They are standing in the middle of the warehouse when Alrigio and several of his bodyguards arrive. The assassin is a slight, with outrageously pale hair and a spotless white suit; John would be tempted to laugh if he didn't know that the man had killed more men than anyone else they'd faced. The bodyguards are standard muscle, clad in suits tailored to fit their refrigerator-like frames, and they stand on either side of their employer like silent monoliths. They're all wearing fedoras, for some reason.

That settles it. Alrigio is insane.

Sherlock (calling himself Nicholas, here) and Alrigio shake hands with the sort of icy politeness that only mobsters can pull off. Then Sherlock takes out a picture and the negotiations begin.

Craning his head, John starts. It's a picture of Mycroft