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Nearly three weeks earlier: 28 March 2018
John rang, apparently in good spirits, about the breaking news. "They got him now! The ringleader of the 2015 Easter Weekend burglary! It's all over the news, the internet, the telly," John enthused. "The papers are mentioning the Wig-Hair Trail. Seems that the meticulous investigation by an 'unnamed consultant'—I assume that means you—gave the police information to locate the tenth member of the heist, the one unaccounted for. Another of your successes, then…?"
"One of mine, yes, but don't believe the hype," Sherlock sniffed dismissively, pulling back from his laptop keyboard and cradling the mobile next to his ear. "It's not as extraordinary as the media make it out to be."
"Surely a heist of £29 million is no ordinary thing! They're saying the Met made a surprise arrest in north London, not far from the Hatton Garden Safe Deposit Company. Any of that true?"
While John had been speaking, Sherlock had been analyzing his voice, listening attentively for any edge of disquiet or irritation that all was not as it seemed. However, John sounded as though he were grinning. Hearing this, Sherlock concluded that John's hearth-and-home imperatives were proceeding as normal and that it was merely curiosity about the news that had prompted John's call. "Yes. Scotland Yard believes that they have indeed apprehended 'Basil,' the mystery mastermind—as I have proven his complicity to even their low level of comprehension—and so made a formal arrest." Sherlock rose from his desk chair to wander about the sitting room. "His was a crucial role. He was the inside man, neutralizing the alarm, rewiring electronic security, and letting the gang in through a fire exit."
"I remember now…," John paused in recollection. "The CCTV footage of the heist identified the four elderly burglars, but they never got a clear shot of the one man. Yeah, right, it was because he was wearing a wig, a red wig was it, and a cap?"
"Yup!" Popping the p consonant, Sherlock flopped in his leather chair and slung his legs over one arm, surprised by John's keen interest, especially as the heist had taken place during a very difficult period in both their lives. However, listening to John's genuine inquisitiveness encouraged him to share aspects of the case. "Of course, in 'Basil's' run-down council flat the police found some but not all the jewelry, cash, gold, and platinum stolen from the vault three years ago. What they did find should make this an open-and-shut case."
"You mean the red wig?"
"Not the wig…."
Sherlock had never had occasion to tell John about his involvement in the Hatton Garden Heist investigation. In April of 2015, Lestrade had persuaded The Flying Squad, the special Met crime command unit handling the case, to give Sherlock several of the few strands of red hair found at the fire exit. For the past three years, Sherlock had been conducting his ongoing researches—despite the events, catastrophes, and cases during that conflicted period—to determine the strands' composition. He had meticulously experimented on all types of hair samples—synthetic, animal, and human—and catalogued his findings. Once he had accrued sufficient information, he corroborated his data with The Flying Squad's analysis of the other strands to ensure the accuracy of his own results. Upon verifying his facts, he had further matched the synthetic fibers and exact pigmentation to a wig manufacturer in China. Eventually, he located the lot numbers and destinations of shipments as well as the seventeen venues in London where such wigs could be bought. Footwork, patience, and persistence paid off three years later.
"No, John. Although they did not find the incriminating wig," Sherlock continued his answer after a scant pause, "the police did find in his flat, which by the way was barely two miles from Hatton Garden vault, the synthetic red-hair wig fibers caught in the weave of a cap, the very cap he had worn as a disguise."
"Amazing!"
"Of course you'd say so, but it was not my best work. It took three years to trace the evidence to Michael Seed, a 57-year old jeweler—should have been obvious from the start—but I was occupied …." The Watson's marriage, Magnussen's threat, Sherlock's sure-death exile, Moriarty's ersatz return, Rosie's birth, Mary's death and John's devastation, Culverton Smith's murder attempt, Eurus' madness, and other minor cases did not need to be enumerated to make his meaning plain.
John grunted in acknowledgement.
"Suffice it to say," Sherlock continued, "my leads regarding his wig purchase narrowed the search. Had 'Basil' bought a better-quality wig from an established wigmaker, perhaps evidence would not have been so abundantly affixed to his cap."
"Must have been a tedious investigation, though," John laughed. "I'm glad you're the genius with an infinite capacity for taking pains." Another smile—one of proud affection for his friend—was audible over the connection, "I could give you credit for your pains with a blog about it, yes?"
