Maxine

We ended up staking out the The Lucky Cat in the restaurant across the street. Sherlock jotted down the two Hangzhou numbers and their English equivalents on a napkin as John wrote down notes in a small notebook. I had elected to sit beside Sherlock rather than my brother, since I was still cross with him. I stared at the shop with a furrowed brow, my head in my hands.

"Two men travel back from China," John said. "Both head straight for The Lucky Cat emporium. What did they see?"

"It's not what they saw; it's what they both brought back in those suitcases," Sherlock murmured.

"And you don't mean duty free," John mused.

At that point, the waitress came back and placed a plate of food in front of John and a coffee in front of me.

"Thank you," John told her as I gave her a small appreciative nod.

As soon as the waitress walked away, I took a sip of my coffee before saying, "Smugglers."

"Sorry?" John looked up at me with raised brows.

I avoided his gaze. "The men. Obviously smugglers."

"She's right," Sherlock said. "Think about what Sebastian told us; about Van Coon—about how he stayed afloat in the market."

"Lost five million." John leaned back in his seat and grimaced.

"Made is back in a week." Sherlock looked up from his napkin and at my brother.

"Mmm..." John began to pick at his food.

"That's how he made such easy money," Sherlock pointed out.

"He was a smuggler. Mm..." John took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. He glanced warily at me. Clearly, he wanted to talk about before, but now wasn't exactly the time and both of us knew it. Not to mention, I was in no hurry to bring it back up.

"A guy like him—it would have been perfect," Sherlock said. "Business man..."

"Mm-hmm," John agreed with his mouth full of food.

"...making frequent trips to Asia. And Lukis was the same... a journalist writing about China."

Miyako had told me of her doing similar things in her past. Getting goods between different countries was something that was highly sought for with criminal organizations. It was a bit strange- a lot of this reminded me a little too much about the crew Miyako had to deal with back in Japan- the same organization that wanted to use me to control her.

"Both of them smuggled stuff out, and The Lucky Cat was their drop-off," Sherlock said.

"But why did they die?" John asked. "I mean, it doesn't make sense. If they both turn up at the shop and deliver the goods, why would someone threaten them and kill them after the event; after they'd finished the job?"

Sherlock sit back in his seat thoughtfully for a few seconds, then a smile stretched his lips.

"You've got the answer?" I prompted.

"What if one of them was light-fingered?" the detective suggested.

"How d'you mean?" John queried.

"Stole something; something from the hoard," Sherlock said.

"And the killer doesn't know which of them took it, so he threatens them both. Right." John nodded and took another bit of food while glancing at the shop across the street.

I was the one sitting closer to the window and as I leaned forward to drink from my coffee, Sherlock abruptly gripped my shoulder and pulled mer back. He leaned over me, his cheek an inch from my lips, and stared at the shop with narrowed eyes.

"Uh—" I began.

"Remind me..." Sherlock said softly, "...when was the last time it rained?"

Without waiting for a response from either of us, he slid off the bench and headed for the door.

"Good thing we paid up front," John muttered, staring mournfully at his plate before getting up and following.

I sighed heavily and took a long drink from my coffee before going after the boys.

Across the street, Sherlock bent down to a Yellow Pages phonebook that laid on the sidewalk against the wall of a building directly beside The Lucky Cat. John and I paused behind him as he peered at it; the plastic wrapper had drops of water spattered on it and the top of it was broken open a little. Sherlock ran his fingers over the top of the damp and exposed pages of the directory.

"It's been here since Monday," Sherlock noted. Straightening, the detective pressed the doorbell to the flat the book sat outside of. He only waited a couple of heartbeats before turning to the right and walking off down the walkway.

"What are we doing?" I asked as John and I trotted after him.

Sherlock led us down the alley beside the flat and glanced over his shoulder at us.

"No-one's been in that flat for at least three days," he said.

"Could've gone on holiday," John suggested.

"D'you leave your windows open when you go on holiday?" Sherlock asked.

We'd reached the rear of the building and the detective craned his head back to look up at the cantilevered metal fire escape over our heads. Sherlock backed up a few paces and took a running leap to grab the end and pull it down to the ground. He bounded up the steps and I headed up after him, spotting the open window he was talking about.

