Part 3: The Client
221B Baker Street. The living room. Late on the next morning. The coffee table, littered with newspapers, has been placed between John and Sherlock's armchairs, and Sherlock is sitting in his chair, leaning forward towards the chessboard that he has put on top of the papers. From time to time, he moves a piece, but not in the strict order required by a proper game of chess. He seems rather to try to set up a particular situation. John, in his jacket, with a rolled-up magazine sticking out of one of his pockets and carrying a plastic bag with some takeaway boxes in it, enters the room from the stairs. Sherlock glances up briefly at his friend as he crosses to the dining table. John puts the takeaway down onto it.
SHERLOCK: Thanks.
JOHN (in a slightly irritated tone): My pleasure.
He turns away from the table to walk over into the kitchen. Sherlock's eyes are already back on the chessboard. He is frowning at it in concentration, his elbows on his knees, pushing back the hair from his forehead with both hands so that the neat white plaster covering the gash in his temple is clearly visible. John glances at him as passes, then stops short and does a double take. Sherlock, noticing his friend's movements out of the corner of his eye, takes his hands out of his hair again and straightens up, giving John a questioning look. John braces himself and takes the magazine out of the pocket of his jacket.
JOHN: Here. For you.
He tosses the magazine to Sherlock, who catches it and looks at the cover, frowning. It is a Big Issue.
SHERLOCK: For me? Why?
JOHN (pointedly): Because it was forced on me by a very pushy gap-toothed case of terminal alcoholic cirrhosis, and when I said that I really wasn't interested, he insisted that my girlfriend would be.
Sherlock merely snorts. He abandons the chessboard and starts flicking idly through the magazine. When John turns his back to walk off into the kitchen, Sherlock – now with very quick, purposeful movements - goes back two or three pages, peels a small Post-it note off a page, glances over it and makes it disappear inside the cuff of his shirt just as John returns to the living room, having taken off his jacket and put it over the back of a kitchen chair. Sherlock drops the magazine onto the coffee table, on top of the other papers.
JOHN (nodding at the magazine): Nothing in there to interest you?
SHERLOCK: Nothing that requires immediate action on my part, at any rate.
He turns his attention back to the chessboard. John hesitates, then sits down in his own chair.
JOHN: Sherlock, what's wrong with you?
SHERLOCK (without looking up, in a flat voice): There's nothing wrong with me.
JOHN: Yes, there is. You sit in here all day -
SHERLOCK: It's barely noon, John.
John rolls his eyes.
SHERLOCK: And I did go out this morning.
JOHN (irritated): Yeah, for all of two and a half minutes, to fetch in the papers.(He leans forward in his chair.) Listen, last night, you seemed hell-bent on catching that bloke, and when we didn't, you minded so much that it turned you absolutely obnoxious, even by your own high standards. And today, when he's still out there for all we know, you're just sitting here like there's nothing to do! Except for playing chess against yourself, apparently, whatever the point of that may be.
SHERLOCK (moving another piece): It's the offline version of hacking your own computer.
JOHN: Ha ha.
Sherlock leans back in his chair and crosses his legs.
SHERLOCK: You know how these cases unfold, John. In stages. (Didactically) There's a time for action, and there's a time for reflection, and sometimes there are even times when all you can dois sit around and wait for new developments. I know you've never quite got the hang of how to do that without going up the wall, but that's not my fault, is it? (He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand.) Feel free to go out and keep yourself busy by whatever more exciting means you can think of, if you take such exception to the sight of me sitting here doing nothing. (Rather petulantly) I'd actually prefer a bit of peace and quiet in the house right now. I've still got a headache.
His eyes return to the chessboard. John regards him for a moment, the muscles working in his face, obviously trying to make up his mind about something. Sherlock leans forward again and moves another chess piece. John stands up.
JOHN: You know, I wish you'd just stop lying to me.
SHERLOCK (looking up at him, in a tone of surprise): Me? Lie to you?
