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Anomalies	By : Harpling Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3513 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Sherlock, the BBC, or any of the characters mentioned herein, nor am I making any money from writing this.

Chapter List
- 13
- 14
- 15
Title: Anomalies
Author: Harpling
Characters, Pairing: Sherlock/John, Lestrade, Mycroft, Donovan, Anderson, Dimmock, Mrs. Hudson, OC
Rating: PG
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was a man accustomed to anomalies. Things out of place formed the bulk of his work, after all. But why was he so slow to notice them in his own behaviour?
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and I am making no money from them.
Warnings: Manly man love
Beta’d by the extraordinary Lynn Maxwell and not yet Brit-picked.

Chapter 14

21 Nightingale Vale, Greenwich. Don’t be obvious. SH
Lestrade pulled up, without the lights or sirens, outside the building in question about twenty minutes into Sherlock’s vigil. “Why are you giving out my private number, Sherlock? Woman just called me and said you wanted a plainclothes guard outside her office. And reminded me to feed her fish when we got through rummaging around in her knicker drawer. What the hell is going on?”
“The woman in that corner flat on the third floor is involved in a group trading in weapons, drugs, or black-market human organs. You need to arrest her before she realizes that she’s being watched.”
The reaction to this announcement was not quite what Sherlock had been expecting. Lestrade showed no inclination to spring into action, instead crossing his arms and rather decidedly not moving his feet. “Have you got any actual evidence this time, Sherlock? You know I can’t just go breaking into someone’s place and arresting them just because you say so. And you haven’t exactly been at the top of your game recently.”
“What exactly are you implying?” Sherlock asked in a dangerous tone. Lestrade was not one to be intimidated.
“Chasing ghosts on rooftops, knocking on people’s doors at ungodly hours of the morning, sending me out to question some poor bugger in Blackwall with nothing to show for it. You’re off your game, somehow. There wasn’t even anything illegal in that warehouse apart from Karolinski. And I’m still not convinced that you’ve uncovered a secret ring of Russian mafia smugglers operating in London. Now you tell me, why should I believe you and interrupt this woman’s evening? What are you saying I’m going to find up there?”
There was a brief staring match before Sherlock spun around and stalked toward the building, with Lestrade close upon his heels. “Sherlock, wait! What the hell are you doing? You can’t just walk into this woman’s flat. And I won’t cover up any more housebreaking you do!”
“As a private citizen with no connection to the police, I am free to speak with whomever I choose. Once again, I’ll step in to cover your inadequacies.”
“Sherlock – “
“I’m going to speak to her, nothing more. Nothing that would offend your delicate sensibilities. I’ll have your evidence inside a minute.”
“Fine, do whatever you want. Clearly, nothing I say is going to change that. I’ll wait out here if you don’t mind. I’d rather not be around when you start terrorizing people again.” True to his word, Lestrade got back in his car and sat there with every appearance of being immovable.
Without a backward glance, Sherlock went in by himself. While in the lift, he considered his options for getting into the flat. It was obvious that the roommate was complicit in whatever was going on to get Jamie Wilson out of the flat. It may have nothing to do with the warehouse and the weapons anomalies, but anyone who had taken that much trouble was bound to be involved in something illegal. Briefly, he considered borrowing Jamie’s ploy of obfuscating with words, but a woman involved in something illegal was less likely to take to stay placid under such an assault. Claiming to be from the police (with Lestrade’s newly pilfered id) would startle the woman and cause panic. A friendly visit from a new neighbour would not be welcomed in the current circumstances. For just a moment, he wished John was there to help him. John, with his unassuming appearance and easy charm, did not intimidate people the way Sherlock did. He had a much easier time winning over women.
Out of sheer curiosity, he tried the handle of the door at the end of the hall. It was open. This woman was either extraordinarily stupid, or she was expecting many more visitors this evening. The strident guitar chords of a group of men trying very hard to sound angry while singing in Russian masked the sound of his entrance. Definitely a case of being extraordinarily stupid.
