Melody and Sherlock stood in Van Coon's office, looking around in hopes of finding some sort of clue. Eddie's desk was as sparse as his flat, with no personal items, just a few magazines, and a London A to Z on the corner of the desk. Eddie's PA, Amanda is with them, punching passwords into Eddie's computer. Her hair was fastened back with a little green hair pin, which Melody admired. It was unique and looked quite nice. A gift perhaps?

Eddie's calendar popped up, drawing Mel's attention away from the pin. A note in the calendar said 'DALIAN' - marking a trip lasting three days.

"Flew back from Dalian, Friday. Looks like he had back to back meetings with the sales team." Amanda said as she pressed 'Print' - making a copy of the diary for pair.

"What about the day he died? Can you tell me where he was?" the Detective questioned.

"Sorry. There's a bit of a gap."

On the computer screen there was a large blank space in an otherwise crowded diary.

Amanda's face suddenly lit up - an idea! "I've got all his receipts!"

Dimmock rooted through a file of evidence, John standing silently behind him.

"Your friend..." the Inspector started.

"Hey - whatever you say - I'm a hundred per cent behind you." John assured him.

"He's an arrogant sod."

"Oh. That was mild. People say a lot worse than that."

"Yeah, well, I've decided to take the advice of your friend and give him a chance."

"Yeah, well, Lestrade is used to him."

"No, not Lestrade. The girl. Sherlock's girlfriend. She said to give him a chance and God help me, I trust her. She seems like she keeps him in check." Dimmock said as he offered John a pocket diary. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? The journalist's diary."

John took it and opens it to see an aeroplane ticket tucked inside with the airport name printed in all caps: 'DALIAN'.

Sherlock, Melody, and Amanda stood staring at Eddie's receipts for the week, which were spread across the desk. Taxis; meals; buses; trains-everything was there. Sherlock stared - trying to get a sense of the man's life. Posh restaurants, countless expensive bar bills, new suits, Eddie Van Coon seemed to spare no expense.

"What sort of boss was he, Amanda? Appreciative?"

A wry smile appeared on her face at the question. "Err... no. I don't think that's the word I would use. The only things that Eddie appreciated had a big price tag."

"Like that hand cream. He bought that for you, didn't he?"

Amanda seemed utterly disconcerted by this.

Melody shuffled the receipts around like a card game, trying to get them in order.

"Look there. He took a cab from home the day he died. Eighteen pounds fifty." Sherlock noticed, pointing to a particular receipt.

"That would get him into the office."

"It wasn't rush hour. Check the time. Mid-morning. Eighteen would get him as far as..."

"The West End! I remember him saying."

Mel found a train ticket amongst the receipts. "Underground. Printed at one. In Piccadilly."

"So, he took a tube back to the office." There was a beat as they pondered. "Why would he take a cab into town - and then the tube back?"

"He was delivering something heavy." Sherlock suggested. "Don't want to lug a package up the escalators."

"Delivering?"

"To somewhere near Piccadilly station. Left his package and walked back to the tube."

Melody picked up a receipt from the pile for a sandwich shop and smiled.

"Look at this one. He stopped on his way. He got hungry. He got sloppy."

Forty-five minutes later, Sherlock and Melody stood outside the sandwich shop from Van Coon's receipt.

"So. Bought your lunch. En route to the station. Where were you headed from? Where did the cab drop you off?" Sherlock said as he looked around. Suddenly, he turned 180 degrees and walked away from Piccadilly.

Melody took it in stride and followed right behind him, typing out a text as they walked along. Sherlock was so busy looking at the shops on this street, he collided with someone on the pavement. Melody slammed into his back nearly falling on her ass, had it not been for Sherlock's hand shooting back to catch her arm. She righted herself and looked around him to see John.

"Van Coon brought a package here the day he died." Sherlock excitedly explained to him. "Whatever was hidden inside that suitcase. I've managed to piece together his movements using scraps of information..."

"Sherlock..." John tried to interrupt, but Sherlock was already in full swing.

"... credit card bills and receipts. He flew back from China and came here."

"Sherlock..."

"Somewhere in this street. Somewhere close. I don't know where."

"That shop over there." John said, pointing.

"How can you tell?"

"Lukis' diary. He was here. He wrote down the address."

"Oh."

They crossed the street to the shop- an old Chinese Emporium called The Lucky Cat. The golden cat in the window waved at them, classical ceramic figures on display, paper lanterns, Chinese fans and sashes were strung around the door. They went in to see that the inside of the shop was tiny, dingy, and dirty. There was a fluorescent glow, and a layer of dust over everything.

The shopkeeper was an old lady in dark glasses, who was sitting on a stool behind the counter. The radio played what sounded like a Chinese news station in the background. On the shelves were row after row of statuettes - Buddhas and geishas and classical warriors made of cheap stoneware with green and ochre glaze.

The smell of incense burning enticed Melody's senses as she observed a dish of oranges which were covered in dust. Her nose wrinkled, before she turned and observed the lucky Chinese cats with waving paws that seemed to be everywhere, moving in hypnotic unison. All the items were labelled with prices in Chinese.

Sherlock lifted a small stone figurine to expose a small square in the thick layer of dust, proving his thought that no one had shopped there in quite some time.

The shopkeeper decided that John was an eager customer and stood up. "You want Lucky Cat...?"

"Err, no thanks. No." John replied awkwardly.

She lifted a lucky cat from the shelf.

"Ten pound. Ten pound. I think your wife she will like."

Melody looked up at John with a smirk, snickering quietly at his discomfort. Just then, something caught her eye.

"Sherlock, look... On the label there..." she said, capturing his attention.

"I see it." He confirmed, staring at the prices scrawled on the little tickets.

"The symbol." John mused.

They all exchanged a look before jetting outside. The trio perused the shop windows, noticing the same symbols appearing again and again. Price tags at the deli, the blackboard outside the grocers, the Chinese numbers were everywhere, all similar to the tag.

Sherlock slaps his head - how did he miss this!? "It's an ancient number system - Hang Zhou. These days only street traders use it."

The Chinese grocer also displayed the prices in 'regular' numerals, so Melody was quick to translate on the spot. She examined his price tags, scrambling to find a match. "They were numbers! The tags were numbers in an ancient Chinese dialect!" She exclaimed.

"It's a '15'. Look. Just here!" John said, pointing to the symbol. "What we thought was the artist's tag - it's a number '15'."

"And the blindfold. The horizontal line. It's a number as well. It's the Chinese number '1', John!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"We've found it."

While John apologized to the now disgruntled shopkeeper, Melody looked up at Sherlock with new hope and excitement in her eyes. His own eyes shimmered the same way as they exchanged smiles, none of them noticing the woman across the street taking pictures of their moment.