JOHN: You know what I mean.
Sherlock frowns at him, looking honestly puzzled.
JOHN: I'm not stupid, you know. (Pointing at the patch of plaster on Sherlock's temple) A headache? From that? The blood was real enough, but there's hardly any bruising underneath. Whatever happened in that yard before Greg and I turned up, it wasn't enough to knock you out.
Sherlock exhales audibly. He has abandoned his expression of innocent confusion, but his face is unreadable otherwise.
JOHN: And even before that, when he went over the wall, I could hardly believe that it was mere clumsiness that made the heel of your shoe grind itself into exactly that part of my foot with such remarkable precision. You didn't want me to follow you, did you?
Without haste, Sherlock, too, rises from his chair.
SHERLOCK(quietly): John –
JOHN: And you must have squeezed your eyes shut very tightly indeed not to see where he went from that yard. Clever of you to come up with that little fake deduction about the broken glass and the fence, to send Greg and his men off in the wrong direction. It was one of those things only Sherlock Holmes would have noticed, wasn't it?
SHERLOCK: John, I –
JOHN: Except even Sherlock Holmes couldn't have heard that if he'd really been out cold.
SHERLOCK (losing his patience): John, listen to me!
JOHN (sternly): No, you listen to me. I've found you bleeding on the ground once too often to still believe in it. It worked the first time, it almost worked the second time. But the next time it happens, I'll just leave you lying there and walk away, no matter whether it's real or not, because I'm sick and tired of rushing to your rescue when all you ever do in return is tell me lie - after - lie.
SHERLOCK (coolly): You don't understand.
JOHN (exploding, very loudly): And how the bloody hell am I supposed to understand anything you do if you go to such lengths to keep me in the dark? After all that time, do you really still not trust me to keep your secrets? Or do youenjoy watching me bumbling about and not getting it?
A pained expression passes across Sherlock's face. John sees it, and visibly deflates. There is a silence while they look at each other, both at a loss for words. At length, Sherlock speaks.
SHERLOCK: John, there simply wasn't time. It was a damn close call, even so. (He takes a deep breath.) And as for trusting you, you know – or you would know, if you'd only allow yourself to see it – that I'd never hesitate for a second to trust you with my life, let alone a secret. But in this case –
He breaks off. John is shaking his head, his lips pressed tightly together. Sherlock raises both hands, palms outwards, in a gesture of resignation.
SHERLOCK: Alright, alright. Sorry to be disappointing. (Bitterly) There's always an exception, isn't there, when it matters most.
JOHN (crossing his arms, rather aggressively): Right. So, why this time?
SHERLOCK: This time, to be honest, I assumed that you'd actually prefer the lies to the truth.
John opens his mouth to protest. At exactly that moment, the doorbell rings.
SHERLOCK: Too late now. Sorry.
There is the muted sound of the front door downstairs opening and closing, then footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock and John both turn towards the open door. A moment later, two men enter the room, one after another. Both are in white overalls of the type usually worn by painters and decorators. The first man is tall and broad-shouldered, with very short ginger hair and a goatee, his rolled-up sleeves revealing muscular forearms covered in tattoos. He carries a short ladder over his shoulder and has a large white bucket in his other hand, containing brushes and paint pots and all the other tools of his trade. The other man is a whole head shorter, and looks barely half the other's width as well. His face is almost invisible under the too-large baseball cap that he wears on his head. The man with the tools puts them down on the floor just inside the door. The other one glances around the room very quickly, taking in Sherlock's and John's presence, then lowers his eyes again.
JOHN (to Sherlock, still highly irritated): And this is about - ?
Sherlock jerks his head at The Wall.
SHERLOCK: Mrs Hudson finally agreed to let me get that wall redone.
JOHN: Rubbish.
SHERLOCK: Of course. Like she ever would. (To the taller of the newcomers, in a business-like tone) Rob. You pop down to Mrs Hudson's for an hour or so. Let her make you a cup of tea, and something for the road. You look at the maps and work it all out. This is where you'll be going.
