BBC Sherlock: Almost Christmas
Chapter 10
88**88
March 2022
"Yo'r no' mee uncle," hissed the gruff voice.
John whirled around and did a double-take at the man who had snuck up behind him.
"Heeey?" John said cautiously and swallowed his surprise. Whilst he expected to find Sherlock in disguise on the secret rendezvous aboard the early-morning ferry, he was ill-prepared for the dodgy figure dressed in an old pea-jacket buttoned up to his throat. So dramatic was the transformation, John pulled back in amazement.
Gone were the distinctive brilliant irises. Brown contacts concealed them. The gaunt face beneath the black knit cap bristled with an unkempt ginger beard. Hunched shoulders hid the tall straight stature and a scowl distorted the familiar facial features.
John was no stranger to his friend's disguise techniques despite being constantly fooled by them. Sherlock was a human chameleon, able to change his physical appearance with wardrobe, hair, speech patterns, and accents, sometimes using professional actor's makeup or prosthetics when he needed to be incognito for shorter durations. However, what made his friend extraordinary was Sherlock's ability to dig deeper into character and seemingly alter his personality, an essential stratagem especially for extended periods undercover.
This current altered personality—Jake Scott—greeted John, not with a pleased, albeit subtle, smile, but with obvious antipathy—drawn-down eyebrows and nicotine-stained teeth gritted in anger.
Gyrating gulls keened in the daybreak-gray March sky. The Water Spout's deckhands worked their stations out of sight and out of earshot in preparing for a timely departure whilst the ferry motors revved in readiness. And in the faint light, the fast friends glared hard at each other as though strangers.
Never much of a sailor, John did his best to keep his balance as the deck beneath him pitched and swayed. Yet, he felt more off balance by Sherlock's demeanor than by the boat's rolling momentum.
"No. I'm not your uncle," he responded with a shake of his head. He bit back a remark that Sherlock was unrecognizable as the man his daughter called uncle.
"—Fuckin' brud…'EE sen' yo," Jake snapped without looking at John. His eyes surveilled their surroundings. "Whotfor?"
"You know him better…," John replied, hearing not only a South East London accent in his friend's voice, but a pitch higher than normal for Sherlock. It was yet another nuance in his remarkable metamorphosis into Jake Scott. "Why do you think?"
"Queer mee plans, innit? 'EE dunnit trus' me!" rasped the angry voice.
"No. I think he trusts you proper." John leant in closer despite the malodorous mix of stale cigarettes and alcohol from Jake's breath. He sniffed again—or from his coat? He tried to make eye contact with his evasive friend whilst confiding, "But he suspects that you're pushing too hard…. He's concerned—"
"Bollocks! Piss'ff!" Jake groused, turning to make a swift exit before the ferry pulled from the pier. " 'Oi'm outta 'e'ah!"
"—Hold on! Don't go!" John made an instinctive lunge for Sherlock's forearm to detain him. He had barely latched his hand around a sinewy tricep when—in a lightning countermove—a vicelike grip clamped over his throat. It held and pressed his knotted scarf uncomfortably upward into his larynx.
"Shudn't go an' grab fo me, yo 'ear?" Jake menaced with a whisper in John's ear. "Mikes me danj'rus-like—"
"Fooled… me," John choked back, failing to sound facetious. Restrained but not strangled, he waited for Sherlock's nominal assault to lessen the pressure that immobilized him in a combative hold. For the first time, their eyes met. Not finding a glimmer of warmth in the dark stare, John attempted a defiant grin. "Not happy..." he said hoarsely, his constricted larynx made it difficult to speak, "…to see me, then?" Searching the face inches from his, John tried to feel fearless, trusting, hoping it was not misplaced.
The ferry's signal horns blew twice; the deck gave a gentle lurch beneath their feet, and the river transport put off on schedule. Her cargo, besides the two passengers, included parcels for drop-off at a waiting terminal for lorry pick-ups.
Jake's dark eyes narrowed. With an angry shove, he released John's throat and yanked his own arm free from John's grasp. He snarled, turned around, and paced a circular path like a cornered animal, now that flight was no longer possible. The ferry accelerated, plowing through the dark water on a slow course to the opposite wharf.
John massaged his throat, vexed at himself for walking into an altercation he should have foreseen, given all Mycroft had told him. He gave "Jake" a shrewd once-over and resumed where he had left off. "So…listen,...um…." he paused, remembering he had been advised—as an extra precaution—against using any names and to keep his remarks cryptic and vague. With pretended calm, he adjusted his scarf. "...Listen, friend. You may not want to hear it, but your brud's genuinely concerned. So am I."
