II.

Kira speed-walked down the streets of the City as quickly as her heels could carry her, bristling. What had possessed her to engage with the man? She should have been keeping her head down, but she could hardly resist the pull of a ridiculous situation. It was the detective's fault, really, prancing around the trading floor like he had, attracting attention. Sebastian's involvement was more bad news; he was a living, breathing connection between her and the bank. Kira could have snuck out as soon as she heard his voice, and he would be none the wiser. Annoying the lad was just as delightful after all these years, however, and her spirits needed lifting.

Then again, if she had played by the rules, she may have missed the vandalised portrait, and that presented a whole new problem. Someone had left that message, and recently. Van Coon was perfectly fine yesterday, managing to drag a suitcase all the way down to the Lucky Cat Emporium. He'd responded to Kira's carefully drafted as to sound urgent email, even though it was a Sunday. Between yesterday afternoon and today he had disappeared without a trace. These occurrences could be completely unrelated, but coincidences left a taste of burnt cola in her mouth.

Going to someone's home in the middle of the day without a carefully laid out plan wasn't the done thing, usually. Kira had a very small window of time, however, and even that seemed to be rapidly shrinking. Van Coon was one of very few links they had to the Black Lotus and if he was being threatened... well. She hoped against hope that the man was still alive. Turning the corner past Deutsche Bank, she pressed the phone to her ear.

"Waddup?"

If that accent was a person, it would wear a Yankees cap and eat hot dogs from a stall for lunch. Which was ironic, considering Jamie had been raised in South Dakota and lived in Boston before moving to England. Kira never quite got around to asking him if he had even stepped a foot in New York.

"Van Coon wasn't in work so I'm away to his flat."

"Why?"

Kira glanced at the crowds sweeping past. Jamie had to be made aware of recent developments. Her paranoia flared up at the thought of discussing the instance at the bank out in the open. She had to weigh that against the trail left by metadata that could not be destroyed, and a busy street where no one cared enough to spit on you was as good a place as any to conduct clandestine communications.

"Some detective is looking into a break-in at the bank. They defaced the founder's portrait and only drew a line across his eyes. He thinks it's a message and if he's right..." She trailed off meaningfully.

"He with the police?" Jamie immediately questioned. She could picture him pinching his eyebrows as he always did when presented with adverse information.

"PI, by the looks of it." Kira mentally winced at what was about to follow. "Also happens to know who I am."

A pause for contemplation.

"What?"

"Through that guy from uni."

"You're fucking kidding. Don't cross him again."

"Thank you for your guidance, I was thinking of inviting him for a fishing trip instead."

"Don't get smart either."

They fell into an awkward silence. Kira could hear whistling in the background. It sounded like the coffee machine in the canteen at work and her mouth filled with saliva. Right now, she would give her left pinky for a good cup of coffee.

"What took you so long, anyway?

"Had to maintain presence in the area. Keeping up appearances and all."

Kira would never volunteer to represent Scion but inventing an entire new business capable of passing anti-money laundering checks required time. Swapping some figures on existing reports was a lot easier. Plus, they all had to be careful when assuming identities in London. It was astonishing how small this metropolis of eight million people became where people in positions of power were concerned. Everyone was someone's cousin or pal, somehow, and they knew your uncle.

"Hurry up, they'll need you back at HQ for Lukis' bank statements. Bell's finished cross-referencing them. I'll establish contact with him by tonight."

With that, the conversation came to an end, just in time for Kira to wave at a passing cab. A cab ride wasn't ideal either, she would much rather take a cab followed by another or the bus, but all her objections fell on deaf ears these days.

Van Coon's apartment building was brown, rather ugly, and definitely overpriced. Kira eyed the front door, then the windows of the banker's flat. There was no movement behind the thin curtains, but that meant absolutely nothing. The man could be snoring on his toilet. She briskly crossed the street and stared at the buzzers. Van Coon shared the building with thirteen other sets of residents whom Kira had checked out last night while mapping out her approach. Couple of business owners, various professionals, and a university professor.

