BBC Sherlock: Almost Christmas
Chapter 7
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25 December 2021
Christmas melodies were playing softly on Alexa whilst John collected the discarded wrappings for the bin and Sherlock sat on the sofa, texting. With her excitement run down, a contented Rosie yawn sleepily and stretched out, prone, on the rug. She swung her feet high in the air behind her as if to show off her pale blue Christmas slippers. Still dressed in her fashionable Liberty London pjs, she donned her newly knitted Mrs. Hudson-cap and stacked up the assorted story books she had received for Christmas. Humming along with the popular Christmas carol Alexa was playing, she walked her fingers up the books' spines, trying to decide which to read first. She yawned twice more. John knew the signs: she'd be kipping before long.
He picked up the present Rosie had made for him: a hand-painted, wooden photo frame, decorated with shiny confetti. The photo within displayed them both laughing, cheeks touching in a selfie pose. The choice of image was hardly a surprise. In early November, Rosie's teacher had emailed him about the school art project and requested that Rosie and he pick their favorite shot. After he had sent it off, he forgot about it. However, her gift was more than a child's attempt at decorating a frame, though he doubted his daughter fully understood. The photo had captured and immortalized them in a deliriously happy moment—as pleasant as a ray of sunshine piercing the dark clouds of past sorrows. John smiled as he gave the glitter-framed memory the pride of place on the bookshelf. After giving it an extra pat of approval, he turned to Sherlock's eyes on him.
Sherlock used the ping of an incoming text as an excuse to look away. His expression betrayed nothing as he read it in silence.
"So, then?" John sniffed with feigned nonchalance but clearly curious, "Places to be today. Is that what you said?"
"Yup!" Sherlock popped the "p" looking up from his mobile. "Must be off. My coat…," he stood awkwardly and pointed toward the kitchen. Stepping around Rosie without disrupting her reading concentration, he nodded for John to follow him.
John chuckled at his friend's new-found discretion. Being discreet in Rosie's presence had become a new practice as the six-year-old had developed a talent for eavesdropping and repeating things she did not fully understand. Quashing case-talk when she was within earshot had been more of a challenge than either man had expected. At times, each had to remind the other to discontinue conversations inappropriate for tender ears until they had removed themselves to more private locations.
Glad that Sherlock's remembered and even more pleased he was about to hear the update about the Hobbs case as promised, John joined Sherlock in the kitchen and refilled their cups..
"Mycroft…" Sherlock whispered indicating his mobile. "Parents are complaining. Their wayward sons have not yet fulfilled their annual Christmas promise. We're expected at the cottage for the afternoon feast. It's so tedious," he moaned, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.
Annoyance was the typical Holmesian reaction when either son was pressed to observe traditional, filial duties at holidays. Object they might but John saw through the façade; he suspected both Sherlock and Mycroft, despite their protests, secretly enjoyed the splendid dinner their genius mother prepared for the family's Yuletide celebration.
"It's nearly a quarter past six. Sure you won't stay for a bite of breakfast, then? Nothing special. Cream porridge with spiced apple and cranberry. Rosie's favorite, but I have sausages in the fridge…"
For a moment, Sherlock looked tempted, then his expression changed. "That must wait; first, news about the Hobbs case. I had a productive week, posing as a chemicals inspector for The Chief Fire Officers Association…." At John's blank stare, he clarified, "They verify that pest control companies are following the strict Code of Practice for Suppliers of Pesticides to Agriculture, Horticulture and Forestry."
"Okay," John blinked as if Sherlock's explanation had not made anything clearer.
"No matter…" Sherlock waved. "My spot checks followed a paper trail that led me to direct evidence of what chemicals had been used during the scheduled treatment when Hobbs—suspiciously at the wrong place and wrong time—had been on watch. That night, the foggers had not sprayed the site with antivirals. Rather they had used organosphosphorus insecticides that inhibited cholinesterase or ChE, a family of enzymes that ensures proper functioning of the nervous system, especially in the nervous tissue, muscle and red cells—."
"—Hang on, Sherlock," John cut him off with a weary sigh. "If it's all the same to you, spare me the chemical properties of whatever-the-hell-they-used, please." John saw a flicker of disappointment in Sherlock features, an unintended consequence of his interruption. He kneaded his forehead and shook his head. "Sorry… okay, go on."
Eyes narrowed in concern, Sherlock took in the circles under John's eyes. Knackered by Christmas Eve preparations. Another pointless holiday tradition. Should have known, he berated himself. "Very well. Suffice it to say that the product chosen for the fogger employs the same neurotoxins used to fumigate mosquitos carrying the Zika virus—that was an astute call when you jested about 'mosquito fumigation going on in the heart of London.'"
John swallowed more coffee. "I see," he nodded. "And as we both know intense exposure can result in nausea, vomiting, difficulty breathing, and weakness …Hobbs' symptoms."
"Precisely! Despite your sleep-deprivation, John, your acumen is functioning normally."
John made no complaint at the back-handed compliment of "normally" and let the "massive intellect" continue his report.
"You are correct. This explains Hobbs' symptoms," Sherlock continued, lifting his coat off the chair back and putting it on. "The paperwork suggests the misuse was accidental. It is alleged that since COVID-19 fumigation protocols were new that the worker inadvertently selected the wrong chemical for the fogger that night. Of course COVID has become the easy excuse for many otherwise inexcusable ineptitudes, but …but I shall not go there. However, thanks to my thorough investigation, an incident report has finally been filed regarding this breach. So, despite his claims he had an alien encounter, Hobbs deserves a financial settlement for this mismanagement of toxic materials. I've already submitted what I've found through legal channels, but I will leave it to the courts to sort. I suspect Hobbs will receive a handsome sum. So, mystery solved," Sherlock knotted his scarf and pulled on his gloves. "That is, if we overlook the other attempts on his life."
