Sherlock: The Nut-Cracking Case

Chapter 1: Sleeping Beauty

Sherlock had spent so much time in that infernal hospital room, he could have written two entire novels.
In the hours spent there, he could have solved over 200 cases (or so he says), finished his experiments
on perfumes and fragrances and their relation to people, read up on the latest volume on criminology
and written a letter to the author pointing out all the mistakes. Yet, he didn’t. His days in that white,
boring closet the doctors called a room were spent solely around John. He played the violin to him, even
though the man probably couldn’t hear it. He composed two songs for him, one about loss and one
about the hope of him awakening. He took Rosie to see him and read fairy tales to them. Stories with
happy endings, where the knight was always on time to save the damsel in distress and the damsel
never was shot. He read anything he could get his hands on to John, actually: the paper, his blog, the
Silence of the Lambs novel, a book about astronomy… He sat next to the bed and watched James Bond
movies with John, fully paid attention for the first time, and imagined what his best friend would say if
he was awake. He made Lestrade bring his chair from Baker Street and slept there, next to John, for an
entire month.

Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade visited often, begging him to leave for a while. But he didn’t. Harriet
also came by. The first time, she only stayed for no more than five minutes. She was surprised to see
Sherlock there and definitely did not appreciate it. It was obvious to Sherlock that she blamed him for
what had happened. She had also been drinking, her hands shaking uncontrollably and hidden in her
pockets. She had stopped by only to leave some flowers and then she was gone. The second time, she
said “Hello,” and asked him to leave the room. He didn’t want to, but he did. When she came out she
had washed her face to hide the tears and seemed in a hurry. Her hands were still shaking, and when
she touched Sherlock’s in a fast goodbye, he put a card between them. It was a help number for
Anonymous Alcoholics. He thought she might need it. The last time she came in, she wasn’t alone. A
dark haired woman accompanied her, their hands touching as she entered the room. She didn’t ask him
to leave this time, and although she still disliked him, she seemed to be okay with his presence. She left
a new, expensive tablet on the table, wrapped up in a beautiful red lace. “For John”, she said. “So that
he can write on his blog anywhere he goes”. She asked Sherlock to take care of him and she left.

John’s attack was plastered on the news everywhere the first few days. The famous blogger being shot
was something exciting for the media to talk about. That was another reason Sherlock had decided to
stay there. Going home meant facing the reporters. After less than a week Mrs. Hudson started bringing
mail that had been delivered to Baker Street. People saw the incident and send cards and letters. The
women and men whose cases they had solved wrote to them, brought flowers and gifts. The boys from
the Geek Interpreter sent a comic strip, in which both Sherlock and John were represented as
superheroes. The case they solved was stupid and wrong, obviously perpetrated by Sherlock’s female
butler, and John’s lips and eyes were inaccurately drawn. Nevertheless, he read the story out loud,
showed the pictures to his comatose companion and smiled with the narrated ending.
“Finally our case was closed. Another problem solved by the masters. And so it seems that we reach an
end. However, this is just the beginning of what would become the story , the legend, the adventures of
the two greatest heroes,” he read. “There is one last refuge for the desperate, the unloved, the
persecuted. When life becomes too strange, too impossible or frightening, there is always one last hope:
Two men waiting in the shadows of the night, like they’ve always been there and they always will;
Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.”

He knew John would love this part, that’s what he liked about the cases, after all. The adrenaline, the
excitement, solving the impossible, romanticising the events. He smiled sadly as he glanced one last time
at the last page. Sherlock was on top of one building, in the middle of the night, his black coat waving
like a cape. John stood on the roof of another building beside him, looking down at the pedestrians in
the street. “It’s a nice drawing,” he muttered, “although a little too heroic for me. There is no final kiss,
but I guess that only happens in fairy tales, doesn’t it?” He turned the comic around to show John the
last page, as he had been doing all along. Not that he expected any changes. He had read every book
and study written about comatose people, ever since John came out of the operation room. The doctors
affirmed that talking to the patient would help him wake up, but there was no empirical proof to
indicate so. It was clear to him why they would make such a claim. It didn’t help the victim, but the
family and friends. And it did help, somehow. Sherlock liked talking to John, even if nothing changed,
even if it felt like he was grabbing to the last inch of hope.

So he didn’t expect it, when this time, he got an answer. Although it really wasn’t an answer so much as
a bunch of deep incomprehensive sounds. He looked up and there he was. John’s eyes were open, ever
so slightly, like it was an effort to keep them open. His green greyish irises stared directly at him.
Sherlock didn’t notice the comic slipping his fingers and falling to the ground. He just swallowed and
took a deep breath, trying to wake up from that wonderful dream. He had imagined this instant a
thousand times during that month, thought of every possible thing he could say, decided to confess his
feelings in the greatest of speeches. Instead, he whispered “John”. John blinked twice, then slowly
closed his eyes again, and before falling one last time into a deep sleep, a sound came out of his lips. It
was nearly impossible to understand and Sherlock only could decipher “Hi”. Just about right for the
greatest consultant detective to miss the second word spoken. The part where John said “love”.

