Elementary s02e23 Episode Script

Art in the Blood

Previously on Elementary Something's wrong? We need to talk.
I told her told her what you were, but she wouldn't listen.
Sherlock.
To allow a criminal syndicate to set up shop in your stupid restaurant.
So, you said you struck some sort of "deal" with them.
Explain it to me.
We're doing our best, considering the circumstances.
Circumstances that could have been avoided if you'd removed your brother from New York, as I recommended a few months ago.
You must realize that as soon as we hand over the list, they will murder you, me and Joan.
Let's approach the situation the smart way.
You have what we asked for? Kill them.
It's all clear.
You squared, sir? Obviously, there's a great deal I need to tell you.
Holmes.
You okay? No.
Something's happened.
I need the captain's help.
Yours as well.
Watson? Yeah.
I'm okay.
Look, we're really busy right now, but if you need me, grab me.
All right? Where are you? Home.
Mycroft's here, too.
There's a lot you need to know.
It's okay.
It's all right.
I'm all right.
My brother? Here.
All things considered, you're doing quite well.
I can give you something to help you sleep, if you like.
Oh, that's okay.
Give me one reason I shouldn't thrash you.
You're upset, and you're right to be, but I can explain.
Actually, I've heard this before; I don't need to hear it again.
I'm going to bed.
Excuse me.
Expat physician.
Two guards both carrying Glock 17s and wearing bulletproof jackets.
British Intelligence? MI6? Obviously, you struck some sort of deal with them.
Copping to your various criminal activities in exchange for help with rescuing Watson.
Gentlemen, please know you have my deepest gratitude for bringing my partner home in one piece.
As for my brother, I can only hope that whatever deal he struck with you involves some form of jail time.
Are you quite finished? No, not even close.
Then I'll do you the favor of telling you you're wrong.
British Intelligence isn't here to arrest me.
I am British Intelligence.
Everything I've told you is true, more or less.
I've just omitted a great deal.
It's true, my business was going through a rough patch.
I needed cash to keep my restaurants afloat.
So, you took money from drug dealers.
What could go wrong? Le Milieu approached me with what they called a "mutually beneficial arrangement.
" It was not an offer one could decline, and yet that's precisely what I intended to do.
But, before I could give my official word, I was visited by a man from MI6.
He told me they'd been watching Le Milieu and were aware of the offer he urged me to accept.
Burrow in, keep my eyes and ears open, do some good for Queen and country.
And here was me thinking MI6 was an intelligence organization.
But they sought help from you, a virtual cartoon character.
You're not listening.
Would you put that down before you kill us both? That is toxic mold.
Part of an experiment.
Inhaling it would be a death sentence.
I suppose, at first, it was all very romantic.
I was an asset.
I was embedded with Le Milieu.
As it turned out, I had something of a knack for spying.
What's your Double O designation, license to kill or just annoy? I never was an operative.
Never went on missions.
But I did find that I had a capacity for storing facts-- quite a remarkable one.
And as my work with Le Milieu brought me into contact with other criminal organizations, I began to take on their secrets, too.
I became a sort of clearing house for MI6.
I could often, but not always, predict the effect of certain actions that might be taken to dismantle criminal groups.
I know you don't take me seriously, but the agency does.
And they have done for quite some time.
So, you honestly expect me to believe that you are an MI6 asset and you have kept that hidden from me for over a decade? Right.
'Cause we're so close.
Few months ago, you told me that Father wanted me to return to London.
That was a lie, wasn't it? You wanted me out of New York, so I wouldn't tip to your operation.
It was my handler's idea.
He has a handler.
There's a certain awareness of you at MI6.
He thought you might interfere.
Your obfuscation nearly cost Watson her life.
It was you who became suspicious of the Le Milieu presence at Diogenes.
And instead of coming to me, you went to her, hoping to drive a wedge.
You want to point fingers, Sherlock, save them for yourself.
You could have told me the truth after she was taken.
I had an obligation to at least try and maintain my cover.
I also had a plan in place to guarantee her safe return.
I'm sorry I had to incapacitate you, but I couldn't risk the NSA mucking it up! This is gonna take some time to process.
My handler wants to see us tomorrow, both of us.
Make sure we're on the same page.
It's the sort of invitation one is obliged to accept.
Sort of a running theme with you.
Look forward to it.
Ah, the Holmes boys.
You must be "the handler," Sherrington.
