BBC Sherlock: Almost Christmas
Chapter 9
Part A
88**88
March 2022
Rain pelted the windscreens of passing cars, their wipers whirring, as John Watson waited alone for his bus home. Sheltered within the Bus Stop enclosure, he shivered in the chill March evening, looking forward to the warmth of home after a hectic day at the surgery. A black saloon car splashed by. Something familiar about it tugged at him—déjà vu—even before it slowed down. When it pulled to a stop a short distance away, John's distress sensors intensified. His heart rose in his throat as the driver stepped out and opened the back door, signaling him to hurry. Hunched under his umbrella, he approached the car. From its dark depths Mycroft's voice ordered, "Get in, John."
Heart pounding, John closed his umbrella and slid into the seat. Water droplets dotted his trouser legs and showered Mycroft with a fine spray where he sat at the far window, but the elder Holmes brother, his eyes averted, remained engrossed in his mobile. His sharp profile illuminated by the blue light of his phone, appeared glazed in ice. He did not look over at John as the car pulled back into traffic.
Through the rain-splattered windows, the street lights winked by hypnotically. John noted that the privacy slide separating the front and back seats was shut, preventing the driver from overhearing what Mycroft would have to say. With a hmph, Mycroft shut his mobile and slid the device into his breast pocket. Deep in thought, he completely ignored John. The silence between them grew.
Well?" John exhaled to jumpstart some dialogue. "What's this about? Not Russian...Ukraine, I suspect." he croaked, finding no helpful clues in the impassive expression of the man now looking at him. He cleared his throat, "Is…he okay?"
"Deplorable that. Hmmmph. I see you've surmised the purpose for this tête-à-tête, then," Mycroft stated flatly.
A sudden, sinking feeling—the downward-on-a-roller-coaster lurch—clutched John's stomach; he leant forward in his seat, finding it hard to breathe.
Mycroft took no notice of John's reaction. "We'd like you to find out."
"Huh? Come again?" John blinked rapidly, whilst the still-elevated heartbeat thudding in his ears made it difficult to hear. "We?"
"It's perfectly safe. No danger to you, John. Just meet with him."
John blew out his cheeks with relief and covered his eyes. The appearance of the black limousine, come to whisk him into the night was enough to alarm him, but Mycroft's utter failure to understand the fright this had caused—the potential for horrid news—infuriated him. Mastering both the impulse to throttle Mycroft and the tell-tale quaver in his voice, John ventured, "So… he's ….alive…?"
"Apparently, you're not listening, John," Mycroft snapped.
John barked an angry laugh. "For a brilliant man, Mycroft, you're a bloody idiot and utter rubbish at laying out the facts!"
Mycroft dismissed John's inexplicable rancor with an imperious wave and an arched eyebrow. "On the contrary, I believe I could not have been clearer. Of course, Sherlock's alive. Why wouldn't he be?"
"Dunno," John glared at the officious man, his retort tight and intense, his irritation climbing with his voice. "He's been missing for months? Yeah, not as long as that counterfeit case* a year or so back—eleven months that was—but still, just like then, no one's saying anything… I've not got even a one-word text! And now you show up outta the bloody blue!" He smacked his forehead and shot back sarcastically, "How could I possibly think something's wrong? Only an idiot would believe that working undercover is properly risky!"
Unaccustomed to being bested in irony, Mycroft squinted at the vexed man whose sarcasm, whilst less subtle than his own, had an unmistakable cutting edge. Deciding it was unwise to taunt John and likely complicate securing his cooperation, Mycroft leveled his tone and resumed in a calmer voice. "My brother had informed you of his intentions to go undercover, no? That was all you needed to know, until now. We're pleased with the progress he's made uncovering information for the authorities regarding a host of mob-related activities. However, the time has come for him to pull out. And, stubborn as always, he's refusing…"
"That sounds typical of Sherlock," John wisecracked, tamping back his temper.
"Yes, true, but there are other things…That's why we've decided—
"We again. Who's the we you keep mentioning?" John interrupted.
"We," Mycroft cautioned severely, "is none of your concern. Your level of involvement is insignificant in the great scheme of things."
John folded his arm, pushed back in the seat, and said nothing.
Mycroft could accurately read the body language of the most powerful world leaders, generals, and diplomats—men of his ilk—but he always found John Watson confounding. He sighed in frustration to appease his brother's friend. "What I can tell you is that Sherlock has stumbled upon a hornet's nest of drugs and human trafficking, along with assorted cyberterrorist cells that, simply put, undermine the foundations of our international interests. We require—" his face looked pained as he corrected the generality, "I require,…ask …only that you meet with him… to ascertain whether Sherlock is indeed okay and if he's acting with all his faculties."
"And why would he not be acting with all his faculties?" John scowled, noting that they were leaving Central London en route to John's home—car service door-to-door courtesy of the British Government.
"As you no doubt have heard my brother has oft say 'The best way of successfully acting a part is to be it.' I fear he would've been one of those dreadful method actors had he chosen the thespian life."
John glowered at the man who obfuscated his answers. "What the bloody hell are you on about, Mycroft?" he flared.
"Sherlock, in his wisdom—if I may so abuse the word—has chosen the undercover role of...of a...drugs trafficker—"
**88**
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* In my #21 BBC Sherlock: A Case of Separation, what began as a "small counterfeit case" that turned out be much more, had Sherlock chasing around the globe on multiple investigations for nearly eleven months. Only intermittent texts he clandestinely sent John throughout his missions assured John Sherlock was alive.