After a few moments, Emili felt back to normal, and she was glad that John had left to go do whatever it was he had wanted. Sherlock took her out of the bad situation but didn't start lecturing her or asking if she was okay because she was very clearly not harmed. It was a dark moment for her and she wanted to forget it, not rehash it because John was worried she might do something to hurt herself.
Right after closing the window, Sherlock was done with the office. The graffiti no longer held his interest, or so it seemed. He let her be in the office while he rushed out. Emili followed more slowly and by the time she was out of the former bank employee's room, Sherlock wasn't in sight. Rubbing the back of her neck, Emili looked around for him. He couldn't have gone that far in the short time he hadn't been in her field of vision.
Pop! There, like a gopher, the black-haired, blue-eyed man popped back up from behind a desk to the far left on the trading floor, looking right at the office, and then before she could do anything, he disappeared below the desks again.
… Okay, that's even weirder than normal.
Sherlock did his whack-a-mole impersonation another several times. Each time, he looked right at the window to the graffiti. Amused and feeling a little bit of second-hand embarrassment when he bumped into an employee and made him stumble back into someone else's desk, she looked through the window, too, trying to figure out what the hell he was doing.
And Emili realized that, from where she was standing, she couldn't see the graffiti on the portrait. Then she looked over to the desk Sherlock had looked at the window from and realized something important about the angle – from that desk, there was no way he would have been able to see the paint, either. The angle was too radical.
Eventually Sherlock stopped jumping up and down behind the desks and disturbing the traders, just running behind them and continually looking up to see through the blinds of the office. Not to say that he stopped disturbing the traders, because they were definitely disturbed, a lot of them stopping to stare.
Looking to see who might have been able to see the graffiti's location from outside of the office wasn't the first thing Emili wanted to do, but she used the faster method that seemed to have not occurred to Sherlock. She moved to a place where she could see it from right outside the window, then backed up. As she got further away, her perspective changed. Parts of the paint were covered up with the obstructive blinds, and there wasn't a point where she could see all of it clearly.
She bumped into the front of someone else's desk. A blonde woman who was still on the phone had stopped talking and looked up through her glasses to stare at Emili. Em smiled and mouthed 'sorry' and moved to the right, walking through the gap between her desk and the next trader's, moved behind the woman's chair, and looked again. Yes, she could still see a hint of the spray paint.
She repeated the process several times. At one point, several rows of desks back, she had to move to her left to keep the graffiti within her sight – and at that desk, which was all the way to the back, she could finally see all of the graffiti within the gaps of the blinds. Cocking her head, she pulled out the empty chair from an absent trader and plopped down. It was only partially visible sitting down, but when she stood up again, it was clear as day.
Sherlock was only halfway through the desks when Emili had reached her conclusion and she was a little bit proud of herself for finding the right point first. "Sherlock!" She called, waving her brother over. She would have apologized for disturbing the environment, but she was putting an early end to Sherlock's silly antics, so it balanced out.
There was a nameplate on the desk, but instead of a name on the plaque, it was Hong Kong Desk Head. While Sherlock politely and unwantedly pushed in a man's chair, pushing him closer to his desk to make room to walk behind him, Emili dropped down into a squat to reach the drawers of the desk and pulled them open. There weren't locks on the drawers, thankfully, so it was easy to pull them open and look through the supplies and folders inside. Everything was very neatly organized.
Joining her, Sherlock saw the symbols and then moved first to one side of the desk, then the other, confirming that the Hong Kong desk was the only one with a good view of the graffiti. Emili picked up a paper from the top of the middle drawer on the right, Trade Report Issue #614 with handwriting for the name, department, accounting information, and a signature.
Edward Van Coon's signature, to be exact – whoever worked at this desk and handled the Hong Kong trading finances.
John waited until the residents of 221 Baker Street were all on the descending escalator, steeply inclined to efficiently carry its passengers to the ground floor while taking up as little space as possible. Emili held onto the sliding rail that moved with the conveyor of steps and looked over the side as the floor came closer and closer. She went from feeling like the Queen of the World to feeling like a normal human on an escalator the closer they got.