He takes a folded piece of paper out of the pocket of his jacket and hands it to the man called Rob, who opens it and glances at the handwritten note on it.
ROB (in a surprised tone): That's halfway across the country, mate.
SHERLOCK: Can you do it, or can't you?
ROB: It ain't gonna be quick, that's all. (Pointedly) Nor cheap.
Sherlock shrugs.
ROB: Limit?
SHERLOCK: None. But don't think I won't be checking the books when you get back.
ROB: Alright.
Sherlock holds out his hand for the paper and receives it back. Rob nods to his colleague, very curtly but not unkindly, then exits the room to go downstairs.
SHERLOCK (calling after him): Got your phone switched off?
ROB (off-screen, calling back): Think I'm stupid, or what?
When Rob has gone, their second visitor exhales audibly, takes off his baseball cap and raises his head to meet Sherlock's eyes. His face is pale and drawn, almost gaunt, deep dark hollows under bloodshot eyes, but it is familiar. It is the faceof a still young, almost boyish-looking man with fine-boned, delicate features, very dark eyes, and equally dark hair, now cropped short and rather unwashed. There is a short silence. Then Sherlock half-turns towards John.
SHERLOCK(mock-formally, making the introductions): John, Victor Trevor, today without a mask. Victor, Doctor John Watson.
JOHN: Holy shit.
VICTOR (desperately defiant): Pleased to meet you, too.
Sherlock gives Victor a sidelong glance, surprised but approving. There is another silence. Then John turns to face Sherlock.
JOHN: You let him get away.
SHERLOCK: Yes. As you so very perceptively deduced, I did.
Flashback to Sherlock and Victor, the latter still masked, rolling and fighting on the ground of the empty yard the night before. Again, we see Sherlock trying to pin his opponent down, dodging the blow with the broken piece of brick, disarming him and finally ripping the mask off his face.
SHERLOCK: Hello, Victor. I thought I knew your voice.
The face that emerges from under the mask is the same that we've just seen again in Baker Street – that of Victor Trevor, but this time drenched in sweat, and his dark eyes, fixed on Sherlock's, huge with fear. He is panting for breath, his ragged gasps the only audible sounds in the sudden stillness until he finds his voice.
VICTOR: Shit. Fucking shit.
SHERLOCK: And there it is again.
VICTOR: What?
SHERLOCK: Your Russian childhood. Still crystal-clear in your end consonants.
Victor closes his eyes in resignation, or maybe in mere exhaustion.
VICTOR: You knew it was me.
SHERLOCK (sitting back on his heels): Of course. And we'd better not throw away what little advantage that fact gives us. (He takes his phone out of the inner pocket of his coat and quickly punches a couple of buttons with his thumb.) Still good with numbers?
VICTOR (confused): What?
Sherlock holds his phone out to him. A mobile phone number is visible on the screen.
SHERLOCK: Memorise.
Victor frowns at the screen. He blinks several times.
SHERLOCK (impatiently): Got it?
VICTOR : Yeah... yeah, got it.
SHERLOCK: Good. (He pockets his phone again.) Do exactly what they tell you. And stay out of sight. I'll be in touch. (He picks up the crumpled mask and thrusts it at Victor.) Here.
Victor sits up, takes what is left of his disguise and stuffs it under his jacket with trembling hands. Sherlock then picks up the jagged piece of brick that Victor tried to hit him with earlier, holds it out to him, turns his head sideways and pushes the hair back from his forehead with his left.
SHERLOCK: And now hit me again. Properly, this time.
VICTOR(stupidly): What? Why?
SHERLOCK(with a sigh): Never mind. (He jerks his head in the direction of the road.) Just run.
