BBC Sherlock: Almost Christmas
Chapter 12
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Once Rosie had gone off to school, they finished their coffees in weighty silence, sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table.
Aggravated by the delay in being notified—and Sherlock's overdramatic abuse of the doorbell to surprise him—John preferred not to open their conversation with a complaint. He didn't expect Sherlock—perennially at the epicenter of all action—to grasp what it meant to be on the outside of it. What put everything into perspective, however, was his relief that the operation had ended and that Sherlock had returned in one piece.
One piece but not without injury. As he had so often done, John did a cursory medical assessment of his friend when he followed Sherlock through to the kitchen. Most notably was Sherlock's limp, favoring his right foot, several yellow bruises and scabs along his neck on the same side of his facial scratches, glaringly visible when Sherlock removed his scarf. His hands held his mug steady but John detected an occasional tremor. No doubt there were more injuries Sherlock was concealing. John had learnt to bide his time where this aspect of Sherlock Holmes was concerned. He hoped case-talk would reveal these details.
"Good case, then?" John feigned nonchalance.
"Trickier than it seemed at first." Sherlock's voice was flat, his answer short, and his eyes down, staring into his coffee. He was uncharacteristically lackluster. The act of the garrulous uncle sharing party news with Rosie had disappeared once she had passed the threshold. In his stead was the moody detective John remembered all too well and had found insufferable when they were flat-mates.
John waited. When nothing more seemed forthcoming, he nudged, "Seriously, all fine?"
"The mission was accomplished to plan."
"No surprises?" John crossed his ankles with impatience.
"None worth mentioning." Sherlock sipped his coffee and looked at the breakfast dishes piled in the sink.
John narrowed his eyes but decided to ignore the lie for now. He sipped his own coffee. "You went from undercover as a guard to…. drug dealer, then?"
"Precisely."
Pulling teeth, are we? John was frustrated. He shoved the mug aside, placed his elbows on the table and clasped his hands before his mouth, a sign of his full attention. "Care to fill me in, then?"
Sherlock met John's inquisitive gaze with an inscrutable expression. "Much of this is classified—"
"Bloody hell!" John pushed back in his chair and folded his arms, annoyed by Sherlock's unexpected and unusual reticence. "That's never stopped you before …at least the unclassified parts."
"Indeed," Sherlock blinked away his inward-looking gaze to focus on John and his displeased grin. He nodded, giving his friend a peculiar smile. "You are correct. Forgive me. Been caught up in my thoughts." He shrugged and winced with pain. "I must add that speaking openly after all this time seems strange…" he exhaled a long sigh and gently rubbed his ribcage. "Out of practice… at being myself." A familiar gleam twinkled in Sherlock's eyes. "I see in my absence you have not lost your gift—for listening. So let me begin where it makes sense to you."
"Cheers, mate! That's more like it!" John smiled, feeling as pleased as if he had cured a patient of a lingering ailment. He drained the coffee that had long gone tepid and plunked the mug down with a decisive thud. "I've got all morning!"
"Obtaining evidence," Sherlock began with more verve in his voice, "was simplicity itself. Two weeks undercover as a security guard and I had got my evidence. The perpetrators—not hardened criminals—did little to cover their tracks and after enough rounds at their favorite pubs—hammered as they were—they were more than delighted to reveal what they knew. In vino veritas. I quickly learnt from Clive Gillam—an envious Security Central colleague of Hobbs'—about the scheme. The braggart was fast pub mates with a SafeGuard sanitizer. Together they decided to make quick money by luring Hobbs to the site that night. The cartel supplied the financial incentive, payback for their loss of £76millon-worth of cocaine that Hobbs had discovered in the bogus banana crates."
Yet, the longer Sherlock spoke, the more his mood lacked the customary, near-manic enthusiasm he brought to detailing his exploits. Rather, Sherlock's recitation hovered above an underlying disappointment. John suspected that this friend may not have attained the level of success he had expected.
