BBC Sherlock: Almost Christmas

Chapter 9

Part B

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Continued...

"—Wait! What? Drugs trafficker?" John pulled back in dismayed disbelief. "The last I knew... He told me... he was going undercover as a security guard..."

"He told you the truth... at the time." Mycroft hesitated before deciding to explain, "... until another development opened with a far greater adversary... a drugs trafficker, in his opinion, had been the better disguise. He worked his way in as a dealer first, but had been promoted through the ranks to the higher position of trafficker. The system is a pure meritocracym and he has managed it splendidly."

"Huh!" John frowned, shaking his head at the news and sighed. "Guess that's far better than user, no? You objected—okay, we've all objected—when he chose the role of user whilst undercover—"

"—That was when he had been acting as Sherlock Holmes, gone off his nut. Not as Jake Scott, drugs trafficker. May I add, he has outdone himself. He's become a highly lucrative trafficker in a global outfit that is notorious for negotiating with national secrets—"

John wet his lips nervously and grimaced. "You said… 'other things'…what do you mean?"

"Several… sticky situations have arisen," Mycroft glanced toward the window at his own reflection, as if speaking to himself. "We're not sure how this Jake Scott persona is involved, but a user-dealer we've recently taken into custody has been saying things that… are causing…unease. Not to say this man is a reliable source...a heroine dealer who had been manipulated and exploited by this big cartel for years..., yet he reports that Sherlock—er, Jake Scott—has destroyed his competition whilst insinuating his way into a Class-A narcotics ring of an Organized Crime Group. We've confirmed this much to be true through snippets of information. These snippets are forming a bigger picture—decidedly not a pretty one."

"It's an ugly world…that's a given," John acknowledged somberly. ""What concerns you, Mycroft? Particularly?"

"Besides that he's found ingenious ways to move product," Mycroft snarked. "I know there are inherent dangers of going undercover for extended periods, even for my brother. It may be that the intellectual exercise of maintaining the lie has become too much."

"And you think Sherlock has what? Crossed the line, somehow?"

"—I fear Sherlock may have blurred the lines. His mission was to gather information, not to improve the profits and overall operation of this organization."

This disquieting news hung heavy in the brief silence between them. John's eyes darted toward the windscreen, watching the rapid motion of the wipers squeegee a clear view. He wished he could see what lay ahead for his friend. In a raspy whisper, he shared what he knew was their mutual concern. "You think Sherlock… is using, then?"

"I'd prefer to think not. My brother has been in successful recovery for quite some time. I prefer to believe he has found methods to keep his addictions at bay. In a drugs operation such as this, it's imperative to keeps one's wits clear. Using would complicate that. However…" Lights from a passing car limned the worry lines creasing Mycroft's forehead in high relief. "There are circumstances that someone undercover cannot control: the real danger that he might be …coerced to use… to perfect his cover, for one."

"Has that happened," John's voice hitched and he swallowed to control it. "…to Sherlock?"

Mycroft shook his head. "We believe not…not yet, in any case. There was, a year or so back, a previously placed undercover officer who had got an advantageous foot up—that is, made excellent connections—within this same cartel. But something went wrong. Suspicions arose. He was given an ultimatum by one of the under lords. They questioned his allegiance and—with a gun to his head—forced him to 'have a line,' to prove he was not working undercover for the drugs squad. The entire operation took a sour turn. When we finally pulled the fellow in, let's say, it was a difficult road back, one he never made—"

"—Bloody Christ!" John erupted. He turned toward the window to recover from his outburst. The blur of night flowed past his car window like a viscous dark fluid.

"As you may imagine, I dislike regarding this cautionary tale as a glimpse of the future. Obviously, I should like Sherlock to avoid this path altogether."

"Yeah," John grunted in agreement. "Drug trafficker is bad enough, but you're concerned 'user' will soon follow…?"

