Fic for jazzy_fay: Explosive Encounters Part 2/2
Title: Explosive Encounters
Recipient: jazzy_fay
Verse: BBC Sherlock
Author: frozen_delight
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Beta: Many, many thanks to my fantastic beta dioscureantwins for all her help, advice and encouragement. All remaining mistakes are mine of course. Extra thanks to the lovely canonisrelative and stardust_made for their sound advice and patient hand-holding.
Summary: A minor commotion in a launderette on Balcombe Street leads to a major alteration in John Watson’s life.
Additional Notes: Incorporates elements of the film “My Beautiful Launderette”. My apologies to Hanif Kureishi for making such irreverent use of his dazzlingly brilliant script.
Dear jazzy_fay, I wasn’t able to work in all the things you requested, but here’s a fluffy, relationshippy casefic which you’ll hopefully enjoy all the same.
‘Are you all right?’ he shouts, dropping his bag and hastening to where he last saw them. ‘I’m a doctor, it’s okay, I can help you.’
The smoke already lifts and he can see them, crouched on the floor, their clothes covered in dust and dirt, their faces white and shocked. The washing machine in front of them has exploded. The door has been torn out of the holder and lies dented a couple of steps away. The washing powder compartment has soared into another direction and cracked during its bumpy landing. The floor is littered with minor glass shards. The pungent smell of burnt plastic penetrates the room. The whole place looks like its formerly shiny exterior has been covered with drab widow’s weeds. Amazingly, miraculously, none of the people present seem to have been hurt.
As soon as he’s established that no one sports any physical injuries that require immediate attendance, John pulls out his mobile and calls Sherlock. Thankfully, his friend deigns to pick up almost at once.
‘Sherlock, get down here, there’s been an explosion. I’m in the launderette on Balcombe Street, the one that opened a couple of weeks ago, close to the Taunton Centre,’ he says, brief and to the point, because he knows that his friend likes it best when he gets all the facts served as quickly as possible, with no added hysteria. He expects Sherlock to hang up immediately, but surprisingly enough, he lingers and asks, ‘John?’
‘Yes?’
‘Are you all right?’
John would very much like to giggle at the absurdity of it, but as Sherlock’s voice actually sounds untypically worried, he hastens to reassure him. ‘Yes, of course, I’m perfectly alright. Everybody is. Just an explosion, no casualties.’
Satisfied, Sherlock ends the call.
For a moment, John smiles at his phone display. Thanks to Sherlock, the days where nothing happened to him are long gone. Now, apparently, he can’t even complete so mundane a task as doing his washing without attracting trouble. Serious trouble. The thought makes him smile all the more.
Just as John stashes his phone back into his pocket, two young men burst into the room from a door at the back. Despite the fact that they’ve been nowhere near the explosion, both have a somewhat dishevelled appearance. They’re roughly of the same height, build and age, but otherwise John has never seen two people looking so strikingly different.
One is dark-haired with a round, shining face, wearing a black suit, white shirt and a plain-coloured tie. He looks like the leading man straight out of one of those Bollywood movies. He’s got the charming, cheerful face of a new-born baby - the kind of face that invites trust and love. But the suit and the determined set of his brows show that he’s more than just one of those cuddled darlings of fate - he’s an active sort who knows what he wants and gets it too. The conclusion that he must be Omar, the owner of the launderette, Nasser’s ambitious nephew who prefers making money to going to college as his father would like him to, presents itself quite naturally to John.
This means, of course, that the other young man must be Johnny, the friend from school who runs all those laundrettes together with Omar. He’s got nicely chiselled, sharp features and a very distinctive nose. If he wore a suit like Omar, he’d be dashingly handsome, no two ways about it. As it is, in his well-worn street wear he doesn’t make John feel terribly inferior. And his rebellious blond highlights do nothing to improve that, either, for which John is rather grateful. He’s not particularly self-conscious about his looks, but he doesn’t need to be constantly surrounded by other men who are blessed with several more inches in height and other advantages in appearance on top of that.
‘What happened?’ Omar asks while Johnny picks up some pieces of rubble.
‘Bloody machine exploded!’ Nasser swears furiously. ‘Right in front of Rachel.’ Turning to her, he adds, ‘If this was Bilquis, that’s really the last straw! I’ll belt her up till she’s all black and blue!’ For John’s benefit (because apparently, after surviving an explosion together with them, John’s been accepted into the family circle) he explains, ‘Bilquis is my wife. She’s a witch. She tried to curse Rachel.’ Then he tries to lunge at his daughter who retreats with the well-trained reflexes of life-long practice. ‘If you’ve had a hand in this, you little bitch, I’ll kill you, you and your mother!’
Since Nasser makes no further move towards his daughter and just stands there, scowling and breathing heavily, John sees no immediate reason to tackle him to the ground. ‘By all means,’ he instead tries to placate him, ‘this looks more like an act of terrorism. Or like the beginning of one of those riots. I mean, this is Balcombe Street, after all. Even nowadays there are several gangs here in the area, I think.’
Unfortunately, while his words seem to have the desired effect on Nasser, the smart nephew now pounces on Johnny and stabs a finger at his chest. ‘If this was one of your fascist mates, you’re fired. And I’ll never want to see you again!’
‘They’re not my mates no more,’ Johnny protests. ‘Gave it all up for you, remember?’
Omar just counters this with a contemptuous little nod. Johnny hangs his head. He looks unhappy, defeated even, as though they keep on having this argument, again and again. John feels most sorry for him.
Mentally, John reverses all the assumptions he’s made, based on their appearance. Whereas Omar has the sweeter, softer face, he seems to be a lot harder and harsher than his friend. And Johnny, for all his striking looks and defiant rig-out, has the more pliant and dependent nature. It makes John wonder how on earth their friendship has survived for so long. Probably people looking at him and Sherlock also ask themselves what their companionship could possibly be built on, but compared to those two in front of him, his friendship with Sherlock seems astonishingly simple, almost mundane.
‘What a mess, what a mess!’ Nasser’s anxious voice interrupts John’s musings. He’s rubbing soothing circles over Rachel’s back where she stands shock-frozen in front the destroyed washing machine. ‘If only my damn brother were here! And sober! He’s the only one who knows anything.’
‘Don’t worry,’ John tries to reassure him. ‘My friend Sherlock will be here soon. He’s a detective. He’s really clever. He’ll solve this.’
‘Sherlock?’ Nasser repeats. ‘Odd name. Think I’ve read it somewhere - Sherlock Holmes?’
‘Yep, that’s him.’
‘He works with Scotland Yard, doesn’t he? There was something in the papers about that Peak District kidnapping?’
‘Yeah, he helps them out occasionally. When it’s interesting.’
‘Is it well-paid?’ Nasser asks, his small, dark eyes shining greedily.
‘It’s not paid at all. Sherlock does it because he likes it.’
‘Christ, that’s rich!’ Nasser exclaims. ‘I mean, really rich! To be able to look down on money. I couldn’t do it. We’re nothing in England without money.’
John shrugs because he doesn’t really know what to say. After all, his attitude to money is a little different from Sherlock’s. He’s no posh offspring of one of the oldest families in England, with a trust fund, a country estate and an omnipotent older brother to round off the picture of perfect independence. Fortunately, that’s not troubled their friendship ever since Sherlock delegated all things to do with money to John. It might be a very immature solution, but it works well for them.
Omar, whose sense of business and money is infinitely more pronounced than either Sherlock or John’s, meanwhile surveys the mess caused by the explosion. Turning to Johnny, he says, ‘What are you waiting for? We’re losing valuable time. What if someone comes to do their washing? Get to work! Clean this up! