The following is a transcript of a file from the British government records, by Robin A. Woods, dated 15 January 2012. This file is strictly confidential and only for use by the British Government and other relevant parties. Please refrain from perusing the following document if you are not any of the parties listed above. We promise you - we will find you, and we do not take kindly to criminals.

The BlindBanker

After the case that John christened "A Study in Pink" - oh, did I mention how hilarious it was to see Mycroft show up the next day demanding that John take down and edit the post because it mentioned me? - I got to do some catching up with him. Honestly, the first few days was just me nodding along to whatever he was saying - I mean, of course I couldn't remember the entire course content. Just the important parts that I needed, like how to staunch a bleeding wound etcetera etcetera. It was fascinating to learn everything at the time, but I can only remember so much.

John offered to show me around London, but I refused and went out to explore the city on my own one afternoon. On foot, bundled up in my dark green winter coat that had mysteriously appeared, dry-cleaned, on my coat hook. I expect John must have done it. I also started reading British - English? - Literature, and I loved how romantic some of them were. Jane Austen is my new favourite author. I didn't see much of Sherlock, not more than a casual hello-hi on good days, sometimes snapped at on bad days. He was always on the move, either pacing so hard in his flat that I would keep hearing the slight thuds through the ceiling or the occasional squeaky floorboard or hearing him slam the door when leaving for Bart's. I knew he was solving cases, but I was part of the Yard; and since he didn't ask, I didn't ask either. But cases at the Yard weren't half as interesting as the Study in Pink. Yes, Terry, I'm getting to the part about Sherlock, but I need to set the context first.

John invited me up to 221B for tea almost daily, and one day he was getting ready to leave for his shift at Bart's and I was going down to my flat when he muttered something about not having milk. And me, being the idiotic British-American, offered to help him get it. Quite. Persistently. I literally wouldn't take no for an answer. God, I can't stop cringing. I offered to get him milk and whatever else he needed but the shopping trip was such a disaster. I couldn't find the nearest supermarket, and then I realised that I had never shopped at a supermarket before and didn't know things like fruits and vegetables would be in the same section. ThenI decided to do some of my own grocery shopping and because I hadn't made a list, I got about one of everything and I had to carry all of that all the way back to Baker Street. At least I didn't get lost again.

I dropped their bags off at 221B and brought mine down to 221C. I had such a fun time arranging everything because I had so much space and it was a plain canvas so I could organise it however I liked. After that, I was kind of exhausted, but mentally more so than physically. I had no idea normal life was that tiring! Yes, yes, I'm getting to him. I rested for a few hours in an armchair, and was nodding off when I distantly heard footsteps, and realised that John must be back from his shift at Bart's. And the bags were still right behind the door, which, in hindsight, probably wasn't the best place to put it. How did I even get it there again?

So I pulled myself up and ran up, the stairs two at a time in front of John and when I got to 221B I pushed the door hard, because I thought the bags were there. But they weren't, so the door swung open easily and I fell, on my face, in front of Sherlock Holmes who, apparently, had already returned from his morning excursions but quietly enough so I didn't hear, and was gracious enough to put the bags away. Literally none of that sentence makes sense.

I didn't break my nose or anything, luckily, but I did get a bruise on my forehead. I was dusting myself off when John came up, confused, and Sherlock was reading something on his laptop, like he didn't see me stumble in. He then closes the laptop, says something to John about Sebastian Wikes, and some mystery at a bank. I never really understood banks - yes, alright Terry. Any more of that and you'll be on my list. I was just going back down to my flat when John invited me along. I graciously declined but John kept insisting and Sherlock was still as impatient as ever and it kept going back and forth until Sherlock went down in a huff, and I thought that was that, but then he came up with my coat, scarf and mittens again. Was it really that obvious that I was terribly un-acclimated to London weather?

So. Went to a bank, met his sorry excuse of a classmate called Sebastian Wikes. He was terrible. He called Sherlock's talent a 'trick,' like he was some cheap magician eliciting laughs from an audience. Absolute zero respect for people around him. Smug and arrogant, but different from Sherlock. It's-it's hard to explain. You can't know it unless you...feel it for yourself. I really need to lay off the Jane Austen novels.

He noticed the Barker shoes, too. I meant to buy a new pair, but it just felt so awkward, going shopping alone. All the store assistants' attention directed at you, ugh. Maybe if I had a friend, certainly not took some getting used to, but I ended up liking them. I generally have big feet and this was the first pair of shoes that didn't feel tight at all.

"Are those...men's Barker shoes?"

"Yes, and I find them rather fetching, don't you?"

Ohoho that felt so good, rubbing that in his face. Hey, asshole! I don't give a fuck about you! Sorry. Had to get that out of my system.

The case - The Blind Banker, as you know it - started with graffiti on a portrait. Odd symbol, something of an 8 and a line. Sherlock started dancing around a bit, positioning himself from different points, walking, measuring...I don't even know. John left to get a coffee for himself and Sebastian kept wandering around me until I couldn't take it.

"Sebastian! Is there anything I could do for you?"

"Oh, nothing, just watching the...investigation, if you could even call it that."

Then he did this awful smirk thing and met my gaze like he was expecting me to laugh.

"How very backhanded of you to mock him when he's helping you."

He choked a bit on his coffee. That felt good.

"Who are you anyway?"

"A friend, a concept which I'm sure is lost on you."

"Are you always this unpleasant?"

"I don't know; are you always this much of a bully?"

That shut him up. He just handed me a cheque to pass to Sherlock later. I kept my face neutral when I glanced at the amount while slipping it into my wallet. Wait. Was I paid as an M16 agent? I can't remember. I didn't really have holidays and everything was sort of provided for me. Anyway, at that point in time, I was still trying to understand money. Like what was a big amount and what wasn't. Looking back, that cheque definitely was a big amount.

Sherlock came over and Sebastian scampered.

"Where's John?"

"Dr. Watson went to get a coffee."

"Must you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Call him Dr. Watson?"

"It feels odd to call him...John. Feels disrespectful."

Sherlock hummed and looked around noncommittally. Seeing him so relaxed raised my suspicions. I mean, first he couldn't keep still, then he abruptly stops and chats with me?

"You're doing that thing, aren't you?"

"What thing?"

"The deducing thing. The Science of Deduction."

"You've read my blog."

His tone was completely neutral, but he looked quite pleased. He wasn't surprised or anything, just damn pleased. And he said it like a fact, like it was obvious. Maybe it was. Hell, maybe I was just talking to John and it came up. Ok, fine, I was curious about my high-and-mighty neighbour about whom everyone kept going on and on and on about being so spiffingly brilliant. So sue me.

"And Dr. Watson's. But I did drop by yours first. I don't have much to do these days."

"Why not go full-time at the Yard?"

I wrinkled my nose distastefully before I could stop myself. I glanced at him and he had that understanding look he gets, that annoying I-know-something-you-don't thing like he's just solved world peace.

"Okay, maybe I thought working at the Yard would be more…"

"Thrilling?"

"Eventful."

"I see what you mean. Must be boring after running around as an M16 agent."

"Okay, enough of this. What are you trying to do, Sherlock? Recruit me?"

"Perhaps."

"What do you want, then?"

"How good are you at scaling without equipment?"

An hour or so later, we're outside the home of Coon. We tried buzzing Mr. Van Coon a few times but when we didn't get any response, the three of us walked around the building till we're facing the balconies. While we were walking, I stopped abruptly. Almost like I heard the sound of a camera shutter. It's one of the most important rules: you can't be watched, and no one should know you even exist to stalk you in the first place. If we feel like we're being followed, we terminate the mission and return to headquarters because chances are, they - the stalkers - probably already know more about us than we think. I was still trying to listen for that sound again when Sherlock said something. I clearly wasn't listening so he repeated himself, annoyed.