Our ascent had been too eager, however, for when we reached the landing, the ladder swung back up to its horizontal position and John was still down on the ground.

"Sherlock! Maddie!" he called up.

I glanced toward the ladder and shrugged. Honestly, I was getting sick of the underlying strain of anxiety my brother's mere presence was causing me. Sherlock, meanwhile, didn't even glance John's way, too focused on the open window. John huffed and turned to start jogging back toward the front of the building.

"Just lemme in through the front," he said over his shoulder as he went.

Not likely, I thought.

"C'mon, Max," Sherlock said as he began to climb through the window. The moment he vanished into the flat, I heard him cry out in muffled alarm.

Startled, I darted to the window and stuck my head in just in time to see Sherlock catch a vase before it hit the ground. The detective stared at the floor for a moment before straightening up. There was a wet patch on the carpet right where the vase would have landed if Sherlock hadn't caught it.

"Someone else has been here," Sherlock said softly as I climbed in through the window behind him. The detective replaced the vase and ran his thumb on its decorative surface. "Somebody else broke into the flat and knocked over the vase just like I did."

I glanced around to see we were in a quant kitchen and given the decor, I was willing to bet that vase had flowers in it at one point. The room definitely had an elegant, feminine flare. Sherlock strode over to the washing machine that was located on the end of the room and opened it up. From it, he pulled a pair of woman's underwear and sniffed it. As he grimaced, I raised my brows at him.

"It was the first thing I grabbed," he defended. "Smells like mildew. The load was started but never moved to the drier."

The doorbell rang out overhead and I could faintly hear John's voice from downstairs. "D'you think maybe you could let me in this time?"

Ordinarily, I might have gone down and allowed my brother to join our investigation, however I still didn't want him within fifty meters of me. Sherlock didn't seem to have any inclination to let him in either as he felt the tea towel on the table where the vase was to find it was dry. He carefully began to head farther in and I walked after him, carefully eyeing our surroundings.

"Can you not keep doing this, please?" John's voice called from downstairs, this time louder. I heard the squeak of metal hinges and guessed he had flipped up the mail slot to yell inside.

Sherlock was in the kitchen now and opened the fridge. He reached inside and grabbed a pint of milk to screw off the cap and smell it. His nose scrunched up a bit and he swiftly put it back where he found it; gone bad I'd guess.

"We're not the first!" he said toward the stairs, evidently at John.

"What?" John yelled back.

"Somebody's been here before us!" Sherlock shouted as I headed toward the beaded curtain that separated the kitchen from the next room.

"What are you saying?" John demanded.

I frowned as I noticed the rug right in front of the entryway had been rucked up at the corner. I pointed down at it and looked at Sherlock. He instantly came to my side while pulling out a magnifying glass from his coat pocket. The detective squatted down and peered at the faint print that had been left.

"Size eight feet," he murmured.

"Small man or slightly bigger woman," I said.

"Small," Sherlock agreed, "but athletic."

He stood and pushed through the beaded curtain and into the next room. I followed to see it was a living room combined with a bedroom. I could see the foot of the bed peeking out from behind a decorative screen and on the our side of it was a dresser. There were more trinkets scattered about, but at the same time, the place was still tidy. I strode into the room on careful footsteps, raking my gaze along the walls and furniture for any possible clues.

The doorbell rang again and I bit my tongue so hard it hurt. I was starting to consider testing my Aikido on a war veteran.

Sherlock walked over to the dresser and picked up a photograph that had been propped there. Curious, I went to him and peered from around his arm. The photo showed two young Chinese children: a boy and a girl. They were both smiling widely at the camera. There was a handprint on the glass of the frame and Sherlock lifted his magnifier again to examine it.

"Small, strong hands," he said softly. He closed the magnifier and replaced the frame. "Our acrobat."

He frowned and began to look around. I glanced back toward the beaded curtain, which was still swaying from when we passed through it.

"But why didn't he close the window when he left?" I asked.

"My thoughts exactly," Sherlock said. I turned back to see him pause and roll his eyes. "Oh, stupid. Stupid. Obvious. He's still here."

