Please review lovely people!

Estella Jean

The partners and the criminal stepped into the first empty cab that approached Baker Street. The three got uncomfortably situated in the back, shoulder to shoulder, while Sherlock told the cabbie the address to Scotland Yard. They were thankful for the shelter because overhead the sky was threatening to open its floodgates at any moment. A state of peace before chaos arrested the clouds.

Something about their restraint, their tempt to teeter dangerously close to the edge, reminded John of a particular song Sherlock plays with his violin on stormy days. Suddenly the melody made sense to him. It was balanced yet escalating, full of potential, and then suddenly broke loose in array of vicious but beautifully intense notes. It thrilled him to play it, in the same way crime solving thrilled him, as if he was chasing some great mystery. To John though, it was just soothing to watch the sky transform to a darker shade and for the rain to flow down in a soft low roar.

"I hope it rains," Sherlock said with a small smile lingering on his lips. John nodded and smiled as well in understanding. Davidsen on the other hand, did not understand. He looked at the curly headed man as if he were insane.

"You're crazy," Davidsen shook his head and wrapped his disgusting gray coat around himself to lock in the warmth.

They rode down the London streets, watching the sky closely through the cab windows. John and Sherlock tried their best not to suffocate from the body odor coming from Davidsen, which was difficult considering their close proximity.

The men were nearly silent, except for their gentle breathing patterns. The consulting detective tried to match his breathing to the rise and fall of John's chest. Something about filling his lungs with the air the doctor expelled and lending air for him to inhale seemed intimate in a way that was too tender, almost like sharing a life force. He tried his best to synchronize with him so it would cease from happening, at least that's what he told himself, yet he didn't entirely mind when his rhythm and timing were slightly off, and he ended up breathing in the smell of ginger and hazelnut which lingered on the other man's lips. It was such a strong contrast to Davidsen's stench that his senses were momentarily disoriented.

"Stop," he blurted out to the cabbie. The driver immediately followed the command and pulled up to the curb. John gave Sherlock a questioning look.

"Get out," Sherlock told him plainly.

"What?" his partner asked, confused by the sudden change of plans.

Sherlock repeated himself without further elaboration. John tentatively did what he said and opened the cab door. When his feet hit the ground, Sherlock explained further instructions.

"The city electrics management office is down two streets. Find the electrician," He ordered.

Then John watched as the cab pulled away and left him standing on the pavement. It began to rain finally.

John looked up at the sky and swore at whatever force caused his misfortune, be it God, be it chance, be it karma from a past life, but mostly he directed his frustrations at the man he called his best friend. While he walked towards the general direction Sherlock had pointed to, he grumbled to himself about the man's inconsideration towards him, which he really should come to expect by now.

By the time his wandering led him to the management office, the rain had soaked his jumper and parts of his checked shirt as well. The wind had picked up and sent sheets of slanted water to drench him and to chill him to his core. He slipped quickly into the double doors of the building for protection. He stopped in the foyer to catch his breath and warm up, wiping his damp face with his damp arm sleeves, although the action had no effect, but he was interrupted by a female voice.

"Can I help you?" A jovial looking middle aged woman asked from behind the main desk. He regained his motivation and walked over to talk to her, deciding he had to make his trek through the storm worth something at least. She looked up at him quizzically through a pair of over-sized glasses.

"Um yes, I need to see your records of past employees," he told her uncertainly. He knew that's what he was basically supposed to do from what Sherlock had said.

"Find the electrician."

But how he was supposed to go about doing that, he had no clue.

The woman looked at him with surprise and a little bit of wariness. John realized without some kind of intervention from Lestrade, he really wasn't in the position to ask for something like that. He considered just leaving and taking a cab back to the flat but he remembered the storm outside and shivered at the thought. Luckily the woman's expression changed into a look of recognition.

"You're that one bloke...Sherlock Holmes's assistant. I see you in the papers. In the back of the photos."

"Partner," he corrected, "but yes that's me. Watson."

He smiled courteously. She smiled in return, then became excited.

"Oh you're working on that gallery case! I heard it on the news. An awful thing that. Seven people."

John realized his luck had not run out and decided he could find a way to spin this in his favor.

"Yes, quite awful. We can't release any information to the public yet...but just between you and me, these records could identify the thief that stole the statue," he told her in a lowered, confidential tone. She visibly beamed at the thought and John knew he had her.

