Family Deductions

((Ooooh, cool pic))


Sherlock watched as the taxi drove off, turned the corner and disapppeared, leaving them stood alone in this slightly eerie place. He gazed towards the Thames as John spoke, visualising the young woman running for her life with someone in pursuit. "It's possible," he nodded. "Although I'd need to see her clothes before I could say for certain whether she was alive or dead when she got to the river. She could have been taken there after she was killed."

Then he turned his attention back towards the power station, and an old rickety looking door half falling off its hinges. The detective approached it and ran his fingers along the top of the frame. "Someone's been in here recently, last 24 hours, although I do know a couple of homeless guys sleep here occasionally. Could be them."

He dug his hand in his left hand pocket and brought out the torch, flicking it on before he pushed open the door and stepped into the dark vast space. Inside there was a large hall with all kinds of old machines and devices, gathering rust and dust and cobwebs, empty cardboard boxes and stacks of crates, a couple of rotting sleeping bags in one corner from previous homeless inhabitants.

Sherlock swept the torch around the room, getting a first impression before he began to look for smaller details, noticing the echo of their footsteps on the stone floor and purposely starting to take smaller, lighter steps, although, if anyone was in here, they most probably would have heard them come in.

((Thanks, I liked that pic as it's atmospheric and fits the time of day ))
John surveyed around the open area as Sherlock examined the decrepit door into the power station and then took a look up at where his husband was fingering the frame. “Mm could be the homeless have been in recently.” he agreed getting his torch out of his pocket ready for entering the building.

As John quietly skirted the perimeter of the huge ground floor chamber and weaved between the steel girders that held up a rust stained metal gantry, a crane carriage and roof ties he took in that the vast, rambling building was like a rabbit warren, a paradise for anyone wanting to hide something or conceal themselves. He shone the torch beam over the floor, into dark shadows and periodically glanced back to check where Sherlock was.

Sherlock temporarily split up from John so they could cover more surface area in the large space, his torch darting into every dark corner and crevice, his eyes open and his senses alert, looking for something although he wasn't sure what.

After a few minutes of walking he noticed they'd managed to work their way back to each other, and he grabbed John's arm, pulling him close. He needed to think aloud and his partner was the best way of doing so.

"It was Eddie that arranged the potential buyer for the necklace, and it was Eddie that was in debt. We also know that he was mixed up with some bad people. Moran, for example. It was Moran who recommended him to the bookies and the rather untrustworthy Mr Milverton, who went out of his way to protect. Now why would he protect him if he was just an ordinary client, if he didn't know he was a major criminal? We have to assume then, that Milverton did know Moran's true nature. And if he knew, and was still willing to protect him, that makes him even less trustworthy, that makes him a criminal too..."

"So...back to the necklace. Moran had obviously won Eddie's trust, perhaps his respect, enough so that Eddie agreed to join the bookies. Moran probably knew he would end up losing more money and getting into more debt, but if he was working directly with Milverton, then that was a way for him to get back his own personal debt that Eddie owed him, do you see? But then something happened..."

"The first mistake this killer made, was not taking the necklace. If they wanted us to believe this was a straight forward but slightly dodgy deal that went wrong, ended in argument and fighting and death, then they should have taken the necklace too. The fact that we still have it, tells us this was never really about the necklace. I'm convinced that Eddie believed he was coming here to sell the jewelery, but whoever sent that e-mail was purposely deceiving him for some other gain. I should imagine they expected him to come alone, and when he turned up with two other people, that was when things started to go awry..."

To cover the vast space Sherlock and John had fanned out to search. After a few minutes John found himself close to Sherlock again and his partner took his arm to get his attention. John turned to Sherlock his eyes fixed on him as his husband's thoughts poured out in a fast flowing torrent. He nodded, concentrating and trying to follow what Sherlock was saying.

“I'd guess that Eddie walked into a trap, that he had no idea what he had got himself into to start with but soon found himself in deep water. Being in such debt he might have only realised how deep the water was when he came here.” John commented when Sherlock had finished speaking.

John had picked up on Sherlock saying Jackson being deceived for some kind of gain. He rubbed his neck in thought. Something had gone awry, something unexpected like Eddie not turning up on his own. So if it was a trap why had he been lured here. “What would Eddie have that Moran or somebody would gain from? Knowledge, information, access to something?”