"Can you climb up to the sixth floor?"

I wanted to laugh. And it took my mind off the camera. In my defense, it was only for a fraction of a second. Hell, I could've imagined it.

"Sherlock, it isn't about whether or not I can climb. People will see."

"So?"

"Then they'll think I'm breaking and entering. Mr. Van Coon will think I'm breaking and entering when he sees me in his flat."

"I thought we already established that Mr. Van Coon is absent from his flat."

"You saw the graffiti! He saw the graffiti. He knows someone's after him. Is it that big of a surprise that he won't respond to a random stranger buzzing him?"

"If he saw the graffiti, he knows someone's after him, and we won't know who until we interrogate him."

"Sherlock, isn't there a...nicer way to help Van Coon?"

"Definitely. We can sit around making daisy chains while someone breaks in and kills him."

"Why don't we just rewind the security tape and find the culprit from there?"

"Oh! OH! How wonderful, why didn't I think of that? Oh wait, I did."

"You don't have to be so cutting, you know."

"You don't have to be so idiotic!"

"You don't- is that Dr. Watson?"

I happened to glance up and there was John waving up at us from the sixth-floor balcony. Sherlock and I stared at each other before rushing up the six floors to the flat. John got tired of our argument and buzzed the sweet old lady who lived above him and asked if he could use her balcony.

Sherlock completely ignored me after that and started looking around the living room with that stupid sliding lens that he carries. Ugh, we get it, you're a modern-day detective. So much for wanting to get to know me. We walked around for a while, and I walked into this glass coffee table with painful corners. In my defense, it was on the left when it should have been on the right. John was interested in this one door which we couldn't open, even when I tried kicking it down. Everything was fine, my stance, my power, the angle, but when my foot hit the door, my ankle just vibrated very painfully. No fracture or sprain, thankfully, but it still hurt.

"Marvellous idea, kicking down a door whose hinges are towards you."

"Fine! If you're so bloody brilliant, you open the door." I started rummaging for an Allen key I had, I was so sure I had one in my pockets, watching Sherlock unscrew the hinges using one.

"Funny, I had an-"

Then he handed it to me just as I realised he pickpocketed me. UGH, that was so annoying. Especially after I told him how I was very careful about my pockets. He was so smug, it was infuriating.

That is, until we got to the dead man on the bed.

DI Dimmock was on duty that day. I thought he didn't really like me then, for some reason. He has got a squinty sort of face. Lestrade was elsewhere, and that was the day I realised how reliant Sherlock was on him, whatever he insisted otherwise. Maybe it just gave him a sense of comfort to always work with the same person. There was this black origami flower, and Sherlock said he was being threatened. The poor man. He was shot through the right side of his head. But, as I had realised, Van Coon was left-handed. Sherlock did a funny mime of how he'd have to twist to shoot himself on the right with his left hand and I laughed.

DI Dimmock looked even less pleased.

"It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head."

"Unless he uses his right hand." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Dr. Watson's left-handed, and he shoots with his right."

He was speechless, for a while. It was satisfying, but not as much as I thought it would be. Really, the only reason I pointed that out was to trip him up.

"Er, but that wouldn't explain the flower, right? You were saying?"

"...yes. It doesn't explain the flower. Conclusion: someone broke in here and murdered him."

So, to sum up, Van Coon had a gun because he was waiting for his attacker and tried to shoot him when he entered, but the bullet went out the open window. Attacker shoots him and puts the black origami flower in Van Coon's mouth. Oh, I really didn't like it when Sherlock took out the flower. You could hear the air hiss out from Van Coon's lungs.

After that, we found Sebastian and told him of the news. He seemed a bit annoyed at first, like this was just an insignificant charade designed to irk him and I just couldn't take it any longer and yelled at him that Van Coon's dead. Probably not the best idea in a restaurant full of people, but it got his attention.

He left the table and stepped outside for a while. He seemed to be in shock, like he couldn't process what was happening. Sherlock started explaining the murder and I felt that odd sensation again, and a flash that almost blinded me. John had felt something too, this time.

"I felt this back at Van Coon's, when Sherlock was asking me to scale the building."

"Maybe it was just the light reflecting off a car's window."

"Will you two pipe down!"

John and I fell silent, Sherlock continued. He looked really pale and nervous, and I was starting to feel a bit bad for him. Sebastian, not Sherlock. Then his phone started pinging with text messages and when he started reading them, he became a lot more stiff. Said Sherlock was wasting his time with ridiculous notions of murder when the police determined it as a suicide. He was very curt, and returned to his meeting.

Sherlock and I went back to 221B while John went off for a job interview. I wished him luck, but Sherlock didn't seem to realise he was gone. He still seemed lost in his thoughts and we were kind of just standing on the pavement, while people were walking all around us so I hesitantly tried to flag a cab. I couldn't. Finally, one cab pulled up and I was so happy until I saw that it was Sherlock who had flagged it down. Sherlock sat inside and just as I was about to sit too, I felt that, feeling again. That prickling sensation at the back of my neck. I firmly told myself that it was just me not being used to being around so many people, and that there's probably always someone who's looking at me, and sat inside.

Sherlock was still silent for most of the trip back. Of course he felt no need to make polite conversation or even acknowledge my existence. He was looking out the window. And not just vacantly staring out, either. His eyes were following every tree and lamppost, until it disappeared from sight and then his eyes would dart to the next one. Really. He found trees more interesting than me. I remembered our cab fare to the bank from the morning and the restaurant we were at was kind of close to the bank. I started counting out the money. British currency, like any currency, isn't confusing if you take the time to look at the money carefully, for engravings or a number. When I was done, we were at Baker Street and I paid the cabbie.

When we walked into the apartment - well - ahaha, the strangest thing happened. Sherlock walked up to 221B and, y'know, I spent the whole day following him...but I hesitated to walk up the stairs after him. Partly because I wasn't sure if I could, or if I even wanted to. I mean, every second I spent with him was me becoming more roped in...his consulting business. And Sherlock doesn't dawdle, so he was already at the top while I was having second thoughts. I figured that he probably didn't really need me, so I went down to 221C.

It's great, having my own apartment. But at that point in time, I didn't really like it. I was used to being alone, not talking to anyone for days on end sometimes, as long as I had something to do or think about. Some places in the world really are that lonely. I sat in my armchair, then walked around a bit. I could hear Sherlock walking around, pausing sometimes. And, it's ridiculous, but I spent the next hour following him. Or trying to, anyway. It was like my way of trying to learn how he worked, or maybe just to peek into a corner of his complex mind, even though I didn't really know what I was seeing. I had the same layout as 221B, so I tried to figure out where he was through the floorboards. Then he stopped walking around. Why did he stop? Did he need help? I needed to know. I went and stared in my fridge and liked how organised everything was. Organised and boring. Then I started thinking - what if I left a bag upstairs? I mean, I only see five cans of beans, and I could've sworn I bought six.

So, before I could think anymore, I silently leapt up the stairs, two at a time. I hesitated again when I touched the doorknob but took the plunge anyway. Sherlock was staring at the pictures around the mirror. At first, I thought he didn't realise I was here until he muttered something.

"I said, 'could you pass me a pen?'"

My heart stopped because I thought someone else was also in the room, which would make my barging in even more awkward.

"When, exactly?"

"About an hour ago."

Well. Well. I couldn't tell if he knew it was me, but he may not know it was me, and who am I to enlighten the ignorant? He said it himself, he needed a pen, and I obliged.

Only, I must have done something odd, or maybe John just hands him pens in a different way, because he frowned and looked away from his pictures at me when I was two steps away from him. So I panicked, and threw the pen at him. Which he caught. Like having a sharp mind isn't enough, the bastard has to have excellent reflexes.

