Chapter Text
“DI Holmes,” Sherlock announces as he briefly flicks a warrant card in front of the uniformed police constable standing inside the door of the bank.
The constable nods indifferent approval, but Sherlock is already striding past him, his gaze sweeping the bank lobby. Several more uniformed police constables are talking to the bank’s security guards and the two business employees who were held prisoner. A couple of crime scene investigators are poring over the empty plant pot on its metal handcart, and the now wilted fern lying on the floor next to them.
Sherlock glances at the broken cover of the fire alarm and the blackened lenses of the security cameras; his mouth twists in amusement. He walks quickly down the hallway towards the back of the bank. He turns the corner, and is confronted by Sally Donovan in intent conversation with a crime scene investigator.
“Freak - what are you doing here?” Sally demands, her eyes round with annoyance and sheer disbelief.
“Where’s Lestrade?” Sherlock smirks, his eyes sliding past her to the streaks of soot on the wall and the lock plate of the security gate behind her.
“He’s already left,” Sally says. “You missed him.”
“Well, when is he coming back?” Sherlock asks with elaborate precision.
“He’s not. This isn’t his case,” Sally says.
Sherlock’s expression folds abruptly into blank surprise.
“It’s your case?” he says, glancing her up and down as if the key to the mystery might be in some detail of her clothing or posture. “He gave you this case?”
“Yeah,” Sally says, her eyes practically snapping sparks. “It’s my botched bank robbery, and I don’t want you in it.”
“Oh, that’s not right,” Sherlock says, his voice rumbling softly in his chest, “that’s not right at all.”
Sally’s nostrils flare. She glances down the hallway at the two crime scene investigators who are diligently brushing and photographing the jumble of safety deposit boxes on the floor of the strong room. The one who’s been watching her exchange with Sherlock from the corner of his eye looks away quickly.
“You know what’s not right?” Sally says tightly, lifting her gaze to Sherlock’s again. “Someone with no training, no credentials, and no respect waltzing onto any crime scene that takes his fancy and getting away with it because an otherwise decent DI is susceptible to a plumy accent and a fuck-me face - well, they don’t work on me.”
“I meant, the robbery wasn’t botched,” Sherlock says evenly.
Sally’s eyes flare wide for a second and then narrow.
“They only managed to get two safety deposit boxes open,” she says. “They didn’t have the right equipment to - ”
Sherlock sighs pleasurably.
“Four minutes,” he says. “It took them four minutes. They evacuated almost everyone from the building and subdued anyone who was left. They took care of the security cameras, and they had precisely the right amount of PE4 to open the security gate without making any unnecessary mess. They had the tools and the muscle to extract thirty-two - no, thirty-three - safety deposit boxes from their hutches. They drilled two of them open and then they made their escape by walking out the front door and telling the Fire Brigade they’d be back in a minute. You’ve got CCTV on almost every street, but you haven’t found the getaway van or you’d be there, not here. I’m sure you’re right, Sally; they meant to clean those boxes out but they lacked the foresight to bring more than one drill.”
Sally’s stare softens a little, turns uncertain.
“Let me look at the two boxes they opened,” Sherlock says steadily.
Sally’s gaze flickers. She nods jerkily. They turn and walk through the security gate into the strong room, Sherlock taking a pair of nitrile gloves from his inside pocket and pulling them on as he goes. The two drilled safety deposit boxes are sitting side by side on the floor; Sherlock throws the skirts of his coat aside and crouches down. He picks up one box, turning it quickly in his hands and peering at the surfaces of the metal before lifting the lid.
“Last will and testament, shares certificates, house deeds,” he says, rifling through the few papers inside.
He flips the box closed again, sets it down, and picks up the other one.
“Bonds, shares certificates,” he says. “There’s nothing to choose between these two boxes. It’s possible that whatever they were after was in both, but it’s more likely to have been in just one – they opened the second one and battered all of the others trying to obscure the fact that they were looking for something specific.”
He discards the box and stands up again.
“What was it?” Sally frowns.
Sherlock narrows his eyes, lifts his free hand, and presses the tip of his index finger hard into his temple. Sally’s eyes widen slightly and her mouth curls in faintly horrified fascination.
