BBC Sherlock Almost Christmas

Chapter 5

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19 December 2021

John followed Sherlock into a large open area that served as a small warehouse or delivery dock. A team of four sanitizers had already assembled and kitted themselves in similar white coveralls and attached hoods, bearing the SafeGuard insignia. Each had a respirator hung about his neck. Above their N95 masks, only their eyes were visible, glinting in obvious curiosity about the visitors.

Petrov introduced his crew and after said. "I walk you through the routines. Just like I did other time for CNA."

"You've done this before, then?" John clarified, darting a look at Sherlock. "A documentary, I mean."

Petrov chuckled. "Not documentary. Let me see." He looked upward, as if the grey girders supporting the loading dock's ceiling would help his memory. "Oh, ya. Was April 2020…I, I…how you say…day-buuu-d on national telly for news. Famous for…say one minute…. This time, ya know, maybe fame last longer…for all us." He winked at his coworkers, eliciting amused snickers from his team.

"Absolutely, Drew!" Sherlock addressed John while pointing toward Petrov. "He was a natural, in that broadcast. We've got ourselves a pro—lucky that!" Gesturing thumbs up with exaggerated good humor, he clapped John on the shoulder, and chuckled before turning toward the sanitizing crew. "It's been ages since then. These sanitizing services are very much essential to our economic recovery. The workforce is returning. People are curious. How safe is it? Does it prevent the spread? Are the chemicals used to kill COVID-19 dangerous to humans? So, Mr. Petrov, my friend. May I call you Ivaylo?" At Petrov's nod, Sherlock continued, "So, Ivaylo, what's new? How has deep-cleaning evolved to combat this pandemic?"

"Let me show you," the flattered man puffed his chest proudly. "We are cutting edge, for sure. You follow us to see…but…we suit you up for protection."

"Hold on," John said, shaking his head. "How safe is it if we have to suit up, then?"

"Precaution," Petrov answered. "At least first fifteen minutes, not good for breathing, ya know… Look here. First, I go inside to mix chemicals." He led Sherlock and John into a utility closet stocked with cleaning supplies. Sherlock hung back to inspect the items on the shelves whilst John followed Petrov to a work bench tucked at the back wall.

"This here, assembly table. Equipment cleaned and ready and for mixing ingredients," Petrov said, waving at the five nozzle spray guns attached by hoses to canisters with shoulder straps. There were also several smaller containers of ingredients along with a 4.5-litre translucent container of green liquid on the table. "Before pandemic, we a pest control company. Now we decontamination specialist. We kill COVID-19 virus. Same…well, almost. Different kind of pest now, yes? So have different chemicals for different jobs. See here." He pointed to the shelves with the assorted sealed, translucent bottles—some contained purple liquid, others blue, green, yellow. Each 4.5-litre container was marked in large black letters with the names of their contents. The label BSEN1276 seemed the most prominent.

Sherlock studied the chemical bottles with keen interest. He picked up one to examine its label.

"You see that there," Petrov commented about the purple liquid in the bottle Sherlock was holding. "Was for conventional fogger. In March 2020 we still learning to use chemical disinfector vapor to fight COVID—pretty nasty stuff, like some pest sprays."

Sherlock replaced the container and shoved several of the foremost virucidal disinfectants aside to view the ones in the back while Petrov continued speaking.

"To prepare chemical spray, necessary to wear protective mask, gloves, coveralls, hoods to cover hair, overshoes. They called it micro kill, certified… against COVID-19. I heat liquid into a vapor. When vapor, it get into areas that normal cleaners just not reach. But it abrasive and strong. Of course, necessary to wear mask when applying it, too. Virucides—virus-killing agents—not good to breathe. I wear p100 respirators for fogging and spraying for viruses…That, Scott, you hold in hand is one kind we use. Not something I give you, ya know, for you use at home."

"It sounds as though you discontinued using the fogger, then?" John caught Sherlock's eye, silently signaling that this likely explained the toxic exposure in the Fairdale Hobbs' case. Encouraged by Sherlock's subtle nod, John asked, "Why? Because it was too dangerous?"

