

"Dad, he's calling for you," she said, but he didn't seem to hear her.

"Sherlock, Thea, are you okay?" John called again, but something seemed to be pulling her father towards the bedroom, so Thea joined him, momentarily forgetting the army doctor in the hall.

He flicked on the light in the bathroom, and she watched as he quickly studied a seemingly expensive bottle of soap on the counter. Why would a bachelor need expensive hand soap, other than for a lady friend? Sherlock turned off the light as she turned and tried to open the next door, which no doubt led to the bedroom, only to find it locked.

"Stand back," she told her father, and she quickly threw her shoulder against it, breaking it open and walking inside only to let out a small yelp as she became acquainted with the late Edward Van Coon. Sherlock pulled her behind him and approached the body, examining it for a few seconds before turning back to his daughter.

"Alright? Take a deep breath," he said, calming her down instantly.

She shook off the last of her fright and smiled meekly, "Just wasn't prepared for it, is all. I'll call Scotland Yard –" John began pounding on the door "– and let John in. I think he's getting agitated."

Police and photographers milled about the scene, and Thea stood off to one side, examining the room as her father pulled on latex gloves to examine the body. John stood beside him, arms folded across his chest.

"D'you think he'd lost a lot of money? I mean, suicide is pretty common among City boys."

Sherlock countered with, "We don't know that it was suicide."

John gave a sarcastic half-smile. "Come on. The door was locked from the inside; you had to climb down the balcony."

But Sherlock had turned to the suitcase behind him and poked around the laundry within.

"Been away three days, judging by the laundry."

Thea watched the two of them closely, leaning on the wall closest to the windows. She watched as her father pointed out an indenture in the clothes – something had been tightly packed with them. He relayed the same information to John, but the doctor was less than excited to join in the examination.

"Thanks – I'll take your word for it," he said, only glancing down at the case momentarily.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, and Thea prepared herself to jump between them should they decide to get into their first real tiff.

"Yeah, I'm not desperate to root around some bloke's dirty underwear," the doctor replied, and somehow, her father let the matter go. Instead, he walked to the end of the bed and began thoroughly examining the late Van Coon's body.

"Those symbols at the bank – the graffiti. Why were they put there?"

John shrugged, not looking particularly zealous about the case, and moved to stand at the body's head. "What, some sort of code?"

"Obviously." Having looked at the body's lower extremities, he moved towards the suit jacket to look at the inside pockets. "Why were they painted? If you want to communicate, why not use e-mail?"

"Maybe he wasn't answering?"

"Oh good, you follow."

"No."

Sherlock threw him a look as he bent down to examine Van Coon's hands. "What about this morning – those letters you were looking at?"

"Bills," John said slowly, processing the information as Sherlock led him through it.

Sherlock pried open Van Coon's mouth, much to Thea and John's disgust, and pulled out a black origami flower. "Yes. He was being threatened." John leaned over to look at it closer, but Thea stayed where she was. Just as John hadn't been desperate to go through the dead man's underwear, she wasn't desperate to look at something that had been stuffed in a dead man's mouth. She could hear the air hissing out of his mouth as the last few gasps of it were released from his lungs, having been held there by the flower. She closed her eyes and shook her head silently.

John said quietly, "Not by the gas board."

Just then, they heard an unfamiliar man's voice from the hallway, young but assertive. "Bag this up, will you… and see if you can get prints off this glass." A man older than Thea but younger than her father entered the bedroom, a sense of authority settling in the room. She had to admit, the man was quite attractive, with short hair the colour of milky tea and grey eyes – though nowhere near as nice as Mr Hemingway's. If the young man didn't seem so uptight, Thea might have liked him. Sherlock bagged the origami flower and went to greet the officer.

"Ah, Sergeant. We haven't met," he went to shake the man's hand, but the supposed sergeant put his hands on his hips instead.

"Yeah, I know who you are; and I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence." Immediately, any admiration Thea might have preserved towards him vanished. Was Lestrade really the only good officer in Scotland Yard?

Still keeping good graces, Sherlock handed the man the origami evidence he'd collected and watched as the officer looked down at the body, the young man's eyes softening. "I've phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way?"

The man's attention snapped back to Thea's father and any trace of softness disappeared. "He's busy. I'm in charge. And it's not Sergeant; it's Detective Inspector. Dimmock." Thea made a noise of amusement and the DI looked over to her. "And I don't allow children in my crime scenes, Mr Holmes."

Thea pushed herself off the wall and strode over to him. "Really? Because I thought since they allowed children to become Detective Inspectors, they might make an exception for me."

John hid a small laugh behind a cough as the DI's jaw tightened. But he didn't make an argument as he walked out of the room. Thea was close behind, with Sherlock and John following. As they entered the living room, Dimmock handed the forensic bag to another officer and said, "We're obviously looking at a suicide."

John agreed, "That does seem the only explanation of all the facts."

Sherlock's gloves snapped as he pulled them off, "Wrong. It's one possible explanation of some of the facts." He turned to Dimmock after giving John a disappointed look. "You've got a solution that you like, but you're choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."

"Like?" asked Dimmock, though it was clear he was annoyed.

"The wound was on the right side of his head."

"And?"

"Van Coon was left-handed," Sherlock said as Thea thought it. He sarcastically mimed trying to shoot himself on the right side of his head with his left hand, contorting just enough to make it look ridiculous. "Requires quite a bit of contortion."

"Left-handed?" Dimmock echoed, not believing it.

Thea rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. "Oh, I'm amazed you didn't notice. All you have to do is look around this flat." She regarded her father, "May I?"