"Oh well I'd love to be of assistance! Just follow me and I'll show you to the records database."

The woman led John out of the foyer and down a cramped hallway where he could smell tuna and donuts. Clearly the break room was nearby. At the end of the hallway he came to a room with a few computers in it and she gestured for him to sit down at one of them.

"It's all automated now. Silly thing, I don't know what I'm doing half the time. I was great with files though," she laughed and leaned over his shoulder to use the mouse. She clicked into a program and logged in, then instructed him on how to navigate the database.

"You have to know what you are looking for. You can't search for anything except a name or a location. But you can add filters to reduce your results as much as possible with these bars over here. It's a bit touchy sometimes. Sometimes when you put a filter on, when the page refreshes it reverts back," she explained.

John nodded in understanding.

"Alright then, thank you for your help," he told her with a smile. She waved her hand to indicate it wasn't a big deal.

"Of course. Now you tell me if there is anything else you need dear. I'll be down the hall. There are donuts in the break room if you want," she told him before disappearing through the doorway. As soon as she left, John set to work.

Think like Sherlock, he told himself. The thought of the man irritated him. He probably wasn't intending on John finding anything at all. He was probably just getting rid of him for who knows what reason. It wouldn't surprise him.

Well, I'm going to prove to him I can be valuable dammit!, the doctor resolved with conviction.

He rested his elbows on the counter and put his chin in his hands, staring at the white screen and formulating a plan.

Sherlock would create a basic criminal profile. What kind of man are we looking for?

Well a man doesn't just become a high level criminal. He develops into one over time. I'm looking for a man with a criminal history.

He added that into the filters, narrowing down the results to employees with a criminal history. This didn't eliminate as many results as he would have thought. Even men with a mild criminal record were included. Then an obvious thing popped into his head.

Oh yes of course! It is a past employee.

He adds that to the filters.

But he's also probably not a retiree. Too old. Nor an employee that is deceased or on an injury leave.

He narrowed it down further. And noticed the results were considerably shortened but still too vast to sift through.

What else could I narrow down... He wondered.

Location? No, because he might not have worked in the area of the gallery, surely the electrical stations don't differ that dramatically from one another around the city. What about motive? Let's see... What would cause someone to leave their job working for the city and become a criminal working for a black market heist? Maybe it was someone with financial issues, looking for a job that pays more, in which case he would have quit. Or maybe it was rage resulting from being fired and then being desperate for money. If someone was fired, the desperation for money would have been greater than someone who gradually comes to financial issues, at least if it was gradual they would still have a reliable income to depend on. So this person was most likely fired. Fired, desperate, angry, and with a criminal history. This sets it up nicely.

He added dismissal, as reason for ending the employment. The results were narrowed down to a single employee profile. He clicked to read it. Bingo.

Four months ago a man who had a criminal history of physical and verbal altercations, and one count of breaking and entering, was fired for getting in heated arguments with fellow employees which led to him pulling a knife. He was fired, had a police report filed against him, and left on bad terms.

He's definitely not lacking in motivation, John thought. He clicked the print icon and the sound of the printer whirred to life. I better pay a visit to this man, he decided, as he read the report over again. At that moment his phone vibrated with a text. He pulled it out of his pocket and opened the message.

Just finished corpse number 7! All the same COD, potassium cyanide poisoning :) We are running the DNA analysis and should have it sent to Lestrade by the end of the day.

-MH

He shook his head, thinking to himself that only Molly Hooper would send smiley emojis and exclamation points in a message about coroner reports, but he did take note that the bodies would be identified soon. This made finding the statue an even more pressing need, because the thieves would most likely sell it as soon as possible, but once the victims are identified the murders will take priority. If the statue isn't found by today it might not ever be, John pondered with concern, thinking of Meredith.

I better see to this electrician right away then.

...

At Scotland Yard, Sherlock and Davidsen had just paid the cabbie and prepared to enter the building. They were walking up the steps when Davidsen tugged on Sherlock's coat sleeve. Sherlock spun around, startled by the action.

"Sherlock what are we doing? I can't just go in there! I'm a wanted man."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed in response.

"They don't have your face commited to memory. They aren't that capable. Just stay by me, act casual, and go along with anything I might say."