He looked at the pen for a while, turning it over, then looked at me. I probably had that nervous half-smile from uni which is really just me showing all my teeth. I don't know why.

"You're not John."

"...no. Shall I leave?"

"Only if you want to. I doubt you'd find much interest here. Not many people do."

"I think I'd like to decide for myself."

Huh. Really, I thought he'd be a bit more possessive about his apartment space. Frankly, I was imagining him going full-on ballistic the second I walked through the door. So I stayed. And I like to think I helped. Their apartment's much more interesting and filled with things. There was a knife in the poor mantle, along with a skull. I didn't want to disturb him again, so I just explored discreetly. I figured out the walking thing, too. He usually thinks about many things at once. Like he'll look at the pictures for a while, check on his experiment for a moment, agonise over whatever's stabbed on the mantle, use his laptop etcetera. But sometimes, he'll just stare off into thin air, and that's him in his 'mind palace.' Impossible to get his attention then. What? No, of course not. All of this took me weeks to find out, that too with the help of John.

Speaking of John, he returned from his interview half an hour later. Didn't seem surprised in the least to see me there. Went to the kitchen and started making me tea for himself; Sherlock and I didn't want any. He says digesting slows his thinking down. Don't get me wrong, I-...Sherlock can be a bit pretentious sometimes. Oh, don't look at me like that, Terry.

"How was the interview, Dr.-"

"John, please."

"Er, how was it?"

"It was good. She was good."

"..'she'?"

"It. I mean it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes from behind the computer, and I went over to read whatever was stabbed on the mantle for the hundredth time, trying and failing not to feel awkward. Sherlock did a bit more typing and turned the laptop towards me, getting up to look at the pictures again. I went to the kitchen to help John with his tea.

"So, did he shut you out the entire time?"

"Mostly, yes, but he did ask me for a pen when I walked in."

"Ah, yes. Once he asked me

John was still in the kitchen, but he might not know that, but then again by now I knew that he pays attention to his surroundings more than he lets on, which means he wanted me to-?

"Read it."

"Right."

It was another murder. All doors and windows locked, no sign of a break-in. But the person was very much dead. And, of course, the hypothesised murderer - the intruder who can walk through walls. I looked up breathlessly.

"Just like Van Coon!"

"Just like Van Coon."

"What's like Van Coon?"

"This." John read the article silently, grimacing at some parts.

"But how?"

"That's the fun part."

Dimmock doesn't like any of the three of us but it was a unanimous vote that I be the one to talk to him (!) because he would be 'less likely to arrest his own employee.' Psh. If anything, I'm more likely to get fired, and then Mycroft would have another talk to Gary who would talk to me, and then I'd probably be transferred again and...I kind of liked London. Sherlock spent the entire cab ride drilling the list of points I had to bring up to him.

"Why don't you just talk to him yourself?"

"And completely destroy any chance of ever seeing the crime scene?"

"Why five minutes?"

"That's all I need."

FIve minutes. Five minutes. It's always five minutes for Sherlock. Deducing, 'dying', secretly running away. Same thing.

So I stood near Dimmock's desk with the computer for a while, baring my teeth, until he couldn't ignore me anymore.

"Ms. Wood, do you have something to say?"

"There's been another murder. Same style, everything matches up. And did the ballistics report come in yet?"

"...yes."

"It wasn't-"

"No, it wasn't. Shouldn't Holmes be-"

"I'm right here." And Sherlock steps out from his hiding place. He was crouching behind a potted plant even though John was just standing next to it. His eyes were intense, almost glowing.

"Dimmock, you saw the ballistics report yourself. And now I've just handed you a murder enquiry. Five minutes in his flat."

So we went to his flat. There was police tape everywhere and loads of books. The man had barricaded himself in a room four floors up. Even I knew that was a bad decision. Sherlock found out how the murderer got in - through the skylight. He said the murderer could climb. That's why he wanted me to scale Van Coon's apartment - he wanted to see how professional of a climber our murderer had to be. Well, to scale the six stories at Van Coon's - pretty damn professional.

We were about to leave, but then Sherlock picks up this book from the floor with a receipt on the front page, with a date stamped on it, the same day the man died. It's a library book and, of course, our newest lead. We go to West Kensington Library to return the book, but that's not enough for Sherlock, who needs to know exactly where the book was placed. He and John started pulling out books, Sherlock was looking for something and John was just trying to help. I wandered a bit further down and saw this book - The Spy Who Changed History by Svetlana Lokhova. I didn't get it to read it then, but I read it another time and it was amazing. Anyway, I pulled it out, and I saw something yellow on the back of the shelf. I pulled out a few more books and saw that it continued.

"Er, Sherlock?"

And then he comes over and pulls out like ten huge books with his own two hands, like, wow, could he be more of a show-off? And it's the same symbols - spray-painted again. That's the thing about spray-painting, or any paint really - it's messy and impossible to clean. I get that it was this super secret organisation or whatever, but do you have to deface public property? I pointed that out, and Sherlock became really thoughtful.

We left the library, but didn't go back to Baker Street. We went to Trafalgar Square instead. Sherlock needed 'advice', apparently. We met this graffiti artist that was a friend of Sherlock's. Sherlock's friends with the most unassuming people. Raz really didn't look like much, but all he needed was a photograph to identify the type of paint. Well, he was an expert. He didn't recognise the symbols but offered to ask around. I smiled at him and he looked a bit disconcerted. Maybe he just wasn't used to having people smile at him.

Then he had to dash because a Community Support officer was coming around the corner and he thrust his cans to John who caught them and was just standing there then Sherlock started dragging me off and I was dragging John and the three of us made a lovely chain, tripping over each other.

The 3 of us went back to Baker Street. Sherlock did a bit more thinking with the photographs and John made tea. I went downstairs to put my scarf and gloves away when Mrs Hudson mentioned that a parcel had come for me. There was a letter =, and my Chemistry textbooks. Now, here's the thing - I don't hate Chemistry. I was really good at it. In Secondary school. But I couldn't make heads or tails of alkanes, or alkenes and the - aster? ester? - functional groups. Organic Chemistry was never really my thing. I was brooding over my doomed fate when I heard pounding on the stairs, Sherlock rushing down, in his coat again. Really, the amount of going in and out he did all in one day! I liked the mystery-solving, but I was tired, and sad, and I wanted to mope.

"I haven't even taken my scarf off yet!"

"Good - I need you to go down to the Yard and get a hold of the journalist's belongings."

"Belongings?"

"His diary, planner - anything to help us track his movements."

"Where's John?"

"Insisting on his evening cup of tea - he's getting old."

John was hardly getting old, and neither were you. He's really too young to be playing a charade like this, but what do I know?

"You're coming with?"

"No - I'm meeting Van Coon's P.A. They need to coincide somewhere."

So we split up outside - Sherlock hurriedly waved down a cab and I thought it was for himself, but he started walking - more like jogging - in the opposite direction when it started pulling up. Just as I was about to get in, I felt that sensation again. Of being watched. I put one foot in the taxi and bent like I was about to get in and looked around quickly.

That was when I first saw her - a woman with dark hair and dark sunglasses, facing me. But then a bus zoomed past and she was gone. The cabbie was getting impatient so I got in. I spent the entire ride trying to make some sense of it, but couldn't. Maybe it was because I was thinking so much about her that I wasn;t nervous at all when I asked DI Dimmock for Brian Lukis' diary.

"Your friend…"

"He's not half as bad as he looks."

"He's an arrogant sod."

"Ah. Well, that's actually quite accurate. I think. I've only known him for two weeks."

As of today, I've known him for...two years, give or take? Are we counting the time since he's gone missing? Come on, Terry, you knew him too. Sort of. You can't possibly think he's actually dead.

Really? Nothing? Now's the time you shut up? Whatever.

And no. It wasn't.

