The tall man stepped on the coffee table, back to the floor, on top of the table again, forehead scrunched in deep rumination. In his hand he held an open compass while the seller's (A peculiar man, mesmerizing. Something in his dark eyes Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on. Something old.) final words ran through his mind like mantra; 'It'll come to you' - the perplexing response to Sherlock's question on how it worked, since it clearly didn't point North. No. Not even Northwest.

The needle, no matter how much Sherlock turned, twisted, whirled and jumped, pointed unwaveringly towards John.