BBC Sherlock: Almost Christmas
Chapter 11
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March 2022
Trust in the truth was sorely tested as the week dragged. His "ear to the ground" for any news, John trod the round of work at the surgery and his daily domestic routines. Not even their mind-numbing tedium, could prevent him from imagining what was happening in the underworld Sherlock inhabited as Jake Scott. And not knowing kindled dark thoughts.
Each night before retiring and every morning, first thing, John watched telly to follow the daily reports. The Russian invasion of Ukraine dominated all media, John found himself both relieved and slightly disappointed that nothing significant about a drugs busts broke into the headlines. Despite keeping his mobile juiced and ready on his bedside table, neither notifications nor texts disturbed his already restive nights.
Was no news really good news? he wondered as the days segued into a second week.
Even knowing that open inquiry about the operation was unadvisable, John had rung Lestrade several times and always received noncommittal replies to his vague question: "How's it going?" Had they met after hours for a pint, they might have communicated through body language, but emergencies at the surgery and heightened alerts at the Met thwarted their few attempts. As the week closed, John admitted to himself that he was angry. As much as he hated the idea of eventually finding out from the Beeb, he resented even more relying on Mycroft or Greg to apprise him of Sherlock's status. Frustration fueled his temper.
More than ten days after his rendezvous on the ferry with Sherlock, John stood bleary-eyed in his kitchen, refilling his coffee mug after another night of restless sleep. Rosie chattered at the breakfast table, almost drowning the telly in the background.
With half-a-mind John heard the newsreader make the oft-quoted statement about "the strength of Ukraine's resistance surprising Russia." As the frightening events unfolded and crimes against civilians continued for weeks in Ukraine, John had felt sidelined watching with the rest of the world. His increasing concern for the people was coupled with admiration for President Zelensky. It was not enough that the world was behind Ukraine's defence against Putin, who aimed at siezing complete control; something more needed to be done. Would the sanctions against the Russian econonmy be effective? John looked up at the television. On the screen, the PM, who the previous month had been under fire for holding a Christmas party at Number 10 during the 2020 lockdown, among other things, was talking. He was extolling the UK's "a six-point plan in reaction to Russia's invasion of Ukaine." The less-than-flattering image of Johnson, his yellow straw-like hair tufted in wild spikes above his head, oddly reminded John of Worzel Gummidge, a scarecrow character from a children's TV show. Sometimes Mrs. Hudson reminded him of Aunt Sally. The brief thought dissolved instantly when Rosie addressed him.
"Look, Daddy. I count nine bananas today, see!" she exclaimed, using her spoon to separate the sliced fruit in her bowl of porridge. "Yesterday, I had eight!" she recalled, engaging him in their morning numbers-and-counting game.
"This just in. Seven people have been arrested by the National Crime Agency as part of a major international investigation into the exportation of cocaine from the UK to Australia."
The breaking news demanded John's full attention.
"That's one more banana today than yesterday, isn't it, Daddy?" Rosie observed proudly.
"Wait, love," he shushed his daughter, grabbing the remote to raise the volume. "I want to hear this…"
"Two women and four men have been detained by NCA officers at an address in East Twickenham overnight. A 31-year-old man was also arrested at a location in Hounslow. Seized from the Hanwell address was gold bullion thought to be worth in excess of £850,000 and keys to a safety deposit box containing £95,000 international bearer bonds. All were arrested on suspicion of conspiring to export Class-A drugs, fraud and for breaches of the Aviation Security Act. The arrests followed a seizure of around 500 kilos of cocaine at Sydney Airport on 6 March."
The BBC newsreader continued, "The Organized Crime Partnership—a joint partnership among the National Crime Agency, the Metropolitan Police Service and Europol—is being credited with an operation resulting in arrests nationwide and across Europe as part of the EU's and UK's fight against organized crime. Among these are arrests of five British men after nearly £19 million worth of cocaine was discovered on a yacht sailing from the Caribbean to Europe. And not far in Birmingham, a 50-year-old man was arrested as part of a National Crime Agency investigation after he arrived at Birmingham Airport. Border Force officers seized his bag, which contained thirteen packages of veggie chunks. Closer examination of the packages showed 5.25 kg of high-purity cocaine was hidden inside."
Mid-sentence, the newsreader touched his earpiece and paused. "We go now live outside City Hall here in London where OCP Operations Manager Brian McCormick is holding a press conference."
The broadcast quickly cut to the location where a man in a suit and tie stood outside the swirling glass-and-steel, beehive-like structure.
"...OCP has executed a massive roundup," McCormick wore a pleased smile as he addressed the cluster of reporters holding microphones and jostling each other for the best soundbites, "spanning the UK, the EU, territories, and affiliates. Over the last three months, the NCA has been involved in an undercover operation that has led to this week's seizure, forfeiting, or restraining of more than £1.1b and 1,000 tonnes of drugs globally. This takedown is expected to have a huge impact on the wider organized crime groups, depriving them of potentially millions of pounds in profit that would have been used to fund further criminality and exploitation."
McCormick's pause for a breath after his long-winded statement was instantly filled by reporters prodding him with questions and talking over each other. One reporter louder than the rest pipped up above the others. "Any fatalities to report?" Her inquiry attracted echoes of interest from her colleagues.
Remote in hand John stood riveted to his television set.
Flash bulbs strobed, cameras clicked, as McCormick reset his pleased expression to appear more serious. He looked directly at the woman reporter and answered, "None of our officers were among the several fatalities during the weeklong raids."
"Can you list the fatalities, then?" another reporter shouted.
John hitched a breath.