"Two trips 'round the world, this month." Going by his voice, John had been mulling the question over in his own head for a long time, possibly since Sherlock had smartly made Sebastian look like a fool. "You didn't ask his secretary. You said that just to irritate him," John accused. The veteran was more amused than chiding.
"And make him look like a fool," Emili chipped in, crossing her arms proudly. She had barely met Sebastian, and she was already ready to risk expanding Sherlock's ego even further by admitting that his clever lie had been well-delivered. "He had it coming."
She stole a look at her brother, biting gently on her lip. Em wasn't exactly dying to have his approval, but once in a while, it would be nice to be acknowledged. She was agreeing with him and condoning his actions, which had been a bit jerk-ish themselves, so she thought she warranted at least a glance in her direction. Instead, she saw Sherlock expressing a slight smirk, looking down towards the descending escalator stairs.
"But seriously," John pressed inquisitively. "How did you know?"
Sherlock cleared his throat and looked up. Emili was standing on the stair behind both of them, which put her head even higher than Sherlock's. She looked down on both of her neighbors with a pleased, calm smile while they talked back and forth. The teenager was just as content to shut up and listen and take things in sometimes as she was to be in the center of everything.
"Did you see his watch?" The detective asked, seemingly without any actual relevance.
"His watch?" John repeated, just getting more and more confused.
"The time was right, but the date was wrong," Sherlock explicated, his words coming out fast and hurried. He didn't want to waste time speaking too slowly, lest he lose time that he could otherwise spend doing something he considered more productive. Once the escalator deposited the trio on the ground floor, Emili was certain that she and John would be following after an enthusiastic consultant again. "It said two days ago; crossed the dateline twice, but didn't alter it."
The doctor nodded slowly. When it was all spelled out, the clues that Sherlock used to draw his conclusions seemed so painfully obvious that Emili and John both felt a little bit silly after they'd had to have them explained. "And… within a month? How'd you get that part?"
Sherlock held his chin higher, all but preening underneath the huge Belstaff coat. "New Breitling. Only came out this February."
John nodded, looking up at the high ceiling. Emili tipped her head back to follow his eyes, but the roof was so high up and so far away that she wasn't even sure she was making out the ceiling around the elaborate chandelier that had to be thousands of dollars' worth… euros, she had to remind herself.
"Okay. D'you think we should sniff around here for a bit longer?" John offered, sounding to be a little bit curious about the potential case.
Sherlock shook his head once, fringe flopping. "Got everything I need to know already, thanks," he declared, stepping off of the escalator a touch early. He was already striding off of the metal cover panel at the base of the mechanism when John's stair started to flatten to continue back up the conveyor. Emili hopped off and wrapped her arms around her midsection to follow.
"Hm?" John stared at Sherlock's back in question.
The sixteen-year-old took a few faster steps to catch up to John. Sherlock had evened out his pace and John had fallen into step just a few feet behind, so as long as she kept up with the army doctor, she had a pretty good chance of staying in the loop.
"Like Sebastian said," Em explained to John, uncrossing her arms and instead pushing her hands into the pockets of her jeans. "That graffiti was a message. I don't think he realized how accurate he was." She canted her head at Sherlock's back. He strode purposefully in a beeline towards the front doors. John and she had to speed up to avoid being separated from him by the crowd. "It can only be clearly seen by one desk in the entire office. Other desks, walls, decorations, and pillars all get in the way."
"We find the intended recipient, and…" Sherlock stated over his shoulder, prompting John to follow along with their line of thought. He didn't slow up, just raised his voice.
"They'll lead us to the person who sent it," John guessed, looking up with some minor excitement.
The three broke out of the tower and into the London streets again. Upon being assailed with the painfully bright natural sun, Emili squinted and lowered her head while she and John chased after their third companion. Sherlock moved to the left side of the sidewalk to give Emili and John the option of hurrying into step beside him instead of following behind and trying to hear him speak over his shoulder.