"But...I think there's still something else. I don't really know yet."

"You'll know when I see it for myself. Here - the diary."

I bumped into Sherlock and John in Chinatown, after finding an address to a shop in Lukis' diary. He was rattling off nonsense for all I could understand of it, until John finally managed to stop him by knocking his forehead and I told him about the diary. He can get a bit carried away, sometimes. The address was of a Chinese lucky cat shop. The shopkeeper was quite sweet, but very insistent that we buy one, kept saying that my -

Well, she wanted me to buy one.

John found the painted cipher under one of the cups, and Sherlock apparently understood something because he just left abruptly. John and I followed him out and he pointed out all the similar looking strange symbols on price tags all around us - the ciphers were just numbers of an ancient Chinese dialect. Then we stopped for lunch, and discussed what we found out. To sum up: Van Coon and Lukis were both smuggling stuff from China, under the guise of business trips and what not, and the shop we were just in, The Lucky Cat, was their drop-off. So why were they killed? Probably because something that either of them were supposed to smuggle out went missing, so the killer knew one of them stole it but doesn't know who, so he kills them both. Effective? Yes. Morally incorrect? Certainly.

Then Sherlock jumps up and I stand up too. John exasperatedly leans back in his chair, but after a few moments gets up too. Sherlock's at the flat right next to The Lucky Cat, fingering the damp top of a copy of the Yellow Pages that was left outside.

"No one's been in this flat for three days."

"Could've gone on holiday."

"And left their windows open?"

I felt a flash of light in the very corner of my eye, to my right. I inhaled sharply and walked to the right until I came across an alley. But there was no one around. I stamped my foot in frustration, and Sherlock followed me.

"What- oh."

Apparently, there was a fire escape in that alley, and Sherlock took a bit of a run and jumped to pull it down. He climbed up quickly enough but the fire escape swung up to being horizontal again by the time Sherlock was at the top. John and I tried to call out to him, but of course, received no response. We watched the window through which Sherlock had disappeared through for a while, then looked at each other.

"Can you-?"

"I'm not a kangaroo, Dr. Watson. I can only jump so high."

So we waited around for a while.

"Er, Sherlock? Think you can let us in this time?"

"...no response. Is this-?"

"All the time, yeah."

We waited outside for a few minutes, then walked back to the front door and took turns yelling at Sherlock through the letterbox. We hear some muffled response for a while but can't really hear much because of the noise on the street. After a while, we hear no more yelling.

"He's given up on us."

"I'd have given up on us."

"How are you so patient with him? All the bloody time?"

"I know, it can be irritating, how he's so…"

"Self-centered? Literally? Like he actually believes the universe revolves around him?"

Y'know, there really is such a thing as dramatic irony.

"Yeah, no. That's actually the one thing he doesn't think of himself."

"Really? I find that hard to believe! Look at me, I'm Sherlock Holmes, I walk around with a head two sizes too big because no one else can compete with my MASSIVE INTELLECT!"

There. I did it. I yelled at him for the first time. It felt freeing. John was amused. There was silence for a while, of what we could hear at least, then we heard rapid footsteps and Sherlock flung the door open, rubbing his neck. I gave an exasperated sort of snort and marched past him into the flat. I didn't feel like being so polite anymore

"Well?"

"The, uh, milk's gone off and the washing's starting to smell. Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago."

His voice was all croaky.

"Are you getting a cold?"

"No, I'm f-"

"You must be. It's not like anyone strangled you or - oh my god, someone strangled you?!"

Sherlock was looking around shiftily and had a bleeding cut on his cheek. I spotted a black orchid in his hand. But he looked distinctly uncomfortable, so I decided not to push it.

Still. They tried to kill him.

Sherlock was literally almost murdered seconds ago and he had the audacity to just open the door and talk about spoilt milk like nothing happened. I didn't know what to think of it then, and now I don't want to think about it at all. I looked around for something to change the subject.

"National Antiquities Museum?"

And that's where we went next.

We met this guy called Andy at the museum. Sherlock already knew to ask for him from a small note he left her - Soo Lin Yao. For a high-functioning sociopath, Sherlock understands feelings more than he lets on. Soo Lin Yao had disappeared three days ago, right in the middle of a restoration project of clay teapots that she was quite passionate about, according to Andy. Actually, I found the teapots first when I tried to pick one of them up but it was so slippery. When he was showing us where Soo Lin usually kept her things, Sherlock found a sculpture with the same cipher, same paint. The same thing made Soo Lin disappear.

It was nighttime by the time we left the museum, and we met Raz right outside of it, saying he had something to show us. He took us to a skate park and showed us where similar symbols were spray painted, with the same time of paint. Clever, like Sherlock said - hiding a tree in the middle of a forest. He did this thing where he tilted his head slightly to the right and lifted his chin just a fraction. He didn't just do that when he was being smart. He did it when he was...proud, in a way, of others who were as smart as he was sometimes.

Sherlock is, and always has been, too smart to get himself killed. That's what I keep telling everyone but no one believes me. You'll see. One day. When he comes back.

Because he will.

We split up - well, more of Sherlock running off ahead and John and I trying to catch up together. We found an entire wall with all sorts of symbols painted there. Jackpot. I took a photograph with my phone and we ran to get Sherlock. But when we brought him back to the wall, it was all painted over. And I was in so much disbelief that I idiotically went and touched the wall, and got wet paint all over my hand.

When I turned, Sherlock was grabbing John's head and looking into his eyes very intensely while spinning him. I tapped Sherlock on the shoulder and showed him the picture. He still had a bit of momentum when he let go of John and almost flung him into the mud.

After that, we went back to Baker Street. This time, I didn't blink going up to 221B. I sat on their couch and kept dropping off because of how very cosy I felt, since I didn't bother taking my coat off this time. John was straight-up taking a nap. This can go on for weeks, he said. Better sleep while you can. I mean, I was really tired, but all I saw were dripping Chinese numbers when I closed my eyes. That, and Sherlock kept muttering.

"Can you shut it for just a minute!"

"Pairs."

"What?"

He suddenly took out a pistol from his pocket and fired it at the wall on the smiley face, to punctuate his words. That woke me right up. John didn't even stir.

"Pairs! Every one of them! But why?"

"I don't know!"

"Of course you don't. I don't know either."

"Hmph."

"What do you think?"

I thought I misheard him.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You heard me perfectly. So?"

I sat up a bit, and rubbed some feeling back into my hands.

"Uh...the letters were very close to railroad tracks."

"Yes."

"Lots of people walk by them."

"Obviously."

"It's...it's something everybody sees-"

Sherlock turned abruptly and looked at the photos again.

"Of course. It's code."

"For what?"

"We need Soo Lin Yao."

And a minute later, Sherlock's woken John up and halfway down the stairs with his coat on, not even waiting for us. Did I know what was going on? Eh...that's a stretch. Did John know what was going on? No. Did John even care? No.

We went back to the museum and met Andy again, but he couldn't tell us much about what had happened to Soo Lin. Only that she left in a rush, even though she was really passionate about the teapots, and that she could be miles away by now. I looked at them again, but something felt odd to me. I couldn't quite place my finger on it.

"Robin?"

"Hm?"

"Ready to go?"

"Er...yeah."

Sherlock noticed me looking at the teapots and came over.

"What's different?"

"They're both shiny."

I didn't even realise that I knew what was different until I said it myself. But it was true; that was what was different. I remember specifically picking up the shiny one the other day because I didn't want the other, crumbly looking one to disintegrate. But now they were both shining. Sherlock asked Andy how they had to be restored and he said that tea needed to be kept being made in them. So Soo Lin was 'gone', but someone else had already taken up the job of restoring the teapots?

