Letters from the Cold
Another dawn – the first hint of light turned London into a watercolour world. Shades of blue and grey blended with the mist shrouding the Thames. Steam was rising from the rooftops, and the first flocks of crows crossed the sky.
John yawned and went over to Sherlock's bed instantly, his legs stiff, spine cracking, mind foggy from a sweaty nightmare. "Hey, Sherlock, good morning. Hope you slept better than I did," he quietly remarked. John took his hand and kneaded it, flexing the long fingers and stroking the palm with his thumb. Frowning, he realised that Sherlock's skin was warmer than expected. A look at the monitor confirmed his suspicion: his body temperature was slightly elevated. "Don't you dare get another infection," John muttered darkly. "After your stunt with ripping the central line, you've caused quite enough trouble." At least his breathing sounded good, given that he was recovering from a collapsed lung and pneumonia.
He picked up Sherlock's phone and opened the next document. "Ready for a new chapter of your memoirs, Sherlock? Oh." John raised his brows. Another picture. "You do know me well, don't you?" He squinted at the too small photograph: Sherlock's face again, frowning at the camera, collar up and scarf around his neck, though this time the light was harsh, deepening the lines on his forehead and making him look older. His fairly short hair was almost blond, with a tinge of red.
Hair-dye or just the artificial light? It certainly looked convincing.
The background was some featureless white surface, and Sherlock looked as frustrated as he had sounded in his last message. "Here we go," John muttered, scrolling down to the text.
John,
I'm in Oslo. The picture was taken on the flytoget, the express train travelling from the airport to the city. I've decided to look more like a Scandinavian here, the hair colour is correctly reproduced in the picture. I pass as a half-Norwegian business man grown up abroad – my Norwegian has a slight accent, after all.
I'm still frustrated with my inability to enunciate precisely what I want to express in this diary, but that is a minor matter right now.
I'm on the trail of Kjetil Bjerkeholmen, a business magnate, or to be more precise, the co-owner of a multinational company that manufactures medical equipment; he is also the board member of a company that belongs to a huge pharmaceutical group. Needles to say their dealings are shady at best. More notably, I have evidence that Bjerkeholmen is involved in fiscal fraud (about which I don't care at all), semi-legal drug trials in Africa (about which I care little) and illegal organ trafficking in Eastern Europe and South America (about which I care strongly). I'm sure you know about people being kidnapped and waking up with one kidney or both eyes missing – if they are lucky. Sometimes more's missing and they don't wake up, but I believe that is just a different kind of luck.
Bjerkeholmen was in fact the man who had hired Isakov (the sniper trained on Mrs Hudson) for that job in Moscow, and this is how I came across him. When I took out Isakov, he was about to shoot two of Bjerkeholmen's fiercest competitors in illegal organ trade in Russia. They were in the building opposite, having a secret business meeting that wasn't quite so secret anymore.
It's a pity. Looking back, I deeply regret not having eliminated Isakov after he had finished the job, thus ridding the world of two undesirable members of the human species.
There's always something.
Hope you're safe and sound.
S
"Jesus," John muttered, "nice business trip to Oslo, then? Did you catch that Bjerkhollow-what's-his-name bastard? God, I hope so." Intrigued, he opened the next document. Again, a picture, Sherlock squinting at the camera, face screwed up at the winter sunlight of the Oslo Fjord, or so John imagined. He was, in fact, wearing a woolly hat and a parka that made him look much younger and less arrogant. John chuckled. "Never thought I'd see sporty Sherlock! You certainly pass as a Norwegian, with your height and those sea-green eyes." He mulled over the picture for a while, then cleared his throat. "I hope you got the guy. Really."
John,
It turns out Bjerkeholmen has travelled to Helsinki in the meantime, so I'll follow him to the capital of Finland. To get the final proof, I need access to his laptop. However, I have time to kill in Oslo, the plane leaves tomorrow morning, apparently the unexpected amount of snow is causing immense delays. Therefore, I have decided to do something I would not normally do: go sightseeing.
Go on, laugh at me. I only do it because I heard your voice in my head, scolding me for my impatience and brooding over my laptop in my hotel room, working myself into a dark mood. So, I have decided to take your advice, get a proper meal of the best smoked salmon and potatoes, admire the blue light of the Oslo Fjord, take a walk in the Vigeland Park, and then get a good night's sleep.
Hope your sleep is not too troubled.
S
"Sightseeing? You?" John guffawed. "What - wait – you were hearing my voice in your head? Does that mean you missed me?" He raised his brows. "God knows I missed you, Sherlock." Frowning he hesitated for a moment.
"Sherlock," John suddenly added in a steely voice, "why the hell did it take my absence for you to actually listen to me?" Confused, he rubbed his eyes. "Well, anyway, I'm glad all my nagging finally found its way into your brain. Huh. Okay, so, did you enjoy your time as a tourist?"
John,
I am back in my hotel room. The tour around the city was informative. The food was – by all standards – good; with you nagging me to eat up, I would actually have enjoyed it. I suppose the waiter was rather disappointed by my lack of appetite. Not that I care.
I made an unsettling discovery, however: I seem to be so used to your company that I do not enjoy myself on my own anymore. I have to keep myself from soliloquising, used to explaining my deductions as I am. Without your erroneous observations and your frequent expressions of appreciation for my superior intellect, strolling around a city has become an unexpectedly tedious business. From the start, I have been acutely aware of the fact that your absence during hazardous endeavours is a significant disadvantage; however, I was not aware that I have become dependent on your company even during the most mundane undertakings. It is pathetic, really.
But what sours my mood much more is Mycroft.
He has warned me not to get sidetracked. Bjerkeholmen has no direct connection with Moriarty, at least not in the sense that it is vital to neutralise him in order to ensure your safety and my return. I simply stumbled across his criminal activities via Isakov. More so, my attempts to bring him to justice pose a considerable risk to myself – if I get caught, he will undoubtedly kill me. Worse, if it becomes known that I am still alive, they will kill you, John.
I hate to say it, but Mycroft is right. I have sent Mycroft all the evidence I have gathered so far, but it will not suffice to convict Bjerkeholmen. Yet, I am determined to finish the task I have set myself, even if it means delaying the attainment of my primary goal and thus my return; even if it means endangering you.
I will stop Bjerkeholmen's activities.
Why?
I believe you would approve.
S
John's heart sank. This sounded more like the Sherlock he had encountered after his return. Driven, determined to the point of self-destruction. And yet, Sherlock was right, John would have approved of his actions – if there was a chance of stopping the activities of a man involved in illegal organ trafficking and cold blooded murder, he would have told Sherlock to go for it with all his heart.
He suddenly heard Lestrade's voice echoing in his mind: Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and one day, if we're very very lucky, he might even be a good one.
"You're a good man, Sherlock," John said quietly, curling his fingers around Sherlock's hand. "Believe it or not. And there's nothing pathetic about wanting to be with your friends. Nothing pathetic at all."