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Chapter Six: The Ugly Truth
John set an early alarm for himself the next morning, not wanting to be rudely dragged out of bed by his crazy flatmate. He had no doubts that Sherlock wouldn't give a second thought to dragging him all over London in his sleepwear; a situation to be avoided at all costs.
Sherlock was nowhere to be seen for the time being, a fact which John was immensely grateful for. It was so rare to have a moment to himself in this flat, that he was not about to let the moment pass unappreciated.
It also gave him time to consider the strange turn his life had taken since he'd first met Sherlock. It hadn't been easy, in any sense of the word, but it had not been quite as awful as he'd thought it would be, either. Sherlock had made it quite clear that he could make almost any demand of John that he saw fit when he'd sent him out for those damn medical supplies, But, aside from ill-timed and ludicrous grocery/supply runs, John hadn't been asked to do more than to fill his role as Sherlock's assistant and blogger.
He'd only written a few cases so far, but he'd seen enough of Sherlock's daily life to get a sense of the rhythm he might expect. He was well-aware that there would be more difficult cases that would keep him up late, but the pace was more than tolerable for now.
The brunt of the unpleasantness he had suffered so far had more to do with Sherlock's attitude than anything else. He was so focused on his cases, or his experiments that John could almost forget that Sherlock had suggested this arrangement for the sole purpose of breaking John's spirit. Sherlock was callous, but John had never yet seen him be cruel. It made him wonder about the history of his unusual benefactor. What had happened to him that shaped him into what he was today?
As if thinking could summon him, Sherlock whirled out of his bedroom, resplendent in his dressing gown. He wasted no time in examining, whatever it was he had growing on their kitchen table.
Feeling overwhelmingly curious, now that he'd gotten a decent rest, John peered at him over his tea, and asked, "Will you tell me what the plan is for today?"
"We are going to question the witnesses," Sherlock replied briskly, his eyes locked on his experiment.
"I thought the yard did that yesterday," John asked, walking past Sherlock to rinse out his mug. The sink, thankfully, was currently free of any experiments.
"Not the way we're going to question them." Sherlock glanced at the clock. "Speaking of which, we'd better get going before Lestrade gets here."
"Did you call him?"
Sherlock smirked as he strode towards his bedroom. "He's meeting us at the crime scene."
John sighed exasperated as Sherlock closed his door. He knew this meant something bad, he just didn't know what. He shrugged on his jacket, resigned, and started making his way downstairs. Sherlock had such a fire lit under him when he was working that if you could get a few steps ahead of him (physically) it usually helped you keep up.
They surprised Susan and Ilia, the pair that Donovan had taken in for questioning the night before, in the garden. They were kneeling together by the flowerbeds, doing some weeding and talking in hushed voices. What really struck John wasn't that Susan was engaged in such a normal activity after being so recently and violently widowed-many people dealt with grief by struggling for a sense of normalcy-it was the smile on her face as she spoke with her friend. It was so vibrant and full of life that it seemed wholly disrespectful of her loss.
John frowned at Ilia as they both looked up, convinced that this 'friend' of the family was up to no good. It might not be the simple adultery case that Detective Inspector Lestrade was suspecting, but John felt certain that Ilia was at the heart of this.
"Good Morning," Sherlock said warmly, a smile spreading across his face and merry crinkles forming at the edges of his bright blue eyes. "It's so nice to have some mild weather isn't it? Perfect for weeding."
Susan Wolfram immediately paled, but struggled to recover herself with a wan smile. "Y-yes," she agreed, her color returning quickly. John doubted that she had even seen Sherlock the night before, so she couldn't have recognized him. Why then did she seem so nervous? She had to be guilty of something. Her companion meanwhile was stone faced, his frown only increasing every time Sherlock turned his dazzling smile towards him.
"You have magnificent garden," Sherlock gushed, looking casually around. "Beautiful roses." He gently held a small yellow bud in his hand, caressing the petals. "My landlady had tried for ages to get a small rosebush growing outside our building, but she's never had any luck."
