BBC Sherlock Almost Christmas
Epilogue
88**88
April 2022
Mrs. Hudson had rung John—out of the blue on Sunday morning—requesting a "shop-and-tea day" with Rosie for that very afternoon. The Watsons, though caught short by the sudden notice, had little difficulty rearranging their diary for this "girls-only" special occasion, especially as their planned Sunday routine was far less exciting. At the appointed hour, John and his enthusiastic daughter rendezvoused with her godmother for a Build-A-Bear Workshop—more like a Build-A-Bunny Workshop in anticipation of Easter—at Selfridges.
London was bustling with shoppers in search of spring sales. A drizzle that was more mist than rain, feathered the faces of those who braved the elements without umbrellas. The pavement gleamed like polished stone as bare-headed John in his weathered wax jacket—collar up—and Rosie hooded in her pink raincoat and umbrella hurried through the throng.
They spotted Mrs. Hudson, a slight figure in a yellow London Fog coat beneath a floral-patterned umbrella, waiting for them outside the Orchard Street entrance. John called out. She reciprocated with her bright smile and a quivering wave.
From a distance, Mrs. Hudson seemed as impeccably turned out as ever: her makeup precisely applied and her auburn hair styled to compensate for the bad-hair day. Self-care was an important sign of vitality and general wellbeing in the aged. John was pleased that Mrs. Hudson despite her advancing years appeared as vital as ever. Yet when she greeted the father and daughter on the pavement, something seemed amiss.
"Hoo hoo, darling! Lovely splash jacket. Cute butterflies," she fussed over Rosie and the matching pattern on both her raincoat and umbrella. When she added, "…John…" his name sounded like an afterthought.
"This is a nice turn for a dull day," John offered, standing back from the eye-poking tips of both colorful brollies.
"Ah, humm," Mrs. Hudson touched her boney finger against thin lips tinted with her favorite shade of lipstick and looked down as if she was at a loss for words. It was a subconscious gesture she frequently used when trying to say less.
John puzzled over her reaction and filled the awkward conversational void—an unimaginable rarity for his former landlady—by asking his daughter. "You think, Rosie?"
"Oh, yes, Daddy, great fun," Rosie bubbled, swirling her umbrella behind her head like a kaleidoscope. "It's soooooo much better," she admitted with the frankness of a seven-year-old. "Nana, Daddy thinks sport on the telly and folding laundry on Sundays are fun. I don't."
"Got to agree with you, my love," Mrs. Hudson showed no hesitation in replying to Rosie. She bowed forward and added in a consolatory voice, "Sounds boring to me." Her emphasis on boring echoed Sherlock's undertones.
"Ah…Well done, Rosie," John objected sheepishly, offended by Mrs. Hudson's critical tone and embarrassed by his daughter's revelation, implying their weekends were always mundane. "Not every Sunday is for laundry,"
"Look on the bright side, dearie," the kindly old woman spoke as if John's input were irrelevant. "Let's say you were off on some great adventure. Then we wouldn't be meeting now, you see? There is something to be said about ordinary people leading ordinary lives. It gives them an opportunity to try something different every now and then."
"Sometimes we plan fun things, too…"John insisted, trying to remember when they had planned something his daughter would identify as fun. Sadly, it had been a while…
"Not like this!" Rosie countered quickly, but noting her father's hurt expression, she sidled closer to him to pat his arm. "That's okay, Daddy. I know I do lots all week. You say Sunday is for relaxing but…" she swiveled toward her godmother, nearly smacking John in the face with pink butterflies. "Nana's the best! Thank you."
"Pleasure's all mine, my sweet!" The warmth Mrs. Hudson showered on Rosie was in sharp contrast to the chill she was showing John. "Say goodbye to Daddy, now..."
Have I insulted her? John frowned. His eyes narrowed. Or is she hiding something?
"Everything okay, Mrs. H?" he asked.
"Of course, of course… John." She peered past him as if to someone beyond. Her smile stiffened and she nodded her head.