Jake barked a disbelieving laugh and glanced toward John. His inscrutable look lingered on John's face, before he lowered his gaze, "No need, friend," he spat the word. "Dun this successful b'for'. Know whatt'm doin'. Ev'n now, befor' gettin 'ere, bin dry cleaned…"
The strong accent, laundering all traces of Sherlock's usual posh pronunciations, sounded strange to John, but so was the lingo. "Dry cleaned?" he puzzled.
"Not fol-lowed," Jake articulated fully with consonants and vowels before pivoting yet again, his keen eyes, ever-watchful. John also looked around, not sensing any danger in their meeting spot by the ferry bulkhead. As there were no other passengers onboard at this hour, they were alone but for a wispy fog that curled and coiled around their ankles like a cat.
John worried that he had got off on the wrong foot so he feigned a casual interest in the misty portside view. He drifted toward the protective guardrail and leant over, watching the churning water froth as the bow cut through the choppy surface. A cool March wind whistled across his cheeks, making him grateful he had a thick scarf—though it had nearly been used against him. He pulled down his own warm knit cap to cover his ears. It was not his usual style for headgear, but one he had adopted to disguise himself in case anyone spotted him. Waiting for his friend to catch him up, John turned his back to the view and rested his elbows on the rail, noticing that the Jake Scott character had remained literally under cover, huddled in the bulkhead shadows.
"Too exposed," he muttered in reply to John's questioning look, adding a nod toward the CCTV cameras. "Pryin' eyes...everywhair."
John realized his error. Trying his best to appear nonchalant for the camera or any other long-range surveillance device, he turned round, squinted once more at the horizon and scratched his nose before wandering into the shadows to join Sherlock.
Sheltered from view and the whipping winds, the spot offered them concealment and privacy.
"Sorry. Guess I'm outta practice," John jested.
"Shite arse tosser," Jake Scott mocked, sounding amused at John's expense.
Sherlock's insults were nothing new but these were in a coarse language John had never heard Sherlock use. "Charming!" he countered. "See you've taken insolence to a new level. Not sure I care for …it."
"Don' care whot yo ffink," Jake growled, adding dismissively with deliberate malice. "Don' need yo' he'p! Gu back whair yo' came from."
John snorted, neither amused nor appeased. "This isn't the first time you've made that perfectly clear. For the record," he leant in closer and whispered, "I'm not offering my help."
A frown furrowed Jake's brows, but the jolt of John's words brought Sherlock closer to the surface, along with his normalized accent and usual baritone. "Why, then, are you here?"
"You're the great mastermind. You figure it out."
"Spyin'," Jake stated. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"Nope!" John licked his lips and grinned with a sarcasm unmistakable, even in the shadows. "Don't think I've got the skill-set for that. Too much of a 'shite arse tosser,' I'm told." Somehow he was more offended by the insult than he had felt years ago when Sherlock had bluntly stated: "I cannot at the moment recall any possible blunder which you have omitted." Flushed with annoyance, he sassed back, "Still brutally honest, you are, but now in a low-class kinda way. So, think again, mate."
Dark eyes widened in alarm. "A trap! Yo're bait!"
"No, no. Sorry!" John cringed and raised his palms in capitulation, regretting the distress he triggered in his hypervigilant friend. "Not a trap. No…no.., Shrrr—um… No. I promise you. I wouldn't do that to you!"
Wary and suspicious, Jake glowered at John and kept his distance.
Bloody Idiot! John chastised himself for his cock up. Building back a connection with someone who has been undercover—where there is no one to trust—meant he needed to be completely transparent; no teasing, no sarcasm, just the straight truth.
"T'is innit a game." Jake Scott's street accent had slipped back. "Yo' shudn't b' 'ere!"
"You're probably right, but I was told it wasn't dangerous."
Jake thrust his hands in his pockets to maintain his hunched posture. He glanced down at his soiled trainers to avoid John's eyes. "Whot 'EE tol' yo… 'nd whot iz trewff….No' quite the same."
"Like war," John affirmed. His own disturbing war experiences in Afghanistan had been indescribable to civilians. Fighting on the frontlines often involved unspeakable situations which people at home could never understand. John had no doubt Sherlock was experiencing the same sense of dissociation whilst undercover. "It loses something in translation, but all of it? You're saying all of it is wrong?" he appealed.
Jake looked up. The hard glint in his eyes softened. "Mos' ev'ryffin' iz correct." He pulled a mint candy from his pocket, unwrapped and popped it into his mouth. It released the refreshing mint aroma and remedied his morning-mouth. Jake shifted his gaze from John to the middle distance beyond John's shoulders—in a manner that most resembled Sherlock processing his thoughts.
John waited for more. Usually, his silence encouraged Sherlock to talk things through with him, but this was "Jake," a high-strung man with a vicious, hair-trigger temper. There was no guarantee that entrenched in the drugs trafficker persona as he appeared to be that Sherlock would behave like his friend, except John had to hope in Sherlock's bedrock immutability.