John, who had originally thought that Sherlock was being cheerful to be snide eyed the consulting detective suspiciously. He knew Sherlock was acting-he had to be-but damn was he convincing. His voice was so warm, his movements so casual. This deception angered John, because he knew it must be motivated solely for the benefit of the case. That thought also saddened him. Even if it was a ruse, he'd never seen Sherlock look so relaxed... Certainly he'd seen him happy, especially when an experiment was going well, or during the few cases he had yet to witness, but never relaxed.
Susan nodded sympathetically. "Roses can be temperamental; you need to give them a lot of attention, sometimes. Miniatures on a trellis might work best if she doesn't have a lot of space. Has she tried burying banana peels near the plants roots? That can help ward off diseases."
Sherlock tapped his forehead as though he had missed something obvious. "Of course! I think I remember hearing that somewhere."
John fought to keep a straight face. The idea of Sherlock not remembering exactly when and where he'd heard of something was laughable. The man had an eidetic memory.
Ilia looked almost hostile, his face flushed with apparent anger. He stepped up beside Susan, and placed a protective arm over her shoulders. "I will thank you to be on your way, sir. We are busy with family concerns."
Sherlock's smile instantly fell into a look of intense concentration, as though he could pin Ilia with his gaze alone. "I know," he rumbled ominously.
Susan was just starting to look worried when the lights of a police car flared behind them. John turned to see a very cross looking Detective Inspector storm out of his car and towards the world's only consulting detective.
"Good Morning, Detective Inspector," Sherlock said flatly, without turning around. There was no longer even the pretense of good humor, just the steady gaze of a hunter that had cornered its prey. "I see you received my invitation."
Greg's face reddened and he swiped something small and rectangular out of Sherlock's outstretched hand. Leaning close to the lanky man, Greg hissed, "Stealing my identification as a Detective Inspector, is not an invitation, Sherlock!"
John's eyes widened and, despite himself, he found the smirk dancing around the edges of Sherlock's mouth contagious. He bit back a chuckle and looked sternly at his flatmate. He was not going to laugh. He was not. "Sherlock, that is a crime," He said in a low voice.
Sherlock smiled remorselessly at them both, especially at John, as though he could tell his flatmate was inappropriately amused.
John bit the inside of his cheek and looked away. Sherlock was being ridiculous, and he was not going to encourage him.
"Are any of you here for a reason?" Ilia asked, drawing their attention back to his stern expression.
"Yes," Sherlock replied, focusing his steely gaze on Ilia once more. "We have all the details of your friends'…suicide, if you would like to review them."
Greg frowned and nodded Going along with Sherlock was, usually, the fastest way to resolve a case. Stepping forward, he tried to look calm and in-control. "Mrs. Wolfram, I would like to review the case with you as well. Could we step inside?"
Susan looked doubtfully from Ilia, to Sherlock, to Greg. "Is this man an officer?" She asked, indicating Sherlock.
"No Ma'am, but he does work with the police occasionally, as a consultant." Greg glared at Sherlock as he said the word 'consultant' in a futile attempt to get him to respect some limits.
Susan worried her bottom lip thoughtfully for a moment before nodding and opening the garden gate. "The sooner we can put this whole thing behind us, the better."
They made their way inside. Greg, Sherlock, and John remained standing, while Susan and Ilia sat stiffly on the sofa. Ilia's arm remained securely around Susan's waist, as though this could shield her from their unwelcome visitors.
Sherlock brought his hands together in a prayer like position, his fingertips just brushing his lips, and scanned the room. Then he brought his joined hands away from his mouth and gestured at Ilia as if he were pointing. "Was it you who shot him, or was it Peter?"
Ilia was on his feet in an instant. "I did not shoot Peter! He i-was my dearest friend!" He was shouting, inches from Sherlock's face.