Early afternoon on a Monday. Most people were still at work or finishing their exquisite lunches only to end up back at work. Kira pressed Van Coon's buzzer and waited. No one answered. She tried again with the same degree of success. Next on her list was Flat 13, on the top floor, on the side opposite the banker's. Her teeth worried her upper lip while she waited and a rather unladylike curse materialised on the tip of her tongue when she heard a click.

"Hello?"

"Hi," Kira started faux-cheerfully in her best London accent, "I'm so, so sorry to bother you. My brother lives in this building, he's asked me to check on his kitten but has stupidly forgotten to give me the key for the front door. Would you mind buzzing me in?"

"Er..."

Kira rolled her eyes. What arsehole can deny a kitten? She blamed the innate suspicion of Londoners. Had she been in Edinburgh, she'd already be in the building; in Glasgow, she'd also be offered a pint.

"Please, it's very important," she repeated, voice now artistically exasperated. "She's an anxious little thing and my brother won't be back until tomorrow. She scratches through all the furniture if left on her own for too long."

"Oh, alright." The woman behind the intercom sounded annoyed. Cow, Kira thought while thanking her profusely and entered the building. In the cab, she'd taken off her jacket and untucked her shirt to conceal her shape, and let her hair down for the street cameras' benefit. It wasn't a disguise by any stretch of the imagination, but it would have to do. She pulled it back into a tight bun now, wistfully thinking of her wigs and prosthetics, stashed safely away in her desk. Her bone structure was sharp, the curve of her lips and roundness of her eyes excepted. It made for an appealing, if slightly futuristic, face which was great for an eyewear model. In her line of work, not so much.

Kira slowly climbed up to the sixth floor, patting herself on the back for packing her soft-soled flats this morning. She usually forgot and ended up with vicious blisters. Pulling a small purse out of her inside pocket, she stood in front of Van Coon's door. The banker wasn't in his flat or, at the very least, didn't feel like talking to anyone, which Kira established after ringing the bell once more. She overheard no steps quietly backing away from the door, no rustling of pyjama bottoms. The stairway remained silent, without the slightest hint of doors opening to reveal neighbourhood watch members. Downstairs, a young child whined out and was quickly silenced, no doubt by a stern caregiver.

Van Coon's door had a standard double cylinder deadbolt lock. Kira drew a tension wrench and a pick from the purse and expertly inserted both into the keyway, pushing gently at each pin until she felt that magic resistance. She slowly increased the pressure on the wrench and hiked the pin higher, looking for the pin nest. While her eyes and hands focused on the task at hand, her ears nearly twisted to capture any sounds. The moody occupant of Flat 13 stirred briefly, then went quiet. Across, the soft murmur of water hit a pipe. One by one, Kira pushed at the pins until the barrel gave away. Slowly, painstakingly, she turned the pick and wrench. The lock swung and the handle clicked outright seductively. Congratulating herself on a job well done - it took less than thirty seconds too! - Kira pushed the door open. A bang ricocheted off the gleaming handrails and was lost somewhere far below.

Kira glared at the door chain, fully extended and blocking her way into the flat. On the positive side, no bankers came running out of the bedroom with improvised tools of self-defence. On the negative, she was certain she could hear steps in the flat across and there was no way of telling how curious that person was. At least her grip of the lockpicking instruments had remained strong. With her free hand and the help of her teeth, Kira fished a sturdy piece of thread out of the purse and looped it around the chain. Yanking the thread over the top of the door, she pulled it nearly shut and, nerves as tight as the plastic strand itself, wriggled it until she felt the chain coming loose. With a jerk, the pick and wrench came out of the lock and, without looking back, Kira vanished inside the flat.

Sherlock stared at the passing structures without truly seeing them. One, second, another one were erased from his mind as soon as they disappeared from view. He thought about deleting that encounter at the bank too, once the case was over, and decided against it. Even with his mental discipline, his university days were uncomfortably difficult to forget and Sebastian looking like he'd swallowed something bitter made the memories a lot more digestible.

Thoughts of his upbringing sprung up, unbidden. For years, he had been able to tell where people came from and what bothered them, he knew when they were excited or lying. He occasionally managed to pinpoint the names of their pets, even, though that included a whole lot of guided guesswork. Then, just as he thought he had them figured out, he'd point out something obvious and the polite smiles would pirouette into frowns. It seemed that despite his knowledge of the workings of mankind, Sherlock couldn't fully grasp what made them tick. There was always something he was missing; a cheeky tone of voice, perhaps, or a meaningful glance. Little gestures that spoke volumes to others but to him were like the tommes at the top of mother's library - unattainable, mysterious, and sneeze-inducing.