Sherlock stood up from his chair. His muscles hurt after having stayed in the same position for hours. He
took his friend's hand in his one and said, “I’ll find the one who did this to you. I’ll keep you save. I
promise.” Then he was gone, in search for the nurse, the doctor, Lestrade, Mycroft and anyone else who
could be of assistance.
Chapter 2: Tale as old as time

Six months later

John looked at his shopping list and sighed. He nearly forgot to buy the night diapers for Rosie. He
walked slowly down to the third aisle where the baby products were to be found. The lights blinked
above him as he searched for the right brand. Rosie had turned out to be quite a posh lady when it came
to wearing diapers. She started crying whenever they tried to put her something different from her
usual brand. A woman passed next to him with her cart. She smiled at him, but he didn’t return the
greeting. He was too tired to do so, too bored with his life to even try. When he finally found the diapers
his mood only got worse. They were seated in the top shelf and he had to stand on his tiptoes to reach
them. He grabbed a package with one hand while leaning on the shelf with the other. Of course, his luck
today being what it was, two other packages came down with the one he was holding. Instead of putting
them back up he decided to buy them as well, just so he didn’t have to go back there for a while. It
would be great if Sherlock started doing the shopping again, as he had done the first weeks after he
woke up from the coma. But for that to happen they had to actually talk about it. And since the madman
was nowhere to be seen lately, they wouldn’t. He left the supermarket carrying two bags in each hand
and thinking that they should buy a damn cart. There were too many diapers, baby powder bottles,
wipes and porridge to buy along with all the food Sherlock never ate, to carry by himself. All of a sudden,
his phone vibrated. John’s instincts immediately took over. Not many people texted him, in fact, only
one did so continuously. And John was always prepared to jump into battle. However, it was difficult to
do in his current state. He tried to maneuver the bags into one hand, in order to grab his phone with the
other, but he realized he had to stop to do so. No running to Baker Street in this situation. Then,
somebody bumped into him. The bags landed on the floor, the food fell out of them… It was a huge
mess.

“I’m so sorry,” the man whom he had collided with exclaimed in a thick russian accent. He was a good
looking guy, tall, thin and in shape. The dark bags under his brown eyes made him look older than he
probably was, and as he helped John pick up the disaster, he looked more than once behind his
shoulder. John frowned, having had too many bad encounters with strangers while walking close to
Baker Street. Was he being followed, just a lunatic or was he waiting for someone? He didn’t have time
to ask, the man helped him with the last bag, apologized again, and disappeared. John got back on his
feet again, and looked at his phone. “Remember to buy the carrot porridge. My investigations have
shown that it’s Rosamund’s favorite. SH” said the message. How did Sherlock know he was shopping?
They hadn’t seen each other at all that day. He was gone somewhere. So how the bloody hell did he
know? He shook his head in frustration. No, he hadn’t bought that porridge, he wasn’t going to do so
now.

Back in Baker Street he juggled again with the bags to open the door and found Mrs. Hudson playing
with Rosie on the carpet.

“You should get yourselves a nanny, dear. I’m happy to help but I’m not your babysitter nor your
housekeeper,” she said while a big stuffed pink elephant danced in her hands. By the noises Rosie made,
she seemed to agree with the woman. He didn’t bother to give an answer as he walked to the kitchen
and started unpacking... Yes, they needed a babysitter. Better said, he needed a babysitter. He had
closed his consult for a long time now and he had to reopen this monday if he wanted to maintain any of
his old clients. However, for some inexplicable reason, he continued to put aside the search for a nanny.
He hadn’t contacted any agency yet, or put any ad. To be honest, he was secretly hoping Sherlock would
lend him a hand. If his monster was around when he started interviewing babysitters, it would be so
much easier to get rid of the useless ones, the ones who drank or smoked, or watched TV instead of
taking care of Rosie, from those that would actually do good work. Only two problems stopped him:
first, he needed to talk with Sherlock for more than five minutes straight, get his attention, and make
him stay while the interviews took place. Second, he was afraid there would be no babysitter who would
want the job if Sherlock was there during the interviews.

“By the way, a man came in not long ago asking for help. It’s a pity you aren’t taking cases anymore, he
seemed quite scared. Talking about his loved ones in danger or something. It was difficult to understand
him, he spoke too fast and with a strange accent. I felt bad for sending him away.”

“What?” John hadn’t been paying much attention to what Mrs. Hudson wa saying, too busy looking for
space in the fridge to put the groceries.

“I said that it’s too bad you’re not accepting cases anymore.” she repeated.

“Yes we are.”

“Well, that’s not what Sherlock said.”

John closed the fridge door at once. Sherlock was not taking cases anymore. Sherlock was never at the
flat. Sherlock was not telling him anything. Where did he go every morning? Why didn’t he include him?
He froze with a frightening idea. Was he on drugs again? John had been watching Sherlock ever since
the incident with Culverton Smith. Even after he came back from the hospital they followed a routine.
Mycroft was in there, too. He kept a close eye on Sherlock, made sure he didn’t go to that place again.
At least that’s what he had told John.

“You said the man who came here had a strange accent,” he commented, trying to turn back to his
normal self.

“Yes, Eastern, maybe.”

“Was he by any chance around 1 meter 85, tall brown haired, brown eyed, thin, and in shape?”

Mrs. Hudson looked at him in shock.

“Don’t tell me you are turning into Sherlock? We have enough with one of his kind.”

John smiled.

“No, Mrs. Hudson, we wouldn’t want that.” he said.