Sherlock stood completely still, flicking his torch on and off, the repetetive action helping him to think. He ran through the events one more time in his mind, John's words ringing in his ears.

"What would he have...what would he have..." he muttered to himself, cocking his head to one side slightly, a small frown dancing across his forehead. "And why lure him here, John? In the middle of the night. Not for a friendly chat, that's for certain. No...something...something..." And as he spoke the light from the torch landed on something that caught his eye and he lurched towards it excitedly. "Something bad, John, look! Blood!"

The detective crouched down and pointed at the small circular blood stain that had stained floor of the factory. He took out the magnifier from his inside pocket and inspected it further. "What if..." he began slowly, throwing an idea into the air, still unsure. "What if...they weren't trying to get information from him...what if he already had information...and they were trying to silence him? He knew something..."

Sherlock stood up and took out his phone. "We need to explore his connection with Moran further. They met at the casino, right?" He started to text Hopkins. "Scotland Yard should be able to tell us which casino they were both members of...Remember last time we encountered our dear Mr Moran? He killed a man because he caught him cheating..."

John watched Sherlock concentrating and fell quiet to give the detective absolute silence to turn the case over in his mind, or whatever it was that Sherlock did, when he went as still as a statue. The pale statue suddenly became mobile. John stepped back a little in surprise then squatted down beside his partner and shone his torch beam over the small, round, dried blood droplet on the concrete.

“Ah,” John murmured. “Not being made to talk, being silenced.” he swept the torch beam in small arcs across the floor around ahead of himself searching for more blood as Sherlock stood up and got on the phone and began texting. Probably going straight to Hopkins as Sherlock had mentioned Scotland Yard, he thought. “Yeah. Records.” he mumbled still searching the ground ahead from where he was standing.

The doctor cast his mind back to the last time they had a run in with Moran. “Moran shot... Ah...” John's fingers twitched and flexed as he tried to recall the name “Adair. Ron Adair. Moran pulled a fast one.”

"That was it!" Sherlock snapped, pointing his finger at John with a grin. "Adair. Well remembered." The names and facts of many of their old cases had long since been pushed to the back of his mind palace by the details of their newer, fresher adventures, making them much harder to recall. John's mind on the other hand, seemed to work in an altogether different way, but putting them both together often proved invaluable.

He pressed send on the text message. "But I don't trust that Milverton one bit," he continued, picking up where he left off. "It wouldn't surprise me if he was mixed up in this deeper than we thought."

Sherlock spread out his search from the blood drop they'd found, and soon gave a small cry of delight as he located another. "Here, John!" He called, gesticulating excitedly with his arm and pointing the torch at the ground. "With a bit of luck, we might be able to pick up a trail..."

John grinned when Sherlock was evidently very pleased with him that he had managed to remember Moran's victim's name. Patients were people, they were victims in police files, numbers in crime statistics, bodies in a morgue but they were people, so the names of those people involved in their cases quite often stuck in his head.

As Sherlock pressed on with his search there was soon a loud cry from him when he found another blood spot on the floor. John sprang forward to look, keeping to the side, and shone his torch over it. He then started combing for another the same distance apart from the second to the first droplet. His search was rewarded by a slightly larger drop “There's another.” he aimed his flashlight vertically down on it for Sherlock.

Sherlock was busy inspecting the second blood stain when John informed him he'd found another. He sprang up excitedly and ran over, his eyes gleaming. "This is good, John, this is wonderful," he exclaimed, then checked himself and added, "well, obviously bad for the person whose blood it is, but good for us!"

He crouched down next to the third blood stain and his keen eye instantly spotted something else a couple of inches away. "John..." He whispered, pointing at it. Half a footprint in the dust. The detective bent down close and examined the new evidence. "Size nine...Timberlands..."

Sherlock scrambled along on his hands and knees, soon picking up a second print just ahead, along with another splash of blood. "5 foot 10...and...and limping..." He pointed at another footprint next to it, clearly from the man's opposite foot. "See how the left one is more clearly defined than the right. So, we're looking at a man, injured in his right leg, and bleeding from it, but he was walking quite fast, as fast as he could possibly go considering his injury..."

John couldn’t help but smile as his husband forgot the social rules and exclaimed it was 'wonderful' but then corrected himself when he saw the third blood stain. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” It was good for them, he couldn't argue with that.

