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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
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Despite Lestrade’s pessimism, the Russian government responded with details about the prisoner the same day. Dmitri Karolinski had a string of convictions for minor offenses stretching back several decades, almost entirely related to theft. According to the DI, the Russian authorities weren’t even demanding Karolinski be extradited, which was nothing short of amazing. Sherlock suspected his brother’s meddlesome interference.
Studying the recent activity around the warehouse where Karolinski had been found yielded no useful data. Ships from Sao Paolo, South Carolina, Singapore, Vladivostok, and Sydney had all arrived and left from nearby docks in the month prior to his discovery.   After working fruitlessly on decoding the text messages for several days, Sherlock switched his attention to another angle of inquiry.
London itself would show him the anomalies he was looking for. The map of London was so big that it covered the kitchen table completely, leaving John no choice but to eat his breakfast on the sofa. He’d tried moving it or just putting his bowl on top of it, but Sherlock stopped him before he could dislodge any of the pins and bits of colored string making a crazed web across the surface. There was a pattern here, there had to be. He’d laid out the location where every weapon that was unnecessarily powerful and expensive had been used. Green string marked burglaries, red string marked murders, yellow string marked areas where weapons had been found apart from any actual crime.
What was he missing? There were no clusters of incidences where there shouldn’t be. There were no groupings beyond the normal, predictable crimes the criminal element in the city usually carried out. Murders in the same areas as other murders, burglaries in the same areas as other burglaries. The sense that he was missing something obvious, something right in front of him, was niggling at his mind like a splinter. “Come on, show yourself.   What am I missing? What am I missing? There’s always something…”
“Sorry, what’s missing?” John had come back into the kitchen so quietly that his question made Sherlock jump.
“What? Oh, uh, no, not missing. Well, no, it’s something I seem to be missing. There’s something off about this layout; I just need to find it.” Why was he so flustered? It was as if John’s interruption had shaken his brain and made all his thought pattern jumble and scatter. Sherlock forced himself back to the board with the echo of John’s voice still drowning out everything else he had been thinking. What am I missing?... What’s missing?... Oh! There it was, staring him in the face.   The problem wasn’t with what was on the board but with what was not on the board.
In glee, Sherlock spun around the kitchen and grabbed John by the shoulder. He had a sudden urge to hug his rather startled flatmate, but that would have been ridiculous, so he simply spun John around with him. “It’s missing! They’re all missing! Come on, we’re going to Earl’s Court. Get your clothes on. And bring your gun!”
It took him a bit to find a cab so early in the morning, but he had just managed to flag one down by the time John came trotting out. He was still shrugging into his jacket as they climbed into the back and Sherlock gave the driver a general destination. “Any chance you’re going to tell me why we have to run about like this before the sun’s properly up?”
“The map didn’t show me where something out of the ordinary had occurred because the change in the pattern was missing. Everything else was spread out the way you’d expect, but there have been absolutely no incidences of heavy assault weapons being used in crimes within the southeastern corner of Earl’s Court. That should tell us something.”
“What, you think the Americans have something to do with all this?”
“No, the Russians. The man we met in the warehouse spoke to me in Russian before assaulting me. The woman responsible for writing that dreadful song giving directions to the warehouse is a Russian expat named Korolieva Pchela. The weapons themselves are manufactured in Russia. And those same guns have been conspicuously absent in a neighborhood largely inhabited by Russian immigrants.”
“But why would a Russian criminal mastermind suddenly want to ship weapons to England?”
“Moriarty must be pulling the strings again. He demonstrated quite amply that he doesn’t mind the attention.”
“Yeah, but we haven’t heard anything from him or about him since he ran off at the Pool last month. I mean, last time he was pretty keen on letting you know that it was him behind it. We don’t even know where he is. Whatever got him so interested might have taken him right out of the country. You sure you’re not just a bit obsessed?”
“No one else would have the resources to accomplish something of this scale. And causing mayhem purely for the sake of throwing me off is exactly Moriarty’s style.”