Overthrow any good governments lately? This is a place my colleagues and I like to gather.
The clientele tend to be misanthropic.
Everyone keeps to himself.
So, forgive me if I skip the obligatory chit-chat.
I've got a traumatized friend I'd like to get home to.
What do you say we cut to the chase? "The chase"? How is MI6 handling last night's cock-up and to what lies shall Watson and I adhere to in the event that we are interviewed by other parties? Everything you said he was, eh? Oh, you're only scratching the surface.
Mycroft said three Le Milieu soldiers were killed last night.
My men cleaned the scene; the bodies won't turn up.
And de Soto, the captain? Should we be looking over our shoulders for angry Frenchmen for the rest of our lives? Uh, de Soto was picked up leaving the scene and in possession of a list of stolen Swiss bank accounts.
We made sure that his lot found out enough about it to, uh, motivate him to cooperate.
They think he disappeared his men and then made off with the list.
My involvement and Mycroft's will remain a secret? Hmm.
Well, Watson and I can keep that straight.
Let's you and I never cross paths again.
Brother.
I have a job for you, Sherlock.
A case, I think you'd call it.
A case? What case? I did you a favor last night.
I saved your partner's life.
You did and I'm grateful.
Saved your brother's life, too.
I'll let that slide.
Ten minutes.
That's all I ask.
Last week, an ex-analyst of ours was found murdered in his apartment.
Man by the name of Arthur West.
Police think it was a a robbery gone wrong.
But you suspect otherwise? Honestly, I can't say.
Things with West always were complicated.
You don't look well, Mycroft.
I was told this would be a simple debriefing.
It was.
Now it's something else.
Consider how Joan might feel if you take a case with MI6 after everything that happened last night.
Judging by the cold shoulder I saw you receive, I'd say she was no longer any of your concern.
Besides, I'm not planning to lie to her about it whilst taking her into my bed.
So, it's hardly the same thing, is it? You were saying: Arthur West, complicated.
Well, at one time, he was a valued resource.
Kind of man who could spot patterns in the chatter between suspicious parties.
Patterns that could raise flags, save lives.
But his periods of high value were interspersed with phases of no activity at all.
I see references here to anti-depressants, mood stabilizers.
Bipolar? Eventually, he was seeing shadows where none existed.
Forced him into early retirement.
What was he doing in New York? Well, settled here after he washed out.
Wife's an American.
Should say ex-wife; they split up two years ago.
But every now and again, even as a civilian, West would contact us and say he had something.
First few times, we followed through, but when they led to nothing You lost his number.
He didn't contact us for a good long while.
Until two weeks ago.
Insisted that the information he had was crucial to the preservation of the agency.
Refused to talk about it on the phone.
Wanted a face-to-face.
No one took him seriously.
Until he was killed.
The case is now in the hands of the NYPD.
Look, I'd like you to take a peak into the investigation.
See if anything jumps out.
If West's murder is as it appears, well, lovely.
If it's more than that you'll let us know.
And we'll take it from there.
That's it? I'd also like you to assassinate the Premier of China.
Perhaps I should have led with that.
Take a look at the case.
Give us your two cents worth, and then we'll consider our score settled.
You do know my brother is the very opposite of a company man? Expecting him to abide by your limitations is a folly.
Worried I'll show you up? More worried you'll start a war.
Your conditions are acceptable.
I'll be in touch.
Hey.
How you feeling? About the same.
I was trying to see if anything that happened last night made it to the news, but so far, it's It's one of the benefits of being a clandestine intelligence organization.
They excel at sweeping things under the rug.
Is Ms.
Hudson gone? Yeah.
I wasn't feeling like company.
I want you to know that, uh I'm sorry.
For everything you've been through and, uh whatever part I might have played in it.
If-if anything ever happened to you What was that meeting you had to go to? I've been assigned to an investigative task by MI6.
In exchange for their assistance last night.
Once completed, they and my brother will be out of our lives forever.
What do they want us to do? Let me be very clear on something: you're welcome to assist me, but I have no expectation of that.
You should take whatever time that you need to recuperate.
Actually, work would be good right now.
I don't want to sit around anymore.
So, what's the task? Arthur Cadogan West.
Found dead in his Greenpoint apartment four nights ago, two gunshots to the chest.
Drawer F3.
Knock yourselves out.
Thank you.
According to this, West walked in on a burglary.
Murder weapon was never recovered.
Dr.
Hawes.