He'd gone through his childhood and adolescence ignoring these little quirks and leaving piles of disgruntled peers and adults in his wake. It wasn't purposeful, at least not in the beginning. Why would his mother gently pat down his curls when he'd just messed them up? Didn't she understand he preferred it that way? Or the way the neighbourhood boy, Michael, kept throwing his toy trucks at Sherlock. His father explained the boy was bored and vying for attention, but couldn't he at least throw some books? True, they were heavier and had plenty of sharp edges, but when had Andrew ever seen Sherlock play with toys? The boy clearly wasn't Nobel laureate material. He was a child, so he played with toys. Exhilarating.

Sherlock had quickly learned not to concern himself with his fellow man too often, unless it was necessary for a case or to extract some other benefit, like Molly Hooper's access to St. Bart's. Lestrade had opened the door to a splendid world of deceit, twistedness, and surprising levels of innovation, and dedicating crucial brain power to the whims of humanity seemed like a waste. The regular person's day was so mundane and devoid of stimulation that even mentioning it made Sherlock's fingers twitch. There were the rare exceptions, few and far between. Mycroft was the obvious one, although no torture method could force him to admit it. His brother didn't care much for the world either, as it was, learning its ways in order to game it. And a damn good game it was, considering it got him a cushy job with the MI6. Despite being rather stuck in his ways these days, Mycroft was still prone to the occasional display of obscene behaviour, like intensifying his spying on Sherlock recently.

He could always recognise a Mycroft spy by the expensive disguise, awkward haircut, and bitter expression. Then again, if Sherlock had gone through all the trouble of applying for the intelligence service, passing the hideous tests, and being hired to follow some civil servant's brother around, he'd be peevish too. Only the past week he'd seen one lurking behind a Costa on Bloomsbury Street and another scaling a pile of rubbish under Vauxhall Bridge. They were becoming increasingly more obvious; it was rather disconcerting. Sherlock would have to have a chat with his brother about the quality of operatives Her Majesty was hiring

"What do we do when we get there?"

Sherlock's head slowly turned in John's direction. "We question him?"

He would have deemed that rather self-explanatory. John responded by scowling and crossing his arms.

"I mean, what angle are you playing with this guy?"

"We prod carefully. This clearly isn't a friendly message. I don't expect he will be forthcoming about it. He must believe that we are on his side, that he is the true victim."

"If the message is for him, then surely..." John started thoughtfully.

"It doesn't bode well to form conclusions ahead of examining all available evidence," Sherlock warned and signaled to the cabbie. "Here's fine."

Kira surveyed the dead body critically and tattooed a message in morse code on the floor. Whatever the content, it was sure to be overflowing with expletives.

A brief search around the flat revealed nothing of importance. In fact, it looked hardly lived in, which Kira sympathised with, being an office-dweller herself, although she liked to think that her flat exhibited at least some character. Van Coon owned only airport books, some horrific steel balls that passed as decorations, and a case of champagne. He displayed no souvenirs from far-away places on the living room shelves, no birthday cards graced the mantlepiece, and the fridge door was devoid of any post-it notes or letters from loving nephews. There was a small Buddha statue in the hall, which Kira picked up gingerly only to discover a TK Maxx sticker on the bottom. Even the mess he left behind him was unassuming.

So she'd broken into the bedroom, using a plastic card to unlock the double doors, and had come face to face with the freshly deceased. A gun laid next to him, prompting Kira to rack her brains for a mention of a firearms licence in Van Coon's file and coming back empty. Then again, his criminal activity wasn't something he boasted about in public either, and a seasoned smuggler might feel the need to protect his property and person against any competitors. Speaking of which, the suitcase she recognised from the Lucky Cat CCTV footage was in the corner, opened and boasting the man's dirty washing. She gently prodded the pile, but felt nothing out of the ordinary. Next was the wardrobe, filled with stylish suits and pressed shirts. The cupboards contained nothing more sinister than a questionable choice of sock patterns, and the en suite bathroom had a single bog roll

Kira returned to the bedroom and grimaced. Amongst the things she felt like doing today, pick-pocketing a corpse was far down on the list. She had no problem with dead bodies, having seen her fair share, but the smell of decay, no matter how faint, always gave her the boke. The hole on the banker's temple was anything but inviting, having oozed blood and brain matter all over his pillow, turning the jade green a murky brown. Kira braced herself, reached into Van Coon's jacket... and froze.