Then the consulting detective walked straight into the building as if he were walking into his own flat. The man had a way of doing that, pretending he owned any building he walked into, pretending he had more of a right to be there than anyone else. It was an extreme level of arrogance, but luckily the people at Scotland Yard had become accustom to it, and perhaps after all of his assistance, they themselves believed it to be true. That didn't mean however, that they didn't despise him. They all did. Simply walking down the hallway caused many passing employees, with badges or lab coats that identified their designated specialization, to send nasty looks his way.

"Always so great at making friends, eh Sherlock?" Davidsen snickered which resulting in an irritated and unamused expression from the consulting detective.

"Don't forget I can have you arrested," Sherlock told him threateningly and the man shut up quickly.

They arrived at a doorway to a dark room and here they entered. Directly in front of them, was a desk which an old man sat at, reading by the yellow light of the desk lamp. Beyond him were rows of wide shelving units, each shelf labeled with categories and each box labeled further. When the evidence keeper heard them enter, he looked up to greet them and set his book down.

"Hello, Sherlock, how can I help you?" he asked quite cheerily, which surprised Davidsen.

Apparently he does have a friend here, he thought.

Sherlock didn't smile but he seemed more at ease than he was in the hallway. He trusted the old man.

"We are looking for some evidence relating to a hacker the detective inspector is looking for. We suspect he is involved in this art gallery case. I believe the man's name is Davidsen, and his possessions were confiscated two months ago," Sherlock told him.

A look of familiarity came over the man's features.

"I remember documenting that. They brought in whole boxes filled with computer parts. I can go find them for you but you might need to help me reach them."

Sherlock nodded in agreement and he and Davidsen followed him down the rows.

"Who's your friend?" the man asked as they walked. Sherlock didn't even blink in hesitation as he answered swiftly.

"One of my homeless network, he is quite talented when it comes to computers. We think he might be able to find out more information regarding the hacker's location," he responded.

Davidsen nodded a bit too fervently in agreement, which caused Sherlock to roll his eyes. The criminal clearly didn't understand how to be discreet, which was most likely how he was caught in the first place.

The evidence keeper stopped at a unit and pointed up towards the top of the shelf.

"Those are the ones," he said. Sherlock, who was much stronger and taller than the old man, retrieved the boxes, one by one, from the high shelf.

"Where are you going to set it up?" the old man asked. Sherlock surveyed the area, realizing they probably couldn't leave with the boxes and not be questioned, but perhaps they could find an appropriate place to set up the computer in that very room.

"Do you have a place here?" Sherlock asked. The man nodded and motioned for them to follow him again.

It took some time for Davidsen to get everything ready and working. The evidence keeper had found a desk for them to use, located in front of one of the windows, which looked out over the gloomy street below. When Davidsen finally got the computer turned on, he went straight into the work of tracking IP addresses from the private chat room.

"Dammit," he swore as he typed. Sherlock leaned over the desk to look at the screen.

"What?" he asked with concern, yet found it to be surprisingly out of his bounds, unable to decipher the screen of numbers.

"87. I've conversed with 87 IP addresses from that time span. It's going to take me hours to find the one connected with the group you're looking for," he said with exasperation, running his hands through his hair.

"If at all," he added. Sherlock knew they had to figure this out before then. He had known, as soon as he heard the statue was stolen, that it would be sold within 24 hours. The black market gets rid of things as fast as it can get it. The longer it's in storage, the higher the risk it possess to them. They were running out of time.

"Davidsen, find it," Sherlock said with finality. He looked at the man with unyielding blue eyes. Davidsen knew not to oppose them. He nodded slowly, understanding it wasn't optional.

"Right," he agreed and began the long task of sifting through information.

Minutes later, Sherlock paced behind him, becoming restless very quickly with the arduousness of the task.

"You might as well relax, Sherlock, this is going to take while," Davidsen told him. Sherlock stopped pacing and stood directly behind his chair, bending over his shoulder to stare at the screen while the man typed. Davisen snickered.

"That's not relaxing, Sherlock," the hacker reminded him absentmindedly as he worked, "Sit down. Take a deep breath. Tell me about your life, like normal friends do."

Sherlock huffed and surrendered to the chair beside the hacker but then scoffed as he realized what he had said.

"Tell you about my life?" he spoke as if it were ridiculous, yet he did not deny the term 'friends' being applied in relation to them. Davidsen smiled at his response. He hadn't known the consulting detective well, but he had known him long enough to understand he wasn't as "sociopathic" as he pretended. He did have a heart.