"No. My involvement isn't really that interesting to your reading public," Sherlock shook his head, "unless you want me to share the crucial scientific analysis that blew the case open and how the news reports have overlooked its relevancy and basically got things wrong?"
"That sounds more like an entry for your Science of Deduction," John chuckled.
"Quite right," Sherlock agreed.
There was a long pause, each waiting for the other to suggest ringing off, but then John ahemed, "Look, Sherlock, I know it's not your thing, but—"
Oh, Sherlock groaned inwardly. He had learnt to dread whenever John prefaced anything with those words. There was another purpose for this call, after all, he thought. It wasn't just curiosity about the heist.
"—If you know it's not my thing," Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth, "why are you bothering?"
"Just giving you an option," John replied, overly-patient, already knowing how this would go.
"An option for what?"
Ignoring Sherlock's impatience, John began with a neutral lead-in, "Squash finals are being televised in the next few weeks and…."
From the ensuing silence, John easily pictured Sherlock's eye-roll of annoyance.
"…and I'm having a few friends in to watch the match …" John stopped. Even he could hear the idiocy in his attempt. Although he hadn't meant to sound half-hearted in his invitation, his awkwardness made him sound half-witted, instead, and underscored the answer he had expected.
When it came to the Watson's suburban lifestyle and John's mundane routine, Sherlock paid it as little mind as possible so long as it did not affect the scheduling of one of their cases and neither John nor Rosie required protection. Rather, it was their day-to-day that always sounded dreary—tedious—as it was filled with domestic chores, day trips with Rosie, a nighttime bedtime story for the daughter and crap telly until the weary father stumbled off to bed.
"John," Sherlock snapped. "Do you think I'm in want of company?" John could hear the curl of Sherlock's lip on the last word.
A strangled choke and stammer preceded John's reply, "No, of course not," he snorted at the absurdity. "No, I was just…curious if you…" A swallow interrupted his spluttering, "… wondered if you'd thought… yeah, uh huh," his voice squirmed with exasperation, "Never mind. It's not your thing, I get it." He blew out a sigh.
They both knew that Sherlock would rather be anywhere else, in hot pursuit of dangerous smugglers, following the scantiest clues to a major art forger, undermining an evil drug lord and his minions than spend a placid Sunday afternoon in April with several others—presumably men, even of his acquaintance—watching a sports match and sharing a pint or two or three or….
Although he had been unnecessarily pointed, Sherlock softened upon hearing John's obvious discomfort. At the same time he decided to address the undercurrent of John's ongoing concern. "Let me assure you, John, being alone while you scamper about your bourgeois existence presents no problem to me. In fact, I prefer my solitary ways. I've work to do, remember? And I've no need for stimulants now. There are enough challenges in this elevated terror-alert city to keep me occupied. What would drive me to the abyss would be needing company and popping over for a pint."
"Right, yeah. Suppose so," John's easy tone, evident at the onset of his call, had vanished, but despite Sherlock's previous abrasiveness, John persisted in giving counsel disguised as an afterthought, "Well, you know, if needing 'stimulants' ever becomes an issue, you might consider that being addicted to sports is both legal and exhilarating."
"You know my methods," Sherlock leveled his annoyance. "Crime-solving is my game."
"Yeah. I know. But keep in mind, there are other games…And I don't mean Cluedo...which I imagine you'd be just as good at predicting their outcomes," John huffed, more teasing than disgruntled.
"Boring!" Sherlock yawned his disinterest.
"Right, so, if you change your mind," John was like a dog on a bone, "there's the Men's Doubles Gold Medal Match," and gave Sherlock the Sunday date in April. "Match time is at four, and oh yes, Greg will be there; he's arriving with the others at two." He hesitated.
In the pause, Sherlock imagined "hearing" the wheels of thought spin in John's brain as he made a last-ditch effort.
"You know," John resumed, "I once wanted to play squash professionally. I could explain strategies ahead of time, that is, if you've deleted them…"
"Too busy, John," Sherlock declined flatly. "Besides, my match analysis would ruin the anticipation of what you deem are random outcomes." As much as he preferred John's company on investigations, Sherlock saw no reason—ever—to fraternize over a sports ritual, and after making that perfectly clear one last time, they rang off.
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