"Huh? Other attempts?" The glaze of fatigue disappeared from John's eyes.
"Several months before making lunatic claims, but after his toxic exposure, Hobbs had filed two complaints with the police about unusual occurrences in his flat. The first claim was that, whilst he was out, someone had turned on the gas without lighting the stove. Fortunately upon his return, the gas buildup had not reached critical levels and he was able to shut the value and air out the flat."
"Huh! And the other?" John asked with open skepticism.
"His swivel desk chair collapsed unexpectedly; he barely missed putting his head through the wall and being concussed. A loose screw was the cause. He claimed someone entered his flat and loosened his chair so it would cause him to fall."
"Seriously?" John scoffed, assuming the role of devil's advocate. "Sounds like a nutter or at least he's got a few loose screws of his own, not to be unkind—"
"—It is unkind," Sherlock agreed, "…for you, John, not for me. You know I never hold back on the truth for the sake of kindness."
"What? So you agree these claims are preposterous, then?" John's forehead creased as he considered why he objected to Hobbs' claims. "Sod the 'someone' theory. He could've accidentally turned on the gas himself before he left. And as for the chair…how old is it? Wear and tear can cause screws to come loose…."
"Point well taken, John. That's surely why his complaints to the police went no farther. Of course you and the police are missing the obvious. His toxic exposure, the gas in the flat, and the collapsing chair may have been subtle plans to kill him—made to look like accidents. Hobbs survived these attempts, but once he killed his own credibility with his alien encounter claim, he no longer experienced near-lethal accidents. Coincidence? Perhaps…notwithstanding. I'm intrigued. I suspect he may've unwittingly saved himself by adopting conspiracy theories. Who would believe whatever a madman had to say after that?"
John frowned, confused. "So you do believe him."
"Not completely," Sherlock admitted, "but if Hobbs hadn't been such an observant watchman, he would've considered these incidents mere coincidences, like most people, like you. Consider what happened to you this morning; your self-doubts made you dismiss the clues of my presence. Eventually, you caught on, but only after you discovered proof hiding in the kitchen. No. Hobbs is…or at least had been… a quite observant man. He would have noticed these things. However, without motive, without proof, his complaints went nowhere... and then came his conspiracy theory of an extraterrestrial encounter…."
"So what's next, Sherlock?"
"Ahh! This week, things will become a bit more adventurous, I expect." Sherlock's eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. "I shall begin my undercover investigation. I must follow the evidence to determine if Hobbs' unfortunate accident was indeed a mistake or if was deliberate."
"How do you propose to do that?" John was well-acquainted with Sherlock's propensity to poke at the anthill of a presumably simple case to stir up the truth; he had to trust his friend would be prepared for the resulting swarm.
"Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?" Sherlock grinned.
"'Who will guard the guards,'" John translated. "You're becoming a security guard… for…for…"
"Security Central," Sherlock supplied the full name rather than wait for John to fumble through it.
"Interesting!" John scratched his stubbly chin. "But why Hobbs' security company and not SafeGuard, the pest controllers?
"You recall Hobbs was rising through the ranks faster than his older colleagues?" Sherlock waited. He watched the glint in his friend's eyes, knowing exactly when John caught his train of thought. "Envy, John, envy! Often among the strongest motives for a crime… So is retaliation, if we consider the cartel drug bust he made which earned him the promotion... Isn't it delightful? There are so many avenues to explore. More evidence to secure. Of course I shall keep an open mind but with my eyes wide open."
John dismissed his gnawing worry about the drug cartels angle with humor. "Damn! I thought for sure you wanted to play with the spray guns first…"
Sherlock lowered his gaze and gave his friend a scant smile. "Oh, but I do have designs on handling one of those electrostatic sprayers. Until then…," he left the kitchen and tip-toed past Rosie, asleep on the sitting room rug in her Christmas pyjamas surrounded by her Christmas books. He paused at the front door.
John was not far behind, expecting Sherlock to finish his hanging statement, but he was to be disappointed. By the time they had reached the front door, Sherlock had shifted into silent concentration. His hand on the doorknob, his mind moving the elements of the case like a chess master anticipating a game.
John could not dismiss that there were aspects of the investigation that Sherlock was withholding. This case, like so many others they had shared, held significant potential for peril. Murder attempts, organized drug cartels, and not-yet exposed collaborators were elements that bore the risk of becoming more dangerous than could be foreseen. Yet Sherlock had always been willing—thrilled—to take on such challenges. Had John been 'unattached,' he would have answered the clarion call with gusto. For a second time that morning, he missed the freedom he had once known.
Sherlock turned toward John as if he was suddenly aware of where he was standing. His friend's expectant expression prompted an old memory: John's rebuke from long ago: One word! That is all I would have needed. One word to let me know that you were alive. Sherlock cleared his throat. "So, John, as I was saying…" he said, opening the door and stepping outside. "Just so you know. Will likely be out of touch for…for …how long, I can't say… Be sure to tell Rosie I'll be back." He put up his collar against the cold and extended a gloved hand. "It's Christmas, John!" he stated with glee, shook John's hand, and spun on his heel.
John nodded in understanding and watched as his friend briskly mounted the stairs and strode out of sight. Once Sherlock was gone, he closed the front door and leant against it. "Happy Christmas, Sherlock," he said softly. Whilst he had every confidence in his brilliant friend's extraordinary talents, he worried about Sherlock's ability to keep his promise of I'll be back.
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