Was Mr.
West intact when he arrived? What do you mean "intact"? In possession of his extremities.
Course he was.
Why? Not your work, I take it? No.
No one who works here would have done that.
Well, let's assume it was the work of someone who do not work here.
I think you've been the victim of a break-in.
Why were you two even looking at this guy? Bored.
Came here in search of an interesting case.
As we are wont to do.
Well, nobody noticed till now, but there is an hour-long gap in the surveillance video from three nights ago.
Now, whoever did this knew how to shut down the system and when to make their move.
The morgue's been shorthanded; the assistant M.
E.
on call was out at a scene half that night.
We got to at least consider the possibility this was an inside job.
Hmm.
You guys got nothing, right? No.
I'd be remiss if I didn't express my doubts this was a member of staff.
I spend a good deal of time here.
I've got a nose for traitors.
The chief.
I'll tell him about your nose.
Hello.
Couldn't have told him the truth? That we were drawn into a web of intrigue and deceit by my ne'er-do-well brother/MI6 asset? No.
Not without compromising his cover as a clueless idiot.
You meant what you said about the arms not being taken by someone who works here.
Given Mr.
West's former occupation and the infiltration skills demonstrated by his limb-thief, this is in all likelihood the work of a field operative.
I think Mycroft's associate is right to think that there is more to Mr.
West's murder than meets the eye.
I don't understand why anyone would want to steal a dead man's arms-- spy or not.
I assume it's for one of two reasons: either to retrieve evidence or destroy it.
Okay.
Well, according to Hawes' autopsy report, there are no indications of a struggle with the attackers.
There's no defense wounds, no skin under the nails.
And other than a rather pervasive case of eczema, Mr.
West's arms seem unremarkable.
Well, the crime scene has been sealed, so might be worth taking a look at that.
Agreed.
Let me know what you find.
Where are you going? The original detectives interviewed Mr.
West's ex-wife, Marion.
She claimed to be out of touch with the victim.
Have a look at the address on the shopping bags in the kitchen.
He lives in Brooklyn, she in Murray Hill.
The bags from this market are from Third Avenue.
So, you think she was doing the shopping for him.
So, she lied to the police.
W-Why would anybody do that? Who would want to steal Arthur's arms? Well, that's what we're trying to find out.
But right now, we're more curious why you lied to the detectives who interviewed you.
You claimed that you hadn't seen Mr.
West in months.
We stopped by a supermarket on the way here.
Young woman behind the pharmacy counter-- she confirmed that you regularly filled the prescriptions used to treat his bipolar disorder.
Arthur and I tried to make our marriage work, even after he got worse, but I wasn't strong enough.
I still loved him though.
I still wanted to make sure that he was all right, but I have a boyfriend now.
And he can get jealous.
He didn't know that I was still taking care of Arthur.
He was here when the police were questioning me, and I figured since I didn't know anything anyway I-I lied.
Now, when you say your boyfriend could get jealous-- jealous enough to commit murder? We spent the weekend in a B&B up in New Paltz.
I still have all the receipts.
Neither one of us was in town when Arthur was killed.
Are you the tattoo artist or is your boyfriend? Oh, uh, I am.
Oh, yeah? Any good? Got a few myself.
Oh.
I don't get many complaints.
Not an interest shared by your ex-husband though? No? Oh, well.
Not for everyone, I suppose.
Hey.
You still at West's apartment? Yes.
Why? Photograph of his kitchen.
I noticed a roll of plastic food wrap.
Doesn't look like he does much cooking there though.
I want you to look and check, see if there are any other items there.
Moisturizing ointment, medical tape or antibacterial soap.
Three for three.
Why? What are you thinking? All of those items, food wrap included, are products used in the aftercare of a tattoo.
Marion West was a tattoo artist.
I believe she inked her ex-husband's arms.
Except that West did not have tattoos; we saw the pictures.
Just because we couldn't see them, doesn't mean they weren't there.
Tattoos can be created using UV sensitive ink.
Which means, they can only be viewed under a UV light.
I think the dry skin we saw on West's arms were tattoos in the process of healing.
Invisible ink tattoos? Not only real, but they're quite popular in certain subcultures.
Right up there with glow sticks and adult-sized pacifiers.
I don't suppose you confirmed any of this with Marion West? Well, not surprisingly, she chose to evade.
I did notice a black light amongst her equipment, but beyond that, we'll have to look elsewhere for our proof.
