BBC Sherlock: Almost Christmas
Chapter 4
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19 December 2021
Liberty London had been a landmark for as long as John could remember, though he had rarely visited the famous department store. A practical man, he had never understood the appeal for such luxury items. Once he had been "dragged under protest" away from his medical studies by a "then" girlfriend to the famed retailer to shop for some artsy fabric. It had been a long time ago and everything about it had remained vague, including the young woman who cajoled him. His only memory was that the experience had been tedious.
Mary had been a more independent sort and more considerate of his sensibilities; she had never required his company on the occasions she had shopped there.
Older and wiser and more world-traveled than he had once been, John was still less inclined to shop, yet he was captivated by the ostentatious entrance of the international retailer. Even as Sherlock had hurried off, John remained gazing with newfound appreciation of the half-timber beans and stucco creating its Tudor façade. He also felt a pang of concern that this grand brick-and-mortar edifice might not have weathered the pandemic's prolonged economic stress. To the average spectator, the window dressing and seasonal adornments heralding the Christmas shopping season bode well, although John hoped they were not remnants from the previous Christmas. Like too many human casualties from COVID-19, many long-standing London establishments had either not survived 2020 or struggled in 2021.
Sherlock had cast him a curious eye when John had caught him up at the corner of Kingly Street. "I see you're impressed, John, by the faux Tudor architectural features. You might just then be interested to know that the structural style borrows elements from ships." Sherlock's tone shifted to Newsreader mode as he recounted verbatim from the website the history of the famed retailer. "…Still," Sherlock concluded, derivng a private satisfaction at the awed arch of John's brows,"it's the florist's shop outside that seems to provide the main draw; as any passing tourist will attest, its colorful array of blooms is highly Instagrammable….'"
Speechless, John gaped at his friend. While he couldn't check Sherlock's accuracy, he didn't doubt what he had heard, though properly fast, was flawless.
Over the course of their friendship, John had come to understand such a display of Sherlock's super-advanced intellect was not "showing off." Rather, his genius friend was intoxicated by knowledge and equally delighted to have someone—John—with whom he could share it. "That's the frailty of genius, John. It needs an audience." John admitted he relished his role as audience and with this insight he had learned to refrain, most of the time, from reproving Sherlock for trying to impress.
The appearance of John's half-smile induced Sherlock to leave nothing out; he tilted his head. "… Thanks to strategic operations, the firm used the 'enforced hiatus of lockdown to reinvent itself ... It has launched 'a new-look branding and logo concept, reimagined digital platform complete with dedicated shopping experience for U.S. customers, and continued structural restoration.' In other words they have survived the pandemic."
"Well!" John exclaimed and pulled back, grinning. "That was an unexpected history lesson and advert. Can't decide if I'm more impressed with the thoroughness of your information or your photographic memory of their website…"
"No, John." Sherlock corrected with a flicker of a smile. "As I've told you before: not photographic—eidetic memory."
They entered the pedestrian zone in Kingly Street, a narrow stone-paved street adjacent to Liberty's front entrance. Above this side street were two stone arched walkways. The foremost arch was a four-storey structure, embellished by a massive gilded clock surrounded by carved stone. The second walkway farther down was less adorned. Both walkways connected Liberty's Tudor-revival store to a slightly less ostentatious and more modern stone structure, identified by signage: Regus Liberty House. Like the department store, this establishment also appeared closed.
As they passed under the first arch, John noted the clock's accurate time. Its gold hands stretched toward the Roman numerals—a bit above the nine and on the six—from a golden sunburst. Beneath it, gold capital letters warned appropriately: "No minute gone ever comes back again. Take heed and see ye nothing do in vain."
Just beyond the second archway, under which stony-faced corbels resembling bearded knights and bare-faced squires stared down upon them, Sherlock stopped before two sets of doubled, oak-paneled doors. The four doors provided side access to the stone building—the Regus—not the Liberty London and were nearly identical, although they appeared scuffed and neglected. Without hesitation, Sherlock chose the one with a key-pad entrance. He pressed and held the red button. The faint, sustained buzz was heard behind the doors.
"Now will you tell me where we are and what we're doing here?" John shuffled in place, his patience, like their journey, at end.
"Of course, John. You may have discerned that this is the service entrance for office suites adjacent to the department store. More importantly, this is where Fairdale Hobbs had his 'alien' encounter. As with many buildings throughout central London, this location was prime two years ago. Not so now—"
"Yes. I'm well aware of the impact the pandemic's had on traditional businesses." John said, nodding. "Many of my patients were homebound during this economic downturn. Those who were fortunate enough to have desk jobs worked remotely for the duration. They complained that it was not only tedious, but they missed the social atmosphere of the office. Up until the reality of forced closures, they used to dream about staying home, sipping tea all day, maybe not even changing out of their pyjamas. We all agreed: be careful what you wish for."
"Quite," Sherlock continued, bypassing John's interruption with a dismissive wave. "Businesses that remained opened, however, had to follow social-distancing and hygiene guidelines, and under the Alcumus Safe Contractor scheme, had to contract out with accredited COVID-19 cleaning services. March of 2020 was when the cleaning companies launched the standards for antiviral cleaning methods, many of which are still employed today. It was also a major shift for exterminating companies. Rather than treating areas for insects, rodents, and other such pests, they were targeting viruses, the SARS-CoV-2 specifically.
"Now that the City is experiencing economic recovery—despite some companies changing workplace practices and adopting remote work on a more permanent basis—some new businesses have let the unoccupied suites again. We're here to observe the sanitizing protocols for COVID-19. We're about to meet a team responsible for commercial deep-cleaning—been in this business since the pandemic began. They perform antiviral services during nonoperational hours. Sunday deep-cleans are the routine to prepare the site for the week and without exposing tenants to the harsh chemicals—"
Sherlock and John pulled on their masks as the door swung open.
A man with deep brown eyes, made more prominent by the contrasting white N95 mask covering his face, addressed them. "Mr. Williams? We waiting…" he was dressed in white coveralls and hood with a respirator hanging around his neck and the name SafeGuard embroidered in green on the breast pocket. Although his voice was muffled there was a hint of Bulgarian in the lilt of his pronunciation.
"Yes. You're Ivaylo Petrov? Scott Williams, here. Call me Scott." Sherlock extended his hand in greeting. His leather glove clasped Petrov's industrial mitt with a hearty shake. "We're location-scouting for BBC2," he continued with feigned enthusiasm—his brightened demeanor a social disguise.
John quirked a slight frown behind his mask, not so much at Sherlock's sudden charade but at the affability of it.
"Quite," Petrov said. "Come through. The guv told us to expect you. About to do a deep clean. He told us to show you. For your documentary, ya know, yes?"
"Awesome, mate," boomed Sherlock's self-professed film scout. "Preproduction check, really. We're thinking to book the shoot for a Sunday, early January. Not sure if it's going to be the ninth. Still assembling the film crew, you see…. Oh, and this," he said, pointing at John, "…is my associate producer, Andrew Panin...Likes to be called Drew." Sherlock met John's puzzled glance with that all-too-familiar look that requested his full cooperation.
Nodding in acknowledgment that doubled as a cursory greeting, John bit his lip hidden by his mask … location scout… film crew …for a documentary? What the hell, Sherlock?
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