"Yeah," Davidsen responded, "Tell me about John."

Sherlock looked at him with confusion but his face turned just a tinge darker.

"What about John?" he spat.

Well that's a tender subject, Davidsen thought, biting his lip to prevent laughing at Sherlock's unknown transparency.

"Well, how'd you two meet?" Davidsen asked innocently. Sherlock seemed more at ease at the question, settling his back into his chair.

"Our mutual acquaintance, Mike, introduced us. I mentioned to him that I needed a flatmate and later the same day John told him the same, and we ended up renting together."

"Really? What a coincidence. And he doesn't mind your…" Davidsen didn't know how to describe what he meant, he made a vague gesture to Sherlock. In turn, the consulting detective narrowed his eyes in offense.

"He tells me I'm quite aggravating on a regular basis...but I suppose no. He doesn't mind," he responded awkwardly. Davidsen thought about his next question, smirking at the idea of putting Sherlock on the spot.

"So it's quite serious then?" he asked, pausing from typing, with his fingers above the keyboard,

"You know, you two. That's pretty amazing."

He need not look at Sherlock to know he was probably another shade darker. No, Sherlock would never be that obvious. His eyes would be the only thing to betray him. I can already imagine that caught, panicked, sensitive look in his eyes.

The long period of silence Sherlock gave supported his assumption.

"We're not really…" he began but trailed off.

"We're not exactly…" he tried again, then cleared his throat. This time his voice had returned to it's usual sarcastic bitterness, but with more aggression than he typically has towards people who are not Donovan or Anderson.

"John's heterosexual, and I'm married to my work. I don't know where people get these ridiculous and misguided ideas about us. I do not feel trivial emotions. My life has a greater value than the pathetic people who seem to overpopulate this earth, the type that live simply for human emotions. No wonder they are all so dismally disappointed. How dull it must be for you, Davidsen, to be among them."

Davidsen was not surprised by the reaction he received, but its sharpness hurt nevertheless. He nodded slightly and returned back to typing silently. He decided not to ask Sherlock anymore prying questions.

The consulting detective seemed disinterested with their task all of a sudden. His eyes focused on the people navigating the storm below, scrambling to escape the rain with coats pulled over their heads, or umbrellas in their hands. He watched their movements and read their stories critically, his eyes narrowed. He watched them like flies in a jar.

But, it was only because he knew. He knew that even if for just a moment, someone had held up a mirror to him, and in that moment, it was himself that he read with a critical mind. Nothing else could make him so vulnerable.

Time passed, and Davidsen found a way of eliminating the duplicate IP addresses in an efficient way. As soon as that discovery was made, his work went by quickly. When he found the correct address, Sherlock was so deep in thought, he had forgotten why they were there.

"Sherlock," the hacker told him, his excitement leaking into his voice, "I found it. I found the address."

Sherlock broke from his trance and looked at him. His eyes had returned to their normal expression: focused, inquisitive, intelligent, and analytic. He pushed his chair closer and grinned at the code on the screen.

"Good work Davidsen, now type in the code to a IP tracer service," he commanded. Davidsen smiled in victory and did as he said. Three minutes later the two were walking out of the building, exuding confidence and determination. It was only 1:30 and they still had time.

...

John squinted at the piece of paper, and then up at the address to the flat for confirmation. It was a match. The flat was nothing like his and Sherlock's converted flat, which was located in a nice metropolitan area. The electrician's was in a bad side of town and the people who milled around it looked like the kind of people you would meet under a bridge at 3am. The building didn't appear to be upkept very properly. Paint peeled off the door and one of the numbers hung crookedly by a single screw. Seems like the place to find a criminal, John thought. He took a breath to prepare himself for meeting the very dangerous man, and then knocked on the door and waited.

He heard footsteps behind the door and finally it opened with a creak. The man behind it only showed half his face as he peered out to see the visitor.

"Who are you?" he asked gruffly. John gave a friendly smile.

"I'm here to ask a few questions," the doctor told him casually. The man furrowed his brows.

"Why?" he defensively questioned.

John looked down, a smile gracing his face, but this one was less friendly than the last. This one was more of a 'don't mess with me because I'm trying to do this the polite way' smile. He stared daringly up at the half face behind the door, his smile dropping to show just how serious he is.

"Because if you don't answer my questions, you'll be answering detective inspector Lestrade's down at Scotland Yard," he answered.