John nearly turned around to see what drew her eye, but with her free hand, she reached for his arm and repeated her assurances. Then, like a dial that had been suddenly turned up, her effervescence heightened and her manner became rushed. "But…you know…ah…We've got so much planned today, us girls." She giggled a high-pitched cackle that was fortunately brief. "And ….and …we don't want to miss any of it." She dropped John's arm, stepped away and clasped Rosie's hand. "Come, come, my darling girl! Mustn't make hmmmm…them… I…I …mean the people at the Workshop wait… Heavens! It vexes them so. That won't do! Are you ready to build a bunny, Love?"
Rosie needed little urging. "Oh, yes!" None too gently, she tugged her godmother by the hand, toward the entrance.
John felt unsettled by too many things to name and uncertain about leaving his charged-up daughter with the off-kilter Mrs. Hudson. He watched them collapse their umbrellas to shake off raindrops before entering. "You know… I could shop while you're...building the…thing…whatever…," he called after then, trailing his offer because it was the last thing he wanted to do. Yet, in his haste to arrive on time, he had barely considered how to occupy his unexpected liberty from parental responsibilities. Hanging in the shops seemed properly pathetic.
"Cheers, John!" Mrs. Hudson bid another goodbye over her shoulder, ignoring his offer, but this time she caught and held his eyes. She gave him a conspiratorial wink and followed the little girl into the famous department store.
John watched the pair whilst pedestrians pushed past and around him. He felt slighted by Mrs. Hudson's brusque behavior. He was considering drying off and enjoying a cuppa in one of Selfridge's restaurants when his mobile sounded a text alert.
"It's convenient now. Meet me. SH"
John's mouth fell open at the perfectly timed text. His eyes widened and then he chuckled softly.
That's why she was acting odd—Sherlock's shill.
"Meet you where?" John muttered aloud as he inputted his question.
"Here," came the reply before he could press send.
Astonished, John looked up in the direction of the voice.
Passers-by parted around the unmistakable figure in the signature greatcoat and blue cashmere scarf approaching John. Sherlock's dark hair was curling and damp with mist, his usually impassive expression softened, this once, by a mischievous glint in his eyes.
John snorted an amused laugh at his friend's ambush.
"You're dis…engaged. Time to tie up loose ends…as promised," Sherlock flashed a grin and deployed an umbrella large enough for both men. Then, he made an about face and headed toward Oxford Street, expecting John to follow.
Quick-stepping, John caught him up. They walked side by side, steps in synch, as the rain picked up.
"Returned several days ago from the Continent... ," Sherlock launched into his narrative—this meeting was at his instigation, after all. "…Last week I was consulted by François le Villard, an up-and-comer in the French Sûreté... The case concerned a missing will and possessed some features of interest. I referred him to two parallel cases, one at Riga in 2019, the other at St. Louis in 2017, which have suggested the solution to him. Currently, I'm immersed in an abstruse and complicated problem concerning the peculiar persecution to which John Vincent Harden, the tobacco millionaire, is being subjected…"
For nearly ten minutes, Sherlock regaled John with a litany of cases he had taken in the past weeks since last they spoke, along with their scale of difficulty. The longer he talked without seeking a response from his patient audience, the wiser John became to Sherlock's scheme.
"—Right," John interrupted Sherlock with a nudge to his shoulder. "I know what you're doing, here, diverting my attention with other cases. You're trying to prevent me from asking what you've got up your sleeve —right now."
Sherlock's expression was closed-off, unreadable, until, in spite of the shadow cast by the umbrella, John saw the slightest uptick of a smile.
"You've set aside the entire afternoon," John continued, "for loose ends?"
"Yes. Yes. I arranged all this," Sherlock admitted in a bored whinge to convey the tedium of such minor manipulations. "Booked the build-a-thingy workshop for your daughter days ago when I was certain your diary was empty—which is nearly all the time, but of course, I checked with the surgery to verify…."
"Build a Bear? How did you come up with that idea?"
