BBC Sherlock Almost Christmas

Chapter 2

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19 December 2021

"Technically, a cold case is one unsolved for three years," Sherlock prefaced, ambling south on Baker Street. He pulled up his collar against winter's biting breath. "But nearly two years have passed and without me, this case would become one."

"I've missed this," John muttered humorously, "your unwavering humility..."

Sherlock twitched a half smile. And I your snark, he thought.

"…although I'm sure," John continued, "that only you—if anybody—can do it justice."

"True. As you know, John, I'm being neither humble nor proud in stating this fact," Sherlock added. "This case will remain unsolved if left to the authorities simply because there was no evidence to support Mr. Fairdale Hobbs' claim. He believed he'd been abducted by aliens—"

"—hold on!" John interrupted, checking their surroundings. A weak sun struggled to pierce the fog-grey sky on that bleak and chilly Sunday morning. An occasional bus, lorry or car passed, and few pedestrians were in sight. Despite the empty streets, John showed caution and continued in a quieter voice. "Sherlock, since when do you investigate alien abductions?"

"Alien abductions, still not my thing, John!" Sherlock assured him in matching volume.

It had been months since the friends had found time to associate in person, much less work together. Most of 2021 had been a difficult year despite the inroads toward controlling the variable strains of the pandemic in the UK. For John, it had meant his medical and personal obligations, including extra hours testing and vaccinating patients, had taken priority over sleuthing with and blogging about his consulting detective friend.

"Just checking," John huffed, puffing on the fabric of the mask he had left hanging off his ear. "Can't be too sure that even you haven't gone off your nut. People are still struggling with mental-health and emotional-resilience issues with this pandemic, vaccinated or not. Many of my patients are complaining…they feel off…moody… lethargic. Their memories, their overall functioning have been impacted... "

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at John's remarks but he withheld commenting. Rather, he swiveled a dismissive hand and looked left down the intersection at Melcombe Street. "No such problems here, John." He permitted a pearl-white Range Rover to pass before stepping into the zebra crossing. When John caught him up, he continued, "Although, what you've just described might explain the atrocious lack of intriguing cases since lockdowns began."

"Bloody shame that our criminal classes have become decidedly ineffectual," John teased.

"Frustrating, indeed," Sherlock agreed, this time entirely missing John's sarcasm. "Except for a deplorable uptick in black-market puppies and stolen pets—I'm sure you've heard about them."

"Can't say I paid much mind, though," John said distractedly, wondering why they were passing the Underground entrance. He pulled his Oyster card from his jacket. "Taking the Tube, are we?" he tilted his head in the direction of the Baker Street Station.

Sherlock clapped his friend on the shoulder. "A sensible assumption, given our location. However, if you're amenable, John, I'd prefer the walk... A brisk twenty-four more minutes in the open air where we can articulate—mask-less—without fear of eavesdropping pedestrians..." He gestured towards the empty streets. "…Indeed, walking will avail us more candid conversation than what we could exchange in the Tube whilst fettered behind a face covering."

"Of course!" John nodded, convinced by the precise logic. "Mind you, I still don't know where we're going."

"That will be evident soon enough." Sherlock's eyes twinkled with mischief. "This way, shall we?"

"What's this about puppies stolen… the black market?" John picked up where they had left off as they resumed their walk.

"You must've caught the news, John, as far back as a year and a half ago? Reports about dogs torn from their leads? About kennels raided in the dead of night?"

"Vaguely. Yes. … Some people got their pets back, thanks to an unnamed, observant, concerned citizen…."

"A terrible crime spree," Sherlock expounded, "The lockdowns drove up the demand for canine companionship whilst the exorbitant prices for obtaining a pet had been driven up by organized crime. The stolen animals were subjected to intense and sometimes harmful breeding practices. Still, not the work of masterminds. It is as though all intelligence in successfully planning and executing a crime had vaporized."

"Wait a minute!" John gawped at his friend. "So you're the anonymous 'concerned' citizen helping owners get their dogs back—ha!" His eyes sparked with merriment. "I thought you only had a soft spot for Toby. All dogs, is it? What else have you gone soft on, Sherlock?" He laughed outright at his friend's irritated expression. "And now, after solving these crimes against the kingdom's canines, you've turned to alien abductions."

"I said," Sherlock objected with the signature Holmesian scowl he shared with his brother, "Hobbs believed he'd been abducted."

"Seriously! And that—what?—somehow makes it better?" John chortled. "How so?"