The brown eye that peered at him, flared with fury but the door opened wide. In doing so, the rest of the man was revealed. His stature was tall, muscular, and entirely intimidating. He rose a foot taller than him. There was a boxy, heavy, appearance to his face, similar to the shape of rest of his body. His eyebrows seemed to be set in a permanent frown. The electrician moved to the side for him to enter. After John crossed the threshold, the man surveyed the area outside before closing the door behind him.

John turned around and the man was inches away from him, his eyes burning. The doctor strained his neck to look him in the face, and took a step back.

"You don't have any evidence," the electrician said. His voice was eerily steady.

John knew he had to play his cards right, or things might end badly. After all, Sherlock didn't know that he came here.

"Actually we do," he said matter of factly, "We tested DNA found at the electrical station outside the gallery, you know, the one you helped rob, and that DNA happens to match your record."

"I could be taking you to jail right now," John threatened. The electrician smiled broadly, but his eyebrows still remained in the frown like position.

"You could?" he asked teasingly. John kept a serious face and gave a single nod.

"Unless you answer my questions," he told him.

The electrician continued to smile and shook his head slowly.

"No. I'll tell you why. If that were true, the detective inspector would already have me at Scotland Yard. I think…" he trailed off. His voice was still strangely calm, but daring to break into violence at any moment, just like the rain storm earlier. He took a step toward John and John took another step backwards, his back hitting the edge of a table in the entryway.

"...you've overstayed your welcome," the man concluded. John's breath was steady and his head was held high. He was fearless.

When the man's meaty fist came into contact with his left cheek, sending a snap sound through the room, he was prepared. He grabbed the electrician's arm and used his momentum to restrain him in a chokehold. The man struggled against him, and John combatted this by hooking his leg around the man's and sending him off balance. His great weight hit the floor with a thud, and John came down after him, rolling them over so the electrician was face down on the floor.

"Let's try this again," John said through gritted teeth, his muscles straining against the bulky man's thick neck.

"I have some questions and you are going to answer them."

...

Sherlock's hands locked to the sides of his head, his fingers raking in his curls. His face was wound up tightly, as if to hold in a yell, begging to be released. Davidsen looked at him curiously but knew better than to talk to him, lest he decide to take his anger out on him.

"No! They were just here!" he exclaimed. He leaned closer to Davidsen, and the hacker was very concerned that he was about to be punched in the face.

"The laptop is warm," Sherlock growled at him, "They were just here!"

Sherlock looked around the room spastically, looking for some kind of clue. They had followed the location of the IP address to an old abandoned block of flats and after an inspection of the area, they discovered the flats to be completely empty, except for one. It was the one flat that wasn't decayed to the point where the floor was caving in, yet Davidsen still felt that the room was unstable. The only thing in it was a laptop sitting in the center of the floor, and as Sherlock said, it was still warm. Sherlock picked up the laptop and examined it, his eyes narrowed in concentration. He growled and set it down again.

"Maybe I can try to hack into it-" Davidsen offered but Sherlock interrupted, pacing about the room as he did.

"They took the battery out. They're too smart. There are no fingerprints either."

Davidsen watched him awkwardly, waiting for the tall man to explain their next plan of action.

"Well what are we going to do now?" he asked finally. Sherlock acted as if he hadn't spoke.

"Maybe we should call John," Davidsen suggested. The consulting detective stopped pacing, debating within himself. Eventually, he did take his mobile out of his pocket and called his partner's number.

"Oh, hello Sherlock. Finally remember I exist?" came John's voice, sounding rather winded and agitated. Sherlock was surprised by his breathlessness.

"John? Why do you sound so tired?" he questioned. There was a desperate muffled voice on the other end, which was followed with a smack sound.

"John?" Sherlock asked again, his expression drawn in confusion and perhaps even concern, although he'd never admit it. There was a heavy sigh on the other end and then John was back.

"Tell me what you want, Sherlock, I'm busy," he told him with seriousness in his tone. Sherlock cleared his throat, taken aback by John's sudden moodiness. He struggled to remember why he called.

"It's just...Davidsen and I found the IP address and tracked the location. The thieves cleared out recently. We are at a dead end," he explained. John's laughter filled the phone and Sherlock became increasingly upset by the sound.

"This isn't funny John, we are running out of time!" he yelled. The doctor finished laughing.

"Sherlock, I know where they are."