Having been tapped by Mycroft, the Met's drugs squad—whatever bloody unnamed organization within MI-5 and MI-6 with interests in the operations of global cartels—to evaluate if Sherlock had been undercover too long, John could plainly see that "Jake" was jittery, on high alert, and firing on all engines to survive.
But was Sherlock losing perspective? Behind this drugs-trafficker guise, how was the man John Watson knew—Sherlock Holmes? His friend excelled during investigations at gathering, analyzing, compiling evidence, whilst detaching from personal sentiments. His successes at undercover assignments—including those two years he spent dismantling Moriarty's network when John thought he was dead—were legendary. And John had rarely encountered Sherlock during such a job; usually it was after the detective had completed the assignment and had undergone the required debriefing. This glimpse of Sherlock totally consumed by his undercover role was startling. In light of this, Mycroft's concern seemed legitimate. The long-term assignment required not only stealth, but stamina. John held his genius-friend in the highest regard, both for his physical and mental prowess, yet Sherlock was still flesh and blood; even he had his limits.
John watched until the man—Jake or Sherlock—focused on him again.
There was a subtle shift in the facial expression, a change no surveillance cameras would detect, but perceptible to the one friend who thoroughly knew Sherlock Holmes. John leant in closer; no longer on guard that Jake would lash out, for the countenance was unmistakably Sherlock's.
"Like war…,"
So softly was the last said, John struggled to make out the words over the noise of the ferry motor and the rushing water.
"…a brutal business…difficult to explain," Sherlock admitted.
"I get it," John conceded.
"Do you?" Sherlock grunted.
"Try me."
A cheek muscle twitched and a scant smile flickered across Sherlock's face then was gone. He cleared his throat to whisper in his natural pitch and accent. "Listen. This …has been complicated…. Let's just say, major threats… have drawn notice …at the highest levels. My brother already knows all this …but I assure you, every precaution … has been taken."
Relieved to hear Sherlock in his true voice, John asked, "You've been… under…about…?
"Eighty-three days…"
"Two and a half months. Quite a lot of time…"
"Not really. Sometimes it takes years… By comparison, this's been quick…. You know my methods—" the pause was where Sherlock would have inserted John's name. Instead, he shook his head, indicating he did not want to divulge too much. "Done what needed to be done—" he quickly swallowed a bitterness that had entered his voice.
John heard remorse.
"I'm finally in position now…" Sherlock concluded hoarsely.
John nodded in understanding. "Position" meant Sherlock had had to build up a legend, an identity, had had to create a character profile that would withstand a cartel's scrutiny. It took time to do it seamlessly and even more time to make connections that would withstand not just scrutiny but life-endangering tests.
John was also hearing that Sherlock was not completely comfortable in the skin of "Jake Scott," the cartel's star player. Mycroft's "method actor" or not, Sherlock was not lost in the psyche of the character he had assumed as his brother had feared. Beneath this troubling veneer, his friend's conscience was intact. Of that one thing, John Watson was convinced.
John nodded, implying he understood. "And how's that going for you?"
"My past dabbling has been useful in authenticating my expertise. True—the experience was on the other side at times—but now this role is a perfect fit."
John conceded the lop-sided logic. "Quite right. Yes, brilliant...as long you're not tempted—"
"—it's business…" His friend adamantly shook his head. "Not recreational. Only an idiot would cloud the mind under these circumstances."
Yet…it happens to the best, John thought but held his tongue. He studied the hoodlum standing before him and hesitated, wondering—despite Mycroft's insistence— if he were the best judge for this assignment.
Having been outwitted by his friend's trickery and deliberate misdirection in the past, John wasn't sure he was any less gullible than he had been witnessing Sherlock's act atop St. Bart's. He had felt that something was wrong at the time but couldn't discount what he had seen. After the initial shock abated and his mind slowly accepted his loss, John could not shake the singular contradiction that had confounded him the most: Why would the genius detective, who did not care what stupid or wrong people thought, suddenly despair about his ruined reputation to the point of committing suicide? Despite this nagging feeling, he spent two years never peering past the magician's veil to expose the magic trick. Had he done so, he would have discovered his friend had not died that day.
When Sherlock had walked back into his life, John realized his instincts, his gut feelings—not his eyes, not his mind—had been right, had always been right. Since then, he had learnt to trust his feelings when it came to believing Sherlock—even when his eyes and mind were being pushed to accept a different reality.
This thought gave John confidence. Already he had discerned that Sherlock's moral sense had not been overpowered by Jake Scott's, but John wanted more proof—the truth hidden between the lines—that Sherlock was not wavering.
"Using the 'retail' is a bad idea. It eats up profits," Jake's persona seemed to be dominating the conversation even without the accent but John continued to listen for Sherlock. "No. The good ones never touch the stuff."