"As the matter stands," Mycroft grunted soflty, "the current scuttle in the drugs squad is that one does not need to do drugs to be called a 'user.' My brother, who fully identifies with Jake Scottr,' is using…. not drugs, per se. He's using people, the likes of which goes against the principles of law enforcement."

"Hmmm." John sucked in a breath and considered Mycroft's scenario. He hated hearing that Sherlock had resorted to questionable methods, but he was also aware that the principles of law enforcement were not always obeyed, even by law-enforcement authorities. "It does sound a bit skewed, even for Sherlock…."

"'If you mistreat the poor, you insult your Creator'— Proverbs 14:31," Mycroft sighed. "This is not to say that whilst imposing the laws of the land, law enforcement is entirely clean, but most keep to a standard. The problem is, since Sherlock is not bound by the code of conduct enjoined upon police officers, he functions…as an 'irregular,' to use his own words. As you've reason to know, Sherlock takes his own line of action in desperate situations, wherein he far too frequently feels extreme measures are justified. He has bent some rules, it's true. It's a tightrope act, regardless, and in eyes of the police, Lestrade has informed me, Sherlock is teetering."

"He hasn't fallen, then? I would think even an undercover officer would be allowed to bend the rules to survive, Mycroft. Survival of the fittest, in the circumstances?"

"Quite. Nothing is black and white, and my brother is exceptionally shrewd in navigating the grey areas, better than anyone I know." Mycroft looked down at his hands and dry-scrubbed them as if they were unclean. "As in the military, John, you know there are times when the highest authorities must give orders that…are less than…optimal for innocents—those caught in the maw of a…larger adversary. Calling it collateral damage makes it sound better, more civilized. It's not. It's a disturbing rationalization of impossible decisions."

"And you're afraid—"

"—Mind you," Mycroft interrupted so John would not finish verbalizing his own legitimate fear, "my risk-taking brother had been quite aware—as were we all—of the challenges within this investigation. He has outlined and—so far, has anticipated with astonishing accuracy—the hurdles in this engagement. We have discussed and continue to monitor his options through covert communiqués. As situations arise, he's proven quite adaptable… uniquely resourceful, even," Mycroft looked out the side window and added softly, "However, you can understand why I should like to spare him the difficult road, one which would present Sherlock a serious setback."

John chewed his lower lip in thought, hardly believing he was playing devil's advocate. "Yet, on balance, Mycroft, he's fighting a war," he said, putting it in language he understood intimately. "What better way to infiltrate enemy lines then by becoming its most successful soldier? And would it not actually be a good thing, once Jake Scott disappears, for the cartel to lose their best trafficker? It could collapse their monopoly, yes?"

"Interesting logic, John," Mycroft mused with closed eyes. "For a moral man, you have an unparalleled skill at devising disturbing rationalizations. It echoes what my brother posited the last time we spoke. There's validity to your point, but at what cost?"

John silently concurred it was a fair question. "Why is Sherlock refusing…?"

"He wants irrefutable evidence to apprehend those at the highest level and he is adamant that success is within reach. I believe him, but it's not necessary 'to cut off the head of the snake,' as he expresses it. We have enough now to prosecute key figures in the cartel. I've urged Sherlock to give the code word so that we can extract him. The plan is involved. It requires precise timing, but it ensures there will be no trail leading the trafficker to my brother. Jake Scott will disappear, but Sherlock will live on to fight another adversary. We need his cooperation to succeed but,…he's being…typically…" Mycroft abruptly pounded his palm with his clenched fist; an uncharacteristic exasperation cracked his icy veneer"… immoveable! He must listen, John, for his own good!"

"And that's why you need me… to persuade him." As rare as it had been, Mycroft's outburst of concern—proof of the affection he held for Sherlock, although each brother would have disputed the word—pleased John. "I'd have thought you'd have a more qualified agent in the field to tap as a resource."

The few seconds it took for the Ice Man to recover indicated how upset he was. As if to realign his composure after losing his temper, he straightened his already straight tie and cleared his throat. "Such is, I imagine," he said tonelessly, "the function of friendship. You're someone he trusts. And he's no longer listening to his uncle."

