You and Sherlock

The Yellow Pages

John wanted food, which you supposed made sense, though you weren't particularly hungry. So you settled into some small Chinese restaurant, the tables cramped, staked out in front of the little tourist shop.

Sipping wonton soup, you listened intently as John and Sherlock went back and forth. 

"Two men travel back from China. Both head straight for the Lucky Cat emporium. What did they see?" John paused, his pen scribbling against the paper furiously. Sherlock shook his head, lifting his own pen from a napkin where he'd written the Hangzhou numbers and their English equivalent.

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

John's eyebrow quirked. 

"And you don't mean duty-free."

A waitress set down two plates of food in front of you and John. Sherlock, in typical fashion, had not ordered food. Shooting a look at John and Sherlock, who were talking about Van Coon now, you pulled the waitress aside and ordered another chow mein and a few egg rolls to go. 

"...So he was a smuggler," John took a bite of his food. 

"A guy like him – it would have been perfect," Sherlock's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "He was a businessman making frequent trips to Asia."

"And Lukis? The other guy?" You stuffed a dumpling in your mouth.

Sherlock looked at you.

"Lukis was just the same, a journalist writing about China. Both of them smuggled stuff out, and the Lucky Cat was their drop-off,"

"So... why kill them?" You asked, and Sherlock sat back. John nodded.

"Y/N is right; it doesn't make sense. If they both turn up at the shop and deliver the goods, why would someone threaten them and kill them after the event, after they'd finished the job?"

Sherlock paused thoughtfully for a moment, eyes narrowed. And then the Cheshire Cat smile came creeping back on to his face.

"What if one of them was light-fingered?"

"How d'you mean?" John asked.

"Stole something; something from the hoard," Sherlock explained, nodding his head down.

"So what... the killer doesn't know who took it and then he -- or she -- threatens them both?" You said and Sherlock smile softened indulgently.

"Precisely, Y/N. I --" his eyes narrowed at something outside the window and you could almost see the gears shifting. "Remind me -- when was the last time it rained?"

Without waiting for a reply, he stood and strode out of the restaurant. You and John exchanged glances and you tapped a finger to your nose.

"Not it." 

John rolled his eyes and looked mournfully down at his meal, of which he'd had maybe three bites. 

"I'll get the cheque. And a box," you added when he glared at you. Sighing, John stood up dutifully and walked to the door to follow Sherlock, who'd rushed across the street. He shot you puppy eyes one last time and you shook your head, emphatically taking another bite of noodles.

You watched Sherlock across the street, who was bending down to touch something -- you squinted... a newspaper, maybe? No, it was yellow -- the Yellow Pages, you guessed. Contentedly taking another bite of your meal, you resigned yourself to finally having the opportunity to just eat while Sherlock pressed a finger to the doorbell of the nearby flat the Yellow Pages were in front of. John walked up to him and they exchanged a very short dialogue that resulted in them walking into the alley.