Sherlock, smiling in apparent satisfaction, lowered his hands. Ilia had stumbled over the word, "was," there was no mistaking it. There had been the slightest hesitation that he was certain had nothing to do with Ilia's lingering accent. "I did not ask if anyone shot Peter. I asked who shot the gentleman we observed in the study last night."
"That was Peter!" Ilia insisted, backing away and throwing his hands into the air. "Have you lost your senses!"
"We might not be able to identify the man who was shot by facial recognition, or dental records, but there is still DNA testing, and now that there is some doubt the police will have to test. The forensic team went through Peter's study with a fine toothed comb, and they collected samples from his toothbrush and hairbrush. They will find out the truth. When they do, Ilia, they will come for you, first."
Ilia's face was scarlet with rage. "This is nonsense!" he insisted, hands balled into tight fists at his sides. He whirled on Greg. "What proof does this man have?! Nothing! Peter was my oldest and dearest friend, and I will not see his memory slandered in this way. You have no right to hold his body for unnecessary testing. It will only make things harder for poor Susan. Let her lay her husband to rest!" Such was the force of his conviction and his anger that Ilia was almost panting.
There was silence for a moment and, not for the first time, Greg was caught in an uncomfortable position. Sherlock had been right too many times for them not to test the body's DNA. Given the state of the body it was a justifiable test that would only seem slightly superfluous to his superiors, until the results came back. Still, he did not want to seem callous to the concerns of the family. Ilia looked ready to hit someone, probably Sherlock, and Susan was on the verge of tears.
He was saved from the necessity of a carefully diplomatic response, however, when a low hissing brought their attention to the wood paneling on the left of the fireplace. One section of wall was sliding up, assisted by thick, pale fingers.
Susan covered her mouth with her hands to stifle a pained whimper and Ilia paled considerably, his anger giving way to a palpable grief.
A tall, solidly built man with dark brown eyes and graying brown hair emerged from the wall, straightened, and approached Ilia with outstretched hands. "There was nothing more to be done, my friend," he murmured soothingly, clasping both of Ilia's shoulders. "This deception was only meant to spare pain, not to give it. I cannot let you suffer in my place, you have done too much for me already." Ilia nodded grimly, grasping his friend's shoulders tightly for a moment, before relinquishing him to the outstretched arms of his wife.
"Petia Volkov, I presume?" Sherlock drawled slowly, confident that there would be no last minute escape attempts.
The tall man with graying hair turned slowly, his wife's hand still clasped in his own, and nodded. "Da. Your reputation does you credit, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock smirked, his expression heavy with self-satisfaction. "It was not gained by accident."
"What happens now, Mr. Holmes?" Petia asked with the calm of a man who was resigned to his fate.
"That, Mr. Volkov, depends upon what you have to tell us," Sherlock replied. "I've been able to deduce much of your story, the important matters as they pertain to this case anyway. If you will fill in the Detective Inspector here, he may be able to assist you."
Petia nodded. "That is fair enough, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps you could start by telling me what you know, and then I will fill in the rest."
Sherlock hardly needed an excuse to show off. "Well," he began, clapping his hands together in front of his face as he had done before. "I knew there had been no suicide by the description of the body and the shotgun alone. No matter how far you had been able to hold the gun away from your face, given the power of the gun, you would still have blown your skull, and everything in it, to pieces. The fact that the head remained, more or less, on the body, indicated a close range shot, with the muzzle approximately three feet away from the face. It couldn't be you then, but who could it be? And why would you use this murder to fake your own death? Clearly you had something to hide, but what?"
Sherlock spun slightly, gesturing to Greg. "Detective Inspector Lestrade informed us that you had no known enemies, that you lived a quiet, retired life. Clearly, given the body, you did have enemies, just not ones that you wanted anyone to know about. What kind of upstanding, well-liked citizen would keep the fact of such dangerous enemies from the police? Only if they knew said enemies were too dangerous to be protected from. So dangerous that, perhaps, the only safe place is dead."