He was in a small, shabby sitting room with two doors, must be bedrooms, on the left. Through a narrow doorway on the right, he could see the edge of a cramped dining room and kitchen. It was clearly the home of two women, as evidenced by the color-matching throw pillows and area rugs and the lingering traces of a woman’s flowery perfume. There was no sign of anyone else at the moment, so Anya must be either in her bedroom or around the corner in the kitchen. Any noises she might be making were also covered by the pounding bass. He had just begun to hope he would be able to find what he needed without being detected when a voice called out from the hidden kitchen, “Misha? Eto vei?” So much for that plan.
A blonde woman appeared in the doorway, a large frying pan clutched in her hand with studied casualness and her other hand stiffly held behind her back. At the sight of the stranger, she moved into a defensive position, eyes narrowed. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” she demanded, the words quite clear despite her heavy Moscow accent.
“Yeah, hi, sorry about that. I knocked, but I guess no one heard. My name’s John. I’m Jamie’s friend. She’s turned her ankle pretty badly and asked me if she could kip at my place for tonight. Um, she asked if I could swing round and pick up some of her things. You’re Anya, right?”
She peered at him, clearly not falling for the act yet. “She is going to hospital now?”
“No, no, she’s not as bad as all that. Just a sprain – she’ll be all right. Nothing broken, thank the Good Lord, but she’ll be in a brace for a couple of days. It was probably those shoes she was wearing. You know the ones, look like she’s got a couple of staircases strapped to her feet? She said she didn’t feel like spending the whole night waiting around in the A&E. Told me off for trying to take her there. Said what good was having a doctor for a friend if I couldn’t even take care of a little thing like a sprain.” He chuckled and gave her a cheeky grin. “You know how she gets. So, anyway, I’m just here to pick up a few of her things for the night. I won’t be a mo.”
“You are John the doctor? Harry’s brother?” Her accent was very thick but rather uneven, as if she forgot about it sometimes. Must be faking it. Underneath, he could hear that her vowels sounded distinctly Devon.
“Guilty as charged, I’m afraid. Though, I prefer to think of Harry as my sister rather than the other way round, if you know what I mean.” He winked, and she relaxed marginally.
“You are taller than I thought,” she said as she moved slowly toward the second door on the left. “Jamie’s room is here. I do not know where she keeps her things. You must be quick. I have a friend coming soon.”
Now that he was farther in the room, Sherlock could clearly see the small table in the dining room. It was covered in stacks of money. With the distance and angle, he couldn’t make out currencies, but it was clearly a combination of rubles and American dollars, with a few pounds in the corner. Anya was still watching him suspiciously, so he made a show of going into Jamie’s bedroom and opening her wardrobe.
Anya’s mobile rang, and she went back into the kitchen to answer. “Da?” She lowered her voice and mumbled into the mouthpiece, but he could just barely make out, “”Yeah, most of it. Just waiting on one more pollen drop. I tell ya, the Queen had better be happy with this. I don’t think I can do it again. Some bloke walked in, friend of Jamie’s, and I nearly jumped out of me skin. … Yeah, ok, just hurry up. I don’t like having it all sitting around here. … No, Misha should be on his way. Rang to say he was leaving about half an hour ago. … Ok, sure. God, but I’ll be glad when my part’s done. … Yeah, I will. … No, alright, I got it. Bye.”
Hastily, Sherlock threw a random assortment of garments into a large, beaded and feathered handbag. The loose blouse Anya was wearing had done nothing to conceal the outline of a handgun tucked into the waistband of her sweatpants. As he was well aware, an untrained, nervous gunman is the most dangerous kind. He made plenty of noise tromping through the sitting room. “I’ll just let myself out, then. Ta!”
He sent Lestrade a text from the hallway. Anya Karjavin. Stacks of currency. Dollars and rubles. Another drop-off of cash on the way. Carrying gun. Still think I’m off my game? SH
By the time he got back outside, Lestrade was already on the radio calling for armed back-up. “An eyewitness saw the gun, that’s how I know. Did you check for a permit? … Right, well there’s another one on the way, don’t know if this one is armed or not. Try not to spook him. This might be part of a bigger gang, I don’t know yet. Yeah, got it. …” Sherlock didn’t bother sticking around to hear the rest. He would go to the Yard in time to hear her questioned, but there was nothing else to learn here at the moment.