If I'm right, our former analyst inscribed secrets onto his arms in invisible ink, then shortly after his death, someone broke into the morgue, dismembered him in order to obtain those secrets.
You know how insane this sounds, right? I remind you, you've entered the world of spydom.
Strangeness abounds.
I'm off to see Mycroft's handler.
Okay.
Joan.
Sherlock's not here.
I'll tell him you came by.
Actually, I came to see you.
No.
No, to what? No, to whatever you came here to say.
No, you can't come in.
No, I'm not all right.
No, there is no possible future for us, once some time goes by.
Just no.
Joan, I came here to apologize.
Because of choices I made years ago, because of my obligation to maintain secrecy, you were placed in terrible danger.
Put through an ordeal no one should ever have to go through.
If you never want to see me again, I'd understand.
That's good, because I don't want to see you again.
And it's not because I almost got killed.
It's because I cannot believe a word out of your mouth.
I know that you had your reasons for everything that you did.
But whatever they were, you decided a long time ago that they were much more important than being honest with the people who actually care about you.
Someone who is capable of that kind of deception someone who can maintain it for literally years I could never feel comfortable with.
Now, Sherlock may be insensitive and-and intrusive, and if anything, too honest, but with him, I know exactly where I stand.
He deserves better than you.
So do I.
I understand.
Holmes.
The host didn't tell me you'd arrived.
I came in a less orthodox entrance to see if I could.
I could.
Let me guess, another asset? Where did you plant this one? Nursing home? Eyebrow barber? Sherlock Holmes, meet Sir James Walter, Deputy Chief SIS.
May I assume you have something to report? You're aware of my assignment? I'm aware of everything.
I believe it's best we take this to a private room.
I believe West's killers removed something from his apartment which only later sparked the discovery he had tattooed himself.
Thus the need for the second crime, in which they infiltrated the morgue and stole his arms.
And all this from the address on a shopping bag? The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes.
Save you.
Save me.
You're old enough to have spied for Churchill.
The importance of details should hardly come as a surprise.
Obviously, we should've taken West more seriously when he called us.
He cried wolf too many times, and the fact that he'd taken to storing his secrets on his skin speaks to the echoes of an unwell mind.
Any idea what the tattoos mean? Not yet.
Oh, you're going to keep working for us, then? It's an interesting case.
More so than I would have expected.
I'm quite pregnant with it now.
So, I just heard from Hawes.
He took a closer look at the autopsy photos of West's arms.
He does think the dry skin formed some sort of pattern.
He just can't make out what it was.
The mystery of the tattoos persists.
I know what it's like.
To be deceived by a lover.
Irene.
Moriarty.
It's not my favorite topic of conversation, but if you thought that discussing that might help Actually, there is something I want to talk to you about.
It's just not about Mycroft.
Not exactly.
I'm sorry.
Is Sherlock Holmes here? Mrs.
West? I couldn't talk earlier in front of the police.
I've been under surveillance for days, ever since Arthur was killed, but I made sure I wasn't followed here.
So how exactly did you know where "here" was? Arthur always told me if anything ever happened to him, you were the one man in New York I could trust.
That's interesting.
I didn't know your husband.
He knew you.
I'm sorry.
I'll explain everything, but the reason why I'm here is I know why someone took his arms.
They had information on them.
Tattoos you could only see under Under UV light, yes, we know.
What we don't know is what they depict.
Can you tell us? I can do better.
I can show you.
It was a little over six years ago.
You were still in London.
You were making waves at Scotland Yard.
The agency had taken notice, and so Arthur was assigned to you.
"Assigned"? He was told to keep an eye on you.
Nothing invasive, just collect data.
He was spying on you.
It was more complicated than that.
Arthur was an analyst, and there were people who didn't know what to make of you.
He assessed you.
Helped make them understand you were one of the good guys.
Oh, I'm touched.
I know how it sounds, but he-he liked you, what you stood for, and if-if he hadn't done it, someone else would have.
But you were a civilian, right? So why would an analyst at MI6 tell you about his work? Toward the end, Arthur knew that his disease could steer him wrong sometimes.
He started telling me things to help him prove that his theories weren't just delusions, to help keep him sane.
My brother ever come up in these conversations? If you're asking me if Arthur told me he's an asset, yes, he did.
A little bit of gossip.
If this is MI6's idea of an analyst, then the British government should be falling any day now.
He had a problem, and he needed someone to help him.