I raised my brows at him. "Still here?" I echoed.

Sherlock put a finger to his lips and then gestured his head toward the screen that shielded the bed from our view. It made sense; there wasn't anywhere else that would be convenient for our intruder to hide. Side-by-side, Sherlock and I began to carefully stalk toward the screen on light feet. When we reached it, Sherlock reached forward and gripped the edge to swiftly pull it back.

Two stuffed animals greeted us with wide, glassy eyes. They admittedly looked startled from where they sat on the bedside table. Then, before either of us could make a comment or move, Sherlock was suddenly no longer by my side.

Alarmed, I turned to see a figure in all-black garb had a silken white scarf twined in his fists with the middle wrapped around Sherlock's throat. The assailant was male, giving his build, though he was on the small side, just like Sherlock had predicted. He dragged the detective to the ground and proceeded to throttle him.

Without a word, I darted forward and scampered around Sherlock's flailing legs to get at the black-clothed man from the side.

"Any time you two want to include me," John's voice echoed from up the stairs.

I didn't have time to respond to him. I had gotten around the side while Sherlock desperately gripped at the scarf in an attempt to free his airway. The man clearly wasn't expecting me to be so quick to retaliate. His dark brown eyes met mine just before I snaked an arm beneath his and used the same hand to grip the back of his head. I planted my feet and grabbed the man's opposite waist with my free hand, then used my body weight to throw him off of Sherlock.

It didn't succeed exactly as I planned. The man did lose his grip on Sherlock, but in my attempt to fling him to the side, he threw himself back and on top of me. I let out a startled grunt as I was pinned to the floor. I could hear Sherlock coughing and out of the corner of my eye, I saw him on all fours, trying to recover.

"No, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no-one else can compete with my MASSIVE INTELLECT!" John bellowed from downstairs. "Unless that someone is John Watson's little sister, who for some reason connects more with me than her own own brother!"

Mildly distracted by the flare of anger that surged through me at John's words, I wasn't prepared when the man rolled over to face me and grabbed my by the hair. I yelped as he nimbly jumped up and yanked me into a sitting position. However, before he could do anything else, Sherlock was up and charged at him.

The detective tackled him to the ground; unfortunately, the man didn't lose his grip on my hair. I clenched my teeth as I was pulled about a meter across the floor. I twisted and reached up to grip the hand that had hold of me, trying to pry the man's fingers loose. I couldn't see what was happening between him and Sherlock, but after some grunting, my hair was finally free and I rolled quickly away.

With an aching scalp, I looked up to see the man had gotten Sherlock in a chokehold again. The detective struggled violently, but every squirm he gave was growing visibly weaker than the last and his eyes were fluttering.

I got to my feet and began to move toward the assailant again, but he dragged Sherlock away through the beaded curtain with surprising speed, considering his load. I suddenly wished I had my dagger with me as I darted after them. Clearly, the man saw Sherlock as the main target or threat; he was determined to take the detective down first.

Back in the kitchen, Sherlock's arms had gone limp and he was no longer attempting escape. The man released him and faced me, his body posed for combat. I glanced at Sherlock to make sure his chest was still rising and falling before focusing wholly on the intruder. He swiftly moved in toward me, his hands open and with the intent to grapple. I knew there was a good chance that his strength would outweigh my own considering how easily he dragged Sherlock. I bolted backwards with one, agile jump and his hands grabbed nothing but air.

With a triumphant smile, I moved to the side before he could readjust. I lashed out my leg and kicked him in the back so hard it sent him back through the beaded curtain and into the living room area again. He rolled on the ground when he landed and was already on his feet again when I followed after him. The moment I emerged from the beaded curtain, he shot toward me with speed I wasn't anticipating.

The assailant shoved me against the wall and my head cracked against it, dazing me. As I stumbled, his hands gripped my yellow scarf and he tightened it around my neck while pulling me up against his chest. My feet left the floor and I tried to dig my fingers beneath the fabric to get some air in, but this guy was just too damn strong. I kicked and thrashed, but the longer my lungs were left empty, the more darkness began to creep in at the corners of my vision.

"John..." I rasped weakly. "Sherlock..."

