The Blind Banker Missing Scene
by Lady Shelley
This is a missing scene story for the end of The Blind Banker; as is typical of TV writers, we get the hurt but not the comfort, so once again it’s the H/C junkies to the rescue. The plan is to cover the time from the tunnel to John and Sherlock discussing the jade pin, a discussion I think was at least a day removed from the tunnel rescue.
Rated PG Aug 25, 2010 40K
Dialog from the actual episode written by Steve Thompson
The bolt fired just a John kicked the whole contraption to one side. He heard the wet thunk as the thick wood penetrated flesh, but he couldn’t see who it had hit. Was Sarah still alive? What about Sherlock? Seconds later he thought he could hear Sarah softly crying and was further relieved to hear Sherlock trying the reassure her. They were both all right, weren’t they? John tried to sit up and see his two friends and was frustrated to find he was still tied to a chair.
Thinking was getting harder and his eyelids felt like lead weights. Two days of essentially no sleep and then getting knocked unconscious was catching up with him. He closed his eyes only to jerk awake a moment later as he felt hands on his back tugging the rope tying him to the chair.
Sherlock’s voice cut through his foggy mind enough to realize his friend was trying to untie the rope, but he couldn’t think well enough to know what he was saying. Where’s Sarah? Is she all right?
Sherlock’s voice again still calm, still trying to reassure and sooth. I must have asked that out loud, he thought. Need to think, can’t scare Sarah any more than she already is.
John heard a new thumping sound, then Sherlock’s voice more harsh than before. Finally the rope around his chest was gone and he could move. Sherlock was beside him now working at the knots tying his legs, but he could sit, more or less, and he watched as Sarah was led out of the tunnel.
Some part of his mind noted that Sherlock was watching him rather closely. Concussion, you idiot. Sarah isn’t the only one you have to worry about. Sarah.
“Where’s Sarah?”
Sherlock’s brow creased with worry and he turned back to the knots. Oops, must have asked that already. Pull it together, John or you’ll be spending the night at A&E.
As more police began to arrive, Sherlock untied the last of the rope around his hands and helped him to stand. Dizziness hit him, but not as bad as he feared; it passed soon enough and he started to make his way toward the tunnel entrance. He was making steady progress until the flashing lights from the emergency vehicles sent a shot of pain through his head. He put a hand over his eyes and tried to move back into the darkened tunnel; as he stepped back he realized Sherlock was directly behind him and felt Sherlock’s hand on his arm and a gentle pressure to move.
The cooler night air helped to clear his head more, and John realized he was being led to a near-by ambulance. An attendant was already heading his way with the inevitable blanket and he resigned himself to the man’s questions.
“Your name?”
“John Watson.”
“Can you tell me what happened tonight, Mr. Watson?”
The attendant was watching him expectantly and John realized he been asked another question. “Hmm? Oh, well, Sarah and I were kidnapped, threatened, nearly killed,” John answered shortly. The man gave him another look and made a few notes. Putting aside the forms, he reached out to probe at the cut on his temple.
“Can you tell me how you got this cut on your head?” he asked, reaching for an alcohol swab to clean off the blood and get a better look.
John hissed and jerked his head away from the sting and tried very hard not to glare at the man for doing his job. Don’t start a fight or you’ll never see your own bed tonight. He saw Sherlock standing at the edge of the door and reminded himself again to stay calm.
“I was hit with something, a gun I think,” John replied. “I don’t really remember. And yes I was unconscious for roughly twenty minutes.”
The attendant looked at John sharply. “I’m a doctor,” John explained. “I know a concussion when I see one, or in this case feel one. Are we done here?”
“I really need to run you to …” the attendant started to say.
What little patience John had deserted him he knew what the the man was going to say and didn’t want to hear it; the blanket slipped off and he moved toward the rear doors where Sherlock was waiting. He hoped he’d hid the grimace of pain as his feet hit the ground, but he doubted it from the analyzing look Sherlock was again giving him.
As Shan’s footsteps echoed away down the tunnel, Sherlock also heard the first sirens arriving; once again Dimmock took his time. Sarah was still sitting in the chair she’d been tied to staring off into space, tears silently running down her cheeks. Glancing at her, Sherlock turned his attention to John, still tied to his chair and more worrying, not moving. Sherlock knelt behind him and started working on the knots, now tighter after John’s wild movement to kick aside the crossbow.