Instead, he headed for the nearest Tube station. He needed to find Dr. Bell again. The crush of people rushing home from work was just starting to ease up, leaving him a little breathing space. Of course, there was no John to be pressed against this time, so it really didn’t matter.
At the third station he tried, Sherlock heard the sounds of an Albinoni concerto drifting above the crowd surging for the door. There was only one man who would play an obscure oboe piece by an obscure Italian composer in the London Tube. Dr. Bell smiled when he heard Sherlock’s approach but kept playing through the piece. For just a minute, Sherlock was content just to stand there and let the music wash over him, the carefully structured progressions mixing seamlessly with the ornamentation and the performer’s elegant embellishments. With a final trill, old man let the notes fade away and turned to face his old student.
“Sherlock Holmes, back to see me again. Things must be pretty bad if you’re coming to see me twice in one month. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I…” Oh, this was hard. “I may have…” From the look on Dr. .Bell’s face, he was quite aware of what was causing Sherlock’s sudden inability to answer. Determinedly ignoring the old musician, Sherlock swallowed hard and continued, “I made a mistake. I missed something important. What do you know about bees?”
“I know they hurt if you step on ‘em. And I know they work bring pollen to a queen to turn into honey. And I know they’re nasty little things if you step on ‘em or make ‘em angry. And I know there’s been a lot of talk about bees going on in the last couple months. Now, you tell me: what do you know about bees, Sherlock?”
“Bees and pollen and queens are being used as some sort of a code. A woman mentioned bringing pollen to the queen this afternoon while in the middle of a business transaction. A member of the Russian mafia raved about pollen for the queen while delirious. A song giving coded directions to a rendezvous point referenced honey and was written by a woman with a Russian name that translates to Queen Bee. Even the graffiti used to send messages has had bees painted on it somewhere. Someone has set up a network to bring assault rifles into London and is using the metaphor of bees as a communication code for the operatives. You hear everything. What have you heard?”
“Hiding in plain sight like a gator in a swamp. Crafty. I think you may have met your match, Sherlock.”
“It’s not Moriarty; that’s been established.”
“I didn’t mean Moriarty. Did it ever occur to you that there could be more than one person with the wits to match against yours? You got to think past that ego of yours, Mister Holmes. And don’t you roll your eyes at me.”
Sherlock stopped doing exactly that. How had the blind man known? “But what have you heard?”
“Well, I hear more about it down on the Piccadilly Line, near Earl’s Court. There were some mutterings going on in the Greenwich station this afternoon, but I left there about two hours ago. I used to hear talk of bees when I played near [something close to the Isle of Dogs], but that’s been pretty quiet for a couple of weeks now. You understand this isn’t an exact science, Sherlock. I don’t know how much you’re going to get by hoping one old man happens to be in the right place at exactly the right time.”
“False modesty, Dr. Bell. You hear every whisper and every tiptoe around here. And I know you have other people keeping you informed about what they hear. You’re far more reliable than the idiots at Scotland Yard.”
The old man laughed and turned to put away his oboe. In its place, he pulled out a fairly accurate reproduction of a 15^th century lute. It looked rather incongruous cradled in the wrinkled ebony skin beside the shiny medical alert bracelet. “You better be careful, Sherlock, or Dr. Watson’s going to get mighty jealous! Where is the good doctor tonight? It’s awful late for him to be working.”
“John is… He left. Went to New Zealand to see a friend. With his old girlfriend.” Why had he added that last bit? That wasn’t relevant.
“Aw, Sherlock… You said something, didn’t you? You drove him away. Couldn’t even see what was right in front of your face, son. I told you to listen to the silence. You ignored what he wasn’t telling you. It’s a crying shame, too. John seemed like a damn fine man. Well, I sure hope you can make it right with him. Seemed to me that you’d met your match in John Watson more than you ever did with that Moriarty fella.” He began playing then, a complicated courante dance, giving Sherlock no opportunity to reply or ask what he meant. Clearly, the old man wasn’t going to say any more on the subject, so Sherlock walked off, the three and two hemiola pattern of the rhythm echoing past him down the tunnel.
- 13
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- 15
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Anomalies