Victor nods and struggles to his feet. He gives Sherlock one last look of mingled fear, confusion and tentative gratitude, then disappears into the darkness, his footsteps very loud in the silence at first, but receding and fading very quickly. The moment he has started moving away, Sherlock, still squatting on the ground, returns his attention to the piece of brick in his hand. He fingers his temple for the spot where Victor grazed him earlier, and having found it, runs the sharp edge of the brick back and forth across it. He screws up his face in discomfort, but keeps going until the tips of his fingers come away smeared with blood. Then he drops the brick and lets himself slump forward onto the ground. The running footsteps of Lestrade and the armed officers can already be heard approaching from the direction of the railway line.
In the present, John has folded his arms and is looking at Sherlock so coldly that Sherlock inadvertently grimaces.
JOHN: And you let him get away just because it was him.
SHERLOCK (after a moment, equally frostily): I told you that you'd have preferred the lies.
JOHN: You let one of the country's most wanted cyber criminals get away just because at some point in your life, he happened to be your friend.
VICTOR (almost timidly): Can I say something?
SHERLOCK and JOHN (simultaneously, without taking their eyes off each other): No.
Victor closes his mouth again.
JOHN: And now you're plotting to get him to safety.
SHERLOCK: Quite correct.
JOHN: And you seriously expect me to go along with that?
SHERLOCK: No. But I did expect a bit of gratitude.
JOHN: Gratitude?
SHERLOCK (smiling humourlessly): Yes. Less than ten minutes ago, you seemed desperate to prove that I can trust you to keep my secrets. This is your chance.
JOHN (shaking his head): Sherlock, we're talking about a man who was going to cause a bloodbath in central London.
SHERLOCK: But there will be no bloodbath in central London, John. And now show a bit of common decency and help me sit him down somewhere, and take a look at his arm.
Victor looks at Sherlock in surprise. So does John. Then John's eyes shift from Sherlock to Victor, and it becomes evident that Victor is holding his right arm at a very unnaturally stiff angle, pressing it against his side as if to contain some pain it is causing him. John hesitates.
JOHN: Alright. I look at his arm, and then we turn him in?
SHERLOCK: Then we have tea, and talk.
JOHN (sarcastically): Oh, right? When did we become a safe house for terrorists? Must have missed that somehow.
SHERLOCK (slowly losing his patience): It wouldn't exactly be the first time you've missed something, John.
John opens his mouth to reply, then stops himself. He exhales sharply, deeply hurt. Sherlock grimaces.
SHERLOCK (in an appeasing tone): Look, John, all I want is a bit of time to get some answers. All we're going to do is give him the chance to tell us what really happened. The only chance he'll ever get, in all likelihood. Once the Americans get their hands on him, nobody's going to listen any more.
At this, Victor raises his head sharply and looks at Sherlock in alarm.
JOHN (flaring up again): Oh, 221B Baker Street versus the United States of America, is it? Sorry, Sherlock, I'm out. If that's what you're going to turn it into, do it on your own. I don't intend to spend the rest of my life in exile in Moscow, or stranded in an Ecuadorian embassy, no matter how noble the cause.
A half-smile tugs at the corner of Sherlock's mouth.
SHERLOCK: If it has to be an embassy, you can trust me to be clever enough to pick one that has access to a rooftop, for an airlift to safety.
JOHN: This isn't funny.
SHERLOCK (drily): He'd probably agree. Come on, Victor.
He turns away and walks over to the armchairs in front of the fireplace. After a quick, uncertain glance at John, Victor follows him. Sherlock makes a gesture with his hand as if to invite Victor to sit down in John's chair, then changes his mind and waves him to his own chair instead. John, who has remained standing near the door, raises his eyebrows. Victor, unaware of this, sits down in Sherlock's chair, trying but failing to suppress a sigh.
SHERLOCK: Right. Your arm. (Over his shoulder) John?