"It was Rosie's idea, actually. In her birthday greeting card to me, she obviously based her bear drawing on an advert for the workshop. 'The power of suggestion is a strong tool in the hands of an artist.' I drew my conclusions that it might appeal to her."
"Obviously. Brilliant. And Mrs. Huson's complicity?"
"She had no initial objections. Had to accompanied her here, however. Despite her willingness to participate in this ploy, she seemed uncomfortable about deceiving you. I had warned her not to arouse your suspicions. From what I observed she failed miserably at discretion. I will have to speak to her about her deplorable disinterest in developing any undercover skills."
"Well, …um…Sherlock, she is in her eighties—" John countered in her defense.
"—Age is no excuse…nor should it be. She can be exceedingly clever when she wants…"
"Truth be told, she had me guessing a bit back there." John thumbed behind them.
"That's due to your generous faith in the human heart, not her subterfuge."
John grinned at Sherlock's knack for making a compliment sound insulting. "You're joking…we both know, she's amazing and continues to surprise us. So…., speaking of surprises, where are we headed?"
"Kingly Street."
John darted a quick look at his friend. "Hang on. Isn't that where —?"
"Unfinished business." Sherlock nodded in agreement.
"The Hobbs' case."
Sherlock nodded again.
"Seriously? What could possibly be unfinished? It's inconceivable that you have not dotted every i and crossed every t to get the crucial evidence for this case."
"Inconceivable or not, there remains one last i not dotted, one t not crossed, whilst not pertinent to solving the case. What do you remember about the last time we came this way?"
John shrugged. "We met the sanitizing crew…
"Go on…"
"You inspected their chemical stock and deduced Hobbs' murder attempt."
"A succinct summary, John, but if this were for your blogging audience, it lacks the flair for detail that distinguishes your writing style."
"Details?" John rubbed his chin. "Christ. It seems a lifetime ago."
The two men hurried through the pelting rain as John reminisced in silence: Sunday in December, when it was almost Christmas…they had passed the Liberty London...passed under an archway of stony-faced corbels of bearded knights and bare-faced squires...stopped at two sets of doubled, oak-paneled doors, one with a key-pad entrance. Sherlock had pressed and held the red button…a faint buzz…the door opened …A white N95 mask addressed them… Ivaylo Petrov… Sherlock replied…"Scott Williams…Call me Scott…location-scouting for BBC2… documentary… Still assembling the film crew, …. Oh, and … my associate producer, Andrew Panin…"
John's memory skipped through the events until the moment he had teased his friend, "I know you, Sherlock. You just want to get your mitts on one of those electrostatic sprayers."
Of course! That's it! He thought, when his epiphany was interrupted by Sherlock's announcement, "We're here."
John halted and chuckled in recognition of the archway and the oak-paneled doors. Different this time were two commercial vans parked close by in the area zoned for pedestrians.
"Well? Obvious, yet?" There was a smile in Sherlock's voice.
John met Sherlock's scrutiny with confidence. "Well, it looks to me you're finally getting your chance to play with the electrostatic sprayers, yes?"
"Yes!" Sherlock nearly vibrated with pleasure. "The opportunity has presented itself."
Whatever had prompted his friend's reaction—that he had got the right answer or that Sherlock was about to fulfill his wish—John wheezed a laugh. "Ha! An opportunity persented itself? Not true, you git! You manipulated all this!"
With his eyes bright with excitement, there was no point in Sherlock denying it. "A brilliant opportunity to play with science, John!"
"Don't you play with science all the time?" John chuckled, getting pulled into Sherlock's contagious elation.
"Not like this! Using equipment to propel ultra-fine spray of billions of broad-spectrum negatively charged ions to disinfect positively charged surfaces with seventy times more force than gravity both to attack pathogens and rupture their cell membranes, deactivating them…well what couldn't be more enjoyable? Next to investigating a murder, it's a fine way to break the doldrums of an ordinary day, no?"
"So how does this work, then?" John snorted. "You go over, press the button and say can I come in and play?"
"No. We, John. We've been invited… they're expecting us." Sherlock pressed and held the red button. A faint sustained buzz sounded behind the doors.