"Obviously," he said dryly. He seemed to be of the opinion that John's discovery had lost some of its drama once he was the third person to realize it. "And, of course, the message was left at eleven thirty-four last night. That tells us a lot."
"Does it?" John cocked his head, not getting what was important about that particular time.
Sherlock nodded. Emili looked around, paying attention to where he was leading them. They were going further down the street, getting some space between themselves and the foot traffic entering and exiting Tower 42 in seemingly equal and endless measure. She checked over her shoulder, turned back around, and put the tower and the Gherkin out of her mind to the best of her ability.
"Traders come to work at all hours. Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night." Well, that doesn't make sense, Emili was about to argue, but widened her eyes at herself and almost smacked her forehead. Yes, it does. Time zones. British traders came to the office at irregular hours to correspond with the Hong Kong traders, whom were awake during their normal times. "That message was intended for someone who came in at midnight. Not many Van Coons in the phonebook."
No, Emili supposed there wouldn't have been. It wasn't a very common name. Sherlock threw his arm in the air, stepping to the curb of the street. "Taxi!" He called to an approaching yellow cab, which threw its brake lights on and came careening to a stop, skidding and throwing back some rocks from the street behind its wheels.
Finally, there was a setting that Emili was familiar with. The metropolis-like apartment complex loomed over forty stories over their heads, gleaming silver along the sides. She stepped back on the concrete front entry. The steps leading up to the doors from the right and left met in the middle on a platform, which was guarded by a tall, thin-barred rail. Emili craned her head back to try to see the top of the building.
"What do we do now?" John asked, frustration beginning to color his voice after yet another unsuccessful attempt at ringing the corresponding doorbell. On each side of the double-doors, there was a metal panel mounted to the wall. The panels each held two tall columns of buttons aside name plates. "Sit here and wait for him to come back?"
Despite apparently thinking that Van Coon wasn't going to answer, John jabbed his thumb against the circular button next to his name yet again. Emili winced. If anyone was in that apartment, she didn't envy them the number of times John had rung for them. Sherlock studied the names passively, using his height advantage to look over John's shoulder while looming.
"It could just be paranoia," Emili reasoned, trying not to be too sarcastic. It was hard to push back the impulse, however, when she felt that logic could have been used to discredit John's suggestion. "But I'm pretty sure messages left covertly in the middle of his workplace aren't exactly friendly. He might have run, or he might not trust us to talk, even if we do wait long enough." She paused, tilted her head to the doors, and narrowed her eyes. There was only one feasible way to get inside without the help of law enforcement, which would take too long. They'd lose what little edge they had while they were arguing with Lestrade. "Let's get in ourselves," she suggested.
Predictably, John wasn't all for it. "How?" He asked her, indicating the card reader on the side of the door. Without possessing one, they couldn't enter the building. Emili admired the security precaution, but she wished that it didn't have to be installed on the one apartment complex she actually wanted to get into. "You need a key."
Had Van Coon been there, it wouldn't have been a problem, because they could've talked to him over the intercom and gotten him to unlock the doors from his apartment. It was a neat setup, but there were too many ways to exploit it. Emili mulled over one of them while she reached for the handle of the door on the right and tugged it towards her experimentally. The bottom of the door's seal slid on the doorframe, but it didn't move more than a centimeter.
"Or an inside participant," she corrected John, turning to look at the name plates next to the buttons. "He had to have neighbors. We can say we're concerned," she tried to sell it. Sherlock wasn't going to care about a minor infraction, but John was far less likely to be okay with Emili committing what had the potential to escalate into a misdemeanor.
For the first time since getting out of the taxi at the curb, Sherlock cleared his throat with a forced cough and spoke. "Just moved in."
Both Emili and John looked over at him, John stepping away so that he could look at Sherlock from the side instead of trying to see behind him. "What?" John asked, disgruntled.
"The floor above," Sherlock impatiently explained, raising a gloved hand and pointing out the name plate above Van Coon's. The newest one was labeled "Wintle," and its cardstock was the brightest and cleanest of the rest of them. The name was drawn with a black Sharpie. "New label."