So we waited till it was dark, and we waited for a long time. Sherlock wasn't telling us anything, but he was waiting. Watching. Five minutes to eleven, we start hearing this soft, running sound. Like gently poured water, except it was tea. It was very faint, and it took us a while of quiet creeping around to find the room. Sherlock went first, and it was Soo Lin Yao. He had a hunch she hadn't really left. Almost dropped the teapot, I nearly had a heart attack, but Sherlock caught it. It's unfair how quick his reflexes are.

We started talking to Soo Lin. Despite the initial fright, she wasn't as wary of us as I expected her to be. And Sherlock...well, he wasn't nice, but he wasn't rude either. Soo Lin was very brave - brave to tell us, brave to run away from her toxic life as soon as she could. Brave enough to stand up for herself. Brave enough to cut ties with her brother when she had to. I don't think I could ever do anything like that. Especially when her brother found her again, and she still refused to help him. She was just helping Sherlock translate the numbers, and said that it was based on a book, when all the lights went out.

I stopped breathing, and I didn't even realise it until I felt a hand over mine. I exhaled sharply, but for the first time in my life, I was shaking. I had seen much worse, I had been through much worse, but I was trembling just because the lights went out. And the fear in Soo Lin's voice when she whispered...it was full of pain. I think I remember reaching out and squeezing her hand, but it was so dark and the air was heavy with fear.

Sherlock wastes no time in running off, and I pretend not to hear John's urgent whispers as I follow him. Or try to. I got lost rather quickly, because I was too focused trying to feel my way through the dark. After a while, I hear gunshots and I run into this corridor that's lit up with moonlight, and I can tell Sherlock's gotten himself into something. I hid in one of the cupboards and left just a crack to know what's going on. I try to find some pattern to the gunshots, or where they're coming from, and then Sherlock yells. And he tells them to be careful, because 'some of these skulls are over two hundred thousand years old', and they should 'show some respect.' Was he trying to get himself killed? At least that meant he wasn't shot, if he could still...whatever he was doing. And suddenly all I could think about was Sherlock inspecting the skulls and choosing a new one for his mantle and I had to stuff my fist in my mouth to stop myself from laughing hysterically.

Then I realise that the gunshots have stopped, so I step out and try to go back to where John and Soo Lin were, keeping in the shadows, when I hear one last gunshot that turned my blood cold. It came from where I was heading. And suddenly I didn't want to go there anymore. We were so close, I was so sure things would work out, but they didn't. Because I got swept up in all the mystery like Sherlock. Maybe if I stayed with her, she'd be alive today. John found me waiting outside the room, and was relieved that I wasn't shot. And it was true. I wasn't shot. I've been shot before, and I knew this felt worse. Sherlock followed soon after and he didn't even pause at the door. Just went in, and came out twenty-three seconds later with a black orchid.

We went to Scotland Yard, and Dimmock looked annoyed at best when we told him about...a girl was dead, and he couldn't even be bothered. We told him about the Black Lotus, but he kept asking for proof. Ahem, yes, the proof is dead. In case you haven't noticed, that's what we've been trying to tell you.

But Sherlock didn't need Soo Lin, which is how we ended up at St. Bart's. I had no idea Molly worked there until Sherlock mentioned her in passing! We took Dr. Watson's course together, and were lab partners. Ah, the fun times we had. Well, the fun times I had and the times Molly had to put up with me. Looking back, I really was terrible. I always made Molly do the boring or dangerous stuff and insisted on doing the 'fun' stuff - Molly was pretty tolerant to put up with me. I think I didn't let her use the lighter when switching on the bunsen burner even once. I always made her turn the gas tap or adjust the air holes because I was too scared to do it myself.

Molly was having her dinner, but she was actually happy to see me, even after all I put her through. Sherlock made her pull out the bodies of Van Coon and Lukis afterwards, even though she was done with all the paperwork. There, he showed Dimmock the black flower on each of their heels, and that was enough proof for him. And Sherlock immediately demanded every book from Van Coon's and Lukis' apartment. I could see why it seemed crazy to Dimmock, but he was surprisingly cooperative.

After that, we went back to Baker Street and Sherlock did a bit of research and found online auctions of Chinese antiques from undisclosed sources - another piece in the puzzle that fit. Then Dimmock came with all the books. I could tell he was feeling a bit sorry for not believing us before and really tried to be helpful, but Sherlock just snubbed him. I didn't know if I could or should apologise for him so I just walked Dimmock to the door and thanked him, in general. Then hell started.

'Hell' was flipping to the fifteenth page of each and every book and reading the first word to see if it made sense. Not to mention all the digging up we had to do before that to see if the other person even had a copy of the book. I got paper cuts all over my fingers and was properly put off from my reading extravaganza for an entire month after that. Around half an hour in, we had a blackout, so we had to light candles and balance them around the flat. At first, it was all three of us, but John had to work at Bart's in the morning, so it was just me and Sherlock after a while. He seemed like a machine, book after book without even a moment's rest. I don't know how he does it, having so much energy when I rarely see him eat or sleep. Ah, yes, eating and sleeping. Halfway through the night, Sherlock suddenly pauses, and he hasn't stopped since he started, so it was alarming.

"Did you find it?" I sounded so whiny and pathetic, but my eyelids were gluing themselves shut. I had never done it before, but I could tell this was going to be the first time I fell asleep standing. I never was good at staying awake on long night missions too. Always got chided by my supervisor.

"No. When was the last time you ate?"

"Uh...long? But if you want, I can tell you five hundred individual words with absolutely no relation in between them and have absolutely no meaning at all, from 'cigarettes' to 'imagine'."

Sherlock just nodded and resumed. I was feeling a bit hungry then, when I thought about it, but I just put it out of my mind and continued. I was used to stuff like that. Later, when we started having to pile books on the kitchen counter when we were running out of space, I saw a packaged sandwich. By then I was really hungry and looking at food made me even worse.

"Hey, Sherlock - is that yours?"

"Hm?" He barely lifted his eyes off the books for a fraction of a second. "Oh, no, that was going to be John's dinner. Looks like he forgot. Pity. It'll spoil by morning."

"We can just put it in the-"

"You really don't want to-"

And that was the first time I opened 221B's refrigerator. I recognise a few of you here; you've been in 221B before. Probably even peeked inside the infamous refrigerator of experiments. I don't blame you. Maybe you even grimaced at it. Well, that's nothing compared to seeing floating thumbs after hours of seeing words dance in your vision, late at night, weak with hunger. I thought I was hallucinating. I didn't really process it deeply enough to be shocked by what I was seeing, but enough to know that I couldn't put the sandwich inside.

"Do you want the sandwich?"

"I don't eat while I'm working; digestion slows me down. You have it."

"Oh. Okay then." I glanced at him, and he looked funny in the candlelight.

I could have sworn he was smiling, if I didn't know Sherlock Holmes doesn't smile. Not sincerely at least.

I think I was wrong, about him. He didn't really look like a machine. If anything, that was the most human I saw him. He did start slowing down after a few hours, and he even rubbed his eyes once. He showed signs of exhaustion too, but he kept at it. People say Sherlock Holmes is arrogant and rude, but I say he's dedicated. Passionate. No matter how much he tries to convince you otherwise. I think the greatest tragedy is that he left thinking his heart undermined his head. It didn't. If anything, it made it more beautiful. Don't worry, I'll tell him when he comes back. Promise.

We continued till morning, when John woke up. I couldn't believe we stayed up the entire night. I've stayed up quite late before, but always slept for an hour at least. Then I crashed on their couch and woke up at around 2 pm. Sherlock was at the books again but I think he took a break when I did too, because he didn't look so exhausted anymore.

"Lunch?"

"No, I'm good."

"Well, I'm going out."

"I thought you didn't eat on a case. Digestion and all that."

"Well, I'm feeling peckish. Carry on!"