John, with a visible effort, reminds himself of his professional pride and duty, comes to life again and joins the other two. Victor has unbuttoned the front of his overalls and shrugs out of the right sleeve. He wears a faded black t-shirt underneath. A frayed green and blue patterned bandanna has been wound around his bare forearm in a makeshift bandage. John sits down on the edge of the low coffee table between the chairs, reaches for the knot and unties it. He wrinkles his nose at the sight of what is underneath.
JOHN: Good grief.
SHERLOCK (looking over John's shoulder): Cigarette burns?
He glances enquiringly at Victor. Victor grimaces and nods.
JOHN (to Sherlock): Several days old. But look at them now. Healthcare on the Homeless Network definitely needs improving.
SHERLOCK (lightly): Oh, I'm sure he could do worse on the NHS.
John gives Sherlock a very dark look.
SHERLOCK (sincerely): Sorry.
John returns his attention to Victor's arm, holding it in both his own hands and gently turning it this way and that, frowning at the weeping red spots on it.
VICTOR(to Sherlock): Homeless Network?
SHERLOCK: Yep. The people you were staying with. Float all around the city, here now and gone the next moment, carry messages and keep their eyes open for me. They organise themselves, and reorganise randomly for every new job. Very useful to me. And very hard to keep track of for anyone else.
VICTOR (impressed): Bit like a real life Tor?
SHERLOCK: Exactly.
JOHN: I need my bag.
SHERLOCK: I'll get it.
He walks off into the kitchen, and on into the passage leading to the bathroom.
JOHN (to Victor, nodding towards his arm): You seem to have lived an interesting life lately.
VICTOR: Nice way of putting it.
JOHN: When exactly did that happen?
VICTOR: Two nights ago.
JOHN: Had a tetanus shot recently?
VICTOR (with a shrug): When I was a kid, I s'pose.
John shakes his head, then nods at the burn marks again.
JOHN: Who did that? And why?
Victor doesn't reply immediately. Sherlock reappears from the direction of the kitchen, carrying John's doctor's bag.
SHERLOCK (to Victor): Go on, tell him. Whoever it was, he's either dead now, or in prison.
Victor stares at him. Sherlock hands the bag to John.
SHERLOCK (to Victor): You're on your own now. And you decide whether that's bad news or good news.
Victor exhales sharply, leans back in the chair and closes his eyes. John, in the meantime, has found in his bag what he needs to care for Victor's hurts, and silently gets to work. Sherlock watches them for a moment, then walks off into the kitchen again and puts the kettle on.
Some moments later, John is giving the end of a neat white bandage around Victor's arm a last tweak to fix it in place.
VICTOR (relieved): Thank you.
JOHN(rather stiffly): Not at all.
Sherlock comes back out of the kitchen, carrying three mugs of tea.
JOHN(to Sherlock): I don't like how cold he feels.
SHERLOCK: This may help.
Victor receives one of the mugs and immediately closes both hands around it to warm his fingers. John zips up his bag, pushes it under the coffee table, and walks over to sit down in his own armchair with his arms crossed. Sherlock gets a chair for himself from the dining table. When they have all settled down, there is a moment of uncomfortable silence. Then Victor nods at the chessboard.
VICTOR (to Sherlock, attempting a light tone): You any better at it now?
SHERLOCK: Try me. (With a glance at John) I've had some practice.
VICTOR (taking in the set-up on the chessboard with a single look): Then you know what's gonna happen there next.
SHERLOCK: You tell me.
VICTOR: White's gonna checkmate Black in four moves, and there's absolutely nothing Black can do to stop it.
SHERLOCK (taking a sip of his tea): A lot can happen in four moves.
VICTOR (doubtfully): Like what?
SHERLOCK: Black could make up his mind to stop being Black.
VICTOR (after a moment): And who's gonna believe him?
SHERLOCK (with a shrug): Worth a try.
VICTOR: Is your brother gonna believe it?
Sherlock stares at him, genuinely surprised.
SHERLOCK: My brother?
VICTOR: Yeah, of course. Oh, come on. Silly first name, same last name. Couldn't possibly be a coincidence.