Since it was sunday, he spent the day with Rosie. It had turned into one of his greatest pleasures to be
with her and make her smile. For so long he had been alone. And even after meeting Sherlock, he had
known he would never get to have a real family with real happiness. So having Rosie, someone to care
for, someone that needed him and that could correspond his love, was a dream come true. There was
no feeling better than seeing a part of him slowly grow into something beautiful, knowing that nothing
bad would ever happen to her, because he wouldn’t allow it. Knowing that she would grow up safe,
happy and feeling at home. It was an amazing feeling. He felt like he finally could be useful in the world.
So he played with her for hours, and by the time the night arrived she was exhausted and fell into a
deep sleep. John placed her in her little bed in his room upstairs, turned both walkies on and took one
with him downstairs, went to the bathroom and pulled out the first aid kit, sat on the couch, turned the
telly on and waited for Sherlock to arrive. Time passed as he jumped from one channel to the next. At
midnight the first horror movies started playing out. He found himself watching Nightmare on Elm
Street, even though, after his coma dreams, he had made a silent promise to avoid the genre. He
lowered the volume so the screams wouldn’t wake up Rosie. After Johnny Depp’s messy death, he fell
asleep.

The door rustled and the floor creaked. However, it wasn’t until the lights blinked on that John awoke.

“Why are you sleeping on the couch?”

Sherlock’s voice was soft and low. His jacket had dust on it, his scarf was loose, his eyes reflected his
exhaustion. He sounded as tired as he looked. Probably just as tired as John felt as he stretched his
muscles and moaned. He saw Sherlock glancing at the first aid kit but remained silent.

“I’m not using drugs again. I promised I wouldn't” he said, and he seemed hurt.

“How was your day, honey?” John asked sarcastically.​ ​ “Mine was great. I went out shopping, changed
diapers, and found out we don’t accept cases anymore. Why don’t we accept cases, exactly?”

“I have no time for consulting right now. I’m working with the government in a difficult...”

“Bollocks,” interrupted John. He felt too tense and frustrated to put up with Sherlock’s bullshit, but he
knew that getting angry at him would not help in this situation. Sherlock only reacted in two ways in
those situations, either by joking and trying to make him forget the problem, or by admitting fault to
anything and everything and not changing his methods at all. So he took a deep breath before he spoke
and tried his best not to ground: “You know, after I woke up, I agreed to come back to Baker Street
because I thought it would be best. I had to recover and I needed help with Rosie. I’m really grateful for
everything you have done. But I’m not going to continue living in a place where I seem to be a stranger.
If you don’t want to include me in your life, if you’re not going to be around because of me, it will
probably be best for me and Rosie to leave.”

Sherlock’s blue eyes open widely in confusion and worry.

“It has nothing to do with you, John. I’ve had a very occupied calendar lately, that’s all.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want Rosie and I to intrude in on your busy life.” He muttered in his deep, silent
angry voice.
Sherlock’s hand went up to his hair in an all too familiar movement. “You have a daughter to
take care of, John. You can’t get shot again.”
Finally the truth. John’s anger was swept right away as soon as he heard those words. Sherlock
was afraid. Sherlock cared. He never got to see that part of him. Sometimes, he even dared to
believe it didn’t exist. Sherlock wasn’t there when he awoke in the hospital. He helped him a lot,
but his mind seemed to be somewhere else. He never looked like he actually liked lending a
hand. So for him to get a glimpse at the heart under the skin, it seemed worth it. He hated
himself for even thinking that it was worth it to go to hell and back just to see that his flatmate
cared for him. If that wasn’t a low blow to his self esteem, then he didn’t know what was. Then
again, he hated seeing his friend in such a vulnerable position.
“Look, we are in this together” he started, and he had to stop for a second because his words
sounded too cheesy and romantic for his own sake. ”I was shot when I was on my own. I was
drugged and hidden under a bonfire when I was on my own. You had to commit fake suicide
when you were on your own, and you were shot by my murderous wife while we were apart. So
maybe, just maybe, we should try to stick together. It seems to be the only healthy solution.”
Sherlock smiled ever so slightly.
“You are the doctor,” he answered and walked to his room. Before entering, he turned one last
time and asked, “Do you still want me to take your drug test?”.
John shook his head in denial. He trusted Sherlock. He always did. He still wanted to clarify
some things, but then his walkie sounded and he had to go upstairs to attend to Rosie. It was
early in the morning, and he had to go to work the next day. Maybe it was better to continue the
discussion another time.
Chapter 3: The curse of the dancing princes

Nikolai sat on the middle of the stage as he adjusted his ballet shoes. He stood up slowly and
looked at the empty seats. In his mind, women and men filled them, dressed in their most
fashionably elegant regalia and looking on with high expectations. They didn’t cheer (that would
be inappropriate) but their eyes latched onto his frame with admiration. The orchestra began to
play. He counted five seconds, then moved. First came a double pirouette, then a slide to the
left. Now, he faced the Mouse King for the first time. He bowed, and the fight began. He danced
with carefully precisioned poise, but when he came to stand in the ​Attitude​ position, his left leg
lost its stability. He put it down before he fell. His breath felt heavy and his thighs hurt. He was
never going to dance ballet professionally again. Nevertheless, his little exhibition had done
some good. Now he knew what was missing in the choreography of this scene. He fetched his
notebook and wrote down the necessary movements. He glanced at his phone for the time. He
had one hour left before his date. He still had to go home and change, probably also shower, he
thought, as he smelt his shirt.
A sudden noise caught his attention. The sound resonated in the empty theatre.
“кто здесь?” He asked without answer. He tried again in English, “Who’s there?”
Soon he would get his answer. Soon, he would regret it.

