"ATM." Sherlock points to it, gleaming among stainless steel and plate glass, as they leave Shad Sanderson. "Don't ask me what the PIN is."
John approaches as if it were an IED; abjectly punches in the numbers. Sherlock stands behind, keeping an eye on the street.
Do you want a receipt?
No. John stabs at the button. He might be scrounging Sherlock's money, but he's not going to find out how much he has.
Twenty quid less, now, he thinks bitterly, with a vicious swipe at the cash poking out of the slot; a paper tongue from a metal mouth.