As Sherlock started pulling on the rope, John gave a start and started to struggle again. “John, it’s me, stop moving around, you’re making this harder.”
“Sherlock? Where’s Sarah? Is she all right?” John’s voice was oddly breathy and slightly slurred.
“She’s fine, thanks to you. Now hold still.”
Two new sets of footsteps echoed along the tunnel. One stopped to check the body near the barrier, the other moved forward toward Soo Lin’s brother. The young officer grimaced as he saw the wooden bolt in the man’s chest.
“Get the woman out of here,” Sherlock commanded. The young man turned away from the body and seeing Sarah, knelt beside her.
“Miss, can you walk?” he asked quietly.
Sherlock finally worked free the knotted rope around John’s chest and moved to the ones tying his legs to the chair. He looked again at Sarah and was relieved to see her focus on the police officer next to her and give him a faint nod. She slowly stood up and the officer took her arm to help her outside.
John again tried to sit up and Sherlock noted the blood still slowly trickling from a cut on the left side of his head. Seeing the dazed look John gave him as he started on the rope tying his hands, Sherlock suspected a concussion; a suspicion confirmed when John again asked about Sarah.
More police were arriving as Sherlock helped John to stand and walk toward the tunnel entrance. As they neared the entrance, John flinched away from the flashing lights but kept slowly moving when Sherlock took his arm. As they walked outside, Sherlock gently guided John toward an ambulance and watched as the attendant hopped down with a blanket and wrapped it around John’s shoulders. Sarah was sitting in a second ambulance also bundled in a blanket and much more animated now she was away from the tunnel.
John was sat in the rear of the ambulance and Sherlock divided his time watching the comings and goings of the police and listening to John and the ambulance attendant.
“Your name?”
“John Watson.”
“Can you tell me what happened tonight, Mr. Watson?”
There was a long pause before he heard John respond. “Hmm? Oh, well, Sarah and I were kidnapped, threatened, nearly killed,” he answered shortly.
“Can you tell me how you got this cut on your head?” the attendant continued, seemingly oblivious to John’s gruff responses to his questions.
Sherlock heard a soft hiss of breath and turned to see the attendant cleaning and probing at the cut on John’s temple before closing the cut with a couple of steri-strips. Seeing the hard set of John’s mouth, Sherlock turned his full attention to the back of the ambulance. He noted John was sitting stiffly upright and his hands were clenched, sure signs the doctor was working to hold in his temper.
“I was hit with something, a gun I think,” John replied. “I don’t really remember. And yes I was unconscious for roughly twenty minutes.”
The attendant looked at John sharply. “I’m a doctor,” John explained. “I know a concussion when I see one, or in this case feel one. Are we done here?”
“I really need to run you to …” the attendant started to say.
John wasn’t waiting for the attendant to finish; he shrugged off the blanket, hopped down out of the ambulance and looked around. Sherlock could see John was fighting a headache, his eyes still looked glazed and pinched. He could also see there was no point in saying anything about A&E.
“You’re sure you’re all right?” Sherlock asked quietly, moving John away from the ambulance before the man could decide to come after his patient.
“Fine. I’m fine.” John glanced up at Sherlock and looked away again. “Where’s Sarah?”
Sherlock pointed to the ambulance Sarah was in just as she stepped out, still wrapped in a blanket. A police woman was waiting for her as John and Sherlock walked up.
Sarah smiled a wan little smile as John stopped next to her. “John, how are you feeling?”
“Sarah, I’m fine, really nothing to worry about.” John answered. “Are you ever going to speak to me again after this?”
Before Sarah could answer, the police woman stepped forward, “Miss Sawyer, Inspector Dimmock asked me to take you home. I can also come see you tomorrow to get a statement from you about what happened tonight.”
Sarah turned to the woman and nodded. John put an arm around her and walked with her toward the waiting police car. Sherlock could see he was talking to her but didn’t bother to listen in, as Inspector Dimmock stopped him.
“We’ll just slip off,” Sherlock stated before the inspector could say anything. “No need to mention us in your report.”
“Mr. Holmes …”
“I have high hopes for you, Inspector,” Sherlock interrupted. “A glittering career.”
“If I go where you point me.”
“Exactly.”
Leaving the inspector to continue his investigation, Sherlock walked over to John helping Sarah into the car. John gave her a little wave as the car pulled away and Sherlock could see him visibly sag as the need to keep up appearances in front of Sarah vanished when the police car turned the corner.
“Can we go home now?” John asked quietly, rubbing his eyes.
In answer, Sherlock led the way to the corner and flagged a taxi. Once they were settled and the cab moving, Sherlock took out his mobile and started searching for information on concussion. Out the corner of his eye, he could see John, eyes closed and his head resting on the opposite door. Not asleep, head aches and the motion of the car is making it worse, he thought. Definitely, not fine.
The lighter night traffic allowed for a faster trip back to Baker Street. Sherlock got out and paid the cabbie. John, though was moving more slowly than ever and Sherlock could see it took effort to stand up and not immediately lose his balance and fall back into the car. After a few moments, John let go of the taxi door allowing the eager man to drive off in search of another fare. Sherlock again took John’s arm and led him to the door and after John staggered up the two steps of the stoop, Sherlock was certain he would never get the other man up the two flights to his room; just getting him to the sitting room was going to be challenge enough.
After a few minutes plod up the stairs, a trip where John nearly sent them both back down to the landing once, Sherlock managed to get John to the sitting room. John’s progress was completely dictated by Sherlock leading him through the maze of books and crates to the sofa; exhaustion was clearly written on his face and Sherlock was convinced if he didn’t get him sitting down soon, John would drop where he stood. John fell more than sat and Sherlock managed to get his jacket and shoes off before John sank completely into the sofa, the rest he left as John was now completely out.
“Yoo hoo, Sherlock, are you still awake?” Mrs Hudson asked through the still open door. Seeing Sherlock by the window, she walked in, stared at the piles of books and shook her head. “Really, Sherlock, the messes you make. And what have you done to the windows?”
Sherlock glanced at the windows with their deadly message. Wash it off before John sees it, he reminded himself. He knew John would be asking what the various symbols they’d found meant and didn’t want him to know such a message was left in the flat.
He was still contemplating the windows and how to clean them when Mrs. Hudson spoke, “Sherlock, what’s happened to Doctor Watson? You really should find a blanket for him.”
Glancing back toward the sofa, Sherlock watched as Mrs Hudson bent over John’s sleeping form and brushed her fingers slightly over the cut on his head; the mothering instinct Sherlock suspected in the landlady was on full display. She straightened as John shifted away from her touch and walked toward the door.
“I’ll find him a blanket,” she said. “Do you have any ice? You’ll need to put something on that bump to keep it from swelling you know.”
Sherlock made a vague gesture toward the kitchenette. “I’m sure there’s something in there.”
Mrs. Hudson returned a few minutes later while Sherlock was still rummaging the freezer for ice. She put the blanket over the back of a chair and handed Sherlock a small ice pack wrapped in a towel.
“You could do with some sleep yourself, dear,” she told him patting his cheek. She sighed looking at the mess in the sitting area and wishing Sherlock a good night, she closed the door quietly behind her.
Sherlock grabbed the blanket with one hand and putting the ice pack down on the coffee table, covered John with the blanket. As soon as he tried to put the ice pack on the cut, though, John woke up. Sherlock watched as John processed where he was as his look of confusion gave way to relief.
“No A&E, you ‘re back at the flat.”
“Thank you,” John said with a sigh. “A&E was not someplace I wanted to be.”
Sherlock smiled and sat on the coffee table holding up the offending ice pack. “Mrs. Hudson says I need to ice your head.”
John reached up to probe the cut on his head. He winced as his fingers found the cut and the lump and wordlessly reached out for the ice.
“I’m also supposed to be asking you your name and who the Prime Minister is,” Sherlock said.
“John Watson, and how would you know if I were right or wrong about the Prime Minister?” John replied closing his eyes again the ice balanced precariously on his temple.
“Fair point, I guess that means you’ll live.” He meant for this to sound casual, but from the look John gave him, Sherlock realized it sounded more worried than he’d hoped.
John settled more into the sofa and tugged at the blanket. “Sherlock, I’m fine, really. I just need to sleep, that’s all.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” John replied drifting back to sleep.
An early morning call from Inspector Dimmock started Sherlock’s day; the inspector wanted his evidence back and he wanted John for a statement. Sherlock told him Scotland Yard could have the books any time it felt like picking them up, but John wasn’t going anywhere. Dimmock informed Sherlock he would be along with a couple of officers to collect the books in a few hours and he would decide for himself if John was capable of giving a statement. Sherlock didn’t bother to say anything to that ultimatum, he merely hung up on the inspector.
The object of this argument remained oblivious as John was still asleep on the sofa. Sherlock checked on him from time to time as he loaded books back into crates, not really caring too much about which crate got which books now the cypher was solved. John was shifting more and more on the sofa as the last few books went into the last crate, a sure sign he was starting to wake up. Sure enough a few minutes later, Sherlock glanced over and found John watching him.
“You’re cleaning,” John stated.
“Yes, our friendly inspector wants his books back and Mrs. Hudson is giving me nasty looks. So, I’m cleaning.”
John shoved the blanket to the floor moving with precise care made to stand up.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Sherlock asked stepping toward the sofa.
“The room isn’t the only thing in need of cleaning. I want out of these clothes and into a hot shower.” John started shuffling toward the door and the stairs up to his room.
He was moving slowly but his balance seemed better. Sherlock waited until John was in the doorway then positioned himself so he could watch his friend’s progress up the stairs. A few minutes later Sherlock heard the shower and went back to cleaning. He gets 20 minutes then I go check on him, Sherlock promised himself silently.
The books were all packed and Sherlock was staring at the windows trying to decide how to get the paint off. He’d tried unsuccessfully to pick at the paint with his fingers hoping he could pull it off in strips, thus getting rid of the message while John was upstairs. Since the windows were behind his head from the sofa, Sherlock sincerely hoped John hadn’t noticed anything and that the paint would come off easily and more importantly, quickly.
“A razor blade and soapy water will work best, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said coming up the stairs.
“What if I just broke the windows out instead?” he asked, turning to face her.
“Then I would have to add that to your rent, and you both would get very cold waiting for the glazier to bring out new ones,” she answered. “It won’t take more than a few hours and some elbow grease.”
Sherlock made a face. “That will take too long,” he mumbled to himself. He decided the only thing to do for now was to close the drapes and hope John didn’t ask questions.
Mrs. Hudson walked to the sofa and picked the blanket off the floor to fold it. Laying the blanket neatly on an armrest she asked, “How is Doctor Watson this morning? He’s kept food down?”
Sherlock couldn’t help the guilty look that crossed his face. When was the last time he ate? he wondered. They’d worked all night sorting the books from Van Coon and Lukis’s flats. John had worked at the surgery yesterday and while he took time to change before leaving, Sherlock didn’t remember him stopping to eat. Then everything at the circus and after …
“Sherlock, really, he needs to eat something, and so do you,” she scolded, correctly interpreting his silence. “Do you have anything in? Never mind,” she continued without giving him a chance to answer, “I think I know. Just this once I’ll make you both some breakfast; I’m not your housekeeper, remember.”
Who knew hot water could feel so good? John spent a few minutes just standing under the spray letting the water wash away tension as well as the grime from the previous night. His head still ached and he felt like he could sleep for another few days, but most of the other concussion symptoms were gone, only a little dizziness if he moved too fast. And you’ve purged all the adrenaline from your system. Nearly getting killed over what turned out to be a case of mistaken identity …
He could admit to himself last night had well and truly scared him. Fighting in Afghanistan didn’t prepare you to be threatened up close and personal. In country you could always kid yourself that if the enemy couldn’t see you, then the bullets couldn’t hit you. Reality, as he’d learned the hard way, didn’t work like that, but it let you sleep at night. Being tied to a chair and having a loaded gun mere inches from your temple, though, was something completely different. John knew there was nothing he could do to stop Shan killing him and worse, killing Sarah. That’s what scared him: the total helplessness he felt.
He needed to talk to Sarah. She hadn’t seemed mad at him when they parted the night before, of course she was in shock and he was concussed so that didn’t really say much, but still it was a hopeful sign that she might go out with him again. Should she though? How much am I putting her at risk? She seemed to take the attack at the circus in stride, but being kidnapped and seconds from being killed, he wouldn’t blame her if she refused anything more to do with him. There was not point in even asking those questions until he knew if she would even take his calls.
He also learned some new things in regard to his flat-mate. In his brief association with Sherlock Holmes, he was aware of moods such as anger, frustration and boredom. John now realized he’d fallen into the trap of thinking Sherlock felt nothing of concern or worry. He had a vague memory of Sherlock trying to comfort Sarah the night before; and as for his flat-mate’s behavior with John, ‘hovering’ was the best way to describe it. Sherlock was proving to have a strong protective streak when it came to his, John’s, health.
Once out of the shower and dressed, John examined his head in the mirror. The area around the cut was bruised and still a little swollen. And still tender to the touch, John discovered when he gently poked and prodded the skin. In his medical opinion he’d heal in a few days, none the worse for having refused a hospital stay. Probably should find some ice though, he thought; and as his headache flared, And some paracetamol. He opened the bedroom door still trying to rub away the headache to find Sherlock standing at the top of the stairs waiting for him.
He dropped his hands from his head and looked quizzically at his flat-mate.
“Mrs. Hudson is convinced I’m starving you and she’s made breakfast,” Sherlock said.
John started down the stairs with Sherlock following close behind. Still hovering then, he thought with a small smile. Coming into the small kitchenette, John found the table cleared of the clutter of the previous night and breakfast laid out. Seeing the food reminded John of how hungry he was and he eagerly sat down. He also discovered someone, probably Mrs. Hudson again, had placed a small bottle of pain reliever next to his plate.
After breakfast, John wandered back into the sitting room. The drapes were now closed, blocking out the morning light and making the room rather gloomy. As he moved toward one of the windows to let in some light, he saw Sherlock’s sudden movement toward him. Pulling open the drape, John discovered the now familiar yellow paint and the Chinese number fifteen sprayed across the glass.
“John,” Sherlock started to say.
John ignored him and moving to the other window near the sofa, opened the drape to find a horizontal line, the symbol for one.
“You know what this says, don’t you,” John asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t want me to see it, why?” John turned to face his friend and found Sherlock looking anywhere but back at him.
John saw the photo of the graffiti from the train line tucked into a copy of the London A-Z on the table along with his own notes on the books from Van Coon and Lukis’s flats. Picking up the book and turning to page fifteen, he found “Deadman” as the first entry. He was glad the sofa was close at hand and sat down to digest what was in essence a death threat against him.
“You came back last night, found me and Sarah gone and this painted on the windows?” John asked; now he understood Sherlock’s hovering. He thought he was going to find a two more dead bodies last night. John leaned back until his head was resting on the back of the sofa and his eyes drifted shut.
“I didn’t want you to find that,” Sherlock was explaining. “I’d hoped to have it cleaned off and you’d never know.”
“Well now we can both get it cleaned off,” John replied sleepily. I shouldn’t have sat down, he thought right before he fell asleep.
An hour later John was still dozing on the sofa when Sherlock heard the bell ringing and heavy tread on the stairs. He was expecting Dimmock and was surprised to see Inspector Lestrade instead.
“Sherlock … ” Lestrade started to say but Sherlock was out of his chair like a shot and across the room. He grabbed the inspector by the arm and dragged in him into the far corner of the sitting room away from the sofa.
“Keep your voice down, Inspector,” Sherlock said in a low voice glancing at the sofa.
“Sherlock, I need you to explain why I have DI Dimmock in my office claiming you’re obstructing an investigation,” Lestrade said at a slightly lower volume.
“Really? And how exactly am I obstructing an investigation I solved for him,” Sherlock demanded instantly on the defensive. “I even told him to leave John and me out of it so he would get the credit, what else does he want?”
“What he wants is your friend for a statement. The other victim here, Sarah Sawyer, couldn’t really tell us much except the perpetrator thought she had captured you and was going to kill this Sarah in order to find something.”
Lestrade paced away from Sherlock and over to the desk. Sherlock watched as the inspector picked up the pad John had used to make notes on the books from Van Coon and Lukis’s flats. Lestrade flipped through several pages and looking back up at Sherlock said, “He’s starting to think like you, you know.”
Sherlock took the pad Lestrade offered him and looked at John’s notes.
Van Coon: Books are mostly hardcover, dust jackets have no wear. Bindings seem unused. Most are off the bestseller list, and mostly non-fiction, though a few fiction titles are present. Conclusion: doesn’t read much, books are mostly for show.
Lukis: Most are paperback copies with a few hardcover editions. Books are broken in and some are well thumbed. Most are popular fiction with a few on Chinese art not nearly as many books as Van Coon. Conclusion: Lukis reads some, more for entertainment than to learn, he doesn’t buy many books, those he does buy he reads more than once.
Sherlock turned back through the pages of listed books noting the handwriting before handing the pad back to Lestrade. “Interesting. I think he has it more wrong than right, though.”
“Oh thanks for that,” John said from the sofa.
“It probably has something to do with him falling asleep no less than five times while writing all of this down,” Sherlock raising his voice for John to hear.
John stood and walked over to join the other two. “Five times? How did you figure that?”
“Simple,” Sherlock said taking back the pad. “As you got tired, you’re handwriting became more difficult to read. When you woke up, your writing was more legible. I can count at least five times you fell completely asleep and two more where you started to drift and but managed to carry on.”
John took the pad and glanced through a few of the pages seeing the changes in his handwriting for himself. “And how was I wrong, exactly?” John asked stiffly.
“Actually, you weren’t that far off,” Sherlock said with a smile. “You’re coming along rather nicely, John.”
John didn’t have an answer for such a smug response and sat in the chair in front of Sherlock and looked across the desk at the inspector.
“So, Inspector, was there any particular reason for this visit?” John asked.
Sherlock tried glaring at Lestrade, but the inspector wasn’t intimidated. “Yes, Doctor. You”
John leaned back in his chair. “Me? What have I done?” He glanced up at Sherlock standing beside him and across to Lestrade.
“Nothing, and that’s the point,” Lestrade explained calmly. “Inspector Dimmock needs your statement of what happened last night for his report, that’s all.”
“I thought I’d been clear with him,” Sherlock said dropping a hand on John’s shoulder ready to restart the disagreement. “It’s his investigation. His coup for the media, leave us out of it.”
“Sherlock,” John started to say.
“It doesn’t work that way, Sherlock, and you know it,” Lestrade said with some heat. Lestrade pointed at John and said, “He’s a material witness in an open investigation. We’ve got two bodies and we need answers.”
“Inspector,” John again tried to get a word in the conversation.
“What’s to investigate,” Sherlock shot back. “You’ve got one body skewered on his own crossbow, this General Shan got away …”
“Guys!” John yelled interrupting the argument. “I’m right here!”
Sherlock ignored him and stared at Lestrade. “Say that again.”
At the same time John asked, “Wait, what did you just say?”
John looked up at Sherlock and Sherlock glanced down at John. “What do you mean by two?” they asked the inspector together.
“Two,” Lestrade said. “One killed by an overly large crossbow bolt and the other was killed last night in hospital. The coroner thinks it was some sort of fast acting poison.”
“Shan?” John asked Sherlock.
“No,” he replied, “She wouldn’t take that sort of risk.” He looked at Lestrade. “He was under guard, yes?” Sherlock asked.
Lestrade nodded watching the exchange.
Sherlock’s focus returned to John, “No, she wouldn’t risk it, there must be a third party involved.”
“Someone above her in the chain of command?” John suggested.
“Possibly.”
“Right, well now you see why we need his statement,” Lestrade said to Sherlock. “Open investigation.”
Sherlock stepped back from the desk as John pushed back the chair to stand. “How long is this going to take,” he asked the inspector as John put on a coat and went looking for his shoes.
“That depends on how many questions we have. A few hours, probably,” the inspector answered.
Sherlock turned to the door and called down the stairs, “Mrs. Hudson, we’re going out.”
John came down for breakfast the next morning to find Sherlock in the kitchenette making coffee, no breakfast was in sight. Used up all my sympathy points with Mrs. Hudson, then, he thought to himself. We’re back to fending for ourselves.
John found the picture of the graffiti message on the desk by the windows and brought it into the kitchen. He had a question of his own for Sherlock that wasn’t brought up with Lestrade and Dimmock.
“So how did this help you find us, exactly?” he asked sitting at the table.
“Everything I needed was right there, I only needed the right book,” Sherlock answered.
“And that was the A-Z.”
Sherlock nodded. “A book everyone would own.”
The coffee was ready and Sherlock poured a cup for John, “Ta.” And for himself.
John picked up the photo and studied it again. “So, nine mill.”
“Million,” Sherlock started to say.
“Million, yes, nine million for jade pin dragon den black tramway.” John read the translation of the symbols from the train line.
“An instruction to all their London operatives,” Sherlock explained.
“Hmm.”
“A message what they were trying to reclaim,” Sherlock said patiently.
“What, jade pin?” John asked pointing at the photo.
“Worth nine million pounds. Bring it to the tramway, their London hideout.”
“Hang on, a hair pin worth nine million pounds?” John said amazed.
“Apparently.”
“Why so much?” John asked.
“Depends who owned it.” Sherlock replied sipping coffee.