Two separate sets of steps echoed in the stairway. There was a muffled exchange right outside Van Coon's door, then a single person continued on up. Kira had had the foresight to hook the door chain back on, having to leave as few traces of her visit as possible. Initially, she planned on borrowing a set of joggers from the deceased and sliding down the pipe on the side of the bathroom window. Van Coon thwarted that because, contrary to all logic, he didn't own a single item of casual clothing. The man was like a cartoon character. Maybe he had an exercise suit.

Kira approached the bedroom door lightly, toes first, and quietly locked it. Broken-up bits of conversation floated through the ceiling, then a pair of feet, presumably, made their way to the opposite end of the flat. Perhaps she was overly-cautious and the upstairs neighbour was simply having guests. If that were the case, however, who was waiting outside the banker's flat? She suspected that she'd met the intruder already, and he most likely had a flop of dark curls.

The only way out now was the balcony attached to the bedroom which faced the back. Kira peeked down to ensure that no residents were picnicking in the shared garden, then briefly pondered on the distance between this flat and the one below. She didn't fancy climbing down in broad daylight, but it was slightly more preferable to being discovered in the company of a corpse and the leather gloves offered some grip, at least. If the unmistakable sound of a body dropping onto the living room balcony was anything to go by, she'd have to be quick about it too.

With her skirt hiked as far up as propriety allowed and shoulder bag hanging awkwardly around her neck, Kira swung a leg over the balustrade. Reminding herself not to dwell on the tree crowns surrounding her for too long, she grabbed onto the rails and descended cautiously until she was hanging from the edge of the concrete floor. The intruder's steps were closer now. This one has an awful lot of nests on top, I wonder how all the birds are getting along. Kira swayed lightly and let go.

Objectively speaking, he could hear John calling out to him but the doctor could have been shouting from across the English Channel for all it was worth. Once Sherlock got into the zone, no amount of shouting, pleading, or crowbar waving could snap him out of it. He swept around the living room in a few long strides, taking note of the state of the carpet (expensive but worn), wallpaper (basic), and ceiling (few cobwebs, no signs of smoking) before focusing on the furniture.

The dents in the leather sofa suggested that Van Coon preferred to sit on the left and that any guests he may have entertained did not stick around for long. Sherlock's gaze lingered over the pile of books stacked on the white unit, their spines in various stages of wrinkling. The banker seemed to have particular affinity for The Da Vinci Code, and the London A-Z had been picked up a few times, but a quick flip through them revealed nothing more than the man's habit of touching items with greasy fingers. The state of the kitchen and bathroom only supported Sherlock's assessment of Van Coon as a deliberate loner. This, of course, didn't mean that the message in the bank wasn't the culmination of a personal matter but, coupled with the location of the graffiti, it was beginning to look less likely.

Sherlock had to force his way into the bedroom and was not all that surprised to be greeted by a dead man. A satisfied smile tugged at the corner of his mouth for just a second; and to think that the highlight of his day would be a rough and tumble with some Sikh warrior. He really ought to have more faith in the criminal community.

"John, phone the police," Sherlock instructed before realising that his flatmate was still outside, probably fuming. Dragging John around was not dissimilar to having a dog, he had discovered, except the man cleaned up after himself and wielded a gun with considerable prowess. If only Sherlock could remember to let him in.

John was where the detective had left him, leaning on the doorframe and giving his shoes the death glare. He complained immediately.

"About time. The neighbour came out twice to see what was happening, I thought he was about to call the police on me-"

"He would have saved me the trouble. Van Coon's dead."

"How?"

"Shot to the head." Sherlock let John into the flat and pressed the phone to his ear. "Time to let our brave law enforcers know."