Then it all went black.

"Max."

It really felt nice to finally sleep. No part of my body wanted to waken when someone began to gently prod my side and shake my shoulder. For a moment, I wasn't sure who it was- but then I recalled that there was only one man alive that I allowed to call me Max.

"Max, c'mon, up you get," Sherlock Holme's urged.

I forced my eyes to flutter open and I saw the detective kneeling over me. We were still in the flat we'd climbed into and I was lying on the living room floor with a very sore throat.

Sherlock's seemed to be sore too, for when he talked, it sounded croaky and rough. "Good. I think John would have killed me if we had to take you to the hospital."

"The intruder...?" I queried with an equally raspy voice.

"Scampered off," Sherlock said. "Let's go. We need to find out more about this Soo Lin Yao; she's the one who was staying at this flat."

"Of course..." I muttered, sitting up with Sherlock's help. "Why didn't he kill us?"

"Because his intention was to send a message, not kill," Sherlock said as he reached into his pocket and produced a small, black paper flower. "You probably have one too."

"Oh souvenirs?" I said dryly as I struggled to sit up.

Sherlock pressed a hand to my back to help me keep steady. The moment I was fully up, the twin to the detective's paper flower fell from the folds of my scarf and into my lap. I frowned at it and picked it up. I was rather annoyed that the man had used the one physical object I had sentiment for to strangle me. I tossed the flower aside before examining the yellow fabric to make sure he didn't stretch it too badly.

"That's evidence," Sherlock grunted as he went after the paper I threw.

"How long were we out?" I queried as I got to my feet.

"Not long- thirty seconds maybe," Sherlock replied. "C'mon. Your brother is a touch cross with us."

I grimaced with irritation and headed for the stairs.

When we opened the door, John was standing outside with his posture tight and his jaw clenched. Clearly, he wasn't pleased with being left out. Both Sherlock and I were massaging our throats and still a little wobbly on our feet.

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

John looked between the two of us, seeming to sense something was off. If Sherlock wasn't going to mention our assailant, I wasn't. I just nodded to show I agreed with the detective.

"Somebody?" John echoed.

Sherlock nodded now. "Soo Lin Yao. We have to find her."

I glanced down to check my scarf again and noticed something down by my feet. I bent down and picked up a small folded envelope.

"But how, exactly?" John prompted.

I wordlessly handed Sherlock the envelope after glancing at it. It read: SOO LIN Please ring me tell me you're OK — Andy.

Sherlock unfolded the envelope and peered at the front. I looked over his shoulder to see printed at the bottom right-hand corner was: NATIONAL ANTIQUITIES MUSEUM.

"Maybe we start with this," Sherlock suggested. His voice was still husky.

The detective headed out into the street, closing the door to the flat behind him. As he strode down the road, John and I trotted after him.

"You've gone all croaky," John noted. "Are you getting a cold?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock managed to say between a fit of coughs.

I leaned against a wall blinking sleepily as Sherlock paced around the display area within the National Antiquities Museum. There were a number of old trinkets and such within the glass cases, but all I could focus on was Sherlock's reflection being bounced between all of them. He had agreed to let me draw him, so now I just had to decide what tools to use. Charcoals maybe? Those fancy markers John got me for Christmas? Or perhaps just simple graphite pencils?

"When was the last time that you saw her?" the detective pressed.

Oh. Right. We were trying to catch a murderer.

Andy was a tall, gangly guy, perhaps within a year or two of my age. His brown hair was curly, not unlike Sherlock's, but it wasn't as dark nor were the ringlets as tight.

"Three days ago, um, here at the museum," Andy replied.

Sherlock examined another glass case that held some clay teapots. I followed his gaze and noted that most of them were dull, but one gleamed in the lighting from overhead.

"This morning, they told me she'd resigned just like that," Andy went on as Sherlock moved on to the other cases- some with jade figurines, others with artwork. "Just left her work unfinished."

I rested my head back against the wall and closed my eyes. My exhaustion was really crashing in on me; especially after the encounter with our acrobat. I needed sleep—desperately.

"What was the last thing that she did on her final afternoon?" Sherlock's voice sounded far off like he was speaking on the other side of a waterfall.