“No idea,” Sherlock says, whipping his hand away again, “except that it’s smaller than a safety deposit box and it’s not here anymore.”
Sally grimaces.
“So, wait a minute,” she says. “You’re telling me a gang of seven armed bank robbers pulled a job in the middle of London, in broad daylight, and got away with something valuable enough that they ignored the rest of the bank for it.”
“A bit more exciting than a botched attempt at the money, isn’t it?” Sherlock grins, stripping his gloves off and returning them to his pocket.
“I’ll call the DI,” Sally says, her voice falling.
“Don’t,” Sherlock says quietly.
Sally’s brows fold into a frown.
“He gave you this case because he thought it was beneath him,” Sherlock says, his eyes pale and clear and very steady. “You weren’t smart enough to work it out but neither was he. Why should he get it back now, just because it’s suddenly worth having?”
Sally’s eyes sharpen suspiciously.
“Keep it,” Sherlock says, his voice velvety soft. “Let me in; when I solve it, you’ll have the prestige of a significant case and Lestrade will have a useful reminder of his own fallibility.”
“Why would you want to help me?” Sally asks, her voice cold but her eyes ravenous.
“Oh, you’re not the only one who’d like to see Lestrade a little less dismissive of other people’s abilities,” Sherlock says archly.
For a second, Sally’s expression wavers, undecided what to become, and then sets in carefully composed lines.
“If I do let you in - and I’m not saying I will,” she says, “what would you tell me to do?”
Sherlock’s mouth slides into a one-sided grin.
“Five security guards in a florist’s van are a bit conspicuous,” he says, “but no one noticed them, which means they must have ditched the uniforms and possibly the van close by. Have the little worker bees start searching rubbish bins, skips, anywhere you could dump a lot of clothing without attracting attention - probably in a side street or an alleyway. And get the owners of those two boxes - ” he nods towards the drilled safety deposit boxes “ - to come in and check the contents. If we know what was stolen we’ll have a better chance of getting it back.”
“They’re already on their way here,” Sally says.
Sherlock makes a little sound of surprise and approval in his throat.
“Sally. I thought you were content to get by on your looks,” Sherlock says with a sharp sideways tilt of his head.
Sally closes her eyes deliberately and draws a long breath in through gritted teeth.
“Don’t forget the CCTV footage from the bank lobby,” Sherlock says pleasantly. “We should look at that.”
Sally snaps her eyes open again.
“They blacked the cameras out,” she says.
“Well, yes,” Sherlock says, “so I think we’d better concentrate on the footage from before they did that.”
“How long before?” Sally asks.
“Hard to say,” Sherlock frowns. “This was obviously meticulously planned in advance but - say a week, to start with. If we don’t find anything, we’ll go back further.”
“I’ll have them release the bank CCTV footage to you,” Sally says. “I’ll catch up with you when I’m done here.”
“He probably didn’t hear the door go,” Missus Hudson says as she leads Sally up the stairs to Sherlock’s flat. “He doesn’t, you know, when he’s taken up with something.”
Sally makes a noncommittal noise of acknowledgement. A black messenger bag is hanging from one shoulder, and in her hands she’s carrying a large, transparent plastic bag filled with a tangle of clothing and one of the crumpled up sheets of plastic film from the van’s sides.
“Coo ee,” Missus Hudson calls as she knocks on the already open door of the flat. “Sherlock? There’s someone to see you.”
“In the kitchen,” Sherlock says, his voice raised.
“Oh, Sherlock, look at this place,” Missus Hudson says plaintively, plucking a discarded shirt off a teetering pile of books on one corner of the sitting room table. “You can’t invite a girl in here.”
“Sergeant Donovan’s not a girl,” Sherlock says, coming into the sitting room carrying his open laptop. “She’s a policeman.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Missus Hudson says, her eyes creasing encouragingly. “I think couples do better when they have similar interests.”
“We aren’t - ” Sally begins.
“Thank you, Missus Hudson,” Sherlock says, setting his laptop down and chivying her out the door with two hands on her back. “Off you go – off, off.”
Missus Hudson flaps a hand at him, throws another encouraging little smile at Sally, and goes downstairs again.
“Oh, very clever,” Sherlock says as he takes the bag from Sally’s hands and extracting the crumpled plastic film. “So it was really a plain white van, and a different license number.”
“And a plain white cargo van was reported abandoned and partially burnt out, out by Battersea,” Sally says. “I have got SOCs there now - ”
“Pointless,” Sherlock says, pulling some of the clothes out of the bag. “They’re far too good to have left anything instructive.”
He lifts a crumpled jacket to his face and inhales deeply.
“Brand new,” he announces. “Could be any one of a dozen uniform suppliers – the labels have been removed and an order of five outfits isn’t large enough to be memorable.”
He stuffs the jacket back into the bag and drops it on the seat of one armchair.
“What about the owners of the safety deposit boxes?” he asks impatiently.
“Erwin Weaver and Robert Chan,” Sally says, handing Sherlock a printed page from her coat pocket. “And I hate to disappoint you, but … they both said there’s nothing missing.”
Sherlock jerks his gaze up from the images on the page to scowl at her.
“What?”
Sally shrugs, her mouth curling in sardonic satisfaction.
“No,” Sherlock says sharply, “that’s not right.”
“They must have opened the wrong boxes,” Sally says.
“No,” Sherlock snaps. “Four minutes – they thought of everything. You expect me to believe they made a mistake like that?”
“The owners say there’s nothing missing,” Sally insists.
“Then the owners are lying,” Sherlock counters.
“Why?” Sally demands.
Sherlock clenches his fists and growls in frustration.
“I don’t know but – all right, the CCTV footage,” he says, pulling a chair out and sitting down at the table in front of his laptop.
He tosses the page with Weaver and Chan’s pictures onto the table next to him.
“Anything in what you’ve looked at so far?” Sally asks, slipping her coat off and taking her own laptop from her bag before sitting down at the other side of the table.
“A bank with a lot of people … banking,” Sherlock mutters, his gaze already riveted to his screen. “Coffee’s in the kitchen, nicotine patches are in the bathroom, don’t speak unless you have actual information to impart.”
“You’re an ass,” Sally says.
Sherlock’s eyes swing up from the screen to meet hers, his stare opaque and cold.
“Oh, have we started?” Sally says, with a fractional toss of her head.
Sherlock looks down again, but the corners of his mouth quiver minutely.
There’s the faintest hint of gray light leaking in between the drawn curtains. Sherlock is still at the table, sitting in front of his laptop. His eyes are hooded, though his stare is still intent and steady. The pale screen-light flickers on his face, making harsh shadows and sudden gleams of his features. Sally’s laptop is sitting open on the coffee table, and her shoes are lying on the rug underneath. Sally is lying on her side on the couch, one hand tucked beneath her cheek and the other between her drawn-up knees.
Abruptly Sherlock blinks, squeezes his eyes shut and snaps them wide. His finger scribes across his touchpad and taps emphatically.
“I’ve got,” he says, and then much more loudly, “Donovan – wake up, I’ve got it.”
He clatters his laptop on the surface of the table.
“I’m up, I’m there, I’m doing it,” Sally says blurrily, and then pitches herself into a sit and bundles the mass of her curls back from her face. “What?”
“I’ve found it,” Sherlock says, standing up and twisting aside from his chair. “Look – come on, hurry up.”
“All right, I’m coming, I’m - ” Sally scowls, unfolding from the couch and moving to the table, still groggily palming the cloud of her hair back.
She drops into the chair, opens her eyes very wide, and takes a deep nasal breath. Sherlock taps the touchpad and the quartered image on the screen begins to move.
“What am I looking at?” she asks after a few seconds. “I’m looking at people banking. I’ve already seen six hours of this.”
“Twelve minutes before the fire alarm was set off,” Sherlock says quickly, and raps his finger against the screen. “Here, the camera that covers the front door - ”
The man in the dark overcoat is pushing the door open. Henn strides into shot, though the camera sees only the back of his fair head and his gray suit jacket. The two men collide, shuffle, and finally part again.
“It's Erwin Weaver. I told you one of them was lying,” Sherlock says, bending down and darting his face close to Sally’s.
“Jesus,” Sally says, jerking back with a grimace. “He didn’t lie – he told us he was in the bank. You read the statement.”
“He said nothing unusual happened,” Sherlock counters, straightening up again and moving away to rummage among the books and papers and random artifacts covering the bookcase next to the door.
“Some fella walked into him the same day the bank was robbed,” Sally protests. “It’s a coincidence.”
“Good God,” Sherlock says, glancing over his shoulder at her. “Is that really what passes for reasoning among your lot?”
“My - what?” Sally gapes.
“Look at the video,” Sherlock says with an imperious flick of his hand. “Look.”
“I’m looking,” Sally snaps. “I’m looking at the back of some fella’s head.”
“Then try looking at his right shoulder,” Sherlock grinds, dragging a UV light and its trailing cord out of the tangle on one shelf.
“His – he’s - ” Sally says.
She tilts her head over and wrinkles her nose.
“ – he’s – what is he doing?”
“Making some kind of rhythmic, repetitive up and down motion with his right hand,” Sherlock says, plugging the lamp in at the baseboard beside the shelves.
“In a bank?” Sally says.
“It’s all right. I think he’s rubbing something on, rather than off,” Sherlock grins.
He takes his used nitrile gloves from his coat pocket and brings the UV lamp over them. The folds of the gloves’ fingers glow vividly green. Sally stands up and approaches, frowning softly.
“How did you know?” she asks, looking at the gloves and then up at Sherlock.
“I knew the marker was invisible under normal conditions,” Sherlock says, “but it had to be something that could be activated quickly and reversibly – ultraviolet was the obvious candidate.”
“So – the man in video, he walked into Weaver on purpose and rubbed this stuff onto him while he pretended to dust him off,” Sally says.
“Good girl,” Sherlock says, his gaze suddenly constricting. “Now tell me why.”
Sally’s brows furrow but her eyes flicker intently.
“It – it’s on your gloves because you handled the opened safety deposit boxes,” she says, “so it was on the boxes – no, it was on one of the boxes. And it got there from Weaver’s clothing – they did it so they could identify the box - his box, the box that he went into the bank to – take something out of, or put something in.”
She’s almost breathless with intensity – she throws both hands up, scooping her hair up in her fingers.
“Which means?” Sherlock goads.
“I don’t know,” Sally squeaks.
Sherlock throws his hands up, but his mime of disgust is leavened by an almost indulgent gleam in his eyes.
“It means they didn’t know which box was his, but they did know he was going to the bank to open it,” he says.
“I’m bringing Weaver in for questioning,” Sally says, stepping past Sherlock to where her shoes are lying on the floor.
“No,” Sherlock says, catching hold of her arm.
“He’s obstructing the investigation of a crime,” Sally protests.
She glances down, and starts slightly at the sight of Sherlock’s long fingers splayed around the pale gray sleeve of her shirt. He lets go abruptly, his expression flickering momentarily through chagrin to elaborate indifference.
“A crime of which he is the victim,” he says. “What does that tell you?”
“That … he’s glad to be rid of whatever was stolen,” Sally hazards.
“He kept it in a safety deposit box,” Sherlock says with a slight eye roll.
“All right, he doesn’t want to tell us what it was,” Sally tries, and then – her gaze darkening and sharpening, “he doesn’t want to tell the police what it was. It’s something he’s not supposed to have in the first place.”
“Right now he doesn’t know we’re onto him,” Sherlock says. “Don’t bring him in, but dig into everything you can find out about him – his past, his associations, his vices – somehow Mister Weaver came into possession of something very, very valuable and very, very naughty.”
“I’m on it,” Sally says, stepping into her shoes and picking her coat up from where it’s draped on the back of an armchair.
Sherlock dips his hand into his pants pocket and pulls out his phone.
“I’ll let you know when I’ve got something,” Sally says as she strides to the door.
“Mmm … yes, do,” Sherlock says abstractedly as he reads the message on his phone.
Sally goes quickly out of the door and down the stairs. Sherlock places a call and lifts his phone to his ear.
“Doctor Sawyer?” he says after a brief pause. “This is Sherlock Holmes. I received your text and - yes, I think I might be able to advise you. Why don't you come by this morning?"