Sherlock smiles in grudging approval.
SHERLOCK: He'll not be pleased to hear that his name's a household word in Russian cyber crime circles.
VICTOR: Oh, it isn't. I never heard it until I got back here. (With a wry grin) Would probably not have come at all if I had. I once had a Holmes hot on my trail, and it was the worst night of my life. I'd have known that I wouldn't stand a chance with two of them at once.
SHERLOCK (amused): But he really wasn't. Hot on your trail, I mean. I know you thought he was, but he was really being unspeakably slow and stupid.
VICTOR (suddenly serious): And I've just realised that it wasn't actually the worst night of my life, either.
He gives an involuntary shudder.
SHERLOCK: Right, tell us about the worst one, then. I still have questions. (With a mischievous glance in John's direction) And I think it's also time to get rid of that disapproving frown on John's face, before it becomes permanently ingrained.
In spite of himself, John changes his facial expression to something more neutral.
SHERLOCK: So, who was it that killed the unhappy fourth of your little band, Arbo or Yevgeny?
VICTOR: What makes you so sure it wasn't me?
SHERLOCK: You? You were probably on your hands and knees at the time, vomiting your heart out from the pain in your arm and the stench of your burned skin. Not quite the state in which to commit cold-blooded murder.
JOHN(to Sherlock, aghast): Are you saying that his own cronies did that to him?
He shifts his glance from Sherlock to Victor, waiting for confirmation. Victor nods, avoiding John's eyes.
VICTOR: I - I don't know where to start, really. I suppose you know about the car bomb. Well, Pavel and I didn't, not until we got here and started messing with the CCTV. (To Sherlock, urgently) Believe me, I really didn't know. Can you see that?
SHERLOCK: I can see that you're far too clever to knowingly join a suicide mission like that. Please tell me that you haven't let any other considerations get in the way.
VICTOR: We didn't know. Pavel and I just got asked whether we thought we could do it, the cameras, I mean, and we were -
JOHN (in a disapproving tone): - flattered?
VICTOR: Yeah, probably. It was something new, to do it on the spot, had never been done before. Worked a treat, by the way. But we thought that was all there was to it, like we said in the video. Only when we got here, Arbo told us that we were actually doing a countdown to something big, to do with a camera on Hastings Street. It was my idea then, to do it with the famous victories. We had quite a bit of fun imagining how it would drive them totally mad, trying to figure out a technical connection between all those places, and finding absolutely none.
SHERLOCK: Worked a treat, too.
VICTOR: Until you came along, I s'pose?
Sherlock shrugs.
VICTOR (speaking rather quickly now, obviously glad to unburden himself): And we were down to Blenheim, I think, when Arbo and Yevgeny told us what would actually happen when we got to Hastings. That we were really just providing a cover for those guys who were going to plant the actual bomb, so they wouldn't be caught doing it on CCTV. I admit that I didn't take it seriously at first. You know, we've been a bit loud-mouthed now and again, it's part of the game. But I could tell that the idea was really getting Pavel down, and they must have noticed it, too, although he did his best to hide it. Even went on reconnaissance for us for Armada, next evening, as planned. But that night, or rather early morning, when we were on our way back from that one, Pavel cracked. We were all pretty antsy at that point, having slept rough and barely eaten but drunk far too much for almost a week. Pavel started saying that if it would actually cost people's lives, we couldn't do it, and that he wanted out. We had just crossed that bridge over the A2, and Yevgeny stopped the van right after it. We all got out for a smoke, to calm down a bit. Yevgeny told Pavel that he wanted to show him something, so they walked back onto the bridge. Arbo and I stayed behind, watching. It was very dark up there, and I s'pose I'm glad I didn't see exactly what was going on, except that they leant on the railing and looked at the cars passing under them. Then Yevgeny made a move as if to put his arm around Pavel's shoulders, but that wasn't what he was doing, because there was a knife in his hand and –
He breaks off, looking ill. When he continues, his voice is trembling.