The doctor was feeling adrenalin rising again as Sherlock found a partial footprint and identified the man's shoe size and extrapolated his height from it and his injury from his gait. “Above the knee, at a guess, winged, outside of the thigh, it's certainly not arterial, there's not enough blood. Eddie Jackson?” he queried.

Sherlock always appreciated John's extra knowledge as a medical man. It was helpful and had more than once proved invaluable and crucial to the solving of a case. They made such a perfect team Sherlock had often wondered how he ever lived without him.

"I think it could be Eddie Jackson, yes," the detective nodded thoughtfully, casting his mind back to when they were in his apartment. Sometimes his brain noticed and stored details without him even realising it, and this was apparently one of those times. "He was a size 9," he remarked, suddenly visualising a shoe rack on the right hand side of the door.

Sherlock strolled on up ahead, continuing to follow the trail of blood, interspersed with the occasional footprint in the dust. Then they suddenly stopped, and he could find no more around it or further ahead. "Strange," he mumbled. "Why stop here? Right in the middle of the room? Something must have happened..."

He shone his torch on the ground all around the area near the last drop of blood, and then his eyes began to twinkle, a smile dancing across his lips. "The dust, John..."

John was stunned again as he wondered how the hell Sherlock managed to pick up tiny details like Jackson's shoe size and remember them. He couldn't have told anyone what colour the wallpaper was in Jackson's flat but he was certain if it was pertinent to the case that Sherlock would remember and would possibly be able to tell him where he had bought it from too. Sherlock was absolutely unique and remarkable and, blushing slightly, as he really ought not to be having such a thought in the middle of a case, his husband's powerful memory and exceptional intelligence was a real turn on.

The trail stopped, however, and Sherlock halted. It was odd, as the detective said and there must be a reason for whoever was bleeding to have stopped in the middle of the room. John tried to imagine why he would stand still if he was bleeding and trying to get to safety. Fuck, yeah. “Tracer dot? What would make me stop. If a sniper had me in his sights.” there was a problem with that though. “But...would whoever it was that was wounded know what the red dots of light are?”

The doctor looked at the floor but could make nothing of whatever it was that Sherlock was pleased about finding. “Dust is a second language to you. What?” he couldn't help but feel tingles of excitement.

Sherlock crouched down at the spot he was so excited over and beckoned John towards him with his free arm, taking his husband's hand and dragging him to his knees beside him.

"I know it's dark in here but you can just about make it out," he explained patiently, pointing the torch again over the area. "Compare that part over there...to this part right here. This section has been cleaned, John. Someone's tried to cover up after themselves..."

"A sniper would make me stop too, yes," Sherlock agreed with the point John was making, but carried on putting forth a theory of his own. "But bear in mind that Eddie Jackson, as we believe the injured man to be, was already running, running for his life quite possibly. He'd been injured. It wasn't life threatening but we can tell by the stride of the prints he was going as fast as he could to get out of here. Clearly whoever it was that was chasing him...got to him before he could reach the exit, and more than likely did something quite nasty which they then attempted to cover up."

Just then, a loud beep from Sherlock's phone shattered the silence of the empty factory. The detective whipped it out of his pocket and checked the message. "It's Hopkins. We've got an address for the casino." He quickly began to text back. "It's time we got Scotland Yard involved on this one, John. We couldn't possibly search this whole building on our own, not in the time we've got. We need to get to the casino. Hopkins can get some men over here. They won't be as competent as us of course, but they'll have to do for now." He allowed himself a cheeky reassuring grin to his husband.

Sherlock pulled John to the floor level so that he could see what he was talking about. John wasn't entirely sure that he could see properly to make the comparison his husband suggested at that moment he and would have much preferred to study the two areas in natural light to fix it into his head. It was enough for him though that Sherlock could see the difference clearly.

John was hauled away from contemplating the fate of Eddie Jackson by the loud bleep from Sherlock's pocket. He nodded in agreeing that the building alone was far too extensive to search themselves. A sniffer dog would quickly find what he suspected was concealed. Poor bloke.

The timely grin from his husband kept him going and John shining his torch ahead for them both tried to skirt them around the scene of crime as they headed for the door.