It was an early Tuesday when Lestrade came into 221B Baker Street. The clock had not chimed
nine o'clock yet and John was sat comfortably in his seat with little Rosie on his lap. His first
doctor appointment didn’t start till the afternoon that day. Sherlock was busy experimenting in
the kitchen. He had claimed he could prepare a drinkable mix of John’s favorite teas. He had
been around more often lately. They had solved three cases together so far. Of course, two of
them involved finding Rosamund’s toys, which drove the detective to a desperate search since
they usually ended up hidden in the dark, dusty, and unexplored nooks and crannies in the flat.
It was a start, though.
“Good morning, lads,” Lestrade announced as he entered the room. He smiled brightly at the
baby and stepped in closer to see her better.
“Morning, Greg,” greeted John while he rocked Rosie on his legs. She giggled happily.
“And how are our babies doing?” Asked the detective inspector with a childish voice.
“Babies?” the consulting detective inquired from behind them.
“Well, you can hold this one if you want while I go check on the bigger one,” John grinned
mischievously. Sherlock had been messing around the kitchen for a long time now and he was
starting to worry. Was he trying to poison his tea again? Lestrade took Rosie in his hands with
enthusiasm. He had a soft spot for kids.
The kitchen floor was sticky and needed to be scrubbed, but it didn’t look as bad as the
countertops. A dozen tea bags had been opened and emptied, the remains scattered near the
toaster. Three used mugs rested in a corner, while at least two more had been put in the sink.
John didn’t even know they had that many mugs. They were probably from his old flat, maybe
bought by Mary. Sherlock held another tea cup in his hands and took the infuser out of it. He
tasted the drink and frowned. “Still something missing,” he muttered to himself before going
back to the little tea leaves.
“Lestrade is here,” commented John, smirking at his flatmate’s ridiculous behaviour. “I know.
You called him Greg.”
“That’s his name.”
Sherlock cleaned out the infuser and stuffed his new mix inside it. The water was boiling over
the fire, ready for the next experimental batch of tea. “Wasn’t it Gustave?” The doctor looked
over his shoulder to make sure Lestrade hadn’t heard it. Luckily enough, the man seemed to be
too distracted with the baby to even remember they existed. “No, it’s most definitely Greg,” he
said, swiped the new cup of tea out of Sherlock’s hands, and took a sip. “It’s good, thank you.”
He said. And it was. It also was extremely hot and burned his mouth, as Sherlock warned him.
But at least it didn’t contain an eye in it or something.
“Good morning, Greg,” greeted Sherlock as they came out of the kitchen and after John gave
him a nudge. The DI looked up from the floor a bit confused for a moment, before suddenly
recalling why he was there. Apparently everyone loved to play on that carpet. He stood up with
Rosie in his arms and offered Sherlock a hand to shake.
“So, what new case has Scotland Yard baffled right now?”
Lestrade checked his pockets and slowly remembered where he had left the file. It was lying in
the carpet next to a rattle. Sherlock picked it up with a sigh and flipped through the pages. All
his amusement and willingness to be polite slipped away as he saw their contents.
“What is this?” he asked. John moved closer to get a better look.
“Nikolai Orlov was found dead five days ago in the middle of the stage. He was the
choreographer for the Imperial Russian Ballet Company and found himself in the middle of
practice, when well… he was shot. They were supposed to interpret the Nutcracker in two
weeks. But I doubt they’ll be doing anything now, because an hour ago we found the corpse of
their lead dancer Rurik Dorokhin...”
“Why didn’t you come to me right away” Sherlock interrupted him abruptly. And as soon as the
doctor saw the photography of Nikolai’s crime scene, he understood why. The man had been
shot twice, once in the crotch, once on the forehead. A letter had been left next to the body.
Someone had written there the words “MISS ME?” in big black letters.
“We had a major suspect with motivation, access, and no alibi. We assumed the letter was a
simple red herring,” Lestrade looked a bit ashamed.
“You should have contacted me anyway! Does the incompetence of the Scotland Yard improve
with age?”
John rolled his eyes. Here we go again, he thought, but returned his attention to the file. There
was something familiar about the victim. He could swear he had seen him before, certainly not
in the theater. However, he was certain that the closed eyes were brown and that he had a
strong accent…
“I know this man,” he suddenly realized. Everyone, including Rosie, turned to face him. “Sorry?”
asked Sherlock.
“I know this man,” he confirmed. “We bumped into each other on the street nearly two months
ago. Mrs. Hudson told me he came here looking for help.” He didn’t explain that they didn’t
accept cases at that time. That was between him and Sherlock. The look on his face confirmed
the detective’s suspicions. “Did he say what he needed?”
“Not to me. Although, I think he was scared of someone or something. I remember him glancing
around like he feared he was being followed. I suppose that we’ll have to ask Mrs. Hudson,
though.” Sherlock’s eyes remained fixed on John for a moment longer than necessary before
they went back to the files. “The shot at the crotch was second. In normal cases this would