Whilst Lestrade asked silly questions, Sherlock was inspecting the lock. The scratches around the keyway looked fairly standard, except the dust accumulation suggested that some of them were rather new. He kneeled to examine the minuscule chips of paint on the floor and was in the process of turning the chain over when John emerged from the bedroom.

"Been dead a few hours by the looks of it, between ten and twelve I'd say. The shot must have killed him instantly." He took his gloves off and carefully rolled them in a ball before sticking them in his pocket. "You're making that face again. Found something?"

"Just observing."

"Lestrade on his way?"

"Mm."

He carefully let the chain hang and headed back to the bedroom and out onto the balcony. The sky was gloomy, the promise of rain drifting gently through the air. Sherlock could hear the hustle and bustle of the street behind him but the garden provided a degree of seclusion, with a tall hedge lining the inside of the fence and numerous trees obscuring the view from the neighbouring buildings. He had considered questioning the residents across, but the landscape coupled with the fact that the crime was carried out during the night meant it was unlikely for anyone to have noticed a dark figure slipping down from the roof. Or not; the debris around the front door suggested that someone had broken in that way. It looked like the job of a professional - most lockpickers were overly-excitable and left deep gouges all over the lock as a result. Then there were the marks on the chain. It had been hooked on before Sherlock let John in, so whoever's doing this was was trying their best to leave as little evidence of their presence as possible. Well, they hadn't banked on Sherlock Holmes getting in on the case, pun intended. He concluded his examination of the balustrade - it was impossible to say whether the prints visible on the black paint were Van Coon's without the forensics - and returned inside. John was eyeing a Buddha statue in the hallway.

"I'll never understand why people buy these things."

"Gives them the illusion of being cultured," Sherlock replied. The doctor noticed the furrow between his eyebrows and raised his own.

"What's wrong?"

He couldn't vocalise exactly what was bugging him. Maybe he expected that the killer had come into the flat the same way he had entered the bank. If he could scale the steel-and-glass monstrosity that was Shad Sanderson without a hitch, he could easily climb down from the roof. Then again, why make his life harder if he could simply pick the lock? Sherlock couldn't be wrong about the climbing, there wasn't another way for the killer to gain entrance to Shad's office without tripping the security system, but perhaps there was something he was missing. Scoffing, he headed for the door. He was making too many assumptions.

"We need to speak to the neighbours."

"Shouldn't we wait for Lestrade? A lot more authority in a uniform than..." John gestured at his clothes. Sherlock suspected his flatmate was more apprehensive about bothering the man than the legitimacy of their inquiries. Luckily, the detective didn't share his anxieties.

The inhabitant of Flat 11 was a large, dour man with shoulders the width of an armchair. He glared at John as soon as he opened the door. "What do you want now?"

"We're investigating a break-in at your neighbour's flat." Sherlock helpfully omitted to share that his neighbour had died as a result of said break-in. The man would find out soon enough. "Have you heard anything out of the ordinary?"

"Just your chum here banging and shouting. This is a nice building, you know."

"I wasn't banging," John protested.

"What about last night?" The detective interrupted before an argument could break out.

"Dunno. I go to bed early. My wife was up marking papers, maybe she heard something."

"Can we speak to her?"

"She's at work."

"I was only knocking," John muttered.

"Yeah, and what of the noise you were making before? I almost dropped my lasagna."

Sherlock frowned. "What noise?"

"A loud bang," the man emphasised, "like someone was hitting the door or something. I was just checking up on the lasagna, salting it and that. My wife likes it flavoursome."

Sherlock humphed impatiently and earned himself a glower. "Anyway, I came out to check what was going on and couldn't see anyone. Two minutes later this guy starts howling."

Before John could contest the man's choice of words, Sherlock thanked him and headed back to Van Coon's apartment

"Someone was here before us."

"The person who broke into the bank?"

Sherlock shook his head. He needed more information.