"His uncle?"

"His 'cover man' throughout this operation—his uncle—with whom he's held numerous, secret rendezvous since January." Mycroft rolled his shoulders back as he restored his sense of decorum and his detachment. "This uncle passes information back and forth, but he has another role. He assesses if an operative has become so involved that he's not seeing things clearly or making the right decisions. As Sherlock has taken greater risks, this uncle has expressed increasingly dire concern. He believes that Sherlock has been in-situ far longer than is safe. My brother's unwillingness to see reason and be pulled from the investigation confirms his assessment."

"But it's not actually out of character, Mycroft," John rejoined, "not when he's certain about the outcome. And pushing himself to the limits sounds perfectly Sherlock." He studied the elder Holmes a bit longer before addressing the subtext. "What's the other reason, the one you're not mentioning?"

Mycroft lowered his head and his voice. "I admit this only to you, John. If his current undercover actions, which he sees now as a sole means to an end, cross that moral line, he may suffer from deep regrets later. Sherlock has scruples, superior to mine it seems." Mycroft paused, considering his next words. "He's… has been known to suffer from… a crisis of conscience, I believe it's called… in private moments. In the aftermath of this case, I fear there may be danger nights. You understand Sherlock's difficult history more than most. Hence, I've decided to remove him from the operation based upon a personal concern for his welfare."

"Ah!" John shook his head in disbelief. "And you wonder why he's not cooperating?" He sees right through your partiality. You believe his work have merit but, on account of his drugs history, you can't trust him not be his own worst enemy. God knows, he's prone to making personal sacrifices that have ended badly for him, but he will disregard your order, Mycroft, especially if he's convinced it's premature and motivated by sentiment, not by facts."

"You've articulated the situation…quite succinctly, John." Mycroft was looking down his nose at the doctor beside him, coolly, all signs of his recent passion gone. "That being said, you will cooperate." It was an imperative, not a request.

Doubts assailed John in spite of his readiness to agree. "Look, Mycroft, Sherlock's deceived me when it suited him—more times than I can count. How can you believe I can accomplish this when I can't trust myself to know when he's lying? I've always been rubbish at… at…deciding what's real with him." He paused, feeling the car slow. They were minutes from his flat.

"So, let's say, I do as you ask. I meet him. We talk. He convinces me to believe his version of the situation.. What then? What if I'm wrong? What if you've put his life in my hands and I fail him—"

"You've not done so before," was Mycroft's terse reply, followed by a softer, "You're more qualified than you realize, John." Hearing the uncharacteristic tone of that last, Mycroft resumed his customary, harsh condescension. "Your arguments are appallingly weak, Doctor. Not at all equal to that strong sense of honor my brother has credited you with in the past."

Affronted by Mycroft's outright insult, John snapped back, "That was then. This is now. I haven't been involved in his cases for years! Even when I was, I never was good at knowing the mind of the man. I'm far less attuned, now. Have you considered, Mycroft, I just might be a liability to Sherlock for that very reason?"

"Don't be absurd!" Mycroft scoffed. "I'm not asking you to outthink him. It requires more wits than you have."

Just as Mycroft had once attempted to goad his younger brother with the searing insult—"Put this stupid little man out of all our misery"—John sensed Mycroft was deliberately trying to goad him now. He was succeeding.

John grinned darkly at the offending swipe, glad it gave him an excuse to respond in justified anger. "Asking me to reel him in when I have nothing of value to offer about the case. Now that's absurd!"

His mouth curling in disdain, Mycroft looked straight ahead through the slide, saying nothing to John's riposte.

Mycroft's annoyance gave John a moment to review his reasons to decline the request. It had taken him years following Mary's death to adapt to his circumstances. While he would always feel an undercurrent of need for adventures and an insatiable curiosity for Sherlock's work—even daydream of being an integral part of it again—he had become practical. He had resigned himself to the truth: those days of heart-pumping, adrenaline fixes from adventurous cases were over—his life as a parent, as a practicing doctor was stimulating and exhausting enough. More importantly, the empty, lonely feelings that had once haunted him had gone. Fatherhood—serving the needs of his daughter—was immensely fulfilling in unexpected ways. His life was not wanting… most of the time.