"If you remember, John, the night of his 'alien encounter,' Hobbs had originally been off duty. He had been asked to cover another's shift. This Clive Gillam, colluding with the sanitizer for the cartel had rung him for the favor. Security personnel on duty that night had been instructed to wait a full hour after the fogging procedure had been completed, except Hobbs never got 'the memo' and walked right into danger."
John nodded. "He had been set up."
"And," Sherlock continued, "the sanitizer deliberately chose the most toxic chemical in their stockroom—organosphosphorus insecticides—when he filled his sprayer." Sherlock paused with a half-smile. "We encountered the culprit that time Scott Williams and his associate, Andrew, er Drew Panin, from BBC2 were scouting locations."
"No!" John's face fell. "Bollocks! Not …not…Ivan…um…Pet…what was his name?"
"Ivaylo Petrov."
"Him?"
"No, not him."
"Hold on," John responded, his palms up. "He was the one who showed us how he prepped all the foggers with the virucides, yes?"
Sherlock's half smile widened into a grin. It felt good discussing aspects of the case with John especially when his friend recalled salient details, however, it was the banter itself he relished…and had missed the most whilst undercover. Talking to John always gave him clarity. "Yes…but his prepping became standard procedure only after Hobbs was exposed to the toxins. Up until then, each worker loaded his own fogger. The incident report about Hobbs' accident claimed that one of the sanitizers mistakenly—we know now it was no mistake—selected the Zika virus pesticide for his spray device."
"Who then?"
"Liam Ipswich."
John's brow furrowed in confusion and he shook his head.
"Didn't expect you to remember. When we finished our electrostatic spraying demonstration with our friend Ivaylo that Sunday in December, I had observed one of the sanitizers hadn't returned before we left—him."
"Quite… You're right. I don't remember that or him."
"No matter." Sherlock waved dismissively. "I did. His absence that day left an impression. Apparently, there was a reason. Whilst undercover, I leant why Liam lagged behind. He regularly nicked items from the offices he cleaned and took extra time to squirrel the purloined items where he could retrieve them later, selling them for extra cash for his crack habit. My disguise as a guard prevented him from recognizing me when we shared beers,…doubtless his brain had been fogged by a lifetime of feckless choices. Still, he provided a valuable connection to the cartel…"
"And that led you…. to...to," John arched his brows, showing for the first time his concern about the more dangerous aspect of Sherlock's undercover involvement, "to…tackling the entire cartel? This I don't get. You just said you got your answer about what happened to Hobbs in the first two weeks. Case closed, right?"
"True…" Sherlock looked down into his mug again and swirled the liquid before taking a sip. His mood had soured. "The evidence I provided pointed the authorities in the right direction. They arrested and charged Clive and Liam, but…but…there was more to this case, John, than a simple murder attempt, much more…"
With a burst of energy that startled John, Sherlock sprang from the table to pace, remembering too late the injury to his right foot. He made no other outcry than a huff of surprise and gingerly walked back and forth whilst he spoke. He recounted for John how he had infiltrated the group to end their control of drugs importations to the UK. "I believed I'd had mentioned that the warehouse cargo of drugs in the banana crates was just the tip of the iceberg … It was an Everest of icebergs…and beneath it teemed the street community of drug users, prostitutes, and children, trafficked as commodities—the vulnerable victims!" Sherlock hissed heatedly.
John was following his friend's to and fro, puzzled by Sherlock's sudden vehemence. He unfolded his arms and shrugged. "Surely, in your past…um… dealings…," he referenced with tact Sherlock's own troubled history, "…you've experienced firsthand this same violence and oppression. What's different now?"
Sherlock scowled. "Exploitation, depravity, dependency, mental illness...it never ends. There will always be trafficking of drugs, arms, contraband, and people. But this time, John!" He raised a fist in anger."This time, I was in the right place at the right time with the right information to make a difference."
"How so?"
"As a security guard, I had learnt that there had been a series of recent assassinations. Top drug lords killed, one after the other in quick succession—in a matter of days—toppling the infrastructure of the organization and causing strife among surviving bosses and their hosts of dealers. Allegiances were in flux. Infighting led to chaos, and this vulnerability became the singular window of opportunity—the hairline fracture that could split this cartel apart permanently—but only if I acted on it, only if I became one of them—"
"You're talking about your Mr. Hyde act?"