indicate hatred and sexual punishment from the murderer. But it could also be a message. Was
the dancer killed similarly?”
“Yes. Our criminalists came to the same conclusion, that’s why our main suspect…”
“Mr. Chapman, the cleaner of the ballet studio. Why was he the main a suspect?”
“He had a confrontation with the choreographer, he accused him of sleeping around with his
wife, he had a handgun of the same caliber as the one used to murder the victim in his name,
his fingerprints were all over the place, and he had no alibi.”
“But Mr. Whatshisname was also married, right?” asked John pointing at the file. He had gotten
himself paper and pen and was prepared to note anything relevant.
“Apparently he was getting a divorce. And many witnesses believe he was seeing someone.”
Sherlock studied the file with determination. Not that he could get that much from the minor
details the Scotland Yard had found out, but the photographs, they were really telling. He
studied Moriarty's letter and noticed that something was missing. The spot on the left corner of
the paper could possible indicate the existence of writing in invisible ink, or some other type of
hidden message. But to be certain, he had to examine the actual note, not a copy. The victim’s
brown hair was shorter on the sides and combed back on top, fixed with hair product. He was
young, twenty six according to the file, but could have passed as slightly younger. His strong
jaw and muscled body made him look slightly menacing despite his thinness. His face was
symmetric enough, although one of his cheekbones was slightly higher than the other, probably
due to an accident as a child. His left eyebrow had been broken in recent years, so had his
upper lip in recent months. He had a tattoo of a daisy surrounded by barbed wire on his right
arm. His left leg was slightly more muscled than his right, which indicated that he was
recuperating from a serious injury on the right thigh. He wore a black v-neck, dark blue, tight
sports trousers, black ballet shoes and what seemed to be maroon underwear. All the clothes
seemed to be good quality, but he couldn’t assure it without seeing the dead body in person. If
Lestrade had called him when he should have, he wouldn’t be in this position. On the dead
man’s right wrist was a religious bracelet made of both wood and metal pieces with a little cross
hanging. His fingernails were polished. He reached for his magnifying glass and looked closer at
the different photographs of the choreographer and was able to reach some unsettling
conclusions.
“The witnesses seem to be right, Mr. Orlov was seeing someone. Although, you were all wrong
in assuming it was a woman.”
Lestrade frowned in confusion. “You mean he was dating a man? How can you tell?”
“Probably by his hair product” answered John, who remembered very well the last time Sherlock
had come to similar conclusions.
“Indeed, his hair is one of the indicators. He had it cut recently and yet, even while training, he
used a vast amount of hairspray.”
“Yeah, but that does not indicate anything” pointed out Lestrade. “ He’s Russian.”
Sherlock pretended he hadn’t heard.
“Other indicators are his choice of wardrobe, specially of underwear, his tattoo, his bracelet, and
his fingernails.”
“What does that have to do with Mr. Orlov being gay? I mean, the man was married, just
because he worked in ballet, does not immediately mean he was gay.”
Sherlock stared at him baffled by his apparent stupidity.
“The man had his hair cut and his fingernails polished in a salon. No one does that for a woman.
No woman is interested in one’s fingernails. By stating that, I’m not claiming Nikolai Orlov was
gay. Contrary to what seems to be Scotland Yards beliefs, bisexuality has been scientifically
proven. I don’t understand why it is so difficult to consider that possibility.”
John licked his lips. He could have sworn his flatmate had glanced at him angrily for a second
there. If he looked at his fingernails, which he would never admit to had done, it was just to
assure everyone that he was a normal person. They were short and clean as a doctor’s
fingernails should be, and nothing else. They were definitely not a statement.
“Shouldn’t we be going to the second victim’s crime scene?” he asked.
“Yes, definitely,” confirmed Lestrade and immediately stopped “...but what about Rosie?”
“I’ll call Camille,” Sherlock stated as he got his black coat and blue scarf. “In the meantime, I
suppose Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind taking care of her.”
John hesitated, suddenly remembering that he had planned to have a talk with Sherlock today.
“I’ve been looking at some nursery schools around the area, maybe it’s time to contact one of
them.”
Camille was the babysitter they had had for the last few weeks, a young literature student that
came from France. Mike Stanford had given him the contact after he had expressed their need
for a babysitter. She was lovely, smart, and great with Rosie. She even liked Sherlock. She had
compared him to detective Dupin from Poe’s stories. The only difference, according to her, were
that “Il est plus afeminé et Il n’est pas droit”, whatever that meant. However, her Erasmus only
lasted two more weeks before she’d return to Toulouse.
“Nonsense. According to pediatric studies infants should enter nursery schools between their
18th and 21th month. Rosamund has at least 5 months, one week, and five days before that
moment.”
And with that statement, expecting them to follow, Sherlock closed the door.
Chapter 4: A tale of two brothers