Once they had pushed their way out of the power station it was light enough to pocket his torch and see his watch. Birds that John couldn't name twittered and tweeted unseen and there was now the sound of light traffic as London got on with making it's way to start on with another day of commerce and trade. Not even Sunday was downtime any more but it took much longer than John was happy about to find a taxi.

Sherlock brushed himself down from all the crawling around and, following John, they made it out of the dimly lit power tstation and back outside, where the city was just beginning to come to life again.

The detective checked his watch as they walked swiftly towards the main road, annoyed by the length of time it took them to find a cab. When they finally did, he gave the address of the casino and they set off, Sherlock jigging his leg up and down impatiently. He hated inaction when he was on a case.

He decided to talk to John instead, voicing some more of his thoughts out loud. "The original instruction was to 'find the body'. We've found two so far but we still haven't solved the case. We need to know why they died and who killed them. Once we have the facts we can report back to kidnappers. We'll speak to the owner of the casino, ask him about Moran, about Eddie Jackson, see what we can get."

John could see from the way Sherlock was sitting in the taxi, his leg making impatient, jerky little movements, that he was as keen as ever to get on. He was eager to make progress with the clock ticking too and reckoned he could manage another mug of strong coffee if they got the chance but it looked like there was a higher chance that snow would fall first.

Nodding in firm agreement John stayed quiet thinking about making their next move count. He doubted the casino would be entirely legal in all it's aspects but Sherlock could use that as leverage. Reaching across John placed his hand over his husband's and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Good progress up to press, and it's light now so it'll give Hamish some encouragement. He knows we're going to get him back.”

The taxi dropped it's passengers outside the front door of a gaudy casino on a fairly quiet street. It didn't appear to be open so John suggested trying the back. The back door was unlocked so they let themselves in. They were immediately met by a small, thin man in his late 20's of eastern origin who came out of an office. John wondered if he was a legal immigrant or not.

“We're here to see the boss.” John announced as if they were expected.

“Boss!?” the little man shouted behind himself and looked warily back at Sherlock and John.

The taxi pulled up outside the casino and Sherlock threw the driver a twenty pound note, jumping out and not bothering to wait for change, looking all around him eagerly. It wasn't the most glamourous looking casino in the world and possibly slightly seedy but then, he would hardly expect anything less if it was frequented by the likes of Moran.

The detective nodded at John's quick thinking and followed him round the back entrance where they managed to gain access by some kind of fire exit. Obviously the place wasn't open yet, it was still pretty early in the morning, but Sherlock was pleased to see there were a couple of people knocking about whom they could speak to.

The first man they came across was definitely a little shifty, and seemed nervous at the sight of them both. Sherlock placed his accent somewhere in mid Northern Korea and wondered if he was an illegal immigrant or possibly some kind of gang member.

He gave the man a friendly smile to try and reassure him whilst they waited for the boss, a British man in his mid-30s, greased back black hair, expensive suit but slightly too big on him, making Sherlock think it was probably a hand me down from a relative or close friend. So, cheapskate then. He clearly has money, he runs a casino, but he's not willing to spend it on himself. He seemed friendly enough as he held out his hand and gave them a broad smile, but the detective could recognise a false smile when he saw one, he gave them so often himself.

"Gentleman," the man grinned, speaking in a slight cockney accent. "What can I do you for so early in the morning?"
Sherlock whipped out his business card and handed it to him, shaking the man's hand.
"Just need to ask you a few questions. Won't take long."

The casino proprietor dropped Sherlock's hand to read the business card. He knew of the man and his...whatever it was that the blond man with him was. It was too early in the morning, and on a Sunday at that, for this to be anything but trouble from a man like this. He attempted to keep the thought from showing on his face and continued with his customary pretence of friendliness. “What do you want to know?”

As he glanced around at the cheap fixtures and fittings which was in stark contrast to the glimpse John could see of brightly coloured, sleek, modern slot machines in a dimly lit room beyond. They were apparently so expensive to buy that most bookmaker's hired them and, he had read in the papers, so addictive that people who's addiction had ruined them and their family's lives were writing to the Government imploring them to reinstate the old latest licensing laws. He could see where money was being spent and where it was coming from.

John knew that the bitterness piling up in his chest would be obvious if he opened his mouth and looking at Sherlock parked himself on a desk and pulled out his notebook.