"Unless…even the good ones—speaking relatively here—" John found the opening he needed and doggedly advanced into dangerous territory, "are tested, coerced sometimes. It does happen, yes?"
Sherlock frowned at the open suspicions in John's question. His facial features shifted and in the next second, Jake was back, his eyes sly, his lips twisted, his voice vicious in his retort, "Fuck'ff!"
John's brows shot up, as troubled by the verbal rebuff as he had been when Jake had clutched his throat. Had he hit a nerve? Had Sherlock already been coerced? He watched his friend's face, its flexing jaw muscles and darting eyes bespeaking a battle between the drugs trafficker and detective, until an instant later, Jake's persona faded and Sherlock surfaced again.
"The truth," Sherlock began in the softest whisper requiring John to lean closer to hear. "There are tricks, sleights of hand, and sometimes, when all else fails, the means of persuasion to subvert occasional coercion. And there are other options—activated charcoal, other chemical antidotes. Haven't needed those yet."
"Truth, you say…," John latched on to the most important word in Sherlock's answer. Not so long ago, after all their past mistakes and miscommunications had tested their friendship, they had agreed—sworn—to do their best to provide the full truth with each other. John arched his brows, his sole question implicit in this body language: Is this your best?
Sherlock understood. He paused, put his hand up in a scouts'-honor gesture and whispered close to John's ear, "I'm clean, my friend." There was a welcoming warmth in how he pronounced my friend. "It's not been easy, I admit. There were a few close calls…"
"Quite." John flashed a nervous smile of belief and relief. Whilst he could no longer accompany Sherlock, he trusted his friend would do what he'd always done, skirt trouble and solve the crime. John's purpose in this rendezvous—quite aside from Mycroft's—was to remind his friend to be cautious…to take few risks…to accept help from others. "Merely checking to see… if you're …um…okay."
"That's what my regular 'uncle' is for. Why you?"
John thought before answering. "Because everyone thinks you'll listen to me."
Sherlock chortled. "Yeah. Little do they know…"
"That's what I told them," John snickered. A beat later he was again serious. "So…would you…listen…to me if I offer advice?"
Careful to keep emotion from his voice and face, Sherlock answered without hesitation, "I would take what you have to offer under advisement…More than from anyone else."
"I guess that's something, then."
They both chuckled this time, their brief laughter smoothing over the last bit of tension between them.
The ferry whistle blew twice, signaling it was approaching the pier. Their trip together was nearly over, but John still had questions. "How exactly does all this relate to…that pesticide-fogged bloke who believed in aliens…?"
Sherlock nodded. "What he found…was the tip of the iceberg…"
"So, when can you stop fiddling on the Titanic?"
"Not heading toward disaster, if that's what you think…" Sherlock frowned.
"Maybe not toward disaster, per se. Trust you'll jump ship before collision, but of course, you're known to like a challenge and wait until the last moment," John grinned, adding, "And the attempted murder angle…?"
"The devil's in the details… details, soon to be revealed." The smile that brightened his face was all Sherlock's.
"If your regular 'uncle' were here, what would you tell him?"
Sherlock's voice had dropped so low, John strained to hear. "One week more. Wait as directed."
"That's it? Then what?"
Again, the whispered words were faint, more understood by the motion of Sherlock's lips than John hearing their utterance. "The operation's over. Irrefutable evidence obtained… and the trafficker disappears…without a trace."
"All right, then…" John advised his friend. "…Work your magic and get the hell away—safely—understood?"
Their eyes met once more and this time, John found the connection he had been seeking from the first.
They exchanged brief smiles, Sherlock's fading first. He tilted his head. "What will you say…to my brother, then?" he asked guardedly.
The ferry slowed; its inertia shifted as the boat pivoted in to dock. "That I met …my friend and that he's okay. That he says you know the deal," he answered somberly as their time together was approaching its end. John's forehead furrowed with a question. "That's what you want me to say, yes? I trust it's the truth."
"You'll not regret…this," Sherlock assured him with an extended hand.
"I believe you." John accepted the proffered hand shake, no longer fearing a vicious reaction from the rogue, Jake Scott. Their hands clasped in friendship for a moment, letting go as the crew appeared on deck to moor the ferry.
"Unwise, perhaps," Sherlock said ruefully, "but not wrong…"
"Huh?" John shrugged at the non sequitur.
"My brother… Unwise, this, perhaps, but not wrong… to send you… You stimulate clarity …That's why you're here, isn't it?"
"It's all," John teased with a puckish straight face, "this shite-arse-tosser is good for, according to some.…"
"Hmmm, it's enough," Sherlock said before all semblance of the detective disappeared. Jake gave John a nasty sneer, turned, and strode off without another word.
88**88
88**88
88**88