Tell me that doesn't sound familiar.
The numbers.
What are they? Uh, Arthur had become convinced there was a mole inside MI6, someone selling secrets to a spy based here in New York.
He hadn't managed to identify the mole, but The numbers.
Can you explain them? No.
He wasn't lucid the day he came to see me.
He said they were important, that they would help him prove that he was right about the mole.
But nothing else? No.
So all you did was tattoo a bunch of numbers and letters on him? He said if I didn't help him, he would do it himself.
I thought that was worse.
Why would he want them on him at all? He said they were his backup copy.
He had the real proof someplace else.
He-he was paranoid.
He thought if they were on his arms, he would have a copy that no one else could steal.
Obviously, he was wrong.
This, uh, "spy," the man in New York-- did he tell you his name? Or was that tattooed on one of his fingers? Julian Afkhami.
He owns a bookstore in Queens.
Arthur said he could prove there was ongoing contact between him and the mole.
He just needed time to figure out who it was.
P-Please.
Please.
Whoever came after Arthur, I think they're after me.
Can you help me or not? How is our guest? I put her in the spare room upstairs.
I told her we would figure out our next move in the morning.
So, what'd you make of her? I think she's telling the truth.
Or at least she thinks she's telling the truth.
And if she is, it's just one more reason to loathe my brother.
He knew his colleagues were observing me and said nothing.
"Azatan Books.
" It's the store owned by the man that Arthur West claimed was a spy.
Julian Afkhami.
Well, it doesn't look like much.
Well, perhaps it's by design, or perhaps it's just a bookshop.
Mr.
West was, after all, imbalanced.
So what about the tattoos? At first, I thought they were some form of encryption.
Now I'm considering the possibility that they are a simple data set.
Note the uniformity with which certain patterns recur.
We have strings of consistent length containing only numbers here, followed by areas of letters and numbers here and repeat.
Here, at the beginning of each "record," I believe we have dates and times.
These three digits taken together at the beginning of each record-- they never exceed 365.
Now faced with a canvas of finite length Arthur West stored the data on the fewest spaces as possible.
Beyond that, what the rest of each record means, I haven't got a clue.
You said you, uh, you had something you wished to discuss.
Before Mrs.
West arrived.
Yes.
I'm moving out.
Of? Here.
The brownstone.
I need to get my own place.
It's time.
Eh, codswallop.
Excuse me? This is obviously a knee-jerk reaction to what you've been through the last few days.
You feel violated, right? As if you're no longer in control of your life, and you feel the need to assert that control in some demonstrative, if ill-advised, fashion.
This needs a recharge.
I'll just Actually, it's none of that, but thank you for reducing my feelings down to a psychological cliché.
This is just another ripple.
It's another piece of fallout from my brother's intrusion into our lives.
We put a bit of distance between him and ourselves, and these feelings of yours will-will pass.
Sherlock, this is not because of what just happened, and it is definitely not because of Mycroft.
I decided this a while ago.
I was just waiting for the right time to tell you.
So now, now's the right time to tell me, is it? Days after my brother very nearly got you killed, after I find out he's been lying to me for years.
You get that it's never a good time with you, right? I mean, if it wasn't this, it would be something else.
A police case, a friend who needs your help.
S-So, do you no longer wish to be a detective? After all that time and energy I put into your training? Okay, you're not listening to me.
I love what we do; I love our partnership.
Obviously.
But we do not need to live together to consult for the police.
Y-You're forgetting how-how crucial our cohabitation has been to our process.
How much we tend to accomplish here.
No, I am not forgetting.
It's just not enough.
Oh, Watson, I I know this is hard for you.
I know that you like things just so, but I need room for a life outside of this.
Us, what we do.
But we are what we do.
No.
You are what you do; you have to be to be happy.
I don't.
Well, you look like something the cat dragged in.
Why didn't you tell me Arthur West was watching me back in London? Oh, worked that out, did you? Are you surprised? It was nothing personal.
You're special.
Special people draw attention.
It's kind of flattering after a fashion.
You said you had something to tell me? You and your fellow "appreciators of specialness"-- I think there's a better than average chance you've been infiltrated.
What? Arthur West thought there was a mole in MI6.
Judging by everything that's happened over the last few days, I think he might've been right.
Whoever's took his arms wanted tho numbers.
West thought they were proof of the mole's existence.
What are they? I haven't the foggiest.
I saw a mole hunt up close once before.