"Not discontinue 'cause too dangerous. Not any badder…more bad… to breathe than what we do now—electrostatic method. Fogging just not efficient enough in application process. It took more time for space to be safe for re-enter…not quick dry time," Petrov explained. "Also, we learn that fogging not envelope objects. Too quick it falls to the ground. Fogging also wetter process. Not best for spaces with sensitive equipment—computers…electronics. Ya know. And I say before, it took longer to go back into treated space."

"How has your cleaning method changed since then?" Sherlock replaced the bottle on the shelf and lifted the three-inch black binder marked MSDS in white letters on the spine. Its cover spelled out the acronym—Material Safety Data Sheets (copy). He balanced the workplace manual in one hand and flipped through the pages that detailed chemical formulae, permissible exposure limits, safe-handling procedures, safety clean-up in case of accident, and safety-storage procedures.

"Supervisor has original in his office," Petrov remarked at Sherlock's curiosity, "You find Data Sheets interesting? Good read, ha! We train to use MSDS. Safety measure. Very important."

"Expect it would be. Good to hear." Sherlock replaced the manual and strolled to the cork board nearby where he examined the chemical delivery schedule and flipped through several pages of a yellowed-with-age supply list—its pages curled on the edges—that had been securely pinned to the board. "Is this curling due to the wetter process of the fogger?" he asked pointing to the list before joining John and Petrov at the mixing bench.

"Ya," Petrov nodded. "See why fogger not so good in offices."

"What have we here?" Sherlock rubbed his gloved hands together eagerly and eyed the bottles on the bench. "A chemistry experiment?"

Petrov laughed. "You can call it that. Very important we give antiviral protection in three steps. Third step new, talk about later. First two steps same. Step one—'traditional methods' to disinfect, mop, and wipe with cloth. This take more time and more possible we miss a spot. Still need clothes protection for application and p100 respirators."

"Traditional methods of disinfecting don't usually require respirators," John noted, "unless your cleaning products are more toxic."

"You right, Drew. Commercial cleaners more toxic. Long-term breathing a problem. Chemicals not good to breathe all day at multiple jobs. Wear respirators. For our safety, ya know. But no worries."

Petrov turned to Sherlock. "Let me tell you, Scott, we did first step before you come. Hope you don't mind. Traditional step boring. No need to show that step. It routine…cleaning. Nothing fancy. Not, as you say, glamorous like second step." He called to one of his sanitizers standing outside the supply closet and gave an order in his native tongue.

"But now second step! Only thing change is not use fogging applicator. Ah, but this still more exciting," he continued pointing to the spraying devices aligned on the table. "We got advanced, broad-spectrum electrostatic anti-microbial spray—more than 99.99% effective against Covid-19. Electrostatic spray application best suited for pre-cleaned surfaces—which is why we do step one to remove actual dirt. Electrostatic spray get behind things we don't move. Also get in crevices we not reach. Make positive and negative bond. It science!"

"Precisely, Ivaylo!" Sherlock crowed with delight. "Science! In this process, an electrode negatively charges the ultra-fine spray of billions of broad-spectrum disinfectant droplets and has seventy times more force than gravity so it can travel greater distances and settle on more surfaces. These droplets are attracted to positively charged surfaces, coating hard and soft surfaces alike. I believe it's called 'electrostatic wraparound.' Then, the disinfectant-electrostatic spray forms a layer of microscopic positively-charged silane polymer pins, just one molecule thick. These attract pathogens and rupture their cell membranes, deactivating them. Brilliant!"

John threw Sherlock an arched look. Are you breaking cover?

Sherlock shook his head at John with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. "It's all in the literature, Drew. I've been reading up for this assignment. It's why we're doing this doc…to showcase the marvelous science in this germ warfare. And these 'soldiers' are on the frontlines!"

Petrov was delighted with Sherlock's enthusiasm. "Right you are! Soldiers! We fight with new weapon. Broad-spectrum anti-microbial agent, very effective against a wide range of viruses, bacteria, yeasts, and fungi, including mold," continued the soldier who was cheered to have a thoroughly interested audience. "Last step not necessary today. That when we test site weeks after application for COVID to see if new contamination develop."