Sherlock glared at John through slit eyes. His frown softened when he understood John was taking the piss out of him. "Admittedly, case options have been few…Lestrade was glad to send me cold cases that needed fresh eyes. Among the ones I received several weeks ago, this one seemed to have the most potential… After a bit of delving, I ascertained some possibilities have been overlooked. Today I am on a mission to obtain data."

"What do you expect to find on a weekend… a cold Sunday morning… in December…?" They passed the Tesco where John once had had a row with a chip-and-pin machine.

"Oh," Sherlock flashed a smug smile and snickered, "the timing is perfect for my purposes, especially if you know where to look. Let's begin at the beginning of this case, shall we? Fairdale Hobbs was in his early twenties when he began working for Security Central as a night watchman at several commercial properties around Oxford Circus. His first locations included jewellery shops and luggage stores in the area. Despite his age, Hobbs—nicknamed Fairplay Hobbs by the other guards for his impeccable integrity—proved trustworthy indeed. He had a good eye for noting details, judging when something was amiss, and a level-headedness in handling or alerting the authorities. These traits earned him better assignments."

"Mightn't he have enrolled in the police academy, then?"

Sherlock shook his head. "A good pay rise dissuaded him from considering it. He mostly dealt with routine breaks-ins, minor mischief, but in January 2020, he sniffed out an international drug-trafficking scheme. The discovery of one tonne of cocaine worth £76m was thanks to Hobbs reporting his suspicions about banana crates in a loading dock of the nearby luxury-items emporium retailer. After that, Security Central considered rewarding him—at the age of twenty-nine—with a significant rise along with promises for advancement into management."

"Doesn't sound like a bloke who believes in aliens," John reflected.

"Agreed. That's why his so-called alien encounter—on the 22nd March, 2020 which was also a Sunday—seemed grossly out of character. It was Hobbs' last tour that week before stepping up into management and he was off duty that night; at a colleague's request, he covered the shift—" A text tone interrupted Sherlock's narrative. He came to a dead stop to check the message.

Waiting for Sherlock to read the text, John stamped his feet, rubbed his gloved hands against the cold, and temporarily pulled up his mask for its nose-warming effect. "Well, then?" he urged with arched brows when Sherlock had sent a reply.

Sherlock's focus was far away. "Hmmm?" he said half listening. "This text?" He tucked his mobile back in his coat pocket. "It's a response to my inquiry. Sent it when I heard you and Rosie at Mrs. Hudson's doorstep…Our destination is confirmed. I'll have access to the site. This is essential for my data gathering."

"No, Sherlock! I mean, what happened to Hobbs that night…in March?" John slipped his mask down to ensure he could be properly heard. "You were saying…?"

"Oh that…" Sherlock took in John's inquisitive look. His friend was enjoying the rare opportunity for a little exercise and their old occupation. Heartened by how well things were going to plan, Sherlock resumed heading south on Baker Street.

"Yes, about Hobbs… on his typical rounds through office suites, doing a floor-by-floor check, had just completed the second floor sweep when he heard unusual, muffled sounds coming from somewhere within the building. The longer the sounds persisted, the more his head throbbed. Minutes after the so-called 'sound attack' began, he started choking, found it difficult to breathe. His throat became tight and he felt dizzy. He dropped to his knees and then prone to the floor where he tried to belly-crawl his way through the corridor to the stairwell door, but he never made it. That's when, he claimed, he 'lost time' and his mobile died... He awoke on the floor some time later—hours later—to silence. The noise had stopped. His nose had been bleeding and his throat was sore."

"Oi! What a story! Lost time can be explained by lost consciousness, no? That his mobile battery had died is not such a coincidence, especially if he had been unconscious for hours; a drained battery is not uncommon...?"

"No doubt."

"So…" John suddenly stopped short. "What do you suppose Hobbs meant by sound attack?"

"He believed …" Sherlock, several steps ahead, spun one-eighty degrees to face John and answered whilst treading in place,"…that he had been attacked by some kind of direct-energy weaponry—" When John resumed walking, Sherlock whirled back around and continued his forward progression in step with John.

"So, initially Hobbs' explanation was not an alien encounter, then?" John wrinkled his nose in bemusement. "Hold on. I remember something in the clinical literature. The 'Havana Syndrome.' U.S. and Canadian diplomats became ill from sound attacks in Cuba and China. Created quite a stir, increased diplomatic tension between nations. But I thought investigators suspected directed microwaves were the cause."