Sherlock had begun to pace back and forth across the room as his deductions were revealed. He paused in front of Susan and a slow, cruel smile spread across his lips. "I had been searching this room for more data, anything that would help me fill in the gaps when your wife provided a wealth of important information."
Susan blanched, and took a step back. "I-I never spoke to you!" She insisted. "I never said anything! I never even saw you!"
"You didn't speak to me," Sherlock corrected, "but you said plenty. You were in the hallway, wailing about your husband, and how you needed to see his body, but then you were so easily led away. No one who has ever truly lost a loved one is so easily dissuaded from the body, no matter how gruesome the scene."
Susan's jaw clenched and she began to glare at Sherlock. "I do love my husband!" She insisted angrily.
"Of course you love your husband," Sherlock said irritably, eager to get to the point. "Just look at your wedding ring."
She glanced down, perplexed. "My wedding ring?"
"Yes, yes, it's all right there. Expensive ring, delicate cut, immaculately cleaned and maintained. Despite being over ten years old, it looks to be in mint condition. You can always tell the state of a marriage by someone's wedding ring. Take Lestrade's ring, for example—"
"Sherlock!" Greg protested sharply.
"You were not the only one providing me with information, Mrs. Wolfram. The lack of a wedding ring on your 'husbands' body with your own being in such good condition?" Sherlock shook his head. "It didn't make sense as a suicide or the murder of a cuckolded man."
Petia twisted the ring on his left hand self-consciously. "My wedding ring has never left my hand. I did not think it would matter if I kept it."
"That would have been a bigger clue if not for the impossibility of the injuries to the body, which I've already covered," Sherlock replied, shifting his gaze to the silent older gentleman. "Your companion, Ilia, has done a remarkable job of disguising his accent. So much so, that I only suspected him to be Russian. I could not, however accomplish anything last night with your husband so determined to hide. Without being sure of where he was—I'm assuming he used gloves to enter his little compartment as I saw no fingerprints—I would risk the chance of him escaping while I attempted to force him out of hiding. I surmise that he assumed the idea of a suicide would eliminate the chance of DNA testing. Leveling that threat, in a controlled environment where he would most likely hear me seemed to be the best chance of getting him to reveal himself."
"What does being Russian have to do with any of this?" John asked, perplexed.
Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "John, who else would have a greater reason to flee from enemies they fear cannot be stopped, than a spy. Most likely a defected spy, since most governments do at least a passable job of protecting their own spies. I suspected former KGB, a suspicion that was all but confirmed by Ilia's chilly reception of my warm greeting."
He grinned once more at Ilia, who glowered in return. "For, as I understand it, in Russia it is rude to smile at someone you do not know; considered to be laughing at their expense."
"You are well informed, Mr. Homes," Ilia stated, reluctantly.
"I take it, that your knowledge of the Russian language led you to deduce my name?" Mr. Volkov asked, his expression serious, but not angry.
Sherlock whirled to face him, lifted an elegant eyebrow towards his hairline, and replied, "Da."
"Well, Mr. Holmes," Petia began, "You have most of the story in your hands already. I do not think anything I have to say will surprise you. However, if you and your companions will be kind enough to sit, I will tell you what I can."
They sat and, with one long glance at his wife, Mr. Volkov began his story.
"You are correct in your assumption, Mr. Holmes, that I used to work for KGB. I was good with languages, intelligent, and strong. There was always work for me. I did well and, after some time, was promoted."
Petia paused for a moment, making a steeple his fingers and looking thoughtfully at the floor. "There are, in all countries and organizations, unsavory people. It was my hope, in working for the KGB to protect my own people from this, as much as possible. You can imagine my distress when I found corruption in my own people so close to myself. I worked with many fine officers over the years, good men, but my last commanding officer…was not one of them. The things he asked me to do, Mr. Holmes, I could not stomach." He looked up then, evenly meeting Sherlock's unrelenting gaze he said, "I will not hurt innocent people."