VICTOR: - and all I could see was Pavel slumping forward over the rail, and Yevgeny hooking his arms around him and toppling him right over. I just stood there, frozen to the spot, I couldn't believe my eyes. And then Arbo turned to me and said, "Having second thoughts, too?", and when I didn't say "No" quickly enough, he smiled, he actually smiled, and he said, "Give me your arm." (He grimaces at the memory.) And the next thing I remember is being in the back of the van again, sick like a dog and probably howling like one, too, hoping that it was all just a nightmare, but it wasn't, because I was awake and it still went on and on.
He shudders again. Another silence. John looks appalled, Sherlock grimly satisfied at having been right.
VICTOR (bitterly): Pavel was a decent bloke, and he didn't deserve to die. If he really gave us away, he did the right thing, and I should have done the same, but I didn't realise that until it was too late. And by then I'd learned not to even think about it anymore. (He exchanges a look with Sherlock.) I'm no hero, I'm afraid.
SHERLOCK (drily): That's alright. I really can't recommend it. (A pause.) That's a recent insight, though, isn't it? You not being a hero after all?
VICTOR: Is there a point in trying to explain any of it?
SHERLOCK: You can try and explain to me how you could have been so incredibly stupid as to appear in that video in the first place.
VICTOR (with a lopsided grin): Because I had a subconscious wish to see you again?
Neither Sherlock nor John so much as smiles.
VICTOR (resigned): Alright. Hubris, I think it was. It's – I don't know, it's hard to put into words. When I started, it was just a game. I was in California at the time, first with McAfee and then with Symantec, and I was just having fun running tests and annoying rival companies. It did seem pointless after a while though. Like playing chess against yourself.
Sherlock and John exchange a look.
VICTOR: So I branched out a bit, looking for things that I thought were really worthwhile. That's when I first got in touch with the Tunisians. And when you've done that sort of stuff for a couple of years, and when you see what you can do, what you can change, when you have that power to create and destroy at will, and you always get away with it, you start thinking of yourself as invincible. D'you know what I mean?
John glances at Sherlock, but Sherlock's eyes are on Victor, his expression unreadable.
VICTOR: It's like a high, only better, because there's no need to come down. You just go on and on, move on to new projects, try out new tricks, get away with those, too, build up a reputation, get recommended by the really big names... and before you know it, you're -
JOHN: - back in London, with a bunch of common terrorists.
VICTOR (to Sherlock, slightly annoyed): Thereis no point, is there?
JOHN (sternly): I just believe that whatever the problem is, planting a car bomb can't possibly be the solution, ever. And I sincerely hope that I'm not the only person in this room who thinks so.
SHERLOCK (to Victor): And I should probably tell you that John has spent more than four years of his life as a doctor trying to reassemble shredded body parts into human shapes in Afghanistan. Just so you know where he's coming from.
VICTOR: I never said I liked the idea, you know. But can't you understand the anger behind it? It's bad enough, isn't it, how the big corporations keep grabbing our data and try and monopolize the internet to serve their own interests, but doesn't it make you sick when even the institutions that were originally created for the very purpose of protecting civil liberties like -
SHERLOCK (grimacing in distaste): Stop preaching, please. It's ridiculous.
VICTOR (after a moment, sincerely): Sorry.
He runs a hand over his pale face. There is another silence.
VICTOR (to Sherlock): It's - it's absurd, isn't it? You and me sitting here. I never thought our paths would cross again. Stupid of me, really. I could've guessed that I'd end up as one of your clients one day, if I kept going down that road. I knew what you were doing. (To John) I really like your blog. Followed it right from the start. Even left a little greeting there, sometime around Christmas, four or five years ago.
SHERLOCK (amused): 1895?
VICTOR: Exactly.
John stares at him, then turns to Sherlock with a look of almost comic indignation on his face.