"How many times do you do the electrostatic spraying?" John asked, amused by the success of Sherlock's charade as Scott Williams, the location scout, with his assistant Drew, and still curious why the detective decided to conceal their real identities.

"Three time a week after closing hours or need basis, if confirmed COVID case on site. Otherwise, team come back every night for step one—wipe down with disinfectant all high-traffic areas and touch-points throughout premises. Make offices clean and hygienic. Prepare surfaces for next electrostatic application."

The worker to whom Petrov had spoken earlier returned and handed Sherlock and John white hazmet suits, similar to what the crew wore, along with a pair of respirators.

"While I mix up spray, you put on protection. Don't forget, use hood. Cover hair. Let no skin show," Petrov ordered, shooing them out of the utility closet while he pulled off his mask raised his hood, and fitted the respirator straps over his head.

Sherlock and John followed Petrov's directions to pull on their hazmet coveralls and hoods, then replaced their masks with respirators as they had seen him do. Peripheral vision was limited behind their plastic face shields but it did not affect Sherlock's ability to scope out the loading dock or observe the team of sanitizers.

John, however, found the suit visually constricting, making him feel claustrophobic. Rather than dwell on the discomfort and its visual limitations, he pondered the surreal scene visible through the plastic shield—five humanoid forms in white with black-rimmed bifurcated breathing devices, resembling a housefly's eyes. It was more Ghostbusters or ET than a military operation, the kind he had experienced during his service training. However, this enemy—the coronavirus—was invisible—a ghost or alien taking over the world. John shook off his overly dramatic thoughts and considered the reason Sherlock and he were there—Hobbs might well have perceived the suited-up sanitizers as white aliens during his fogged stupor. Now that he grasped how difficult it was to see in the headgear, John imagined the sanitizers may not have noticed a prone man succumbing to the fumes. The explanation for what happened that night seemed simple enough.

Once Petrov reappeared and distributed the application spray guns to each of his team, he said something in a language John again did not recognize but which elicited approving grunts from his team. "I told them, Scott, you called us soldiers!" Petrov translated. "My mates like that."

The decontaminating army turned on their vapor guns that when activated hummed like angry bees. Armed with their weapons of viral destruction, they dispersed to their designated floors.

As Petrov guided his guests to his assigned location, he warned them, "Now it problem for breathing. Don't take off masks." His words though more muffled behind his respirator were audible. "After we apply, it work good. Effective against Coronavirus. And it colorless, odorless and non-toxic for humans and animals when it dry. That take ten, no more than fifteen minutes."

Sherlock and John followed Petrov on his tour. The sanitizer methodically went from suite to suite, room by room to spray the ionized disinfectant, switching his spray device off between applications when he wanted to speak and be heard. He obviously enjoyed touting the advantages of this process. "No worry now. Surfaces hard to reach by human hand we get with electrostatic sprayer and disinfect every surface."

The electrostatic application was surprisingly quick for the area they treated and by the time Sherlock, John, and Petrov had returned to the loading dock, so had most of the cleaning crew. Each man whipped off their respirators, their noses and cheeks bearing impressions of the breathing apparatus, before pulling on their N95 masks again. They exchanged light banter sometimes in English sometimes in their native tongue, but their satisfaction and camaraderie were understood in any language.

Still suited up, Sherlock glanced at John signaling with his eyes—the only means of private communication available to them—that he was ready to leave. They were removing their coveralls as Petrov, with his own mask restored, approached them. "So, Scott," he said, obviously chuffed about the operation. "Waddya tink?"

"Awesome! Awesome, mate," Sherlock fast-talked with convincing assurances as he shrugged into his greatcoat. "Still waiting for a green light from the top, but I'm sure someone will ring Mr. Withers in a few weeks to set up a shooting schedule. Get ready for your close-up, Mr. Petrov!" Sherlock laughed and extended his gloved hand. "Grateful, Ivaylo, for your time."