John blinked at it, grudgingly conceded that it looked newer than the others, and halfheartedly countered, "Could have just replaced it."
Sherlock's expression was chiding. "No one ever does that," he lectured John.
Emili pursed her lips. If they were just going to waste time arguing, then Emili was going to take an action. She was curious, damn it, and with any luck, they could solve this case and get back home in time for her to finish her reading goal in Jane Austen. The sooner she got that essay done, the sooner she could put aside the book and never pick up Pride and Prejudice again.
When she stuck her finger on the button and held it down, it echoed a tinny, buzzing sound, almost like the error noise on a game show. Sherlock and John both shut up as soon as they heard it. Emili waited for a response.
It took a few seconds, but the new tenant was available. The communication system was turned on. It worked like a walkie-talkie between the two stations, one out at the front of the building and the other inside the apartment.
"Hello?" A woman's voice politely asked, a little bit loudly.
Oh, good, it's a woman. Emili knew that if she were going to let someone inside, she'd be more comfortable if it were someone of the same sex. She also presumed that women were more inclined to trust female voices than men were.
Adopting a false British accent, Emili greeted her enthusiastically, forcing a grin onto her face so that her tone sounded friendly and open. "Hi!" She beamed. "Um, yeah, I don't know if you know him, but I'm here to visit my cousin?" Out the corner of her eye, she saw John's expression change as he stared at Emili as if seeing her for the first time. The accent felt weird, but Emili thought she was doing a pretty decent job at replicating Molly's. Being surrounded by people who spoke with it made it easier to forge. "He lives in the flat just below you."
"Ah… no, I wouldn't." Wintle was buying into it. She sounded apologetic, and Em mentally thanked Sherlock for being right. She didn't know where she'd begin to backpedal if it turned out that Wintle really had just replaced her name plate. "I've just moved in."
Sherlock coughed quietly into his elbow. Emili whipped her head to look over her shoulder and saw both men staring at each other, John with annoyance and Sherlock with pride. Her brother smirked at the doctor. Emili flipped some pink hair out of the way as she held a finger over her lips, glaring, before she went on.
"I'm really sorry to bug you, but his shift's been extended at the bank and I'm usually in Chiswick, so I don't have a key…"
"Do you want me to buzz you in?" Wintle offered kindly.
Emili giggled in relief. "Would you please?"
There wasn't a reply, but a moment later, the doors clicked loudly as they unlocked. Emili grabbed at the handle and pulled it back quickly before they could lock again, and she held the heavy door open for her companions.
It could have been her imagination, but she thought Sherlock seemed a little bit proud when he strode past her and into the building, fixing his scarf after it had been blown out of place by a breeze. John paused, stopping in his tracks and staring at her, half-inside.
Emili dropped her accent and reverted back to speaking like an American. It was much easier to transition back, and it was relaxing to not have to police her own speech. "So, Lestrade says law school, but I'm thinking actress," she conversationally shared. "Am I convincing?"
She waved for John to go inside. He moved his feet again, but by the time Emili had entered herself and closed the door behind her, John was still standing stationary just indoors and Sherlock had already called for an elevator to come pick them up.
"How did you do that?" The doctor asked her, impressed and trying not to sound as though he condoned the lies she'd just told.
It didn't seem like a big deal to the teenager. So she had lied. Everyone lied, at some point or another, and although she might feel bad later about conning a generous civilian, ultimately, she was investigating a crime that freaked out someone else. Maybe Van Coon was in danger. She figured that since she had the right intentions, it wasn't too terrible.
"It's not hard," she answered, rubbing the back of her head. "Try faking my accent."
John shook his head, not even attempting it. "I've tried before," he confessed, still just as British as he'd been a moment ago. "Can never get it right."
"Oh…" Emili thought back to the times where she had jokingly mimicked various accents with her friends. Her teachers usually told her she had an impressive ear. Maybe that helped her to pick up on accents. She wouldn't have known if it was harder for someone else than it was for her. "Huh." It wasn't of much consequence, and being able to sound like she fit in didn't seem like a disadvantage, so she shrugged it off and gestured for John to join her with Sherlock. "Well, I guess I'll blame it on BBC America."