"Good, John, you remember the incidents, even though that theory was utterly wrong," Sherlock interjected, "So too was infrasound—below 20Hz, a very low frequency—which had also been considered. That the victims suffered from some sudden onset of illness was not in question. However, without ample specimen collections of blood, hair, and skin samples from the victims, it was difficult to ascertain what had actually been used. After years of scientific debate and without sufficient data to determine cause, directed-energy weaponry was mostly discounted."

"Discounted?" John pondered, "Why?"

"Capacity principally." John's query buoyed Sherlock's step. "The size that such energy-directed equipment would require was prohibitive—it would be enormous trouble to transport large microwave or sonar-transmitters in secret for these purposes—and even if portable, these devices would need a large battery to provide enough power for distant targets. Also, the use of ultrasound is indiscriminate. It would place other people in the vicinity at risk—including, potentially, the person carrying out the attack."

"I see," John scratched his nose in thought. "So, is there an acceptable explanation, Sherlock?"

A large lorry lumbered by, it's shifting gears and screeching brakes briefly silenced further conversation. Despite the lorry-driver shortage and manufacturing slow-downs that complicated the process, Sherlock had counted eleven package-delivery lorries since John and he had begun their walk; this twelfth lorry, a loud, obnoxious and nonelectric vehicle, belched exhaust as it motored down the street.

When it had passed, Sherlock effused with unrestrained delight. "Yes! A most plausible explanation for the symptoms, suggested by a research team from the Brain Repair Centre in Halifax in Nova Scotia, Canada...a chemical assault."

"Chemical?" John cocked a brow.

Sherlock nearly skipped with glee and chuckled. "Yes, John! Mosquito fumigation to eradicate the Zika virus which was a major health concern at the time had been carried out in both vicinities where the affected diplomats were staying in Cuba and China. The Canadian scientists believe the so-called 'Havana Syndrome' was due to neurotoxins from mosquito spray that was intended for outdoor application. For anyone exposed whilst in contained spaces, like flats and offices, the concentration of these same chemicals would cause quite specific side effects."

"Interesting!" John mused. "Neurotoxicity would be manifest in immediate as well as long-term effects. So, what kind of injuries had Hobbs sustained?"

"Once Hobbs regained consciousness," Sherlock recounted, "he staggered to his feet, found the security landline and called from his checkpoint about being unwell. He immediately left for home. Disoriented, he couldn't remember which bus to take and couldn't read the words on his bus pass. He got scared. He lived alone. No one would miss him if he never made it back. His dead mobile meant he couldn't call any friends for help. A few times on his way home he was nauseous, but eventually, his brain fog cleared enough for him to get to his destination— his Deptford flat—where he reported he remained 'dicky for days.' The next morning, when he looked in the mirror, he was shocked by his altered appearance; his eyes were blood-shot and his orbital sockets appeared bruised."

"Properly peculiar," John concurred.

"Peculiar, very. Clearly, not aliens. You can see why this holds some interest." Sherlock's eyes crinkled in delight.

They walked farther in silence whilst John mulled over the details. It was intriguing. He could understand why Sherlock took the case. At the same time, he sympathized with the unfortunate man. "I hope this Hobbs fellow sought medical attention for his symptoms, Sherlock. It might've helped him understand what had caused him to pass out."

"He sought medical attention, yes, several days after, when he finally felt well enough to leave his flat. He went to a nearby A&E. By then, his bruises had faded, though his symptoms of severe headaches, vomiting, bowel spasms, vertigo persisted— "

"Diagnosis?"

"Nothing definitive. He was treated for severe dehydration—"

"—Yeah. Okay." John shrugged. "It would be difficult to assess such symptoms—especially during the height of the developing pandemic. Truth is, Sherlock. COVID-19 monopolized everyone's attention during that time period. Yet, Hobbs jumped to alien abductions..." He sniffed with skepticism, "that's quite a leap, you think?"

"Frustrated at being overlooked—as you observed, John, it was during a pandemic—Hobbs researched the internet for his symptoms and found social media sites of conspiracy theorists with claims of alien abductions or encounters. This jolted another memory from his encounter in March. He had felt the presence of aliens—white humanoid forms—walking by him where he lay on the floor. Now convinced, he embraced the extraterrestrial notion as fact."

"Another spin on implanted memory, Sherlock?" John sighed, empathizing with the promising young man for whom everything had unexpectedly gone pear-shaped.

"Clearly, Hobbs' conclusions were outside of reason. After, with his sanity in question and reputation destroyed—along with lockdowns impacting job opportunities—he remained out of work, furthering his mental decline. It only goes to prove my oft-repeated point," Sherlock observed, "that work is an antidote to the troubled mind and heart." Though his words sounded dispassionate, both men had suffered enormous heartache and knew how true this was.