JOHN: On top of all the rest, now he's hacked my blog, too?
Sherlock cracks up laughing. Victor grins tentatively. John shakes his head in disbelief.
SHERLOCK: OK, Victor, sorry, that's it. Forget the car bomb. But he'll never forgive you for that one. (He glances at John, the earlier mischievous look back on his face.) Oh dear, and his revenge will be terrible. You know what he makes me look like on his blog. Don't hold out any hope that he'll go easy on you.
VICTOR (soberly): That's alright. I know I fucked up royally, and if I could see a way to make it good, I'd do it.
SHERLOCK (suddenly serious again): And that is my last question answered. (He glances at his watch.) So now -
JOHN (leaning forward in his chair, urgently): Now he's got to turn himself in, Sherlock. If he didn't kill Pavel, in fact if he thought that Pavel did the right thing, then all he's guilty of is -
SHERLOCK: - practically everything listed in the Computer Misuse Act three times over, and among it seven cases of unauthorised computer access and unauthorised computer access with intent to commit further offences in the past week alone. Doesn't make for a very cheerful prospect. No, I'm afraid turning him in just like that and simply hoping for leniency is out of the question, John. He's dug himself in too deep for that. And besides, it's very likely that the moment he shows his face anywhere official, the Americans will come swooping down and carry him off in their claws, international law and the sovereignty of the United Kingdom be damned.
VICTOR (very much disconcerted): What do you mean?
SHERLOCK: Oh, just that they're not exactly amused by your involvement in the plot to blow up the NSA's European headquarters. It's the kind of thing that they usually acknowledge with one of those ridiculously long sentences that, if they were hereditary, would keep even your grandchildren in prison until they're old and grey. That is, if they extend the courtesy of a trial to you at all. I hear they don't always bother, with foreigners.
VICTOR: But –
SHERLOCK (darkly): Not to mention what may happen once they start seeing you as a possible source of further information.
VICTOR: But I'm a British national. They can't possibly extradite me to the U.S.
His voice is trembling again now, and not only his voice.
SHERLOCK: I wouldn't be so sure about that. You've made a quite a point of being Russian over the past year. Small wonder if they've ticked the wrong box where it says "nationality" on the form.
VICTOR (aghast): They can't – they just can't –
He breaks off, looking desperately from Sherlock to John and back. Neither of them responds.
VICTOR (after a moment): So what happens now?
SHERLOCK: Now I'm buying you time. You're going with Rob, or whoever else he recruits for the job, to a relatively safe place until I've worked something out.
VICTOR (hopefully): You're gonna get me out of the country?
SHERLOCK: Certainly not. What good would that do?
Victor looks crestfallen.
VICTOR: So I'm just to sit still til they come and get me?
SHERLOCK: You said you were my client. My job is to give advice. I just did. Take it or leave it.
Victor runs his hand over his face again. He's sweating heavily now, and his eyes have a slightly glassy look to them. There is the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs. Victor gives a start, but it is only Rob who appears in the open doorway a moment later, looking content.
SHERLOCK (to Rob): All sorted?
ROB: Yep.
SHERLOCK (to Victor): So?
VICTOR (in a small voice): Alright.
He stands up. Sherlock and John follow suit.
SHERLOCK (to Rob): Make sure he gets there after dark.(To Victor) Trust them implicitly. Tell them as much or as little as you like, but if I were you, I'd tell them everything. And don't get impatient. It may take a couple of days.
Victor nods. For a moment, he seems on the verge of saying something, but then decides against it, and walks over to where Rob is waiting for him by the door. Rob picks up the ladder, the bucket and all the other tools.
ROB (with a nod at The Wall): It's really begging for a redo, though.
SHERLOCK: Not a top priority right now.
ROB: I'll send you a quote.
SHERLOCK: Don't bother.
Rob and Victor exit the room and can be heard going downstairs. The front door bangs shut, and a moment later, a car can be heard driving away.