I didn't actually believe he would stop for food. I just stood there in disbelief as he wore his coat and walked out the door, closing it behind him. I gave it three beats before I pulled on my own coat and scarf, jamming my hands in my gloves and shouldering the door open. It took me a while to find him but he really is a head taller than everyone.

"Decided to join me?"

"It's dull enough sorting books with you, I might die if I do it alone."

We had chips at Angelo's, at the exact same place we sat while watching the street outside, and Sherlock decided to amuse me by making deductions of the people walking by.

"Banker."

"Because of the polished shoes?"

"His watch - expensive, same brand as the last two people who walked into the bank. Child's play."

"Tell me something about...that guy."

"Going through an identity crisis. Tag on his shirt has been ripped off, shows he's feeling conflicted about minute details like where he shops and it's baggy, which means he's lost a lot of weight in a short amount of time. He's smiling at anyone who looks his way but there are no smile lines near his eyes or mouth and he looks uncomfortable when they look away - isn't used to being so cheerful, implying that he's not sure about what his personality is, or should be like. The guitar on his back - uncomfortable, he isn't used to it, so he's just picked it up as a hobby, but why? Because he's redefining himself because of an-"

And then he stopped. At least he tried to be nice about it.

After that, we came back to Baker Street. I continued helping him with the books, but this time we had a different tactic. We started with books that most people would own - the Bible, the Oxford dictionary, and so on. Still couldn't find the damn book. We were itching for another break at 4 pm so I went down to my flat while Sherlock went out. It felt so foreign. Yesterday felt like ages ago. I did a bit of writing, when I heard John walk in. I waved at him while walking out for a bit of fresh air; of course, only keeping to the pavements right outside. I came back from my walk, and Sherlock was back too with tickets to this Chinese circus. In London for one night only. Sounded fun. He had three tickets for us, but then John said he had a date, so Sherlock called them to get a fourth one for her. We did a bit more digging in the books but didn't find anything, until John left to pick up Sarah. Then we just got ready and left too.

The circus was very interesting. Very exotic looking; like nothing I'd seen before.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sure this circus is wonderful, and John and Sarah will have a lovely date, but what are we doing here? What about the case?"

"This is the case."

"How spiffing."

"Our killer can climb, and Chinese - but exit visas are scarce in China. And the circus - only one night in London - it all fits."

Then the circus began. Thinking about it still makes me sick, and it completely put me off any kind of circus ever since. There was this Chinese woman with a headdress, and this really shrill opera singer. She took a feather from her headdress and dropped it into the metal cup attached to this crossbow, and the arrow in it whizzed straight ahead. Sarah sort of squealed and practically jumped onto John and I wanted to roll my eyes so hard. Then they started resetting it, and this warrior guy starts being chained to a board in front of the crossbow. The Chinese woman lifted a knife in the spotlight and my knees buckled suddenly.

"Robin!"

"I'm fine! I'm...fine. I don't know why-"

"Was it from hunger? Sherlock, if you've been starving her for your bloody case-"

"I did not!"

" , I'm fine. "

John reluctantly turned back to his date but Sherlock just wouldn't let go.

"Aichmophobia?"

"Shut up." Might I add that this was in the perfect imitation of how Sherlock says it to John? "What's she going to do?"

"She'll pour sand into that and the arrow will-"

"Ah. What happens if the warrior doesn't escape in time."

"Hopefully, we won't find out."

We didn't, but I still don't like circuses till today. It was awfully anticipative; I kept wanting to look away but couldn't tear my eyes away. And when I looked away, Sherlock was gone. I leaned in and whispered to John.

"Hey, Dr. Watson?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm just going to take a bit of a walk around, if that's okay."

"Yeah, of course. Sure you're alright?"

I'd be better if your flatmate didn't keep ditching or worrying me.

"I'm fine, Dr. Watson. You worry too much."

It took me a while to find him, but Sherlock was backstage, looking into a duffel bag when I slipped in.

"What are you doing?"

And he just holds up this spray can labelled 'Michigan' with a yellow band at the bottom.

Then he went to the edge of the curtain and pulled it open slightly. There was an acrobat, doing all sorts of tricks in the air for the audience. Sarah seemed to be enjoying herself, but John's face was stony. I grinned, thinking the case was closed.

Of course, that was when things got messy.

"We have our-"

And then I screamed bloody murder because the warrior costume behind Sherlock was standing up and withdrawing a machete and warrior costumes don't do that. Sherlock reacted first, just launching himself on the warrior. I suppose him being six feet help. Me, if I did that, I'd make the attacker breathless at best. Stop, Terry. I'm not that short. I'm taller than John!

I came to my senses a split second later and helped him. I admit, my technique wasn't very refined at first, but I was caught off guard. I just hooked my left elbow around his neck and was swung around the room for a while. I was much more helpful after a while when I had strategised. We ended up falling out of backstage to the stage. That must have been scary as an audience member. Finally, I slammed this box thing on the warrior's head and finally knocked him out. Sherlock removes his boot; there's a Black Lotus tattoo.

We eventually ended up back at Scotland Yard. Dimmock was a bit annoyed when we told him we still didn't know what this 'supposed smuggling gang' was supposed to eb trafficking. Sherlock looked down, and I got the feeling he was preparing himself to be told off, rejected, or banned from the case, but Dimmock just quietly pleaded Sherlock for some proof to show for the overtime for ordering a raid. He briefly glanced at me when he looked away, but that was all I needed to know that he had seen it, and was going to hold on and trust it. Kind of like I've been doing.

We went back to Baker Street after that, and...Sarah tagged along. Don't get me wrong, I loo-oove...okay, I just can't do it. Not like John's still with her. She was bloody awful, Terry, you should have seen her. She kept simpering and clearly thought very highly of herself. She was so patronising and attention-seeking, and absolutely terrible if there was only one person paying attention to her. I had to be that person when John went off to scrounge something for her, though he really shouldn't have bothered; if she left, all the better, and Sherlock went to pour over the photographs more. Sarah didn't follow him because he was already kind of brisk with her, which she didn't like.

"So! You and Sherlock?"

"Good grief, no. I'm the neighbour. I live downstairs, at 221C."

"Oh, that's nice. John's so sweet, finding a bite for me like the gentleman he is." Yeah, after you kept whining about how you were starving. "Did you see how brave he was at the circus?"

Seriously, I was this close to getting a migraine. Sherlock had it right, antagonising her and then fleeing.

"Yeah, that was...nice, of him."

"Wasn't it?!" I'm not even exaggerating the exclamation part. John was talking to Mrs Hudson and I wanted to be nice and let him impress Sarah, so I ran to Sherlock and thought that I had escaped but she followed.

"Oh! So you help with the puzzle-solving?"

Sherlock and I exchanged a look. Mine was more help me, his was more why did you do this to me, but both were definitely conveying that she had to go.

"Kind of."

"What are these...fascinating squiggly things?"

Sherlock lifted his head and looked this close to murdering Sarah, so I interjected.

"Numbers, in an ancient Chinese dialect."

"And they each correspond to a word-"

"How do you know that?"

That last part was Sherlock. I thought he was just tuning us all out, or maybe he was and just picked up the important part(s).

"Yeah, how'd you figure that out?"

Sarah was definitely enjoying the attention. You see my fingers? Now just imagine...stabbing yourself in the eye...this was ten times worse.

"Well, two of them have already been translated. Right here. I'm not an idiot, you know."

There's a fine line, Sarah. A fine. Line.

The words were "NINE" and "MILL", meaning nine million quid. So something expensive, then. Finally, John came over with nibbles for Sarah and Sherlock and I were so glad to get rid of her that we were a bit over-exaggerated with how impressed we were, acting like we totally hadn't seen Mrs Hudson slip through the door with a tray a few minutes ago.

"Soo Lin must have started translating at the museum. The book should still be on her desk."

