44 Flood Street
Lestrade stepped through the doorframe, his torch illuminating a thin layer of snow that had blown in through where the door should have been. The hallway before them stretched back a ways before veering of sharply to the left; dust and crumbling bits of paint clung to what remained of the drywall.
"Can I get another light in here, please?" Lestrade said, exasperated. He ran his fingers over a wooden beam that had fallen from the rafters. "My God…"
"Quite an explosion, don't you think?" Sergeant Donavan said, flipping on her light.
"Gas leak. At least, that's what David was saying earlier..."
"And exactly how many spontaneously exploding flats does it take to convince the Inspector that perhaps a gas leak isn't a probable explanation?" Sherlock said, removing his gloves and rubbing a piece of plaster between his fingers.
"Sherlock, this has absolutely nothing to do with the murders…"
"Hmm."
"Hmm?" Lestrade said, turning to Sherlock.
"Why would I waste my time here if this didn't have something to do with your homicide?" Sherlock said, kneeling and picking up a small, leather-bound ledger lying on the floor.
"What could this possibly have to with…"
"Well, we have three victims…"
"Yes, that's usually what people become when their house implodes…"
"Give me their names."
"What?"
"Names. Victims."
"Oh," Lestrade said, thinking for a moment. "There was Losev. Mikhail Losev, Samuel Dawson and…"
"Arthur Novikov. The two Russians were recent immigrants from Volgograd," Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow as he scanned the ledger. "Now this changes things…"
"Have you been into my files again?"
"I'm usually capable of doing my own research, thank you," he paused, his finger resting on a line in the first page.
"What's that?" Donavan asked, glancing over Sherlock's shoulder at the open book.
"Something of very little importance," Sherlock said, snapping the book shut. He turned to Lestrade. "If you won't be needing my assistance, Inspector, I have some business to take care of."
"Wait…Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?" Lestrade said, flustered as Sherlock headed for the doorway.
"Give a shout if anything interesting turns up."
"Sherlock, that's evidence! You can't take that!"
"I'm sure you won't be offended if I borrow it."
"Yes, as a matter a fact, I will be very offended…"
"Good. Enjoy yourselves."
"Sherlock! SHERLOCK HOLMES!" Lestrade shouted after him as he disappeared into the night.
221B Baker Street
"How's that experiment at St. Bart's coming?" John asked, setting down his newspaper on the coffee table.
"Fine."
"You sounded so excited about it the other day," Mrs. Hudson said, sipping her tea as she walked to the kitchen.
"The formaldehyde and Carboxylic acid aren't reacting as quickly as I thought they would," Sherlock said, gazing down at the street from the front window. "I've started another trial in the freezer. Hopefully that will speed the process," he said, glancing at John. "You weren't ever going to make those waffles, were you?"
"The blueberry or cinnamon?"
"Both."
"Really, Sherlock? Since when are your science experiments more important than my breakfast?"
"Since now. Obviously," Sherlock said, still looking out the window. "Don't we have some of that jam and marmalade stuff…"
"Toast?"
"Yes."
"You unplugged the toaster for the centrifuge."
"It's pointless! Bread has the same nutritional value," Sherlock said, turning to John. "And that device is a fire hazard."
"Oh, that's a fire hazard? I'm not the one storing that oxygen triphosphate…"
"Carbon disulphide."
"Whatever. I'm not storing highly flammable liquids in the pantry…"
"Who's storing flammable liquids in the pantry?" Mrs. Hudson asked, poking her head around the kitchen wall.
"You should find a better place to put those, John," Sherlock said, smirking.
"I'm just going to leave and hope that this all has something to do with you and your strange senses of humor," Mrs. Hudson sighed, sipping from her cup as she headed out the living room.
"Sherlock, someday you're going to get us both evicted…"
"Do you know anyone by the name of Nikita Rivstoy?" He asked, turning to John.
"Who?"
"Nikita Rivstoy?"
"No, I…I can't say I do. Why…"
"Let me rephrase the question. Say, hypothetically speaking, that you were trying to track down a man belonging to the Russian mafia, for lack of a better word, because he was responsible for an explosion killing three fellow members. The only problem is that he's not hiding."
"And this is all hypothetically speaking, of course?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Of course."
"Well, if he's not hiding, then why haven't you gone after him?"
"Because it doesn't make sense," Sherlock said, pacing the floor. "Men like that can disappear, no questions asked. Like they never existed," Sherlock stopped turning to John. "Rivstoy doesn't even seem to be aware of what's happened."
"Well, maybe he's not."
"Look, John," he said, grabbing the ledger from the coffee table. He pointed to a note taped to the front cover. "People don't paste their names to the front of top secret ledgers. And the inside is meaningless." He turned to the first page, barely halfway filled with a few names and addresses.
"Where did you find that?"
"It's like they want to be caught," Sherlock said, scanning the rest of the ledger's empty pages. "But that's it. No transaction records, dates, times. Nothing but names."
"And not very many at that," John said, watching as Sherlock continued to pace the floor. "Does Lestrade know you have that?"
"Yes," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Just curious. This wouldn't have anything to do with that explosion on Flood Street, now would it?"
"Yes, actually…hang on, say that again."
"This wouldn't have anything to do with that explosion in Flood…"
"The ledger's a fake, John!" Sherlock said happily, snapping the book shut.
"How…"
"It was planted after the explosion…it couldn't have possibly survived a blast of that magnitude. It was planted to frame the person on the front of the ledger, and the rest of the people inside," Sherlock said.
"But you still don't know who actually committed the murders."
"Yes, but we know who the murderer wants to take the blame, and that, my dear Watson, is a very powerful tool in solving any crime," Sherlock said, a half smile crossing his face.
"So does this connect to that other string of murders the papers have been going nuts about?"
"Yes, and I'm sure we'll find out how in a half hour or so," Sherlock said, tossing John his coat.
"So where are we going?"
"367 Hampton Place."
"To see Khrushchev?"
"Rivstoy. Nikita Rivstoy," Sherlock said, buttoning his own jacket. "Let's go."