End of the Cold War.
Grisly business.
Good people and bad got hurt.
You still pregnant? With this? With the case? Are you going to go through with it? Come on, Sherlock.
Work for us.
I've already done far more I mean officially.
Permanently.
West wasn't just a colleague, he was a friend.
And I know what he thought about you.
I didn't see it at first, but, uh I know you'd do good things here.
You help people.
Imagine what you could do with us.
With our resources.
You and my brother and this whole affair have upturned my life quite enough.
Good luck with your hunt.
Good morning.
Morning.
We have coffee, cereal, fruit.
Just coffee.
Uh, black.
Thanks.
I got in touch with a friend of Sherlock's.
He's getting you a temporary I.
D.
and a clean car and a place to go until all this blows over.
Thank you.
I'm sorry about your ex-husband.
I didn't get a chance to say so last night.
He was a good man.
You said you knew about Mycroft.
The work he did.
We never met, but yeah, I knew.
Sherlock thinks he must've known that Arthur was keeping an eye on him.
He found out right before he came back to MI6.
What do you mean "came back"? Mycroft had gotten out.
He'd moved on with his life.
But then something happened.
He had to come back.
You building a fort? Cold cases.
I perused your current ones and found them quite mundane.
Oh.
We'll do better next time.
Your partner around? Working apart today.
Well, I thought you two would want to know the Transit Bureau found a handgun on the subway track a couple of blocks from Arthur West's apartment.
Ballistics match the slugs that the M.
E.
pulled out of the body.
Lab was able to get a clean set of prints off the gun, but no hits in the system yet.
Pretty distinct scar across the middle two fingers there.
Shouldn't be hard to match once we have a suspect.
Right.
What's up? Oh, I just, uh I just remembered there's somewhere I need to be.
Joan.
Tell me about Sudomo Han.
What? Sudomo Han.
You obviously know the name.
I want to know what happened.
Han was an Indonesian businessman who kept an office in London.
About three years ago, when Sherlock was at the height of his drug use-- or at the bottom, whichever way you look at it-- Han approached him to act as a sort of confidential courier.
Said he needed to transfer a package of trade secrets to a colleague without his competitors ever finding out the package had passed hands.
Sherlock took the job.
Unfortunately, what Sherlock didn't realize was that Han was financing a terrorist plot.
The trade secrets were instructions for the transfer of funds, and the competitors Sherlock managed to elude were British agents.
Luckily, MI6 thwarted the attack, so no one was hurt, but in the process, Sherlock's involvement came to light.
He, uh could have been sent to prison for a very long time.
So MI6 offered you a deal.
By my handler.
He said if I came back to work, Sherlock's problems would disappear.
In other words, everything that you did for MI6-- letting drug traffickers use your restaurants-- that wasn't for money.
Or to save your business.
That was all to protect Sherlock.
Why didn't you tell him? Why didn't you tell me? And accomplish what? Telling you after the fact would be a paltry attempt to dodge blame, and telling him it could've sent him down a bad road.
And you know that better than anyone.
He's more fragile than he cares to admit.
The two of us, we we share that burden, don't we? Taking care of him, whether he realizes it or not.
Mycroft.
What? Only that this is quite literally the last place I expected to be at the beginning of the day.
You're telling me.
Please don't do that.
Whatever it is, just say it.
No, it risks putting an irreparable damper on the mood.
Hmm.
Sherlock? As we both know, he's gonna make things very difficult for us.
I told him I was moving out last night.
How did that go? Horribly.
But, you know what, right now I don't care about that.
Right now, that is his problem, not mine.
Correction not ours.
Mr.
Sherrington, I have some news.
I believe I know who the mole is.
I'm going to find him.
What the hell was that? Good God, man.
Sherlock, what are you doing here? I could ask you the same thing.
If only there were time.
What are you doing? You're gonna want to pack a bag.
Oh, am I? You need to get out of here, both of you, now.
Why? His fingerprints are on the gun which was used to kill Arthur West.
What? It turned up, replete with your fingerprints.
Police are still running them through their database, but I recognized them straightaway.
How is that possible? I confess to studying them quite intently when we were children.
Your whorls and loops are as familiar to me as your very face, as is the scar across your middle and ring finger on your right hand.
Knife trick gone awry, age 13, if memory serves.
Pathetic.
Sherlock, I don't understand.
It's quite simple.
You're being framed.
For murder and treason.