"Unless the killer took it?"

"He might not have known Soo Lin was translating; and we need whatever scrap of evidence we can get."

"What if the killer knows the book is there, and is using it as bait?"

"Smugglers are hardly so bright; I'll take my chances."

"You? I'm coming with!"

"No, stay with John and Sarah-" I protested in a high-pitched whine "-don't worry, I can tell John doesn't really like her, so just hang in there. It'll all be over soon."

Even missing, he's still right. It was all over far too soon.

It was awfully drab back in the flat. John and Sarah were trying to have their date and I was just being a third-wheel so I went back to my flat. I decided to give Sherlock two hours to get the book and come back before I went after him. Never go back to where you once were, it's such a rookie mistake. John came down after a while to ask if I wanted any takeout, but I wasn't hungry. After a while, there was a knock on the door but John and Sarah didn't seem to hear it, so I went to answer the door with my wallet.

"Hi. How much would that be?"

"Do you have it?"

I looked up to see the man's face for the first time. He didn't have any takeout, so I took a tiny step back into the flat. Did Sherlock send him?

"Sorry, what?"

"Do you have the treasure?"

"I don't understand."

Ooh, but then I did, but it was too late because I was too stunned by the realisation, and I. You know. Please don't make me say it. Okay, fine, I got knocked out with a pistol. I was in shock.

I woke up a few hours later at this dark place, with John and Sarah. John looked wary and alert, thankfully not completely losing his head like Sarah was. I suppose such incidents are occupational hazards of working with the world's only consulting detective. I loved kicking her chair to shut her up. John was a bit more gentle in calming her. We were in quite a fix; I didn't have my wallet, the chairs weren't wooden so we couldn't break them and escape. I began to feel a bit ashamed of being the last person to wake up when I was supposed to be the most experienced at situations like this.

"A book is like a magic garden carried in your pocket."

It was the Opera Singer. I realised why she had seemed somewhat familiar at the circus; she was the Chinese woman who had been following me th past few days.

"Er, that's nice."

"Ancient Chinese proverb, Ms. Holmes."

"Ms-? Hang on, I'm not Sherlock Holmes."

"Hm. Really? Forgive me if I do not take your word for it."

"That's alright. You can check my wallet. You know, the one you took from me."

"Indeed I shall." I was feeling kind of smug until I remembered that Mycroft hadn't sent me my civilian ID yet so there was practically no proof inside my wallet of who I really was.

"Let's see: a five thousand pound cheque, made out to Sherlock Holmes."

Sebastian's cheque. I should have known something from him was going to come back and bite me, however indirectly.

"Tickets from the theatre, name of Holmes."

O-okay. Things were getting difficult now. Sarah looked accusingly at me, but it was sort of nullified by her tearstained face shining in the fire.

"Lastly, we heard it from your own mouth. 'Look at me, I'm-'"

"'Sherlock Holmes and I walk around with a head two sizes too big because no one can compete with my massive intellect!' Yes, I remember! But that - it wasn't - you have to believe - Sherlock is a guy's name!"

"A likely story."

You have got to be kidding me. The one time I decide to tell the truth and it backfires on me. The Opera Singer pulled out a pistol but I was too indignant to even act scared.

"Oh, please, what is this; an encore? You won't get much out of me if I'm unconscious, and you would've shot us already if you wanted to, so let's just-"

And she just smacked me across the face with the pistol. I had a ringing sound in my ears and my cheekbone was smarting, but I was still conscious. It isn't easy, controlling your strength just right like that. She must have been experienced.

"You talk too much."

"Firstly, ow. Secondly, why else have you brought me here? Someone always wants information-"

"And you will give it to us. What we ask for, and nothing less. So tell me, Ms Holmes, where's the treasure?"

"Your buddy asked me that some time ago, and I didn't know then, so let's take a guess-"

And she smacked me across the face again. Definitely one of the least patient smugglers I know. To my credit, I didn't flinch both times. At least I don't cower or snivel.

Though if I did maybe I would be hit way less. Oh well.

"Everything has a price. And the price for this-" She turned around with flourish and placed her hand on John's chair. "His life."

I snorted, she frowned.

"Yeah, okay. Go ahead." They're always bluffing. They want you to cower and beg, exactly the way Sarah was, because then they're in power, so that's exactly what not to do. Never let on what they're doing affects you; otherwise they've found your weakness.

"I assure you, I will do it."

"Be my guest. I'm not his date; she is."

The Opera Singer narrowed her eyes at me, then said something in Chinese to her employees. They carried Sarah to right in front of a wall, and although it seemed impossible, Sarah looked like she was shaking even more. The Opera Singer poured something flammable in the fire - something like whisky, I think - so the fire flared up a lot and finally cast some light in the wall Sarah was facing, and that was when I saw the crossbow.

"...you wouldn't."

She slices the sandbag. Oh, I just knew she was going to be a bitch about this.

"Look, I already told you I'm not Sherlock Holmes. I'm just a victim of circumstance who happens to have an irresponsible flatmate - you can't do this!

She just placed a black lotus on Sarah. Up until now, I was sure something would happen. I would think of something, or catch them off guard, but the sand kept spilling like it would never run out and the black lotus reminded me of Soo Lin. One minute breathing, the next cold. And as annoying as Sarah was, I couldn't let her die. Duty to the country, or something.

"I am not Sherlock Holmes."

"But I am."

And lo and behold, there was Sherlock. The real one. I didn't see him, but I heard his voice echo in the deep, dark tunnel. Two of the Opera Singer's employees went towards his silhouette. The Opera Singer shot a few times in the darkness, and I held my breath at each crack.

"How would you describe me, Robin? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?"

"Late. What took you so long?"

"Won't happen again. Now, as for you, I'd advise you not to fire that gun again. It's a semi-automatic, so its bullet travels over a thousand meters in a second. That coupled with the radius curvature of this tunnel, the bullet could ricochet and hit anyone if you miss." Sherlock materialised, stepping over the silhouette of a lump which was most likely one of the thugs. "Even yourself."

"Then thank you, Mr. Holmes, for stepping into the light."

Oh, come on. Now you believe Sherlock's a guy's name? Psh.

Then the other employee came from behind which, by the way, is such a cowardly move. I'd never do it even if I had the advantage to do so. And he started strangling Sherlock with this red rope thing so I rocked my chair back and forth until I toppled over. That distracted the attacker and Sherlock punched him.

But then there were more employees and the sand was still spilling, so Sherlock had to juggle fending them off while untying Sarah. I tried to help, by tripping up some of them, but the rest soon got wise to my game and avoided me completely.

Sherlock very nearly didn't free Sarah in time. He heard the Opera Singer running down the tunnel, and looked up like he was going to follow her, but was suddenly distracted by a sob from Sarah. Luckily, Sarah slumped forward as soon as the rope loosened so the arrow pierced her chair instead. I didn't know that, because I was tied to a chair on its side, so all I could hear was the whoosh of the arrow and it striking something. Egh, it's like I can still hear it. But then I heard Sherlock muttering something, and gasping sobs of relief from Sarah. After a while, Sherlock walked over to John and I to untie us. Sarah was still sobbing in a corner, so John went to comfort her. And as annoying and condescending as she could be, she didn't deserve to experience something like this.

"That must have been traumatising for her. I hope she's alright."

"She's fine. Not even a scratch. Can't say the same for you, though. Your cheek's bleeding. But John and Sarah seem fine."

"Yeah, we'll it's your fault."

"My fault?"

"Why is your name so-so-ambiguous? Is it a boy's? Is it a girl's? Is it English? Is it Russian? Who knows!"

Sherlock just stared at me for a while, until I remembered that he hadn't been here then, so he didn't know why I was attacking his name so furiously.