"Maddie."

Something prodded my arm and I jumped, my mind flashing to the black-garbed man trying to strangle me, but it was just John.

"We're moving," he said, gesturing to where Andy and Sherlock were walking out of the room.

I closed my eyes again, savoring the warmth my lids brought them, then pushed myself off the wall to follow.

Andy led us down to the basement where there were a good number of random art pieces and the like stashed about. Some were covered up with white cloths, others merely gathering dust. It seemed to be a storage area and an archive all in one. Andy went to one of the stacks and began to work with it, but I was already staring off as my body demanded I just curl up and sleep for ten years.

"She does this demonstration for the tourists—a-a tea ceremony," Andy explained. "So she would have packed up her things and just put them in here."

I could hear rustling somewhere to my right. I started to wonder if the boys would notice if I found a dark corner and fell asleep while they finished this up.

Abruptly, Sherlock walked by me; he was so close he nearly knocked me over. I blinked rapidly and lifted my head to see he had spotted something of great interest: a life-size statue of a nude woman with yellow paint sprayed in a straight line across the eyes and the upside down eight on the abdomen.

"Oh," I mumbled. "Good. So that's a no on the break."

Back outside the museum, night had fallen. Sherlock's pace was swift as ever as he began to stride down the street.

"We have to get to Soo Lin Yao," he said.

"If she's still alive," John pointed out.

"Sherlock!"

The three of us turned to see a familiar figure running toward us: Raz.

"Oh, look who it is," John said irritably.

Raz didn't pay any attention to him as he said to Sherlock, "Found something you'll like." Then he trotted off.

I wanted to groan. I either needed to sleep or another coffee.

We walked for about fifteen minutes. I started to lag behind and John slowed his pace to come back to where I was.

"Listen, Maddie," he began.

"Unless you're going to offer me a nap or caffeine, don't speak," I grumbled without looking at him.

"I wanted to apologize for what I said earlier," John pressed. "It was stupid and I don't know what I was thinking."

I started to take out my mobile.

"Maddie, don't," John scolded.

"My settings," I muttered.

"No, no settings. Put the phone away," John snapped, pushing my hand down.

I exhaled in frustration and shoved my mobile back into my pocket. "You wouldn't have said what you did if you didn't mean it," I told him.

"Mad- that's..." John trailed off and ran his thumb over his fingers. "All right, I admit that part of me just isn't comfortable with you taking care of me because of our age difference and that you're my little sister. I don't know why, but it just—it just embarrasses me!"

"But Sherlock helping you doesn't," I said.

"I told you, I don't know why," John sighed. "Listen: what matters is that I know that it's stupid. It just—it matters to me to take care of myself. With Sherlock, I'm planning on paying him back. I know if I borrowed from you, you wouldn't let me do that."

"I don't mind you getting a job and handling yourself," I said, "but I don't get why I can't just assist when you're in between them."

"It's just... something to my self esteem, I guess? I dunno Maddie—like I said, it's stupid," John insisted.

"Then there's what you said back at Soo Lin's flat," I added.

"You two weren't letting me in!" John argued.

"I keep getting mixed messages form you about Sherlock and me," I said. "He told you himself when we first met him that he's married to his work. And I've never been interested in men."

John suddenly raised his brows at me.

I rolled my eyes. "Or women," I clarified.

John let out a long exhale through pursed lips. "You just seem to connect with him more than anyone outside the family, y'know? You let him call you Max."

"That was a spontaneous thing," I confessed. "Unconscious decision."

"What?" John blinked.

"Don't worry about it." I waved him off. "We're fine, John. But you're going to let me help you now and again."

"Says who?" John demanded.

"Me," I said simply. "If you don't, then I'll just never talk to you again. You know I can do it."

John grimaced and shook his head. "It's a little unnerving how easy it is to see you accomplishing that."

"Then we have an agreement," I said and trotted to catch up with Sherlock and Raz.

Oddly enough, John's conversation with me seemed to drive some energy into my system. Or perhaps it was the fact that we had crossed Hungerford Bridge and now reached the South Bank Skate Park. I'd been in this area before; it was riddled with young adults and teenagers most times. Graffiti painted nearly every surface of pavement and concrete. There were some teens riding around on pushbikes and they were yelling enthusiastically at one another.