He gestured to the floor and inclined with his head. "You may have the pleasure."

Thea began pointing around the flat. "Coffee table on the left-hand side; coffee mug handle pointing to the left. Power sockets: habitually used the ones on the left... Pen and paper on the left-hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down messages with his left." She turned to the DI, "D'you want me to go on?"

John's head tilted back and he closed his eyes almost tiredly as he said, "No, I think you've covered it."

"Oh, she might as well; she's almost at the bottom of the list," her father argued.

John nodded sarcastically with his arms folded across his chest, as if saying, Right, go on then.

"There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left. His mousepad on his desk is on the left side of his keyboard, and his toothbrush and razor were to the left side of his lavatory sink," Thea turned to Dimmock impatiently, her wild curls whipping around her face, "It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head. Conclusion: someone broke in here and murdered him. Only explanation of all the facts."

Dimmock glared at her but turned to Sherlock nevertheless as if conceding, "But the gun…"

Sherlock had the answer ready, "He was waiting for the killer. He'd been threatened." He turned away from the army doctor and Detective Inspector to put on his coat and scarf. Thea slipped on her woollen beanie before going to stand between her father and John.

"What?" Dimmock asked, as if they'd made that part up.

"Today at the bank. Sort of warning," John said. It was probably easier at this point for Dimmock to hear the final facts from someone not accusing him of being wrong.

"He fired a shot when his attacker came in." Sherlock was putting on his gloves now, and Thea was checking her phone. Nothing from Matthew yet, and she didn't have a lot of time before he would be picking her up. She hoped their next stop would be home, though she doubted it. The DI was asking about the bullet now.

"Went through the open window."

Dimmock nearly laughed. "Oh, come on! What are the chances of that?!"

Sherlock slammed his hand into his other glove irascibly. "Wait until you get the ballistics report. The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun. I guarantee it."

Thea put away her phone as Dimmock finally asked, "But if his door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?"

She smiled at the young DI as she joined her father at the door. "Good! You're finally asking the right questions. Come along, Dr Watson. Papa waits for no one."

Then she turned and left with Sherlock without waiting to see if the good doctor was following.

Just as Thea had suspected, their next stop was at a fancy restaurant close to the bank they had originally departed from. They walked in and, without talking to the waiting staff, followed their ears to Sebastian's lunch meeting with a colleague and clients. He was no doubt telling a story of his uni days. Her father had no issue interrupting the meeting.

"It was a threat. That's what the graffiti meant," he said loudly, and everyone at the table went silent.

Sebastian laughed nervously and looked around the table. "I'm kind of in a meeting. Can you make an appointment with my secretary?"

Sherlock ploughed on. "I don't think this can wait. Sorry, Sebastian. One of your traders – someone who worked in your office – was killed."

Thea and John each made a gesture of embarrassment. Sherlock wasn't good with discretion.

"What?" Sebastian asked, nearly choking on his drink.

Thea cleared her throat and narrowed her eyes at her father. "Van Coon. The police are at his flat."

Sebastian was still in shock. "Killed?"

Sherlock was impatient again and very loudly and sarcastically said, "Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion. Still wanna make an appointment? Would, maybe, nine o'clock at Scotland Yard suit?"

The banker put down his glass of water and ran a nervous finger along the collar of his shirt, as if the air itself had suddenly become very suffocating. He led them away from the table and towards the men's room. When Thea tried to enter, Sebastian gave her a look.

"This is the men's room, love."

She nearly gagged at the word "love", but she stared him down and said, "Yes, I'm literate, thank you. Open the door." The banker reluctantly obeyed.

He began washing his hands as John and Sherlock stood on either side of him. Thea stayed close to John. "Harrow; Oxford. Very bright guy. Worked in Asia for a while, so…" Sebastian began.

"…you gave him the Hong Kong accounts," John surmised. The banker nodded as he dried his hands.

"Lost five mill in a single morning; made it all back a week later. Nerves of steel, Eddie had."

"Who'd want to kill him?"

"We all make enemies."

"You don't all end up with a bullet through your temple."

"Not usually," Sebastian conceded, and his phone beeped in his pocket. He pulled it out, "Excuse me." He read over the message he'd received and his jaw tightened. "It's my Chairman. The police have been on to him. Apparently they're telling him it was a suicide."

Sherlock finally stepped in, "Well, they've got it wrong, Sebastian. He was murdered."

The banker, irritated, replaced his phone in his jacket pocket. "Well, I'm afraid they don't see it like that."

"Seb." That threw Thea off. Her father never used people's nicknames. He was desperate.

Sebastian continued sternly, "…and neither does my boss. I hired you to do a job. Don't get side-tracked." With a quick glance at Thea, he left the bathroom in a hurry, and the three of them were left standing awkwardly.

Thea scoffed and said dryly, "I thought bankers were all supposed to be heartless bastards."

They walked out of the restaurant, heads low but turning gears as they thought of the not-suicide (quite popular nowadays, she supposed). In the taxi, John looked intensely out the window while Sherlock looked at Thea, who was in her own world as she replayed the day's events.

"Thea." She met her father's eyes. "Are you alright?" She nodded. "You were the one to discover the body."

"A recurring event in my life," she muttered, though immediately realizing that John was now listening.

"'Recurring'? It's happened more than once?" John asked, a little surprised.

Thea gave him a weak smile. "Another day, perhaps." Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out, expecting it to be Claude with an update on the graffiti she'd sent. Instead, her heart fluttered, her cheeks burned, and her smile grew wider as her screen filled with a message from her secret admirer.

Would it be cliché to bring flowers? Can't wait to see your lovely smile again. Hem