They were shown through into the grim looking office and Sherlock had a quick glance around, his eyes taking in details and his brain storing them for later reference. He noticed John was poised with his notebook and gave him a friendly nod before proceeding, choosing to pace slowly up and down with his hands behind his back rather than take the seat that was offered to him.

He wasn't sure whether it was a bad or good thing that the man knew who they were, although presumably that meant he also knew he couldn't get away with lying. No doubt he'd give it a go none the less. "And your name is?"
"Graham Winters," the man replied, perching on the edge of his rickety old desk.
"Well then Mr Winters," Sherlock continued in a friendly manner. "Chap by the name of Moran, I believe he comes here quite a lot."
The detective could see a flash of recognition across the Winters' face, before he gave a casual shrug and replied, "Mr Holmes, this is a big casino, people come and go. You can't expect me to know the names of everyone who gambles here. That would be ridiculous."

"Ahh yes of course," the detective sighed almost apologetically. "Ridiculous, my mistake. What about a man named Eddie Jackson? Heard of him?"
"Like I said, Mr Holmes, big place, lots of people."
"Right yes. I think 'ridiculous' was the term you used actually. So sorry to have wasted your time, Mr Winters," Sherlock was already heading towards the door as he spoke, tugging up the collar of his coat. He paused for dramatic effect, a small smile flickering across his lips as he spoke, "you must be a very busy man, what with all the decorating."
"Decorating?" Winters frowned, suddenly looking a little nervous. "Wh-what do you mean?"

John was waiting for the interview to get underway and had only written the casino owner's name down when it seemed like Sherlock wasn't going to press for information. Sherlock could pick up so much that questions were irrelevant but leaving so quickly would be a first. Astonished, John didn't move immediately.

Sherlock then turned with a smile that troubled his lips for a moment. Decorating? John couldn't see any sign of the place being renovated. His eyes went back to the detective poised near the door and tried to work out what his husband was alluding to. Shooting the wall?

“I think, it means.” John said slowly unsure of what he was going to say but firming his voice to steel to hide his uncertainty “you might need to redecorate...after the police have turned your casino upside down looking for..." he mentally crossed his fingers "your accounts. They are very messy, and having to redecorate after? You’d be shut for a month easy.”

And if that didn't loosen the man's tongue John thought he could just hand over his Sig Sauer to Sherlock and cover his ears while the detective decorated the man's wall for him. “Or you could just save yourself all that trouble and tell us about Moran and Jackson.”

Sherlock was actually rather pleased at the way John dealt with the situation, as it served to throw Winters further off balance. He could see visible relief spreading over the man's face as John spoke, a complete contrast to the facial expression he /should/ have been pulling, had he actually been listening to the words John was saying.

"Oh, is that..." Winters sighed and half turned away from them.
"Is that what?" Sherlock took one step back into the room.
"Nothing," he quickly replied, sounding defensive.
"You don't seem worried."
"Your empty threats don't worry me, Mr Holmes," Winters answered somewhat derisively. "You won't find anything here."
"Not even in the basement?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow, then watching with a satisfied smile as the man's skin turned pale.

"You see, Mr Winters," the detective explained, feeling rather smug, "my partner John here, is absolutely invaluable to me. He sees everything, but observes very little. Like most people in fact. In failing to observe the details upon arriving at this...fair establishment, John managed to successfully throw you off guard. For a moment, you thought I was onto you, yet when John spoke, your relief was evident, thereby revealing to me that I was quite right in my original deduction with regard to the decorating."

Sherlock pointed at the man's left trouser leg near his shoe and continued. "Traces of plaster on the bottom left of your trouser, more on the souls of your shoes, and the man who met us in the hall had the same, and a small splash of black paint on the back of his neck, suggestive of physical work. He'd been sweating whilst painting, wiped the back of his neck with his hand, smudged some paint. It's possible then, that he was painting in difficult conditions - cramped perhaps, hot, little air. It's clear you're not doing any work in here, nor in the main casino, and when I mentioned decorating your eyes, however briefly, darted down to the floor. The basement then. As you can see it matches all the criteria, not a difficult deduction." He glanced from one man to the other, checking to see he'd been understood. Winters staggered back and leant on the desk, looking a little shocked.

Damn. John tried to keep his face immobile. That stab in the dark hadn't made any impression on Winters whatsoever.

