Half-past midnight after clearing customs. Sharp arrows of sleet bear down on Sherlock as he stands vacillating on the kerb, the icy car door burning through his gloves.
"Sadit'sya." The cab driver's gaze strays to his right-hand pocket.
A squelch of leather as Sherlock crawls into the back seat, gathering his soaking coat around his knees. The dull glow of his phone screen displays 7% battery power and no signal.
He chases away, again, the phantasm he has brought to Belarus: Sarah's toes peeping out from under an army blanket, pink and soft, like a row of timid nestlings.