“So we’re going to confront a possible gang of angry Russians and possibly a psychotic consulting criminal with access to lots of guns and, what, make them all grumpy by waking them up? I’m calling the police this time, Sherlock. I won’t do whatever it is you think you’re going to do without Lestrade at least knowing about it.” Since he was already dialing his mobile, Sherlock didn’t bother trying to stop him. He leaned back against the seat and tried to think of what they would be looking for in a quiet, residential neighbourhood that would signal secret weapons smugglers.
Lestrade was already waiting for them at an intersection fairly close to the center of the empty circle on Sherlock’s mental map. It was obvious he’d been up late and had only just rolled out of bed for John’s call (hair sticking up in the back but forced flat in front: slept on his back and hadn’t checked the back of his head before leaving; patches of stubble under the chin: shaved in a hurry, possibly in the car while driving; dark circles under his eyes; coffee cup larger than normal). “Sherlock, this better be good. Doctor Watson said smugglers and Russians and assault rifles and all that. Please tell me you’re just having a go at me.”
Sherlock barely spared him a glance from his scans of the area. “The evidence suggests that the out-of-proportion weapons used in various crimes are being deliberately shipped to London by a ring of smugglers with ties to Russia. The lack of any such weapons in this area must mean that purchasers are being warned to stay away from the home of someone involved. Someone at the head of the operation doesn’t want his work to interfere with his home life.”
John cleared his throat. “So, what exactly are we looking for, then? A Russian family with a secret gun vault in the cellar?”
“Don’t get any ideas, Sherlock,” Lestrade hastily put in. “We’re not going to go knocking on people’s doors and demanding to see their cellars.”
“That would be pointless. No one in his right mind would store massive quantities of projectile weapons where he sleeps.”
“Right, then, what are you looking for around here?” Lestrade had the patient look of a man who knew he would be running about in circles very soon and couldn’t see any way to avoid it.
“Something off. Something that doesn’t fit….”
“Thanks, that’s very helpful. I’ll call in some backup, and we can do a general sweep of the area. New neighbours, heavy traffic, extra visitors at odd hours, people suddenly getting a load of money and no way to explain it, that sort of thing. Don’t go banging on doors.”
Sherlock didn’t hear the rest of Lestrade’s instructions as he walked away. They were still a few blocks from the centre of the void on the map. He went down the street a bit, turned left, turned right, but he couldn’t be sure. Height. That’s what he needed – a higher point of view. There were no handy fire escapes in this part of town, but an outside staircase to a second storey balcony served nearly as well to allow him to climb to the roof.
From up here, he could see the whole neighbourhood laid out below him. The angle wasn’t right, so he jumped the gap to land on the next roof and look from there. Not much improvement. Behind him, John hoisted himself over the knee-high ledge at the edge and scrambled to his feet. He didn’t say a word, just walked over to join Sherlock and stare randomly at the quiet streets.
The trees had finally put out their spring foliage, obscuring his view somewhat. People had taken advantage of the warmer weather to plant window-boxes and post-box trellises; the scents of jessamine and lavender could be identified even from this height. Only a few early risers were out at this hour: a couple of fun runners, four people taking dogs for morning walkies, a rubbish lorry making slow progress down the row of bins. There was very little auto traffic, but Sherlock could see Anderson and Donavon pull up where he had left Lestrade. (Arriving in the same car, they weren’t on the late shift last night: back to sleeping together. Anderson has no business here, nothing Forensics can find before a crime is committed: Donovan left her car wherever it was before winding up at his place last night and made him give her a ride.) It all added up to a lot of nothing. Nothing special, nothing interesting, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing useful.
He turned to John with the intention of suggesting that they try another spot when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. It was just a brief glimpse, like someone ducking out of sight behind the chimney three rooftops over. Finally, something interesting! With John close at his heels, Sherlock vaulted over the gaps and ran across the shingles. The chimneys on these roofs were big, low things at the very edge, more than large enough to hide a man. At Sherlock’s nod, John went round the far side, leaving the detective to approach the back cautiously.