Kira massaged her fingers, curses lining in her mind in the voice of that guy from Peep Show. If only she were as tall as Alison; the woman could bloody well walk down the side of the building as if it were a ladder. Instead, there had been some flailing of the legs and shaking of the arms, but she had managed to get to the third floor. The route downwards, however, became a sheer drop to the trimmed grass. It was far too high to just jump. If she bungled it, it could provide for a very stupid cause of death and if she did survive, she might have to answer some uncomfortable questions. 'Who are you?', 'What happened?', and 'It may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court, understood?' sprung to mind. The pipe Kira had been eyeing earlier was out of reach too, so she sought escape the opposite way and came face to face with a pair of inquisitive eyes.

The boy couldn't have been older than four or five, with a head of hair that could put any eighties band member to shame. He clung to a large alligator toy, still as a statue, surrounded by the remnants of a Lego building project. Kira wondered if he was the one screeching earlier and hoped he wouldn't do it again. She pressed a finger to her lips and winked. The boy nibbled on his toy's nose.

Right.

She waved him over. The boy approached the door slowly and stared at the handle from a step away, curiosity and caution battling behind concentrated eyes. Kira simply had to extend a finger and gently tip the scales in her favour. She spoke quietly, conspiratorially. "I'm playing hide and seek with my cousin from upstairs. I need to get out before he finds me."

Was he young enough to believe such blatant porkies? Kira couldn't recall how skeptical or otherwise she had been in her formative years. She doubted that the words of strange ladies materialising into locked spaces would have been taken at face value at any age, however. Her mother rooted out any unhealthy gullibility quickly enough.

"Seeking is better than hiding. Hiding is boring," the boy decreed.

"If I lose, I'll have to do the chores." No child likes that, surely.

"Does he have to do them if you win?"

"Yes?"

"Hmm. It isn't fair to help then."

I have no time for this nonsense.

"Ah, you aren't helping. Just not obstructing."

"What's 'obstructing'?"

"Being in my way."

The boy chewed thoughtfully on his alligator. "My mum and dad never play hide and seek."

"Help me out and I'll give you a fiver," Kira snapped, not the least because she wasn't of parenting age yet. Maybe an auntie, if anything. "You can put it in your piggy bank."

"I don't have a piggy bank."

"Then start one!"

Desperation began clawing at her sternum. Someone upstairs slowly circled around before returning inside. Kira flashed a smile she hoped looked encouraging though felt that the pull of her clenched jaws turned the friendly gesture into a slightly deranged expression. Whatever dilemma the child was facing seemed to resolve itself.

"How do I get more money?"

Wise beyond his years, Kira thought proudly. She gave the balcony dweller another moment before speaking. "Tell your parents you want to start saving. I'll double your money if you keep quiet about it."

He was almost too short to grab the handle properly, but between her pushing and his pulling, the door opened. Kira was crouching behind the bed in a heartbeat and stuck a tenner under his pillow. "If anyone asks, say you found it. Way out?"

A chubby finger pointed West.

"Parents?"

"Mummy's washing dishes in the kitchen."

Still crouching, Kira stuck her head into the hallway. Some childminding, she thought at the sight of a row of closed doors. Just there, on the far end, was the exit and she headed in that direction on her tippy toes, trying not to disturb the floorboards. She could hear mummy walking around but not the banging of pots and pans characteristic of dishwashing, so one misstep could land her in hot, soapy water. Her hand reached for the doorknob and, simultaneously, a voice called out for Adam. The door on her left was slightly ajar and Kira could push in and wait until an opportunity for safe escape presented itself. Mummy shouted on Adam once more, louder. Run or hide? Indecisiveness was as deadly as a bullet to the brainstem. Kira bolted.

It was a blur from there onwards, with the soft click of the lock, the short pauses between floors, and the removal of her jacket in mid-step melting into one cold, bubbling sensation. Someone was having a conversation on an upper landing but the words were indistinguishable, partly due to the rush of blood to her head. She could only empathise with the first upright men chased by smilodons. At the bottom of the stairs, Kira inhaled slowly, willing her nervous system into cooperating, and let her hair down again. Keeping her pace steady and her head turned away from the building, she joined the trickle of pedestrians and swore to never willingly return to Newham.

Author's note: Oh wow, followers! Thank you so much folks, it really means a lot. I hope everyone is safe and healthy.

I have decided to change the rating to M, just to be on the safe side. As always, any comments are more than welcome.