All the different forms of art that splayed across my vision along with the energetic teens and our most likely dangerous mission hit me all in one go. John finally apologized and we'd talked things through; I got to see all this lovely street art; plus we were hunting a killer.

Other probably found my definition of a good night very odd.

"If you want to hide a tree, then a forest is the best place to do it, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock said to us. "People would just walk straight past, not knowing, unable to decipher the message."

We came to a halt and Raz pointed at one of the heavily graffitied walls.

"There," he said. "I spotted it earlier."

Tucked away in all the other various pictures and tags were distinct slashes of yellow paint forming Chinese symbols. They were already partially covered by some of the other pieces. I stepped closer to it and examined the gleam it carried in the orange glow of the street lamps.

"Zinc," I murmured.

"They have been here," Sherlock breathed. "And that's the exact same paint?"

"Yeah," Raz confirmed. "Your pretty lady friend has an eye for paint too, huh?"

I turned around to see John's face pinch with distaste as he glared at Raz.

"Y'know, I would so appreciate you showing up on Tuesday to just tell them it was your bag," my brother said tightly.

"Forget about your court date," Sherlock said. "John, if we're going to decipher this code, we're gonna need to look for more evidence."

I turned around and examined the expanse of the skate park around us.

"I'm never going to get sleep," I said, shaking my head in defeat.

"C'mon, Max," Sherlock said. "Like Raz said, you have an eye for paint."

"Don't forget the pretty part," Raz added with a sly wink at me.

"Yes, all right, you can leave now, we'll take it from here," John said loudly.

"But I could help—" Raz began.

"Go!" John barked.

Raz laughed a bit, gave me one last smile, then turned and jogged away.

"For someone who wants me to date, you sure like to chase off all the guys that are interested," I said.

"Yes well, so far, they've all been bastards," John said with an unapologetic smile.

"Glad you two made up, now let's get moving," Sherlock pressed. He handed me and John each a small flashlight.

"You just... carry these with you?" I asked.

Sherlock merely gestured at me to get going with a wave of his hand.

With that, the three of us split up to examine the skate park. I wandered toward the equipment that the skaters used and peered at the graffiti that was plastered on them. As I ran the flashlight slowly over one of the halfpipes, I couldn't help but wonder who they were trying to send a message to here of all places. Was some kid mixed up in this crap? Miyako said she was very young when she got into trouble with the crime organizations over in Japan- perhaps that could happen here too.

Smugglers and killings... it really did sound like Miyako's old crowd. However, these folks were Chinese, not Japanese. Surely, there wasn't a connection. Besides, why the hell would they come all the way to England to find me? Miyako had been certain going home was what would keep me safe.

I shook my head and tried to get myself back on task. The lack of sleep was making my mind wander too much.

After about ten minutes of walking and scanning every graffitied surface I could find with my flashlight, I still hadn't found any more of the Chinese symbols- let lone any of the same yellow paint. I was starting to contemplate sneaking off to find a cab and go back to the flat to sleep, but then I heard John's voice in the distance.

"Maddie! Maddie!"

I turned my head to see my brother jogging toward me. His eyes were alight with excitement.

"Have you seen Sherlock?" he asked, partially out of breath as he paused by me.

"No, why?" I replied.

"I found something—something huge!" John said. "I've tried his mobile, he won't answer— and neither would you!"

"Oh." I took out my phone and saw I had six missed calls from him. "Sorry. Must have left it on silent."

"Let's just find him," John urged before running off.

It didn't take us too long to find our flatmate. He was examining a parked rail freight container near the edge of the park.

"Answer your phone!" John shouted as he trotted toward him. "I've been calling you! I've found it!"

Sherlock instantly turned and followed after us without a word. I had to guess he hadn't found anything substantial or he would have mentioned it- that, or it wasn't of immediate importance.

John led us back to an underpass where a large wall loomed to support the bridge. It towered about six meters overhead and it's surface was a desaturated gray. In the glow of our flashlights, its surface was oddly glossy and reflective.