"We? Us?" John drew back to size up his friend, unable to hide his astonishment. "Sherlock, what did you do?"
"Pulled some strings…with BBC2." Sherlock pointed his chin at the two parked vans John had noticed without observing the insignia painted on their sides.
"Who do you know at the Beeb? " John huffed, realizing his oversight.
"Irrelevant." Sherlock gave him a smug smile. "The deed is done. Our film crew has arrived. We're ready to shoot the documentary … and no need to bring your gun, this time. We shall be provided with suitable weapons against an insidious enemy."
They heard a scuffling behind the door and positioned themselves shoulder to shoulder, wet and bedraggled, waiting for it to swing open. Sherlock spoke from the side of his mouth. "Ready, Drew?"
John held his breath.
Ivaylo Petrov opened the door; his smile was broad in recognition, his voice loud as he turned around to shout to others behind him. "Scott! Scott!"
John cringed at the name, but shook it off.
"Scott Williams …and wid him is Drew...Panin. Yup. All set."
Before Petrov had turned back around, Sherlock and John had exchanged a cascade of furtive snickers.
"Come in," Ivaylo gestured his delight. "And vel-cuum, my friends… we ready for begin…and for my close-up…" he winked. " First, suit up and then grab your sprayers," Ivaylo backed away from the door to let Sherlock and John enter.
Sherlock entered first but turned around to face John, blocking his way, and whispered, "Better than bear building, wouldn't you say?" He gave John a rare, honest smile.
"It's soooooo much better," John repeated Rosie's words with a wide and pleased grin. The prospect of accompanying Sherlock Holmes—if just to play with science and exterminate the villainous virus he had been combating in hospitals and at the surgery since 2020—was an extraordinarily satisfying turn to a dull afternoon. "Right behind you, my friend!" he said and followed Sherlock. He expected it would be a most gratifying adventure.
88**88
88**88
Author's Notes:
First, I am most grateful for the support and encouragement I have received from my very special and extremely loyal Holmesian expert, without whom this fic would have been neither conceived nor written. There are not enough words at my command to praise her for her friendship, constancy and patience!
Second, I am always grateful for the readership as reflected by the Fanfiction stats, but I am especially thankful for those who have left comments. (You know who you are!) For an actor, an audience fuels the performance, so too, for a writer, reviews stroke the muse. For both, if there is no audience, no feedback, why bother?
Although I began publishing this in December, I wrote this throughout 2021, well before Una Stubbs' passing. I hope this story will be seen as a tribute to her indelible portrayal of an amazing Mrs. Hudson. And my reference in Chapter 11 to Mrs. Hudson looking like Aunt Sally from the Brit children's tv series Worzel Gummidge is an inside joke—Una Stubbs played the role between 1979–1981. I thank my Holmesian expert, mentioned above, for this clever tidbit.
Also, of note, this past year, I had become acquainted with the 2013 Sherlock Holmes TV series—the Russian version with English subtitles—which is available on a streaming service. I fell in love with the entire premise—it offers the viewer insights about how a writer creates a Legend. I also came to love these quite different characters as portrayed by the actors: Igor Petrenko (Holmes), Ingeborga Dapkūnaitė (Mrs. Hudson), Mikhail Boyarsky (Lestrade), and Andrei Panin (Watson). Panin assumed the role of Dr. Watson with extraordinary finesse. His artistic skill to balance comedy and drama in the arch of an eyebrow is only matched by Martin Freeman in the BBC Series. And that is high praise because, in my opinion, I think Martin Freeman is both outstanding and my favorite Watson depiction. You may have noticed that in this fic, Sherlock gives John the undercover name Andrew…Drew Panin. This was intentional and a nod of respect to the Russian actor who died too young.
For quotes from the BBC series, thanks go to the indispensable body of transciptions by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan to whom I am always greatly indebted.
And of course, all disclaimers apply. BBC Sherlock is not my property and my stories are only meant to show my esteem for the characters depicted in this modern retelling.