McCormick bobbed his head in assent. "Three days ago, during an international investigation involving the National Crime Agency and led by the Dutch National Police, three armed Vietnamese nationals, who at this stage are not being named, initiated attack with lethal weapons. They were killed during the altercation. Two days ago, a 29-year-old man in Bristol, Nigel Behn, fell to his death from a building whilst evading apprehension. Also, two days ago, here in London, a 46-year-old man exchanged in gunfire with firearms officers whilst resisting arrest, then fled in a stolen vehicle. A high-speed police chase ensued until he lost control of his vehicle. The collision caused the car to catch light, killing him."
This was the news John Watson had been anticipating—and dreading—since his clandestine meeting with Sherlock days before. Wrestling with and trying to discount the details from the broadcast, John quelled his nagging fears with the memory of Sherlock's assurance that "the trafficker disappears…without a trace..."
The doorbell chimed suddenly making John start.
It was too early for Rosie's carpool to school. It was unlikely to be his neighbors as they would ring his mobile, not his doorbell. If this were the "courtesy call" from Lestrade or Mycroft that he had been expecting for days, the timing was decidedly lousy. "Hold on!" he grumbled, compelled to listen to the rest of the televised account before answering the door.
"The victim, identified as Jacob Scott," McCormick continued, "had been under long-term investigation by the OCP for allegedly supplying cocaine as well as laundering millions of pounds. He had been touted as the top drugs trafficker for one of the UK's largest criminal networks—"
John bit back his rising anger with Greg and Mycroft. Two days ago, it happened, two days ago! The more he thought about the delay, the greater his vexation intensified. Fuck it! Fuck them! They're contacting me only now?
The doorbell continued its clamor with a persistence impossible to ignore. Definitely not the neighbors. Still, John waited for the OCP spokesperson to provide more content about Jacob Scott's demise.
McCormick, however, had moved on to another aspect of the investigation. "NCA have made a significant arrest in Colindale of an Afghan national suspected of running a criminal enterprise which smuggled migrants. This human exploitation is a priority for the NCA."
This time, the doorbell choked three short, impatient dings, followed by two longer dinnngdoooongs.
Rosie climbed off her chair, left her partially eaten porridge at the table and crossed toward her father. "Daddy…?"
John didn't respond. Rather, he was lost in thought processing the news and beset by a sudden worry about who was at his door. Notification of loss would not be done by telephone—but in person. It was police procedure. Dread made his legs leaden. Gradually he became aware of his excited daughter, tugging on his arm, urging him toward the foyer.
"Whoa! Just a minute, young lady," he resisted, ignoring the heave in his stomach when he thought he had heard her say, "It's Uncle Sherlock."
Certain Rosie could not possibly know the BBC news story was about Sherlock, John pointed to the door,"This…is not for you." Though he frowned at his daughter, he was more perplexed with himself for stalling.
"But, Daddy, I wanna—," she spluttered in protest as the doorbell chimed frenetically. Then it stopped suddenly.
"—Finish your breakfast, Rosie!" John insisted with untoward sternness. He bit back his irritation with more than just her and knelt before his daughter. Taking her by the shoulders, he added in a calmer voice. "Your ride will be here soon …Push along, now! Scoot."
Rosie gave him a grumpy face and stubbornly stood her ground. John had no wish to indulge or engage her further in a dispute that could escalate into a scene, so he stood and pivoted her gently behind him to shield her from the door. Uneasy about what to expect, he glanced down at his feet and took a deep breath, but before he could lay his hand on the doorknob he thought he heard the lock turning as if the caller had a key.
"Please, Daddy. I know it's—," Rosie whinged.
"Not now, Rosie!" he commanded sharply, glaring at his daughter as his front door swung open.
"Trouble?" A baritone voice asked innocently.
John looked up, did a double take and felt the scowl slide from his face. He shook his head. "Hmmm...," he managed hoarsely, overwhelmed by relief. "… Trouble's …your middle name, isn't it?—"
"Uncle Sherlock!" Rosie clapped her hands and giggled behind her protective father. "I knew it was you! The doorbell only sounds silly when it's you!"
"Thought you'd recognize my signal, Rosie," Sherlock said, pocketing his lock-pick kit as he peered around the dazed-and-silent father and down at the daughter behind him. "Your daddy has taken to ignoring me. Had to let myself in, it seems." He again eyed his friend who continued to block the entry. "John? May I…?"
"Huh? Of course, of course," John mumbled, off balance from the anger-relief merry-go-round he had just ridden, and stood back from the threshold to let his friend enter.
Unlike the last time they met, Sherlock Holmes was properly recognizable by his greatcoat and blue scarf. Less so was his uncovered head, close-cropped and curl-less. His hollow cheeks made him seem more gaunt, more drawn than John's memory of him. The nicotine-stained teeth had been whitened; his scruffy ginger beard had been shaved clean, but his pale skin showed fresh, scabbed-over scratches across his jaw. Restored, however, were his brilliant eyes, clear and piercing, which in that moment were returning John's stare. A lopsided smile dimpled his right cheek.
Rosie raised her arms for a hug, but instead Sherlock patted the top of her head—his customary response. Appeased, she hopped happily around him, asking, "Do you wanna hear 'bout my birthday party? It was two weeks ago. I'm seven now. We had cupcakes!"
Sherlock arched one brow in amusement and followed Rosie into the kitchen. "I suppose your father will have to wait a bit until I hear your news." He poured himself the last of the coffee and sat across from Rosie at the table as she tucked into her porridge again. "Mind, my dear Watson, I will tolerate no embellishments. You'd best hurry, too. If I'm not mistaken, your ride will be here soon."
Sherlock engaged the child in exchanges about balloons, icing, gifts, and playmates as John strolled into the sitting room and rang the surgery to confirm he had the latter shift and that his appointment calendar left him free all morning. Sherlock owed him a full account and John was going to be damned sure he got one, first thing.
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