"It's been painted over!" John exclaimed in disbelief. "I don't understand. It- it was here..." He stumbled backwards and continued to gape at the blank wall. "...ten minutes ago. I saw it. A whole wall of graffiti!"

That was why the surface of the wall looked off—it was wet paint. I stepped closer to the wall and frowned.

"Whoever it was did a thorough job," I said. "Multiple coats, even. Whatever was beneath is lost to us now."

"Somebody doesn't want me to see it," Sherlock said softly.

I turned around just in time to see Sherlock grab my brother's head with both hands.

"Sherlock, what are you doing...?" John asked warily.

"Yeah, I must admit, I'm curious too," I said.

"Shh, John, concentrate," Sherlock ordered. "I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes."

"No, what? Why? Why?" John stammered.

Sherlock's hands slid down to grip John's upper arms instead.

"What are you doing?!" John exclaimed.

The detective began to spin them around slowly on the spot while staring intensely into John's eyes. My brows had disappeared behind my curly bangs as I tried to understand what I was witnessing.

"I need you to maximize your visual memory," Sherlock said. "Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?"

"Yeah," John said.

"Can you remember it?" Sherlock pressed.

"Yes, definitely," John assured him.

"Can you remember the pattern?"

"Yes!"

"How much can you remember it?"

"Well, don't worry..." John began.

Sherlock was still spinning them. "Because the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate."

"Yeah, well, don't worry," John said. "I remember all of it."

"Really?" Sherlock's tone was skeptical.

"Yeah, well at least I would—" John pulled himself free of Sherlock's grip, "—if I could get to my pockets!" He then began to rummage in his pants pockets for a moment. "I took a photograph."

My brother opened up the picture on his phone that showed a series of yellow symbols clearly thanks to the flash of his mobile's camera. He plopped the device in Sherlock's hand. The detective's expression was embarrassed as he took it and slowly turned to face away from both of us. John came to my side and shook his head, his look saying: Can you believe that?

I smiled and shrugged. "Next time just open with the fact that you took a photograph," I told him. "Though, that was pretty amusing."

John rolled his eyes at me and I caught Sherlock shooting me a small glare over his shoulder.

John

Sherlock had enlarged the photograph into small sections and printed them off to stick on the mirror with the rest of our visual evidence. The moment we got home, Maxine had retired upstairs and told us that if we valued our lives, we wouldn't wake her unless it was something incredibly important or life-threatening. This left Sherlock and I to peer at the pictures and attempt to figure out this cipher.

"Always in pairs, John," Sherlock said. He was standing at the fireplace and peering at the photographs closely.

I had been dozing in my seat at the dining room table. Maxine wasn't the only one exhausted from our adventurous day. I lifted my head from my hands and blinked blearily as I turned to look at the detective.

"Hmm?"

"Numbers come with partners," Sherlock said.

I looked around the flat as the weight of just how tired I was sank in. How did Maxine do this for four days?

"God, I need sleep," I grumbled.

Sherlock didn't seem to either hear me or care. "Why did he paint it so near the tracks?"

"No idea," I said while trying to stifle a yawn.

"Thousands of people pass by there every day," Sherlock said.

I propped my head against my hand again. I had to get some semblance of sleep tonight or I'd be useless for my first day of work tomorrow. "Just twenty minutes."

There was a small pause, and I was just about to drift off when Sherlock's voice exclaimed, "Of course!"

I jolted and looked around at him again. He was smiling triumphantly at one of the photographs.

"He wants information. He's trying to communicate with his people in the underworld," Sherlock declared. "Whatever was stolen, he wants it back." He ran his finger over the symbols. "Somewhere here in the code." He yanked three of the pictures off the wall and turned toward the door. "We can't crack this without Soo Lin Yao."

"Oh, good," I groaned and forced myself to my feet. "What about Maddie?"

Sherlock paused by the door and glanced toward the stairs. He seems to consider for a moment, then shakes his head. "She's only been up there for an hour and a half—she's going to be useless until she gets more sleep."

I started to open my mouth to tell him all of us could be more useful with sleep, but he was already out the door and trotting down the steps. I exhaled slowly and followed.