Elementary (2012–…): Season 2, Episode 23 - Art in the Blood - full transcript

Previously on Elementary:

- Something's wrong.
- We need to talk.

I told her.
I told her what you were.

- She wouldn't listen.
- Sherlock...

To allow a criminal syndicate to set up
shop in your stupid restaurant...

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.

You must realize
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?
- Copy that.

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, 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'd like.

Um, 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.

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 17 s
and wearing bulletproof jackets.

British intelligence? Ml6?

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 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
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 Ml6.

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 Ml6
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?

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-0 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 Ml6.

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 Ml6 asset

and you have kept that hidden
from me for over a decade?

Right.

Because we're so close.

A few months ago, you told me 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 Ml6.

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 one for yourself.

You could've 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 going to 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.

Forgive me if I skip
the obligatory chitchat.

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 Ml6 handling
last night's cock-up?

And to what lies
should Watson and I adhere to

in the event that we are interviewed
by other parties?

- Everything you said he was, eh?
- 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 out for angry
Frenchmen for the rest of our lives?

DE Soto was picked up leaving
the scene and in possession

of a list of stolen
Swiss bank accounts.

We made sure 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?

Hm.
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 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 Ml6

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.

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?

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.
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 N.Y.P.D.

Look, I'd like you to take a peek
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's
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 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 Miss 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 whatever part
I might have played in it.

If anything ever happened to you...

So, what was that meeting
you had to go to?

I've been assigned
to an investigative task by Ml6.

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.

Take whatever time
that you need to recuperate.

Actually, work would be good right now.
I don't wanna 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 he 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.

Let's assume it was the work
of someone who did 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.

Whoever did this knew
how to shut down the system

and when to make their move.
The morgue's been shorthanded.

The assistant ME on-call
was out at a scene half that night.

We gotta at least consider the
possibility this was an inside job.

- Hm. 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-slash-Ml6 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.
There is more to Mr. West's murder

than meets the eye.

I don't understand why anyone

would wanna steal
a dead man's arms, spy or not.

I assume it's 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's 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.

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 you hadn't seen
Mr. West in months.

We stopped by a supermarket
on the way here.

The young woman behind
the pharmacy counter,

she confirmed that you regularly
filled 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. Heh.

I don't get many complaints.

Not an interest shared by
your ex-husband though? Hm?

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 those items, food wrap included,
are 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?

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,
and 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?
- 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
wanna 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 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.

You're going to keep working
for us, then?

It's an interesting case.
More so than I would've 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, but if you
thought discussing that might help...

There is something
I wanna 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.

Interesting.
I didn't know your husband.

He knew you. Ah, 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 to 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 to make them understand
you were one of the good guys.

- Oh, I'm touched.
- I know how it sounds,

but he liked you,

what you stood for, and if he hadn't
done it, someone else would have.

But you were a civilian, right?

So why would an analyst at Ml6
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 a gossip.

If this is Ml6's idea of an analyst,
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 Ml6.

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

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 hid 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.
Please.

Please.

Whoever came after Arthur,
I think they're after me.

Can you help me or not?

- Oh...
- How's 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 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.

No, that's 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.

We put distance between him
and ourselves...

and these feelings of yours
will pass.

Sherlock, this is not because
of what just happened,

and it is definitely
not because of Mycroft.

I decided a while ago.
I was waiting for the right time.

So now, now's the right time
to tell me, is it?

Days after my brother
nearly got you killed,

after I find out
he's been lying for years.

You get that it's never
a good time with you, right?

If it wasn't this,
it would be something else.

A police case,
a friend who needs your help...

So do you no longer
wish to be a detective?

All that time and energy
I put into your training?

Okay, you're not listening to me.
I love what we do and our partnership.

- Obviously.
- But we do not need to live together

to consult for the police.

You're forgetting 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.

- Watson, I...
- I know this is hard for you.

I know that you like things just so,
but I need room for 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 Ml6.

Judging by everything that's happened
over the last few days,

I think he might've been right.

Whoever took his arms
wanted those 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 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. Black. Thanks.

I got in touch
with a friend of Sherlock's.

He's getting you a temporary ID
and a clean car

- and a place to go until 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 Ml6.

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 wanna 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 ME 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 though.

Shouldn't be hard to match
once we have a suspect.

Right.

- What's up?
- Oh, 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 wanna 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, Ml6 thwarted the attack,
so no one was hurt,

but in the process,
Sherlock's involvement came to light.

He, uh...

...could've been sent to prison
for a very long time.

So Ml6 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 Ml6,

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.

Mm.

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

and where 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 wanna pack a bag.
- Am I?

You both need
to get out of here 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.

- I recognized them straightaway.
- How's 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.