The ballet studio was big, crowded and full of mirrors. Not exactly the best place to kill
someone. The Russian Ballet Company had changed their trainings here after Orlov’s corpse
was found in the other studio. As it turned out now, the setting didn’t seem to change anything,
and the ballet crews faces reflected their fear, anger, sadness, and disappointment. They were
going to interpret The Nutcracker in the Royal Opera House in December, but now both their
choreographer and their lead dancer were dead. Police officers were everywhere, questioning,
comforting the witnesses, and studying the crime scene or, as Sherlock would put it, ruining it.
Rurik Dorokhin had been found dead in the middle of the hall that lead from the main stage to
the cameroons by his dance companion Anya Shishkin. They had talked about coming here
earlier than the rest of the crew to be able to calmly practice one of their dances together.
Apparently, Dorokhin had been missing steps and losing rhythm ever since he learned of the
choreographer’s death. He laid on the floor in a strange, uncomfortable manner, like a broken
abandoned toy. His legs were bent towards his stomach, his arms were raised as though had
been trying to protect his body, his hands were covered in blood, and his face was forever
frozen in a painful grimace. It was quite a different posture from the one seen in Nikolai Orlov.
Contrary to him, Rurik had been shot in the crotch first, than in the head. And John felt terribly
bad for the boy, who couldn’t have been much older than Camille, the baby sitter. With his wavy
blond hair, soft features and white shirt, he looked too angelic to have died in this manner.
Sherlock, as usual, didn’t seem to care at all as he pulled out his magnifying glass, and kneeled
down to closely inspect the victim’s body. John tried to do the same from his position, although
he knew it wouldn’t matter. He could not, would not, compete with his detective. From what he
could see, Rurik was a Russian posh boy. He was wearing simple training clothes, a white
T-shirt and black pants, yet they were perfectly ironed. The black watch on his wrist was
obviously expensive, and his ballet shoes looked perfectly new, even though they couldn’t be,
according to the worn down tips. He seemed to care a lot about his grooming in general, except
when it came to his upper body. John stared at the corpse with confusion. The wooden cross in
his necklace, the unshaven face, the greasy hair, and the bags under his eyes didn’t match the
rest of his outfit. It rather seemed he had made a sudden effort to pretend he was okay, when
he wasn’t.
“Looks like we found Mr. Orlov’s secret date,” commented Sherlock standing up. John open his
eyes brightly as he connected the dots.
“Please, Sherlock, explain this for those of us not blessed with your abilities,” Lestrade dryly
requested.
“The cross,” muttered John, although he wasn’t sure of it. Nevertheless, when the detective
gawked at him, impressed, he felt brilliant for his observation.
“Indeed,” he agreed. “Nikolai Orlov was not a religious man, as the tattoo on his arm
demonstrates...”
“Excuse me?” interrupted Lestrade, again, not following the pattern.
“The man had a car accident that cost him his career as a dancer. Then, once he had recovered
from a probable downfall and got an offer as a choreographer, his pregnant wife had a
miscarriage. That’s all in the files you gave me, inspector.”
“Yes, so…?”
“Well, the tattoo had to be done shortly thereafter. He couldn’t have done it before. A
professional ballet dancer can not allow himself to have a tattoo in an exposed part of his body.
The technique and materials used on the crafting of the tattoo are excellent, which means it was
expensive. A dancer who lost his career could not possibly pay for it, however, as a successful
choreographer, he could. The marks on his skin are too old for the tattoo to be recent, which
means it was done one and a half to two years ago. Now, this man had lost his dreams and his
possible descendant. Most religious people in his situation either try to approach their beliefs or
reject them. If Nikolai Orlov had been a religious man, he would have gotten a tattoo of a
religious symbol, probably a cross, since it’s the most common religious tattoo for males in
Russia. Instead, he chose to have a daisy, a margarita in Russian, surrounded by barbed wire.
Margarita, according to the files is the name of Orlov’s mother, and probably would have been
the child’s name as well. A man who tattoos a symbol of someone he cares about surrounded
by something dangerous is not a hopeful, religious person, but rather someone desperate.”
“Okay, okay,” Lestrade interrupted once again. “I understand that, but what has his tattoo choice
to do with his relationship to Mr. Dorokhin?”
“The man was wearing a Christian bracelet when he was found,” John explained. “Since he
wasn’t religious, the bracelet had to have another meaning for him. And the cross in the bracelet
seems to be a silver replica of the one Mr. Dorokhin, here, is wearing.”
“Maybe they were just friends,” a police officer standing near them suggested. Sherlock’s
disparaging stare immediately shot him down.
“Do you buy jewelry for your male friends?” he asked. “Besides, the cross both men were
wearing when they died is known in some places as the cross of Saint Nicholas.”
“Great,” Lestrade announced, wanting to silence Sherlock for a while. “They were a gay couple,
one of them was religious. I’ll have their apartments inspected to see if we can find any new
clues with this information.”
“Rurik was not gay.”
Everybody looked at the suited up man in the corner. He was in his thirties, tall and carried
himself with an unmistakable arrogance. From the flare of his nostrils and the throbbing vein on
his neck, it was evident he was barely containing his anger. John immediately caught the
resemblance between the victim on the ground and the man in front of him. The jaw line, the
length of his forehead and the similarities of their mouths indicated that they were close
relatives.
“Mr. Dorokhin,” Lestrade turned towards the man. “This is Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John
Watson.”
The man shook hands with them, while his eyes seemed to be carefully surveying them both.
“I am Victor Dorokhin, main owner of the Ballet Company and brother of Rurik.”
“And you are certain that he was not gay,” added Sherlock, as if that statement was an obvious
part of the introduction.
Dorokhin looked momentarily displeased. His posture stiffened as he glanced at the people in
the room before turning back to them. It all happened in a matter of seconds, but over the years
John had learned to read those signs. He had to. Sherlock was often too occupied monologuing
about how smart he was and how he solved a case to realize the dangers of exposing a
criminal. Of course, Victor Dorokhin was not a criminal… yet. But there was something
gruesome about him. He was too proper, too elegant and harmless in his movements, for them
not to be intended. And even with the slightly rounded belly protruding through his finely tailored
suit jacket and the golden watch around his wrist, it was evident that the man was strong and
muscled. He looked like a tiger pretending to be a kitten. John disliked him upon first glance,
and the feeling seemed to be mutual.
“I suppose you want to question me about… Rurik. And I will gladly do so if we can have the
conversation in a more private area.”
They followed him through the building and into an office. The curious officer that had been
around them during the body’s examination followed them. He presented himself as Archibald
Davis, who apparently had been asked by the chief intendant to write everything down. Lestrade
had wasted too many hours filling in the paperwork after Sherlock’s solved cases. Bringing
Archie in was their solution. They had to stop on several occasions when Sherlock had found