Sherlock stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Fair analogy, although the fiction of 'Mr. Hyde' was a chemical experiment gone wrong, not an act. Jake Scott was an act… except, he found his authenticity in a 'toxic' side of … me."
"Scary bloke, that." John looked into the middle distance of recollection before returning his focus to Sherlock. "You scared Mycroft, too."
Sherlock quirked an amused brow. "Yes, well, scaring big brother is my service to him. Fear raises his metabolism and keeps the weight off."
"Apparently, you scared your 'uncle,' too." John ignored Sherlock's misplaced humor, more curious about the sinister figure he had met aboard the Water Spout.
"No wonder." Sherlock's glee faded, his mouth reset into a stern thin line. "It was essential that Jake appear to all as a savage and dangerous man. The things he did …." His eyes darkened with a black look, almost as if Jake's memory—not brown contacts—had transformed Sherlock's natural pigmentation. He squeezed his eyes shut at the memory and shook his head. "He was as contemptable as the rest of them: weaponizing empathy to gain advantages, perpetuating addictions, expanding the trafficking." His eyes suddenly turned imploring, wanting John's understanding. "But there was no other way. Believe me, John, I tried. For it to work, I had to blend in, to become as despicable and keep to the scheme—"
"—that you were working in cooperation with OCP and related agencies," John muttered softly, "meant this scheme had their endorsement."
Sherlock nodded and resumed pacing now with hands clasped behind his back. "Unlike dismantling Moriarty's network, this operation required massive assistance from trained squads." Sherlock's expression softened; his glance sank to the floor and he stopped again. "John, um…. As I've indicated before, it had grown too complicated to involve you…"
John's sole response was a slow nod of agreement.
Sherlock rolled back his shoulders and cleared his throat. "You jested during our rendezvous on the ferry that 'everyone thought I'd listen to you.' Well, as the adage goes: truer things are said in jest." Sherlock looked up and met John's gaze. "I listened. Sound reason—whether mine or yours—must always prevail. Beneath everything you had said then, I had heard your support. Your belief was fortifying... As you can see, the operation came 'safely'—to use your word—to a close."
John smiled with appreciation, warmed by his friend's admission.
Sherlock resumed pacing. "So, you see, my objective for assuming the guise of Jake Scott was to bring down one of the worst cartels… because… for the first time, it seemed possible. I couldn't, in good conscience, let this cartel establish new roots that would foster growth."
"In good conscience, is it?" John was no longer surprised by the man who once had argued: "Will caring about them help save them?" In the early years of their association, he had seen only a keen, cool sense of justice beneath Sherlock's cold intellect. Over the ensuing years of their interaction and friendship, however, John Watson had watched the slow unfolding of the man's humanity. With these latest revelations, John sensed Sherlock's recent undercover operation had shifted from an intellectualized interest in a cold case to seeking justice for humane reasons. "Was there a...a personal motivation," he asked cautiously, "that inspired…this crusade?"
Brow furrowed, Sherlock paused in place, giving John a sharp look. "I should be reluctant to give credence to personal motivation but…" his expression relaxed in the next moment, "John Watson, you may seem consistently obtuse in discerning obvious clues, but you continue to astonish with your keen insights."
John congratulated himself silently, despite Sherlock's backhanded compliment. Right! So there is someone.
"You know I'm not ruled by my heart to pursue my investigations," Sherlock replied evenly.
John pulled a comic face and huffed an aside, "From time to time, Sherlock, I've considered entitling a few of my blog entries, The Case of the Heartless Detective, except," he added kindly, "that wouldn't have been completely accurate—"
"And how would that differ from your usual accounts?" Sherlock countered with a smug grin and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
John snickered. Touché
"Well, John. It's better to learn wisdom late than never learn it at all. Whilst so much of this…investigation…had the same elements: the same squalor, degradation, victims, some of them children I had seen countless times before, this time...my perspective had...I...have changed." Sherlock's eyes shot to the Christmas portrait of John with Rosie in its glittery frame.
