After finally discovering that what we thought was the artists tag was actually numbers written in an ancient Chinese dialect, we decide to head towards a cafe which is near by. Me and Sherlock start to write some of the Hangzhou numbers and their English equivalents onto a paper napkin, whilst John sits opposite us on the table and waits for his meal to arrive. 

"Two men travel back from China. Both head straight for the Lucky Cat emporium. What did they see?" I began quietly, not tearing my eyes away from the paper napkin. 

"It's not what they saw; it's what they both brought back in those suitcases." Sherlock corrected.

"And you don't mean duty free." John then spoke up, before a waitress came and brought a plate of food over not more than a couple of seconds later, placing it on the table in front of John. "Thank you."

"Think about what Sebastian told us; about Van Coon – about how he stayed afloat in the market."

"Lost five million..."

"Made it back in a week." Sherlock finished, "That's how he made such easy money."

"So he was a smuggler?" I voice as John takes a mouthful of food. "A business man like Van Coon - it would have been perfect."

"Making frequent trips to Asia. And Lukis was the same, a journalist writing about China."

"Both of them smuggled stuff out, and the Lucky Cat was their drop-off."

"It doesn't make sense." I sighed, "Why did they die? If they both delivered what they needed to, why would someone threaten and kill them after they've finished the job? Unless they made a few enemies. Seems a bit unlikely though."

John mumbled something in agreement before eating some more of his food. Sherlock leaned back in his chair thoughtfully for a few seconds, then his lips tugged up into a small smile. "What if one of them was light-fingered?"

"How d'you mean?" John spoke up once swallowing the food he was chewing. 

"Stole something; something from the hoard."

"And the killer doesn't know which of them took it, so he threatens them both." I pin together, looking at Sherlock with a smile plastered on my face too. "Now we're getting somewhere."

He glanced out of the window and eyes something outside, causing me to do the same although I was unsure about who or what we was staring at.

"Remind me, when was the last time that it rained?" He asked, but didn't bother waiting for a reply. Instead he stood up and exited the restaurant, causing me and John to exchange looks of confusion. John seems irritated that he has to leave his food without eating it all, and sits back in exasperation but dutifully getting up. 

"Damn." He muttered, before we both followed after him. We made our way across the road, where Sherlock is crouched down and is examining a book of some sort. After getting closer I realise that it's the Yellow Pages. The plastic wrapper still had drops of water on it and the top has broken open a little. Sherlock runs his fingers over the top of the wet exposed pages of the directory. "It's been here since Monday." He tells us, straightening up and pressing the doorbell to the flat. 

"They're probably not in." I say, before Sherlock steps back and looks around, noticing an alleyway. Once again Sherlock walks off, me and John following after.

"No-one's been in that flat for at least three days."

"Could've gone on holiday." John suggests.

"D'you leave your windows open when you go on holiday?" He retorts, reaching the rear end of the building and looking up at the cantilevered metal fire escape that was above us. I open my mouth to say something, but Sherlock takes me by surprise by taking a short run at it and jumping up, grabbing the end and pulling it towards him until it touched the ground.

Then he climbs up and the ladder swings back up, leaving us. "Sherlock!" I snapped, "You gonna help us out?"

But Sherlock, being too much of a short-arse to push the ladder down for us again, turns and climbs through a window.

"He is such a asshole." I muttered, folding my arms and looking at John who was equally unimpressed. 

"Bloody wanker." John cursed, shaking his head. "Come on, no point in waiting here. Maybe Sherlock will let us in through the front door."

"Yeah, hopefully. I'm not holding my breath." I respond as me and John begin to walk towards the front of the flat. Once we're outside of the door, John exhales heavily and shifts of his feet impatiently, pressing the buzzer.

"D'you think maybe you could let me in this time?" He asks, clearly annoyed. It was then I remember that John was left outside last time, and me and Sherlock ended up finding a dead body. Sherlock doesn't respond, so John bends down to the letterbox and pushes it open. "Can you not keep doing this, please?"

We heave a muffled voice, most likely Sherlock's. But with the busy, everyday noises of the street around us we were unable to figure out what he was saying. John leaned down again and put his ear to the letterbox which he was still holding open. "What?"

Again, he says something but a little louder. We still can't hear him. I sigh and lean down near the letterbox, John moving out the way as I did so. "We can't hear you, damn it!" 

Me and John stay silent, trying to listen to hear what Sherlock was talking about. But after realising that it was hopeless John let's go of the letterbox and sighs. "We're wasting our breath, Ella." He shakes his head, pacing slightly with annoyance. "No, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no-one else can compete with..." He started to mock, storming back towards the letterbox and flipping it open angrily. "my MASSIVE INTELLECT!"

"Calm down." I say softly, although I was just as fed up as he was. "This is Sherlock. What did you expect?"

"He's such an arse." He grumbled, and just after I managed to hear the sound of something smashing. Furrowing my brows with curiosity, I bend down towards the letterbox once more and open it.

"Sherlock?" I call through, waiting for a respond.

"We've already decided that's not bloody use." John told me, folding his arms like an upset child. I admitted defeat and gave up, straightening my posture and waiting for Sherlock to try and contact us instead.

To our luck, we didn't have to wait for long. A few moments later the front door swings open and me and John just glare at him, waiting for him to explain himself. 

"The, uh, milk's gone off and the washing's starting to smell. Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago." Sherlock speaks, his voice croaky.

"Somebody?" John questions. Sherlock nodded, his voice still rough. 

"Soo Lin Yao. We have to find her."

"How?" I wonder, watching as Sherlock picks up a folded envelope. Unfolding it, he takes in the information that's on the envelope. "Maybe we could start with this." He suggests, his voice still croaky.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Yeah, you've gone all croaky. Are you getting a cold?" John quized, picking up on his change in tone too. 

"I'm fine." Sherlock states while coughing, beginning to walk off. I quickly reach out and grab his arm, pulling him to a halt.

"No..." I outset slowly, narrowing my eyes. I eye him up a down, taking in his messed up hair and his pale neck that had began to turn red slightly. "Was someone in there with you?"

He pulled his arm away, obviously not finding it that much fun when someone else is deducing him. "Don't be ridiculous."

"No, Sherlock." I snap, pausing for a moment when I realised I was raising my voice. I clear my throat and step forward, speaking quietly. "Did someone try to kill you?" I demanded. It made sense: the croaky voice, the red mark, the messy hair and the sound of things smashing from the flat that I heard when Sherlock had tried to put up a fight.

"No." He answered, "he didn't want to kill me, only to weaken me so he could escape. He let me go."

"Bloody hell." I muttered, and John just stared with wide eyes. I pointed a firm finger at him. "Next time you better let us in, or I'll kill you myself."

"Come on, we need to go to the museum." He changes the topic quickly, walking off before I could stop him. This is exactly why Sherlock should have let me and John in, because otherwise he could have died and we wouldn't have been able to help.

With an aggravated sigh, I trail after him.