Sherlock wasn't sure if he heard right. He blinked several times to make sure, and there was a silence over the phone as John waited.

"You know?" Sherlock asked, disbelieving. On the other end, John rolled his eyes.

"Listen the first time Sherlock," he told him, "Now do you want the address or not?"

...

Sherlock and Davidsen waited for John to arrive at the back car park where the address led them. According to John, the art thieves were located in an alleyway gambling pub. The exact location wasn't on the maps, so Sherlock was forced to wait for his partner despite the temptation to apprehend the suspects himself.

At last a cab pulled up.

The door opened and shockingly the person inside wasn't John. It was a large man with heavy features. His hands were tied behind his back with a zip tie and his mouth was gagged with a cloth tied around his head. The man stepped out and John came out behind him, pushing him along.

"Meet the electrician," John told them with a self-satisfied grin. Sherlock grinned back and even laughed at the situation. The tied up man narrowed his eyes and said something muffled against the fabric. From his expression and tone, it was most likely less than friendly.

"Jesus, you people are dangerous," Davidsen mumbled, glad he wasn't the one they were tracking down.

Sherlock beamed at John, not expecting him to have been so successful in his efforts, and now here they are about to catch the thieves because of him. He even felt a bit guilty for having doubted his valuable partner. As John walked closer to them, pulling the electrician with him by his restraints, Sherlock noticed the bloody mark on his cheek, and a bump forming beneath it. He frowned slightly. John rolled his eyes but continued to smile.

"Don't look at me like that," he told him.

Sherlock looked at him with confusion, "Like what?"

"Like you're concerned," John replied as he brushed past his partner. Sherlock pretended the idea was ridiculous and smirked at his friend's words.

"If I was concerned about anyone I'd be concerned about what you did to this man in return. We need him after all."

That reminded John why they had come here. He nudged the electrician harshly.

"Which way?" the doctor asked him strictly. The restrained man grumbled something and John shook his head.

"I'm not taking that cloth off."

The man sighed and instead indicated the direction with his eyes. John grabbed onto the zip tie that bound his hands, and pushed him forward so the rest of them could follow. He showed them down the correct alley until they came to an inconspicuous gray door. They stopped and John turned to Sherlock. Sherlock devised a quick plan of action in his head.

He turned to Davidsen.

"You stay here, and watch him," he told him. The hacker looked at him with uncertainty, but then nodded and agreed to the order. He walked over to the restrained man and held onto his bonds. Then the consulting detective looked to John.

"You and I are going in there. Act calm and say we were sent here by… what's his name?"

"Frank," John answered.

"Yes," Sherlock continued, "We are going to act like Frank sent us to ask about a job. We are in a tough spot for money and from what Frank told us, they always need more men on the job."

"Okay," John agreed with a nod. They took a deep breath and Sherlock knocked on the gray door.

There's probably a password, Sherlock pondered. They would change the password frequently which relates to their frequent heists, which surely they are proud of, given their more than necessary yet clever precautions. So the password must be something surrounding this case. The name of the gallery? No that's too hard to remember, it's french. Maybe it's...oh, yes! The banner above the gallery door on the night of the opening, "Featuring Leo Christanza's main piece, The Woman"

"The Woman," Sherlock said against the wood of the door. He could hear a lock mechanism slide out of it's place and the door opened to reveal a guard in a black overcoat. If possible, the man was even larger than the electrician. Sherlock himself had to strain to look him in the eyes. The man moved to the side and let Sherlock and John enter. The room was dark and smoky. The smell of strong alcohol filled the room overwhelmingly. There was a bar on the right wall, with no bartender. In the center of the room was a dim light which shined down on a circular table. Six men sat at the table with glasses of amber liquid in their rough hands and playing cards in the other. They heard the two men enter and paused their game to see who they were. They squinted at the doctor and the consulting detective, through the smoke.

"Who are you?" one of the men asked. He was blond and a bit lankier than the others. Sherlock surmised his position was for more intellectual purposes than extra muscle for transporting the art pieces.

"Old friends of Frank's, he sent us here. We are looking for some extra cash and he said we should talk to you. He told us about your last job, that art gallery. That was impressive."

The men seemed more at ease at the answer and some resumed looking at their cards or sipping their drinks.

"Well, where is he?" the blond man questioned, "He was supposed to be here over an hour ago."