Once they'd gotten to the right floor, Sherlock led the way with his swishing coat to the apartment number found at the bank. Emili kept looking at both sides of the hallway curiously. The doors were perfect matches to each other, barring the different golden numbers adhered to the fronts underneath the peep holes. The odd numbers were on her right and the evens on her left, and each had a standard, solid black welcome mat.
Sherlock slipped his hand to the doorknob on the apartment at the left end of the hall and tried the door. The knob wiggled a little bit, but the mechanism prevented it from opening. The metal made a stubborn, click-y noise. John sighed when he heard, but Emili just reached for her pocket and took out her wallet.
"Well, this has been great and all." John obviously thought that the trip was shaping up to be not great, but Emili wasn't so sure that it had been a waste of time. She opened up her billfold and took out the first card she saw – the credit card she held in Mycroft's name. "But now how are we going to get in? Can't exactly get buzzed through a key lock."
Sherlock smirked when Emili held up her credit card, and he stepped away from the door in an invitation. "Oh, John," he sighed piteously at the shorter man's confusion.
"Like this!" Emili explained cheerily, dropping down onto her knees before the door.
She had to hold her head close to the wood to see into the doorjamb. All she could see was a sliver of space, but it was enough to make out where the gleaming silver was. She pressed the edge of the credit card straight alongside the door, covered that metal lock, and then pulled her card away on the edge closer to her. The other was angled and pushed against the lock, forcing it to depress. Em reached for the door with her left hand and gave it a gentle push. It eased open and she kept her card in hand as she stood up.
She turned to look at both of her neighbors proudly, a crooked grin on her face. Her father had showed her how to do that once before and her mother had given him an earful for it, but Emili was grateful now that he had shown her the many unorthodox uses of bank cards.
John had his eyes fixated on her, and he stared at the natural blonde with some dulled alarm. "I am honestly becoming increasingly concerned that you know how to do these things," he said to her, crossing his arms.
Emili shrugged her shoulders, her smile falling slightly. She made a mental note that John didn't approve. Sherlock clearly did, and she did want him to tolerate her, but John was the one who paid her more attention and made sure that she had everything she needed. Sherlock and Mycroft did the bare minimum of caretaking, and John had no obligation to do any, yet he went beyond what he should've.
"Hush," Sherlock snapped shortly, brushing past Emili without a second thought, or a look back to the two of them. "He could be inside."
John and Emili made eye contact again, the door staying wide open. Please? She mouthed hopefully, her shoulders up and her hands clasped together. Investigating with Sherlock was easily the most interesting thing she'd ever do in London, and the last thing she wanted to do was stop, but she also didn't want to annoy John too much.
The blond looked in through the doorway, then darted his eyes out as soon as he caught himself. He looked frustrated with himself for his impulse, but uncrossed his arms and made a waving motion to beckon her inside. "Alright then," he sighed. Emili squealed quietly and ran in after her brother.
The apartment belonged to a man with cash to burn. The furniture in the parlor was all made of leather – and it was white, too, which was a gutsy move for anyone to make. It all looked spotless, which made Emili think that Van Coon hadn't been spending much time at home. One cabinet over the stove was ajar, and there were crumbs on the counter, so she at least knew that he lived here.
The tall fridge hummed in the kitchen attached to the parlor. The apartment was divided into the larger kitchen and living area and two rooms that took up the rest of the space. Their doors were parallel to each other. Sherlock pushed one open and disappeared inside, coattails brushing away from his calves.
She didn't want to touch anything, but she did roll her sleeve down over her hand to open up the fridge. No one came barreling out of hiding, and no one called out to them. Either Van Coon was unconscious or he wasn't there.
His fridge was full of alcohol. Sparkling champagne was unopened on the top shelf, and the lower half of the fridge was stocked with enough Sauvignon to cater to a frat party. John ventured to the bookshelf near the balcony's sliding doors like he was magnetized due books.