something of interest to investigate. Officer Davis stopped right behind him and asked “stupid”
and “boring” questions. John had to make an effort not to smile. It wouldn’t have been
appropriate.
Finally, they entered a brightly lit, highly adorned room. It wasn’t Mr. Dorokhin’s office by the
looks of it. From the pictures on the walls one could tell it belonged to a former and proud
performer. The posters, articles and photographs changed from theater representations to ballet
shows, but a majority of them displayed the face of a single actor, and he definitely did not
resemble Victor Dorokhin. John guessed by the age of the newspaper page framed in front of
him, that the office belonged to the studio owner or manager. But he supposed that the man
would have happily given it to the Russian as a favour or for the right amount of money.
“Sit down, please,” he offered them. There were only three chairs. Dorokhin took the one behind
the desk, positioning himself in a situation of power. Lestrade sat on the one directly opposing
him, and the madman, of course, placed himself comfortably on the armchair in the corner. He
patted the arm of the chair, inviting John to sit down next him with a smirk. Naturally, John
ignored him.
“Why did you deny your brother’s sexuality when you know it to be true?” Sherlock suddenly
inquired. Dorokhin didn’t seem pleased about it. By the looks of it, he probably was not used to
people disproving him, much less calling him a liar.
“You have to understand, gentlemen,” he started, trying to sound as polite as possible, “That
this is The Imperial Russian Ballet Company. Now, we may not have a tzar anymore, but
homosexuality is still against the law, and very badly viewed by the general public in my country.
Yes, I know what my brother is… was. I accepted it a long time ago and continued loving and
caring for him. But I do not want people commenting and murmuring about it. He should be
remembered for his work. I want Russia to commemorate his talent, not condemn him for his
sexuality. I would appreciate it if you kept this a secret.”
“Rurik’s sexuality seems to be the main motive for his murder. Therefore, no, I doubt we can
keep it a secret.” Sherlock said. Archibald continued furiously writing on his notepad while
Lestrade tried to mask his irritation. Angering the owner of the ballet company they had to
investigate wasn’t probably the best idea. Then again, they should be used to the consulting
detective’s antics by now.
“Well, you are the famous mister Holmes, aren’t you?” asked Mr. Dorokhin. “I’ve checked your
web page. “The art of deduction”,very interesting. For what I see, if someone can find my
brother’s murderer and bring him to justice without revealing this secret, it should be you.”
John recognized the spark in Sherlock’s eyes in an instant. He shouldn’t have had to look at
him, thou, to guess that the “great” detective would rise immediately to any challenge, no matter
how stupid or dangerous. This one seemed quite safe, in fact. But still, he felt it as a wrong
move to humor the ballet company owner. “Where were you the night of your brother and his
boyfriend's death?” he questioned him. And by the looks of it, no one was expecting that
question.
“They were not dating. Not yet.” was everything Victor Dorokhin stated before he took out his
agenda and checked the dates. His alibis were, of course, bulletproof.
As they left the office, Sherlock turned to John. “You are suspicious of Dorokhin, rightfully so.
But you shouldn’t have made it so obvious.”
“Why not? You do it all the time.”
“Yes. However, as you’ll have noticed, you are not me. And considering our previous
experiences with mobs, I think acting with foresight is more on the line. It would be on our best
interest if you wouldn’t get kidnapped again. Don’t you agree?”
John arched an eyebrow at Sherlock. He would have interrupted him harshly if Sherlock’s
childish but truthful concerns hadn’t been so clear to him. He remembered far too well how the
case of the Blind Banker developed. And the words Magnussen uttered while they watched the
video in which Sherlock rescued him from the fire, were forever engraved in his memory. “But
look how you care about John Watson. Your damsel in distress.”
“I’m not helpless, you know? I’m a soldier.”
“I know that” the detective interrupted, his voice soft as he spoke “Army doctor, Fifth
Northumberland Fusiliers. Two for the price of one.”
John had no answer to that. Thankfully, he did not have to give one, as the officer Davis fastly
stumbled in the conversation. “Sorry, did you just call Victor Dorokhin a member of the mob?” he
wondered.
“When we shook hands I noticed a tattoo hidden under his sleeve. The word “Bratvá” that
means brother or brotherhood in russian is, for what I could tell, what’s written there. “Bratvá” is
also the name of one of the main Mafia families in russia. I presume he’ll also have two
six-pointed stars on the front of his shoulders, from his first years as a criminal.”
“Okey, now I have a bunch of new doubts” exclaimed Archie. “First of all, do all russians wear
live-revealing tattoos? Second, how do you know he’s not a reformed, legal and peaceful
citizen? And third, are you some kind of tattoo-and-jewelry-expert detective? How do you know
so much about this stuff?”
Sherlock didn’t bother answering.
“Is he going to keep following us?” He simply asked Lestrade.
“Not me” the inspector told them “I’ve got to take care of the crime scene. You go around and do
your things and officer Davis will be your silent shadow.”
Sherlock groaned in frustration and walked away, distantly followed by a humored John and a
concerned Archie.
“Is he going to answer to any of my questions? Because I kind of need this information written
down.” He complained.
“He’s a smart ass, know-it-all detective. You can read all about his methods in his web page”
John explained, making sure Sherlock heard him.
“Oh, yeah, the web page. What’s the name?”
“You don’t know who I am” asked Sherlock suddenly and in apparent shock.
John couldn’t hide his giggle. Oh, that was simply brilliant!
“No,” the officer babbled “some sort of famous detective I have been told. See… I’m kind of
new. I’m from Wales, actually, from a village in Pembrokeshire. But none goes anywhere in
Greenway, so I moved here six months ago when I got the offer. And I was assigned to this
case this morning, only because apparently I’m the most efficient paper worker in Scotland
Yard. So, yeah, If you give me the name of your web page I’ll do my research and next time we
meet I won’t be doing so many questions.”
“Oh, rest assure there will be no next time.” claimed Sherlock. John laughed out lout.
“Ignore him” he said. “Ignore his page, too. Unless you are interested in knowing the different
types of ashes that exist, there is no real reason to visit it.”
“My web side is very interesting” claimed Sherlock. He stopped in front of the door to one of the
cameroons and, after a short inspection, decided to enter it. The room was empty and had view
decorations. A sports bag hung from a chair, a bottle of talcum powders on the table and a
portrait of Tchaikovsky stood next to the mirror. That seemed to be about it.
“You know, all the people that come to Baker Street asking for help read my blog, all the people
that enter our apartment looking to destroy us read your page. I’m not the detective here, but I
think there is a pattern in there.”
“We solve cases that involve high level criminals, usually with a higher I.Q. than their victims.”
John smirted. “Of course, the reason they read you is because they are geniuses, and not mad
villains.”
“Hey, mates” stopped them Archie at that point. “Don’t want to interrupt your little domestic, but
could you at least tell me why we are here?”
“It’s not a domestic.” said Sherlock, “We are not a couple.” said John. Officer Davis stared at
them in confusion. “Well… Maybe you should be.” he suggested.
Chapter 5: Through the looking glass