"They thought I was you. They kept asking about some treasure and where it was, saying that they'd seen 'me' looking for it. Were you looking for a treasure?"

"I might have been, but didn't know it at the time."

"What tipped you off? Something at the museum?"

"I never got to the museum. I never even got further than Baker Street."

I was tense, and I still had adrenaline in me, my cheek was bleeding and beginning to feel itchy, and he hadn't even left Baker Street?!

"WHY? What were you doing for the past god-knows-how-long you bloody git what if John was at the arrow and you didn't come in time, huh? What were you doing?"

"Decoding the cipher."

"Didn't we just establish that you didn't even reach the museum? How did you suddenly know which book to use?"

"I suddenly realised after walking past this German couple, using the London A to Z. The London A to Z."

I looked away, breathing hard.

"The London A to Z."

"Yes."

"How did we miss that?"

We saw Dimmock and a whole fleet of police cars outside when we were leaving. Sherlock seemed a lot more relaxed and polite now that the strain of the case was over. Well, as polite as Sherlock can be.

"Mr. Holmes, Ms. Wood-"

"No need to mention us in your report, Dimmock. We were just leaving."

Dimmock looked a bit hesitant.

"I have high hopes for you, Inspector. A glittering career."

"I go where you point me."

"Exactly."

The four of us went back to Baker Street. I gave Sarah her bag and a hug, wishing that I had been a bit nicer to her that evening.

"Come back again." And I meant it.

John went to drop Sarah home, and Sarah looked a bit less simpering. I think it was the shock. Sherlock showed me the translated picture of the ciphers.

"Nine mill...million...for jade pin. Dragon den, black Tramway. Wow. Nine millions pounds for a hairpin? Why?"

"Depends on who owned it."

The next day, Sherlock said he needed to see Van Coon's PA. I thought it was to reassure her that the case was closed, but that wasn't it. First, he called her when we were at the escalators. I looked at him miffed, and tried to press my ear to his phone, but he was too tall and I couldn't hear anything, except for his annoyingly ambiguous side of it. He just straightened up, as if to emphasise his height.

"He bought you a present."

That was when I abandoned any dignity I had left and tiptoed and shoved my head against his phone, trying to listen in. This time, I swear he turned slightly.

"A little gift when he came back from China."

By then, we were outside the PA's office. Sherlock walked with especially long strides and quickly so I had to jog to keep up. Shut up Terry it's not that funny.

By then, we were in the same room as Amanda - the assistant - and Sherlock finally cut the phone.

"You weren't just his P.A., were you?"

Amanda looked stunned, briefly shooting me an injured and slightly accusatory glance.

"I don't know anything."

"Someone's been gossiping."

"No."

"Then how do you know?"

"Scented hand soap in his apartment. Three hundred millimeters of it, almost finished. Same brand as that hand cream you've got there."

Every single time he starts, I always think - this is the time he slips up, because no way that's true. Sherlock may be brilliant, but he's only human. And he makes mistakes, no matter how much he tries to deny it, like us lesser beings. But the point is, he was right then. Again.

"He didn't appreciate me. Took me for granted. Stood me up once too often – we'd plan to go away for the weekend and then he'd just leave. Fly off to China at a moment's notice."

"And brought you a small present from abroad to say sorry."

Sherlock tilted his head, and I wanted to scream when I saw a jade green hairpin sitting in Amanda's hair, as nonchalantly as costume jewellery.

"Can I just...have a look at that?"

Amanda looked a bit confused, but obliged, holding her hair in place.

"Said he got it at a street market."

So he's a thief and a liar. Attractive combo. Amanda really scored with this one.

"Oh, I don't think that's true. I think he pinched it."

"Yeah, that's Eddie."

"Didn't know its value; just thought it would suit you."

"Oh? What's it worth?"

Sherlock held the pin in the light and we exchanged a look. I relished the look on her face.

"Nine...million...pounds."

Amanda was practically hysterical by the time we left. Sherlock and I met John coming out of Sebastian's office with a cheque of two thousand pounds.

"Wow! That looks like a...tidy sum, right?"

'It helps us get by."

"If all your cases are like this, where does your money go?"

"Despite what Mrs Hudson may lead you to believe, the rent doesn't pay itself. We are in central London, after all."

We went back to Baker Street. The three of us went up to 221B. I was planning to just find my mittens, which were somehow lodged behind a couch cushion and took ages to find. When I was about to leave, John was making tea and Sherlock was playing the violin. Other than the night of the Study in Pink, I hadn't had the chance to listen to him so closely. I only got bits and pieces from 221C. But I could tell it wasn't as gentle or even passionate as it usually was. There was something...incomplete, and frustration in the melody.

"You okay?"

He stopped playing, but continued staring out the window. I continued.

"It bothers you, doesn't it? That we let the Opera Singer escape?"

Still nothing.

"We still got two of her henchmen."

"We've barely scratched the surface of whatever criminal operation they have."

"You cracked their book!"

"I cracked this code. All the smugglers have to do is pick another book."

"Then we'll crack that code. And the next. And the next. That's what you do, isn't it?"

And he spoke so softly that I still wasn't sure if Sherlock really said anything at all.

"That's what we do."

I decided to stay up in 221B a little while longer, then. John somehow knew I was staying and had made three cups of tea. John was enjoying the paper with his tea, Sherlock had completely forgotten about it and it was left forgotten as he unpinned the pictures of the ciphers, and I was painstakingly trying to read what I could see of the sheet music on Sherlock's stand. I was exhausted after the first bar.

"Say, Sherlock? Why is it five minutes?"

John smiled, and lifted his paper even higher.

"Do you know how long it takes to form a first impression of someone?"

"Er, seven seconds?"

"That's right. But first impressions aren't always correct."

"No they aren't."

"Some people take years to get the correct impression of a friend. But I don't. I only need five minutes."

"Really?"

"I have never been wrong. I met John, and five minutes later I asked him to come look at a flat with me. Look at us now."

John smiled fondly at the paper. That's the thing about Sherlock - he's rarely nice, and he never, er, displays his affection for anyone. But sometimes, it shows, because there's just some things you can't hide. John got up to get a refill for his tea.

"You were awfully brave that night at the museum."

"Oh. It wasn't my first time."

"Still. It was dark. Random shooting. Unpredictable bullets."

"Sherlock, the point?"

"No amount of experience can make you more careful in such a situation. It can only immunise you to the fear."

I stayed silent.

"Where?"

"Left clavicle, shattered. Healed two months ago."

"Hm. Was it painful?"

"Very."

"...who did it?"

"My-" and I couldn't. I just stopped. It still hurts, even today. Goddamit Terry my collarbone is fine.

Sherlock nodded, with just the barest trace of sympathy in his eyes.

As cliche as it is, M16 agents have a handbook of do's and don'ts. When shot, do lie still. Assess your situation, and try to staunch the bleeding, if any. Based on the circumstances, wait for help or drag yourself to safety. When I got shot, I didn't remember a single thing. The handbook doesn't talk about the sickening crack of the bullet shattering your bone, of finally meeting its target. Of how the dizzying pain sends you into another realm. And how it hurts to even breathe after that, to live through the pain, because the worst part about being shot is seven out of ten times, you know who's shot you. I wish I didn't. I wish I didn't know the one who pulled the trigger, I wish I didn't know which hand they would use even before I saw them holding the gun. I wish all I could think about right after I was shot wasn't the days I made dandelion chains for them, before I ever had to consider the thought of them holding a gun, especially one right at me. It's always worse when it's your someone, rather than when it's anyone else. It's true, what they say: life really can flash before your eyes.

And I know what you're going to say, Mycroft. That I didn't include their name in the report, when I clearly remember who it was. But I won't tell you, or anyone else. I don't think I can, so forget it. Besides, this isn't about that. It's about your dearly beloved younger brother who's...lost somewhere, out there.