John stepped in this time to respond, "He thought he saw someone trailing him so he told us to go ahead without him until he knew he was clear."

This sent a hushed roar around the table as the men discussed this. Some sounded panicked at the news.

One man whispered to the others, "I told you, it's that Sherlock Holmes fellow. I hear he can find anyone. There's no way to hide from him."

A few of them sounded their agreement while others shrugged it off as nothing. Then a voice from the shadows in the back of the room spoke up.

"There's no reason to fear Sherlock Holmes," he told the men smoothly. Sherlock gazed into the darkness to locate the source of the voice. The man sat, reclined in a wooden chair, his hair and his eyes were very dark. He wore a posh looking suit. Smoke pooled in the air around him as he exhaled from his cigarette and Sherlock's hand shook from craving. John sent him a disapproving look.

"There's no reason to fear Sherlock Holmes, because we will be rid of the statue by tonight, and by tomorrow we will be out of the country. There will be no trail for him to follow. Besides, we were so careful that no one, not even this famous detective, would be able to track us down," he explained. The men affirmed the man's statements and focused back on their game. John looked to Sherlock for a plan.

The consulting detective eyed the occupants of the room.

Eight people total. The six at the table aren't wearing clothing that could easily conceal a gun, but the guard by the door is. There is a bulge in his right overcoat pocket and when we entered his fingers on his right hand instinctively twitched. He has one. The man in the back is dressed much nicer than the rest. He keeps the group in control by dispelling fears. He watches the poker game, instead of playing, to gauge the habits of the other men. He is clearly smart enough and powerful enough to be the leader. To ensure this power over the others, he most likely has a gun as well. He could be hiding it in the waistband of his trousers, under his jacket.

Sherlock glanced back at John and then to the poker table and John understood. He walked over to the group and asked the blond man who spoke earlier if he could join. The man nodded and pulled over an extra chair. As John started the game, Sherlock moved toward the back wall and watched the men at the table casually.

"Happen to have an extra? I'm out." Sherlock asked the leader. Although he kept his eyes on the game, he reached into his pocket to grab a pack of cigarettes, in doing so, Sherlock saw a glimpse of metal beneath his jacket. He handed Sherlock the cigarette and a lighter. Sherlock took it, and shook as he lit the cigarette. The only times he ever had them anymore was when John wasn't around, but John couldn't deny him now.

"Thanks," he told the man as he inhaled and handed him his lighter back.

"So you're here for a job?" the leader asked. Sherlock exhaled and nodded in response.

"You don't seem the type for heavy lifting. What's your specialty?"

"Well," Sherlock thought, "I'm more of a planner, you could say. I have an eye for detail."

The man laughed and seemed satisfied with his answer.

"That's good to hear. It's rare to find one with brains anymore. I do everything on my own nowadays," he explained. Suddenly an argument broke out at the poker table. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as one red faced man yelled at another about cheating. All of the men at the table seemed tense. From what he could gather, they were all losing money to that man, even John, who seemed agitated as he removed more cash from his wallet. Sherlock knew he would make him repay him later. The consulting detective came up with an idea as he noticed the tension.

They just need one more fight to send them over the edge…

Sherlock caught eyes with John and John gave him a questioning look. He looked to the man who was winning their game, and then to the guard. John knew what he was trying to say and blinked in understanding. Sherlock smirked. The next time the man won another round, and collected money from the other players' bets, John made an off comment.

"You play with plenty of tricks up your sleeve," he said accusingly. It was all that was needed to send the others over the edge. Whether it was true or not, it didn't matter. They were tired of losing money and a fight broke out as they condemned the man for hiding cards up his sleeve. When the first punches flew, John abruptly pushed his chair back and walked toward the front wall where they entered, appearing to escape the fight.

"Stop!" the leader yelled with rage, upset at his loss of control. Sherlock and John shared a look and both nodded. In a single motion, John hand punched the guard in the stomach and grabbed his gun from his coat pocket, while simultaneously, Sherlock burned the leader's cheek with the bud of his cigarette. The man reached for his face and screamed and in that split second, Sherlock swiped his gun as well. The other men were still too preoccupied with their fight to notice what had happened, so John and Sherlock moved back to back in the center of the room, holding the guns out threateningly. Their hearts pounded loudly in their chests as everything happened so quickly.

"Nobody move!" Sherlock yelled and the occupants of the room finally realized what was going on. Having no other choice, they obeyed the command.