“We are in Mr. Karloff’s cameroon” stated Sherlock after a long and somewhat uncomfortable
silence. “He interprets the Mouse King in the ballet show.”
Archibald noted everything down. “Is he one of our main suspects?” he asked.
“No, but Rurik was here this morning, before he was killed.”
“Oh right, because of the shoe polish on the side of the door?”
Sherlock looked at him seemingly pleased.
“Looks like Scotland Yard is not so helpless after all.” he muttered, as he continued opening the
shelves and inspecting everything. John remembered the stain in the lower part of the door that
Sherlock had shortly stared at before entering the cameroon. Now that he thought of it, it was
the same color as the soils of Rurik Dorokhin’s shoe prints. He looked at Archie impressed and
somewhat pissed with himself. Was everyone better than him at deducing stuff?
“That is the weirdest compliment I have ever received. I’m not sure if I should be thankful or
angry. But anyway, I didn’t figure it out by myself. I just payed attention at what you did.”
Sherlock’s head was stuck inside in the closet. When his voice came out, it sounded muffled.
“Do you like him, John?” he asked.
“Yeah, he’s nice.”
“Okey then, we’ll keep him. Arthur, you may stay.”
John smirked and shook his head when Davis tried to explain that Sherlock could not decide
whether he stood or left, and that his name was actually Archibald. He could have told him there
was no use discussing with Sherlock. But to be honest, he enjoyed the scenery to much. He
noticed then that the mirror was slightly tilted to the left. That was kind of odd, seeing how clean
and unused the rest of the room was. Karloff seemed to only use his cameroon to rapidly
change clothes. Surely, there were a lot of possible logical explanations for this. However, his
time with Sherlock had taught him not to overlook details, so he came closer and moved the
mirror. Something hindered the movement. And as he put his hand behind it to check, an
envelope felt down.
“I think I found what you were looking for” he said. The detective turned to him for a moment
and frowned at the finding.
“It is an interesting find, indeed, but that is not what I was looking for.”
John shook had to remember not to touch his discovered treasure. He wasn’t wearing any
gloves and contrary to Sherlock he did care about police procedures.
His friend on the other hand kept searching through the closet in a very unmethodical way.
Which let him to question what was going on in Sherlock's mind. “Finally!” He screamed as he
took something out of a drawer. John and Archie came closer and looked at the little, blue, silk
bag that Sherlock hold. He pulled the golden strings and opened it, letting two rings slide from it
into his palm.