A brief flash of color was all the warning he got to raise his arm, which was the only reason he wasn’t knocked unconscious again. However, the blow was enough to knock him off balance. Sherlock scrambled unsuccessfully to keep his balance, but there was nothing to grab hold of. As he fell, he heard John’s muffled shout and a dull thud from above.
John landed beside him moments later in the disgusting heap piled in the back of the rubbish lorry. Several sacks broke open under the impact, spilling forth their noxious contents. Struggling to get to his feet among the old coffee grinds and rotten fruit, Sherlock could see no sign of their assailant on the roof. The lorry chugged on to the next bin; apparently, the driver had no idea that the back of his vehicle was occupied. Fortunately, Lestrade had seen them fall and managed to convince the lorry driver to stop and let the two out of the back.
At the sight of the banana peels and soiled papers covering them, Sgt. Anderson let out a barking laugh. “Couldn’t wait to get home for a bit of a tumble, boys? Or do you just like it really filthy? That’s a great look on you, by the way, Freak!”
John glowered at the guffawing detectives, but Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and turned to Lestrade. “We were attacked from behind, so I never saw a face. The man was trained in hand-to-hand combat. He’s between 160 and 165 centimeters tall and 20 stone. There must be a hatch leading from inside the house to the roof. Let’s start with this house.”
He was about to ring the bell when the DI grabbed his arm. “Sherlock, it’s not yet 7 in the morning. It’s too early for anyone to have to deal with you, especially in your current state. Go a talk to the lorry driver; we’ll see if these people know anything about strange men jumping about on their roofs.”
Talking to the lorry driver proved a complete waste of time. The man had been plugged in to his iPod through the whole business and hadn’t noticed anything, even people falling in the back. Lestrade didn’t have any more luck with the nearby residents, mostly retired Americans. Sherlock would normally have demanded a stakeout and a thorough canvassing of the area, but one look at John stopped him. Anderson and Donavon’s snide comments and snickers were seriously starting to annoy John, if the set of his jaw and the tension in his shoulders meant anything. It had started to rain, too, a fine misting that would inevitably soak anything left outside, and John wasn’t wearing his usual jumper. Reluctantly, Sherlock agreed to accept a lift back to the flat from Lestrade. He hated riding in police cars, but no cab would have them in their state. The entire ride passed in silence.
Turning from shutting the front door, Sherlock was greeted by the sight of his flatmate frantically removing his jacket and shirt. The sodden garments were flung to the kitchen floor before John began attacking his trouser buttons. “John, what are you…?” Sherlock was unable to finish the thought as John off peeled his ruined jeans, standing in the kitchen wearing only his pants. Pants that were currently soaked and sticking to his skin in intriguing folds. Pants that were so wet as to be nearly see-through.
“I’m not dripping this mess through the flat, Sherlock. I’ll take it to the laundry after I shower. It won’t be in the kitchen for more than a few minutes. You might want to do the same, but I can’t promise to leave you any hot water.” As John walked up the stairs, providing Sherlock with the opportunity to perform a thorough study of the musculature of his flatmate’s backside, the most brilliant man in London was completely unable to form a coherent reply.
It was the uncomfortable tightness in his own trousers that finally provided Sherlock with the missing piece of the puzzle. Quickly, he took stock of his bodily responses at the moment. Elevated pulse rate, uneven breathing pattern, clenching in the abdomen, dry mouth, and the obvious evidence of swollen genitals. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed that he even had dilated pupils. For all logical purposes, the chances were all but impossible that he was suffering simultaneously from an allergic reaction, a mild heart attack, and the results of an unremembered injury to the groin. Therefore, though he would have originally considered it to be highly improbable, the truth must be that Sherlock Holmes was experiencing a very strong sexual attraction to Dr. John Watson. This was unexpected.
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Anomalies