Although Sherlock's gratitude was real, John looked away. No matter how much he understood his friend's methods, he still felt uncomfortable with his facility for deception—especially when it tricked the innocent …the presumably innocent. Trusting Sherlock's reasons, John swallowed his discomfort and joined Sherlock in exchanging goodbyes with Petrov and his crew.

It was quarter past eleven. More Sunday-morning strollers peopled the pavement, strolling through the fog on the cold winter's day, more traffic motored by than when they had arrived. Sherlock walked slowly, withdrawn into a contemplative state, his long fingers steepled under his chin as they headed back to Baker Street

To John's annoyance, Sherlock remained silent, eyes introspective, a posture his friend adopted when he needed silence to solve a problem. During the long wait for Sherlock to return from his mindfulness, John remained vigilant, ensuring that Sherlock neither bumped into passers-by nor wandered into traffic. Feel like a bloody seeing-eye dog for a genuis! he chuckled to himself. Finally, patience exhausted, he asked, "Well?" and nudged his friend out of his reverie. "It seems obvious to me."

"What seems obvious to you, John?" Sherlock responded, his voice soft, as if still working remotely.

"What happened to Hobbs."

Sherlock shifted his focus on John. The intense gleam in his eyes indicated he was now mentally present and ready to share his thought processes. "Go on," he encouraged with a smug grin. "What happened to Hobbs?"

In the direct spotlight of Sherlock's stare, John's confidence faltered. He glanced about, catching their reflection in Selfridge's window as they turned the corner into Baker Street. "Uh, um. That Hobbs was present during one of those deep-clean treatments and exposed to the harsh chemicals…from… the fogger. Probably the 'muffled sounds' Hobbs mentioned hearing within the building were the sprayers. They were noisy enough to be heard on other floors. Also, exposure to the extremely harsh fogging chemicals would explain the side-effects he suffered and the long-term chemical injuries he sustained, you think?"

"Excellent, John. You're right. It's obvious. You've established 'means.'"

John beamed in the praise and congratulated himself. I've still got it.

"So tell me. Why was Hobbs in the building? As you heard, no one is supposed to be present during fogging treatments?"

John hesitated, suspecting he had congratulated himself too soon. "Didn't you say he was covering for another security man…someone who couldn't make it…? Maybe he never got the alert about the sanitizing crew…." He scratched the back of his head as he sought more explanations. "Accident…? Scheduling mistake? The fogging process to sanitize for COVID-19 was a new procedure in March 2020. You said so yourself. Maybe someone cocked up the scheduling with the security people. What?" he asked off Sherlock's smirk.

"Perhaps, John." Sherlock lowered his voice and waited for a couple to pass them before continuing, "Or maybe it was no accident—"

"No accident!" John replied somewhat heatedly in surprise and immediately, he lowered his voice. "Then, Sherlock, enlighten me. I know you don't guess, but so far, this sounds speculative…"

"All right, John. Explain, then, how a man, overcome by fumes and lying in the middle of the floor would have been overlooked by a sanitizer."

"Huh?" John scratched his nose before answering. "In the middle of the floor, you say? You're sure Hobbs hadn't fallen under a desk somewhere? Or… or…maybe he fell over from the fumes after a sanitizer had fogged the area. Yeah, and he came in with his electric torch after…after when they had gone and had already shut off the lights…" Hearing his more and more implausible scenarios to explain what happened, John grumbled. "Anyway, that bloody headgear made it hard to see…I nearly tripped over a few boxes before I saw them—"

"Again, your points are valid to some degree. That's the problem. It sounds speculative, although I'm certain it's not."

"So, okay, okay. What are you saying?"

"Hobbs was deliberately lured there. This was an attempted murder."

"Huh?" Sherlock had whispered his last statement so softly, John wasn't sure he'd heard him correctly. He gripped Sherlock's arm to halt him then stopped mid-stride to study Sherlock's face. Clearly, his friend was serious, but then, Sherlock rarely joked and never about murder. "What! Hobbs? Who? Why?"

"Very good. All the right questions, John. The 'what' we already know—chemical toxicity. Understanding who's behind this and why requires establishing motive."

Sherlock resumed their walk north. No longer in a hurry now that the salient points in the case had come into focus, his gait became leisurely. It gave both men time to consider Sherlock's premise.

