All language subtitles for Elementary - 2x23 - Art in the Blood.HDTV.en

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.

♪ Elementary 2x23 ♪
Art in the Blood
Original Air Date on May 8, 2014

== sync, corrected by Romesh ==
RiVaL

♪

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.

== sync, corrected by Romesh ==
RiVaL