When Root had brought Sherlock and Watson to Finch's lab, Reese had had no more than a few minutes to deliver a cursory greeting to this latest pair of guests before he'd been forced to leave. He couldn't abandon his NYPD cover for too long, especially not when Fusco needed his help on a fresh case.

"It's a crying shame, you know?" Fusco muttered as they drove up to the scene. "Another attack on innocent civilians? I mean, seriously. First, we get that Russkie assbite tear-assing through Manhattan in a mechanical rhino suit - thank God for Spider-Man coming back from the dead when he did, am I right?"

"Yeah," Reese said, flashing his badge to the unis manning the line of "Do Not Cross" tape stretched around the entrance to the crime scene, a certain hole in the wall known as Kafe Ruin. Despite the menacing name, the place wasn't meant to be such a disaster zone as it was today. It was merely named after a historical site in Turkey, one of the oldest continuously-inhabited places on the planet. "Yeah," Reese repeated after stepping through the door. "Thank God." Automatically, he looked around for the nearest security camera - but when he found it, he saw that it was utterly destroyed. A wreck of plastic, glass, and silicon.

"And now this," Fusco said, gesturing at the still-bloodstained walls of the café. "What, someone's got a problem with Turkish coffee?"

Reese took a pair of rubber gloves from the nearest CSU, who then proceeded to hand another pair to Fusco. "I hear the whole Greek vs. Turkish coffee thing can be pretty serious business."

"Technically, both appellations are incorrect," said Sherlock - apparently he'd taken over the mike in Finch's lab. "Not only did the drinking of coffee originate in Yemen, but the process of preparing what is known as quote-unquote 'Turkish coffee' also came to Constantinople via Syrian merchants. Who may have themselves learned it from their Arab counterparts, hmm?"

"I do apologize for this, Mr. Reese," said Finch in a long-suffering tone of voice. "But Mr. Holmes insisted on being in contact with you at all times."

"Mr. Finch, do you have the live feed ready?" asked Sherlock. "I do need to view the scene."

"Just a second," said Finch. "Oh no. It looks as if the camera is out."

Reese looked up at the camera once again. "I could've told you that myself, Finch."

"We'll have to improvise," Finch said. "Mr. Reese, use your phone and film the crime scene."

"You're not gonna like what you see," Reese said, complying with Finch's request.

On the other end of the line, there was a long pause as Finch - and Sherlock, presumably - scanned the video feed Reese was sending in. "Oh dear," Finch said. "All this blood..."

"It appears that the victims - those I can see, anyway - were killed by sharp-force trauma," Sherlock said. "Or perhaps shotgun blasts. This is going by the holes in their torsos."

Out of the corner of his eye, Reese spotted Fusco peering around, trying to get into his camera's view. "Hey, are you on with Glasses?" he asked. "Hope he's got a name we're supposed to be looking for."

"Nothing new at the moment," Finch said. "Peter Parker remains the only number in our system."

"That's a no," Reese told Fusco.

"All right. Guess we gotta do this the old-fashioned way."

Fusco turned to the one other live human being in the room - the café's owner, a middle-aged blonde woman named Teresa Tavşanlı. She had, very luckily, gone into the back room to look for sugar and thus escaped the massacre. "We...we needed more baklava," she said in accented English.

Reese looked at the glass-fronted display on the counter, where a neat variety of Turkish desserts sat pretty on platters. The platter marked "Baklava" was nearly empty, other than a couple of small wedges of flaky pastry.

"Did you see anything?" Reese asked. "Anything at all would help."

"Um...yes," Tavşanlı said, kneading her forehead. "Before the camera was cut, I saw a man. Very suspicious."

"How so?" asked Fusco.

"He was...most unusual," said Tavşanlı. "He was a big man. H-Huge. Close to two meters. And he wore pants patterned like...like...like a kaplan."

"Say again?" Reese asked.

"The big cat with the stripes," said Tavşanlı. "I forget the English name."

"A tiger?" Fusco supplied.

"That's it. Yes." At this point, Tavşanlı shuddered and backed away, indicating that she was done talking. Reese wasn't going to push her further, so he turned and made one more circuit of the crime scene, allowing Finch and Sherlock - and everyone else who may have happened to be in the lab at the time - one last good look at the scene.

"Do any of you know anything about any murderous men in tiger pants?" he asked.

"No, but I can tell you one thing," Fusco said, even though he knew the question wasn't meant for him. "That'll probably be another one for Spider-Man to defeat. Whoever this killer is, he sounds like some kind of comic-book supervillain. Campy as shit, but super-dangerous."

"I did hear something about a sort of tiger hunter who dressed like the animals he poached," Finch said. "I'll do a search-"

"No need," Sherlock said. "The description matches a particularly pernicious Russian with whom my former colleagues at Scotland Yard once disastrously crossed swords. Metaphorically speaking - because the man was able to fight them off with only his bare hands."

"What's his name?" Reese asked, stepping into the passenger seat of the police cruiser in which he'd arrived with Fusco.

"What, we got a name?" asked Fusco. "Hell of about time, Glasses, if you're listening."

"Sergei Kravinoff," said Sherlock.

Reese nodded once. "Another Russian, then. Sergei Kravinoff, Fusco."

"Never heard of him."

"No, but the Machine has," Finch said. "And now I know why we didn't get his number."

Reese raised his eyebrows. "Dare I ask?"

"He's not irrelevant. He's wanted by the FBI."

"There's one anomaly in this conclusion, though," said Sherlock. "One that threatens to undo our entire supposition." He paused, and Reese could hear the clacking of keys for a few seconds. "Ah, yes. The reason why Kravinoff fought off my compatriots the way he did - bare-handed - is because he believes himself to be such a strong and superior hunter that he needs no weapons."

"No weapons, huh?" Reese muttered.

"Sometimes," Fusco griped as he turned the engine on and pulled away, "I hate not being in on the loop with you and Glasses. Hell, I wouldn't mind even being able to trade theories with Cocoa Puffs for a while."

"Someone tell Lionel to be careful what he wishes for," Root chirped.

"No weapons means this may not be Kravinoff, then," Reese said. "In that case, who could it be?"

"That's what's up to us to find out," said Finch. "Reese, as soon as you can, could you come back to the train? We might need your help here again."

"Copy that, Finch," said Reese. "As soon as I can get away, of course. And as soon as I make sure that therapist doesn't try and rope me into another session again."