The doctor wasn't sure if his husband had just insulted him or not. Not that it mattered to him if it helped Sherlock with the case. He wouldn't have meant it, it could just sound like that and he paid no attention to it. It was Sherlock. He was right too. John knew he would never be able to spot the minute details that Sherlock did.

He was quite excited as Winters turned a nice, shocked, pale grey shade at the mention of the basement. How the hell did Sherlock know about the basement? It wasn't long before he found out as the detective launched into the explanation of his deduction. John was spellbound at how clever his husband was. Fantastic.

John nodded as Sherlock finished his deduction and remembered to close his mouth which he found had inadvertently dropped open with awe. Yes, it wasn't a difficult deduction, if you were Sherlock Holmes, that he could agree with too.

"My God..." Winters stammered and flopped into the chair behind the desk. "It's true what they say about it." Sherlock was pleased to note he'd obviously been spot on. There /was/ something going on in the basement, and by the way he was reacting, something they were trying to cover up. Something involving a certain amount of plastering and black paint. Redecorating, building perhaps...but what?

"Some of it is true, yes," Sherlock replied and smirked, then he turned to his husband with a friendly smile and a single clap of his hands. "John, I think we'd better go take a look in this basement, don't you?"

"No!" Winters snarled like an animal and when the detective looked back at him he was scrambling in the left hand drawer of his desk, from which he produced a small handgun, pointing it at Sherlock, then John, then Sherlock again, his eyes mad and wild. "No...no I won't let you."

(( I think the gun techno is accurate ))



The doctor watched Winters retreat into his office chair and began fishing for his notebook and pen. He had no idea what the casino owner was doing with the cellar but it was obviously not being worked on for any good reason and he was relishing finding out when Sherlock suggested gleefully that they take a look.

The casino owner, however, scrabbling in his desk alerted John, but Winters having a head start abruptly produced a handgun from the left hand drawer of his desk.

Double action, semi-automatic, new. John could see that the way Winter's was waving the gun around and not aiming the man was using it for effect. Good and not good. Good because Winters was not used to using a weapon but not good because if he did manage to pull the trigger at this range he could hardly miss. If it had not been fired after a new magazine was loaded though the breech would be empty and it would require 12lbs pressure on the trigger to take up the first round instead of 5lbs. The risk wasn't worth taking.

“Vatican cameos” John yelled, swinging himself over the desk and catching Winters off guard in the confusion. His left hand went straight to Winters wrist throwing his arm upwards so that the semi-automatic pointed to the ceiling while he delivered a right hand punch knocking Winters hard against the wall. He wrenched the weapon from the man's weakened grasp. No shot rang out and the gun almost dropped into John's left hand. He stepped back and took aim with the newly acquired gun still in his left hand while pulling out his trusted, loaded, P226 with his right and transferred his aim to his own sidearm.

((Epic!! Nice touch with the vatican cameos. Just YES.))


As soon as Winters turned on them with his gun, Sherlock's eyes darted quickly towards John, fully expecting his partner to do something, as he raised his arms slowly in the air, feigning surprise and fear.

John was, as ever, reliable, trustworthy and brave. Sherlock didn't believe in heroes. He liked to think himself above such sentimental nonsense, but if ever there was a man who deserved the title of hero, it was John Watson, and the detective would have to admit that yes, John /was/ his hero.

As the cry of vatican cameos went out, Sherlock leapt towards Winters, no need to fear for his life, as John, who had been nearer to him at the time, was already well ahead, and Winters had his gun arm raised towards the roof where it could do no harm, then a well aimed punch sent him sprailing against the wall.

Sherlock grabbed him by the lapels of his suit and hauled him up off the floor to a standing position, reaching out and taking Winters' gun from John's left hand and pointing it at the man's head. Within a matter of seconds he had been disarmed, punched, and now had two guns pointing at him. He looked a little shocked to say the least.

Sherlock stood shoulder to shoulder with John and gave him a little sideways glance and a half smile. He had to admit, that watching his husband in action was quite a turn on and, however inappropriate he imagined it might be, for a brief moment he allowed himself to daydream about grabbing John and bending him over the nearest desk, pounding him senseless. He felt a twitching in his pants as he schooled his features and addressed Winters with a cold sneer. "Perhaps you could show us the basement now?"