John followed his friend's glance and his eyes widened in wonder: had Rosie been at the heart of his motivation?
"It has become clearer to me that the future—that children—need protection," Sherlock stated with his head bowed. "My life spent in one long effort to protect…them, starting with your daughter…may not make up for Rosie's loss of her mother—or yours of Mary—but it is an investment I am prepared to make."
Years ago, Sherlock had been shaken and mystified by Mary's loss. "In saving my life, she conferred a value on it. It is a currency I do not know how to spend." Whilst Sherlock Holmes would forever strive toward impartiality and indifference over emotions on his investigations, in deference to Mary's sacrifce, he had made more effort to exchange genuine sentiments, a currency of sorts, with those few people in his life about whom he cared most deeply.
John flashed a smile of fondness at his friend and pat Sherlock on the back in silent gratitude.
Sherlock accepted the endorsement with a slight nod, although neither looked at the other to confirm what had been shared.
Instead, Sherlock resumed his narrative. "That sense of having been here before—too many times before to little effect—strongly impelled me to seize this rare opportunity to destroy them from within—to become the Trojan horse."
"More than just a decoy, according to Mycroft."
Sherlock managed a wan smile. "A necessary evil, as I'm certain even you will appreciate. That identity safeguarded me and was vital to my mission. Yes, whilst I feared the Jake Scott persona would continue to ruin the lives of the already unsalvageable, I had to believe—this once—that the end would justify the means"
"Still, the Dragon Slayer… even as a dark knight," John noted.
They stood side by side and stared out the window. The foggy mist beyond the glass, however, held no interest for them, for each was reflecting on their private thoughts.
John nudged his friend with his elbow, making sure he stayed away from the ribcage, and began, "Been meaning to ask—what had you meant that day when you said Mycroft was unwise to send me?"
Sherlock did not immediately respond. His eyes gradually lost their distant stare and at last connected with John's. "Seeing you there rather than my usual contact… was a jolt. It forced me to …break character from someone I'd had to be … think, live, breathe… unbroken for months."
"Huh," John didn't understand. He thought he had been careful during the meeting, "Forced you? Forced you how?"
Sherlock gave a John a grim look.
The memory of the pressure on his larynx became suddenly vivid. John massaged his throat, "You mean …Jake, the man you were portraying, would have been more violent?"
"The man I had become."
"Become then," John conceded, swallowing his concern. "Had meeting me put you in jeopardy?"
"Besides, being out of place, your presence was a ploy—Mycroft used you—to get into my head so I would eject Jake Scott. But that put me and Jake in jeopardy. My brother had failed to comprehend that it would be difficult to return to the persona I had created and resume the operation as Jake, because I despised the dealer and everything he stood for. When I momentarily shed him to meet with you, it was abhorrent to bring him back."
At John's dismayed look, Sherlock assured him. "As I mentioned at that time, it was unwise of Mycroft, but not necessarily wrong. Meeting 'John Watson' in such an unexpected place was a reset button for 'Sherlock Holmes.' It lit my way out in what had become a very dark passage."
"Good thing that, no?" John exhaled in relief. "But, what happened after?"
"I managed to return to his—Jake's—mindset, with some difficulty…and in time to complete the main objective of the mission."
"Some difficulty?…hmmm. Might it, explain this?" John gestured at Sherlock's facial and neck abrasions and bruises.
Sherlock raised his hand to cover them.. "A challenge by a minor dealer, someone Jake had been able to trust."
"Challenge—how?"
"Jake Scott… rather, I …was caught off guard and confronted with a knife to my throat on my doorstep. This dealer hissed in my ear, 'you're fucking drugs squad! You're fucking DS. I know you are!' In that instant, I feared I had failed. A moment later, his girlfriend was behind us. She was laughing and snickering, 'Ha! Frankie, he was almost gonna say he was, then! Shite!'"
"Jesus, Sherlock!" John groaned. This time he squeezed his friend's forearm in commiseration. "They were just taking the mickey, then?"