"I can see your point," John agreed at last, "but there are still too many questions that need answers for something that happened nearly two years ago."

"Even so, I have some suspicions about motive."

"Of course you do!" John's snappy remark was tinged with admiration, when another realization occurred. "So, that's why the charade! You didn't want your identity revealed."

"If there's a murderer in our midst, I don't want the companies involved—both Security Central, Hobbs' employer nor SafeGuard with their harsh cleaning chemicals—to know Sherlock Holmes is sniffing about."

"So, you suspected this even before we left Baker Street?"

"Yes. Somewhat… That text I got when we first headed out... that was Mr. Withers from SafeGuard confirming the crew would admit us to the site. I was pleased because it was an opportunity to confirm some aspects of my theory. With you joining me—as I said before, 'a fortuitous coincidence,'" Sherlock tossed a teasing grin toward his friend, "it made it easier for me to inspect the chemicals on the shelves, examine the MSDS, and check the supply list. I noticed discrepancies … very helpful information regarding this case."

"So…you pretended to be working for BBC2 on a documentary…?" John stiffened and looked around, making sure he had not spoken too loudly. No one seemed within earshot.

"Obviously." Sherlock nodded, his face neutral, except for the slight indication of a suppressed smile.

"Sherlock!" John exhaled, barely controlling his exasperation at the pretense. "How will you explain never showing up some Sunday in January for filming?"

"Scheduling problems. Overfilled diary. Will revisit when we get optioned for subsidiaries… You know... 'Don't call us. We'll call you.' That kind of thing." Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "Once the case is cracked, won't have to explain anything."

"You realize you're disappointing some keen sanitizers hoping for a little fame and glory—well-deserved recognition for their essential services…? Wait—" The edge in John's voice gave way to worry. "Tell me you don't suspect your newfound 'friend' Petrov or his crew, or do you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Only have a theory for motive. But don't fret about Ivaylo and his team; if what I suspect is true, when all this comes to light, there may yet be some telly coverage for them."

"The good kind, I hope." John frowned. "You propose to get your evidence how?"

"Time for Sherlock Holmes to do some undercover snooping," Sherlock whispered close to John's ear. When he pulled away, he added in a cheery voice, "It's Christmas!"

"Almost," John muttered and cast an apprehensive look toward his friend, remembering a time Sherlock had been this enthusiastic about it being Christmas—he had been uncharacteristically rash and reckless then. It nearly ended in his permanent exile on a suicide mission... "Sherlock, you will require assistance—?"

"—it's a one-man operation, John," Sherlock replied to the tone in John's voice. "Your assistance while always welcomed is not required for this investigation. It will be a simple job of tracing the paperwork to the fateful day. The chemicals' data sheets and supply list I had examined in the utility closet while you were effectively distracting Petrov have already given me the evidence I need to begin connecting the dots."

John considered his friend's long history of successful cases, including the many Sherlock had conducted without him since Rosie was born, and tamped back his concern. Still, he needed some assurances. "You will…ask for… help," John suggested, then hesitated. He couldn't be certain of his availability if something unexpected arose, but he reminded himself that Lestrade and Mycroft were at the ready, "…if you need it."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment as he considered John's request and its ramifications. They had had similar conversations over their twelve years of collaboration. Sherlock understood that it was not fear that kept his friend from joining him on his adventures, but his responsibility as the single-surviving parent. Nor was it a lack of trust on John's part in Sherlock's abilities to succeed, but Sherlock too had a responsibility. "I will not ruin Rosie's Christmas, John," was all he said.

"And into the next year?"

"Will do my best…"

John grunted with approval at Sherlock's assurances and cleared his throat. "The truth! I know you, Sherlock. You just want to get your mitts on one of those electrostatic sprayers," he teased.

Ahh, John, you know my methods. Sherlock's smile broadened, his eyes gleamed in delight, but rather than acknowledge John's insight, he diverted their conversation. "Let's hurry, John. There's still time for us to lend Mrs. Hudson a hand. It would be bad form to miss all the traditional baking business in Baker Street."

Both men picked up the pace.

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