"Sherlock's moved on with his life and so have I," John began, imagining Mycroft would consider his excuses lame. "He takes whatever cases interest him. Look how his career has flourished without me. It just goes to prove, I'm superfluous, Mycroft, and have been for some time—"

Hearing his own words reminded John how ambivalent he had been about the way his life and Sherlock's had diverged. I hate it, his deepest thoughts came unbidden, that he continues to walk into danger… alone…. Especially because there's nothing I can do about it.

What he had told Mycroft about the casework was true, however. John Watson had felt unnecessary for years. It had become uncomfortably clear when a helium-filled balloon—a substitute 'John'—floating over his chair had gone unnoticed for hours. This did not mean that John thought Sherlock was better off investigating cases alone. His friend should have someone to watch his back, someone to accompany him on his hazardous adventures, someone to protect him. And whilst John believed this wholeheartedly and wished someone would fill that role, a perverse part of him derived selfish pleasure from knowing that his place of privilege had not been taken by—or accorded to—anyone else. His own conflicting ambitions—to be Rosie's loving father and Sherlock's companion on cases—made John shake his head to dislodge his irreconcilable sentiments. "Sherlock… listen to me?" he voiced his final protest to Mycroft. "Ha! Don't think so. Not anymore."

The words, not anymore, lingered in the luxurious silence of the limousine gliding through the rain.

John clutched his umbrella and looked outside as the car pulled to the kerb. He had not expected to get the last word in an exchange with Mycroft Holmes. The rain speckled the pavement's puddles with a fine spray, negating the need for the umbrella to get to his doorstep.

"Look, John," Mycroft began half-heartedly and fell silent.

John chuckled to himself. It was what he expected. Both Holmes brothers shared the same proclivity to outlive God trying to have the last word.

"You misunderstand what is being asked of you," Mycroft continued. "It comes down to one relevant point. Sherlock does not require your assistance to solve his cases. In fact, he has learnt to cooperate with authorities—that, at least, is a sign of his maturity—when he determines it may be foolhardy to go alone. He does, however, need...dare I say it... you for your essential role: that of friend."

It was a revelation, a eureka moment, that erased John's final doubts. This insight from such an unexpected source—Mycroft Holmes—was both mindboggling and heartwarming—Sod the sleuthing, John concluded. He would always be Sherlock's friend.

"Besides," Mycroft argued, unaware that his previous statement had entirely dispelled John's resistance, "Sherlock has always been most clear on this. Your daughter takes priority. He has vowed never to risk involving you in any way that might put your life in jeopardy or make your daughter an orphan. That's why we don't expect you to do anything more than speak with him and return to us with your opinion."

"My opinion, then?" John leveled a suspicious glance at the master manipulator. "Not some trap, to bring him in against his will, is it?"

"You have my word."

"I see," John countered as the car came to a stop. "I'm sure someone can vouch for you…"

Mycroft clamped a hand on John's wrist to stop him from unlatching the door, thoroughly frustrated by John Watson's incessant deflection. The touch was as alarming as it was unusual for them both. Mycroft leant in to John's ear—the proximity awkward and uncomfortable—and persisted, "He respects you. He values your opinion—"

"—He?" John flinched reflexively to feeling Mycroft's breath on his neck. "He who? If what you say is true, my opinion wouldn't matter to Jake Scott, the drugs trafficker."

Mycroft pulled away and sized up the only man who had half a chance at succeeding with Sherlock Holmes. "I'm aware he's consumed by the persona of Jake Scott…." bureaucrat Mycroft concluded, his smile quickly dissolving into an unreadable expression. In a voice more genuine and compelling than John had ever heard from him, brother Mycroft urged, "But we need someone to reach Sherlock… and there is no one else!"

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