Sherlock did not flinch at his friend's touch. "Apparently," he merely replied casually, "the dealer—not one of the 'good' ones as he often used his own supply—appeared to have lost the plot. He would never have pranked Jake if he hadn't been high as a kite. But… at the moment he confronted me, I was still not Jake…"
"What did you do?"
"I became Jake. And broke his arm," Sherlock grimaced at the memory. "And just that quickly, Jake Scott was back in form and vigilant, until the extraction…"
"Broke his arm!" It was a disturbing image, one John would not easily forget. "According to the news report, the pursuit sounded dire."
"That was the intention. Doubt anyone would grieve Jake Scott's loss."
"So the foot injury…what is it, a broken toe? And some contusions to the ribcage? Are they from the 'fatal' car accident and fire…?
Sherlock nodded. "Minor injuries. There were unforeseen difficulties with my extraction and my escape maneuvers were…ah… not completely clean."
"Oi. You're back now …as of two days…ago?"
"Four, actually. Shouldn't believe the news, John…."
"Four days!" John growled. He waved his mobile at Sherlock. "This not working, was it? Greg or Mycroft, someone…if not you…couldn't ring me, then?—" John made no attempt to hide his annoyance. He placed both fists on his hips and watched his friend roam through the sitting room, trying to decide where to sit. "You owe me an answer."
Sherlock sat carefully in the rocking chair—his fingers tapping the arms restlessly—and rocked. He avoided looking at John as he replied, "Wasn't in the best shape… Debriefing was difficult, at first… I was a bit out of my head, or so they told me later…"
John wasn't sure how to process the "difficulties-with-the-extraction" and the "out-of-his-head" bits in Sherlock's cryptic answers. He let that go and asked, "Your hand tremors… from… substance abuse?"
Sherlock looked down at both hands, now steady. "If you consider excessively high doses of nicotine and caffeine…to keep me alert… and some other uppers….substance abuse? Well… then, yes. Truth: I was quite wound up—after."
"—you actually mean, mental, yes?"
"—Restrained at first and watched for the first thirty-two hours until I detoxed. It was my decision not to inform you until I had finished. Then, I came straightaway—."
"So…. you're better now, is it?"
"Enough.…to visit." Sherlock nodded and made a sweeping gesture indicating John's home. "Will need some follow-up, though."
Follow up? John would have to get to the bottom of it all by checking his friend's medical reports. "That explains it a bit." Not placated, John pushed. "Why not ring me this morning en route, then?"
"Would have, but…thought, since I'd waited so long, what would be a few more minutes to surprise you?" Sherlock looked oddly sheepish.
"For fuck's sake!" John vented as he would never permit himself to do if Rosie were home. It was his turn to pace. "You haven't learnt have you? "
"Yes, I admit… it backfired…again…can't seem to get the timing right," Sherlock perceived John's mounting displeasure from his friend's aggravated turn on the carpet. "The idiot cabbie had GPS difficulties. An unexpected setback. Couldn't negotiate the 'burbs—which is why your living in a townhouse in a dull part of London is such an inconvenience. Otherwise, I should have arrived well before the broadcast."
John stopped short and glared at Sherlock, eloquently.
"Yes. Well…" Sherlock opened his mouth a few times and pursed his lips. He gave an awkward chuckle and rocked more energetically. "Bad decision, that. Thought I'd beat the press conference." He flashed his friend a goofy grin. "Why ring when the in-person reveal would be much more satisfying?"
"Christ!" John threw his hands up. "You're still a drama queen, Sherlock!" He halted before his rocking friend and looked down. "Satisfying? That so?"
Sherlock stopped rocking and looked up into John's unsmiling face. "Yes…"
John was intrigued. "Why?"
Sherlock's contrite expression registered the bad form in his prank. "It's been a while since…since… any such reveal….and your face is usually…" he trailed.
"This face?" John purposely scowled.