Susan inched closer to her husband, and took his hand once more. Petia looked at her and smiled briefly, before returning to his story. "I knew that disobedience would not end well for me. I was prepared to face the consequences, when another way presented itself."
"You defected to the United Kingdom," Sherlock interjected.
Petia nodded. "I wanted out of government work, and I needed a way out of my country. Your government assisted me in return for information on my more unsavory colleagues." Petia's face was grim. "I know those men are no longer living because of what I said, but I have no guilty conscience."
"I take it not all of them are dead," Sherlock replied, "Or you would not have assassins at your door."
"It was an assassin who came for me the other day," Petia confirmed. "For years I was haunted by the ghosts of my past. Even after I met Susan here, and married her. She knew I had a…difficult past, but she did not know the truth until last night. I was sitting in my study in the dark, trying to ease the pain form a migraine, when I heard the window lift from its sill. I cannot see well in the dark, but there are other ways to know your way around. I jumped to snatch my gun from the fireplace and shot him. By good fortune, I shot him in the face and he went down before he could reach me. He fell by the fireplace, and so it was an easy thing to dress him in one of my suits and place him on the chair, with the gun at his feet. Susan helped me, after I had revealed to her the danger we were in. I did not want to part with my wedding ring," Petia's gaze drifted to his wife for a moment then back to Sherlock. "My marriage means much to me, and I did not think anyone would care about such a trifle."
Sherlock tilted his head with a grim smile. "Trifles are rarely trifles in my line of work."
"More people will be after you, then?" Greg asked, leaning forward in his seat.
"More people than you can imagine, Detective Inspector. Many of my colleagues are dead, but the organizations of my government are vast. They must have been hunting me since my disappearance, and the death of the others. This is why I changed my name and did not do any work which would attract attention. I work at a publishing house, translating their manuscripts. Now that my government knows where I am, this cannot continue. I had hoped that Susan could collect my life insurance and together we could journey to America under new identities, without fear of discovery."
Greg nodded thoughtfully. "I will have to bring this information to my supervisors," he said slowly. "They will need to know the truth, and then we can explore our options."
"My husband won't be jailed, will he?" Susan asked, distraught. "Please, Detective Inspector, he won't survive if you put him in jail."
"I'd like to place you both in protective custody," Greg assured her, "but I need to go through the proper channels."
Abruptly, Sherlock stood and adjusted his coat. "This now falls under your department, Lestrade. I will leave you to it." Without another word he strode out of the room.
John gapped after him, appalled at his lack of empathy. Still, he knew he had to follow. He stood as well, and looked sympathetically and Mr. and Mrs. Wolfram/Volkov. "Good luck to you both," he said quietly. "I hope you are able to put this incident behind you, once and for all."
Susan nodded, blinking back tears. "Thank you."
John nodded at the Detective Inspector, and quickly made his way out of the room. Surprisingly, Sherlock was waiting for him on the curb outside.
"Don't engage in pleasantries," Sherlock chastised him. "They are only a waste of time."
John's expression hardened. "That wasn't part of our agreement," he snapped.
Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and hailed a cab.
Once they were on their way to Baker Street, John said, "You were wrong."
Sherlock slowly turned his head to face his blogger. "Again? I seriously doubt it."
"You're always going on and on about how sentiment is useless and even dangerous, but it just helped you solve this case. If that woman didn't love her husband so much, where would you be now? Hm?" John was feeling rather smug about this point.
Sherlock, however, did not look impressed. "It was useful in exposing the truth of this case, but it has still been their downfall."
John frowned. "How do you mean? They can get help now; proper help from the right authorities."
Sherlock's lips curled in a mocking smile and he slowly shook his head. "My brother might have protected that man before, but he just doesn't have any value anymore. All the information that could've been useful was collected a long time ago. Now he's just a liability and not worth the resources it would take to keep him alive."
"It's a human life, Sherlock. Two human lives," John insisted, dumbfounded.
"Yes, and how many more will it take to keep them alive? Hm? The numbers don't add up; not in their favor anyway."
John crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked stubbornly away. He was not going to continue this argument. He'd only known Detective Inspector Lestrade since yesterday, but he seemed like a hardworking, upstanding person. John had faith that he would do his best to protect Mr. and Mrs. Wolfram/Volkov.
A few relatively quiet days bled into a week, and John was beginning to sympathize with Sherlock about the lack of cases. He had been informed, by Greg, Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock that cases could come hard and fast, even before John's entrance into 221 B, but that did nothing to help him now. An entire week with no one but Sherlock for company was driving him up a wall. If he wasn't experimenting, he was sawing away on his violin, or finding some other way of making John's life miserable. At least he hadn't tried to shoot the wall again.
When John had committed himself to gaining Sherlock's assistance for Harry, no matter the cost, he'd expected a difficult, painful battle. True there had been some exhaustion and there was the potential for physical danger, but it was the silent emotional war Sherlock had declared when they struck their deal that unnerved the ex-army doctor. He was torn between wanting to find compassion for Sherlock, and being brought up short by the sudden and malicious behavior of the world's only consulting detective. The doctor in him wanted to see someone wounded and fix them; the soldier's hackles were raised for battle. If nothing else, this mental tug of war would wear him thin...
His letters from his sister, which continued to arrive at a regular pace, gave him something to hope for, and his new friendship with James was a balm to his emotional turmoil. James was everything Sherlock was not. He was warm, friendly, caring, sympathetic, and rapidly becoming a trusted confidant. They'd kept in touch and had plans to meet again today, at a local pub. John was almost giddy at the thought of a night away from everything.
With that happy thought in mind, John made his way down the steps from the hideout of his bedroom for his afternoon tea. Sherlock was researching something on John's computer. John's eyebrow twitched in irritation but he refused to comment. Sherlock, expert lock pick and the world's only consulting detective, could and would get access to anything he wanted within the confines of 221 B, and almost everywhere else. For Harry and for his sanity, John would grin and bear it.
John had just set the kettle on to boil when Sherlock spoke.
"I've left a little something for you on the table."
John blinked and shook his head, certain that he had misheard. "Come again?" he asked.
Sherlock deigned to look up from whatever it was he was researching, the hint of a smile ghosting over his lips. "I've left you a little something on the kitchen table," he repeated.
John's eyes darted to said table and saw a plate covered with a small dome, presumably to keep its contents warm. He didn't even bother wondering why such an ill stocked kitchen even had such a dome; Sherlock was just a bit of a magpie. John cocked an eyebrow and looked back to Sherlock, still doubtful. "That is for me?"
Sherlock nodded, his smile spreading into a grin. "It arrived just this morning, sooner than I had expected. I'm hoping it can help settle something between us."
John's eyes flickered back and forth between the dome and the world's only consulting detective. Was this...a peace offering? John opening his mouth, then closed it again, unable to force out any words.
"Go on," Sherlock encouraged, impatient now that he had John's attention. He had set John's computer down on the desk and was on his knees, leaning over the back of his chair.
John was still hesitant, but Sherlock's joy was infectious. He crept up on the plate as though afraid it would bite him, and cautiously lifted the lid...
It was a newspaper.
John frowned, and looked up for a moment before scanning the small article that had been circled in red ink.
Accidental Drowning
Mr. Peter Wolfram, formerly of London, perished on Saturday April 28th, after falling overboard on a ferry bound for Caen, France. Preliminary reports indicate that his blood-alcohol level was 0.2%. Richard Ferrows, the captain of the ferry that Mr. Wolfram had booked passage on, reported that the waters were unusually choppy for the time of year, and that passengers had been warned to use caution when moving about..
John tore his eyes away, just catching the final line of the article:
Mr. Wolfram is survived by his wife, Susan Wolfram.
Sherlock was staring at him, grinning like a lunatic, his eyes burning with some mad passion John didn't even want to understand. Sickened and betrayed, John fled from the room, Sherlock's callous smile burned into the back of his mind.