John nodded in silent agreement.

Sherlock cleared his throat and continued. "Anyway, this past January—nearly a year ago now—Hobbs filed a formal report. He insisted he was being watched, often followed. He was in constant fear of being abducted again. It did not help his cause that he strenuously insisted that something extraterrestrial had happened to him that particular night. That, along with drastic personality changes—noted by people who knew him before the incident—made it impossible for anyone to believe him."

They had walked another short distance in silence when John interjected, "I thought claims of alien abduction were passé? A nineties thing…something promoted by pop culture?"

"Pop culture aside," Sherlock answered with disdain, "ignorance is intolerable whatever its source. Often such claims are simple misinterpretations or misidentifications of something else or traumatic experiences unrelated to abduction by aliens. It's why I want to reexamine the facts of this case. Hobbs' complaint had been summarily dismissed by the investigators as being 'out there.' Clearly, something has affected Mr. Hobbs. One must entertain the possibility that his so-called encounter has another, more legitimate cause…"

"We're barely recovering from a viral invasion. We don't need a War of the Worlds," John huffed. "Yeah, an outside exposure of some kind… and a chemical injury is properly plausible—"

"Exactly—outside exposure, not necessarily extraterrestrial—but exposure to what, John? I'm intrigued!" Sherlock admitted. "However, even though the answers point to a chemical injury, until we gathered all the evidence to prove it, there is a danger in twisting facts to suit theories."

"A neurologic workup would be a good start," John suggested.

"Accomplished! Hobbs found a neurologist to retest him after months of waiting for elective medical appointments to again be available, More than a year after his encounter and under this doctor's care, Hobbs got the confirmation he needed. He had suffered minor traumatic brain injury similar to a concussion, plus sudden but permanent hearing loss."

"Hang on, Sherlock. You know all this, how?"

"By asking."

"Fairdale Hobbs?" John pulled back in surprise.

"Of course. How else would I have this information?"

"Of course, you've spoken with him," John laughed. "Somehow I thought he might've been reluctant to …"

"On the contrary. He's quite keen for someone to listen to him. Spoke to him several days ago, in fact," Sherlock replied smoothly, bypassing the interruption to continue his point. "He gave me permission to access to his medical files."

"They've ruled out that his injuries were the result of him hitting the floor when he had collapsed that night in March, then?"

Sherlock was enjoying John's persistent questions and their banter. "If you believe his account: that he had not fallen from a standing position but passed out while belly crawling across the floor, an impact head injury was less unlikely."

"And he was given a thorough neuropsychological evaluation—?"

"Yes." Sherlock surveyed the pavement ahead. "The results unequivocally substantiated that the abnormalities were not congenital or caused by pre-existing conditions but by recent exposure to neurotoxins."

"Don't suppose there's been any mosquito fumigation going on in the heart of London, do you?" John muttered as a droll aside. Responding to Sherlock's puzzled glance, he continued, "For the Zika virus?"

Sherlock snorted a chuckle. "Must keep an open mind to all possibilities. My investigation this morning is to determine what rendered Hobbs unconscious—"

"—And his ongoing symptoms," John finished. "I'm curious how you'll manage that after more than a year and half since the incident."

"Actual evidence may be difficult. Therein lays the challenge, John." Sherlock unveiled a smile, the kind John had not seen in a long while.

He smiled back before objecting dryly, "You do know this gets old, Sherlock?" Their progress through London had been steady but John was still clueless about their destination. "Stringing me along like this. Keeping me in the dark…?"

"Suspense now will make your blog more exciting later," Sherlock grinned, quickening his pace. "My way of assisting you in crafting your story—"

"—I do fairly well in recounting events without your withholding information…." John matched Sherlock's long stride with his extra half steps. The vigorous pace Sherlock was now setting would definitely warm him.

"Indeed? Hmm. May I remind you of the successes of Silver Blaze, The Reigate Puzzle…others of your titles that escape me… because you hadn't known until the great reveal?"

"I could've done without some of your heart-stopping revelations …." John reminded him pointedly.

"Heart-stopping. Yet, here you are: still alive and kicking. You must agree—the adrenaline rush is good for your constitution."

John's soft chuckle of agreement faded, replaced by his persistence. "Where, then?"

"A clue, perhaps." Sherlock yielded to John's stubbornness. "If this were one of your blogs, you might describe it as a menacing place."

"An abandoned warehouse?" John answered without missing a beat,

"A small warehouse of sorts. Yes." Sherlock grinned, "But abandoned? We shall see."

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