Sherlock maintained a somber demeanor for several seconds more, then, his contrition cracked like an egg and he sniggered behind a clenched fist, "Especially that face…"
"Christ! You are a proper cock!" John snorted an exasperated laugh and shook his head. "You're lucky I don't break your arm—"
"Quite overdramatic, that," Sherlock teased with infuriating smugness. "As it's your fault—"
John rolled his eyes and squelched his irritation, though not before giving his friend a hyena's warning grin. "Besides not ringing me in advance, what other bad decisions have you made in the last three months?"
"Too many to name," Sherlock's puckish smile faded. John's question had reopened a deep vault in the Mind Palace where the darkest secrets were kept. "But at least one global cartel has been wiped from the earth. I regret I cannot promise more."
For more than an hour, Sherlock had spoken about the challenges and dangers in subverting the cartel. Was he implying his efforts had failed? John instantly recalled Mycroft's warning: "…he may suffer from deep regrets later. Sherlock has scruples, superior to mine it seems. He's… has been known to suffer from… a crisis of conscience … in private moments. In the aftermath of this case, I fear there may be danger nights."
"No one is asking for more..." John countered, certain this was the reason that Sherlock had been appearing glum all morning. John sank down on the sofa, bracing for the unexpected.
"I am." Sherlock's eyebrows drew down in frustration. He struck his palm with his fist and sneered, "I've come to regret that I am but one man against monsters."
"One dragon at a time, mate." John counseled.
"It's a start," Sherlock gnawed at his cheek and rocked in silence for several moments. When he spoke again, he had regained his composure. "I once believed I could succeed where others failed. Now tested, I've come up short of my expectations. Still, I remain a realist, John. I know there is no easy means to rid the world of all its criminal masterminds, especially when corruption is so lucrative and…seductive."
"Tilting at windmills?" John ventured in agreement and leant back in the sofa. "Still…" he looked at the ceiling to capture his thoughts. "I'm paraphrasing of course, but you did say that life would be boring without criminals, yes?"
"Boring indeed, John." Sherlock's grave expression eased. He yawned and stretched his long legs in front of him, tired from the turmoil or recounting Jake Scott's experiences. "The antidote to the doldrums is twisted puzzles and crimes to solve! It's that or beekeeping."
"Beekeeping?" John scoffed.
"A microcosm of creatures more intriguing than the criminal world of London. I've been contemplating it as a future…avocation."
Unsure if Sherlock was taking the piss, John chuckled. "I'll believe that when I see it. So… not Christmas, then?"
Sherlock puzzled at John's non sequitur
"This case …?" John remembered that unforgettable second day of their acquaintance, when the invalided soldier had first heard the peculiar prospective flat-mate exclaim: "Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!"
Sherlock's cheek twitched in amusement. "Not quite… Almost Christmas!" he clapped his hands—as if to vanquish the demons in the room. "Anyway, John, I have one loose end on this case left to tie up. It may involve you."
"Seriously?" John's breath hitched with excitement. He slid to the edge of the sofa cushion and palmed his knees. "What?"
"You shall see," Sherlock replied mysteriously and launched himself like a rocket from the rocker. Careful how he landed on his right foot, he crossed to the kitchen to retrieve the coat and scarf he had left folded over a chair.
"Hold on!" John stood in protest. "Where are you going?"
"Thanks for the caffeine fix…um, coffee. No worries. It was too weak to have any effect." Sherlock winced at the pull on his ribs as he shoved his arms into his coat sleeves. "Must press on. Statements to make, reports to file, things to do."
"You're leaving me hanging, then…?" John followed his friend, perplexed by the speed at which Sherlock was moving. The coffee may not have been that weak.
"Of course not," Sherlock knotted his scarf. "You have patients waiting at the surgery. I checked. Unless you'd like to rearrange you afternoon diary and join me."
John was sorely tempted, but his obligations to his patients outweighed his personal preferences. He shrugged. "Can't…at least, not today."
Sherlock paused with his hand on the doorknob, hearing John's regret and feeling his own—both for wanting John's companionship and trying to weaken his friend's resolve. "Next time, then."
"And this loose end you mentioned?" John did not even try to disguise his eagerness.
Sherlock opened the door and turned round to give his friend a cagey smile, "I promise to ring you about it in due course."
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