Emili closed the refrigerator and fixed her sleeve before her hand stretched it out. "Something seems off about this apartment," she called out to Sherlock, turning around slowly and taking in the living room again. It made her nervous to have such a room at her back. It felt impersonal, which didn't belong in an apartment.
"What is it?" John asked her, turning from the books with his hands securely in his coat pockets. He shifted, a little antsy, wanting to leave.
Em shrugged halfheartedly. It wasn't that she felt threatened. It was just – off. "I don't know," she said with a grimace. Sure, parts of the place looked too perfect, but it wasn't that. "It just seems weird."
Sherlock exited the door he had pushed open and left it wide. He thumbed through a thinly-bound journal opened over his palm, paper rustling and crinkling like it was old or very dry.
"What does it mean if one man's items are mirrored by another's?" He questioned, skimming rapidly over the text in the book he held. He crossed to the balcony, slammed the book shut, and gave it a toss. John lunged to catch it impulsively and looked very annoyed once he realized what he'd done.
"Stalking?" The teenager suggested while Sherlock pulled open the sliding door to the balcony.
Sherlock went outside and stepped into the railing. He braced his hands on the safety rail and leaned over, peering down towards the street below. From up on this floor, the noises that seemed so loud when they were on the street had taken on a muffled quality.
Emili tapped the short edge of her credit card against the heel of her left hand and drew her feet slowly through the parlor. Even the carpet was white. She grimaced and was glad that Mrs. Hudson wasn't such a neat freak. She liked her space tidy, but even Emili didn't have the patience to scrub her carpets every week.
The door across from the one Sherlock had gone inside of was firmly closed, not even open a crack. A light from inside passed through under the gap between the door and the floor. She raised her hand and rapped sharply on the wood, and when no one answered, she tried the knob. It was locked.
She glanced over her shoulder. She could see a desk and a book case in the room behind her. An office, she guessed, turning back to the one before her and lowering down onto her knees. So this would be the bedroom. She worked her card into the slit between the doorjamb and the lock and started to wiggle it against the mechanism.
Emili's curiosity was probably going to get her hurt worse than it already had one of these days. She stood up as she reflected on how much trouble she would be in if Lestrade found out she was breaking into peoples' apartments and gave the door a gentle kick with the toe of her shoe.
She only made it a step into the bedroom before she panicked when she saw what – or, rather, who – was on the bed. "Sherlock!" She shrieked on impulse, raising her hands to cover her mouth. Like she'd stepped into concrete, she remained in place, staring with wide eyes at the blood splatters on the bedspread and the adjacent wall. Her eyes darted between the ruined linens, the blood-matted hair, and the sleek barrel of the smoking gun.
Footsteps hurried to the bedroom. There were two sets. The faster ones were John's. He came in first, partially because he had also been closer. Sherlock stopped to close the balcony door first, and the sliding noise met Emili's ears distantly.
"Yes, what is it?" The detective started to ask impatiently, no doubt prepared to scold her about keeping her voice down.
Emili trembled, dropping her hands to her chest and then hugging herself tightly. John and Sherlock both took account of the room and John stepped up to Emili's side, winding his arm tightly around her shoulders.
Lying sideways on the bed with his brains blown out of his skull was Van Coon, still in his work suit. The banker had a strong resemblance to Sebastian, except for the matted and messy state of his hair and the deadly pallor to his face. There was a gun up by the left side of his head, but while the grip was holding down his fingers, his hand was slack underneath the weapon.
John tugged Emili tightly to him and turned her into his body. She put her head down and leaned on him while he urged her out of the bedroom. "Shh," he crooned, rubbing his hand on her upper arm. "We're gonna get you something to drink, alright? You don't have to keep looking at this."
Although the veteran took her out of the room and into the kitchen, Emili's fingers shook so hard that she couldn't control her hand well enough not to splash the contents of a bottle of water on her shirt. She just kept seeing how starkly the blood contrasted with the all-white furniture.
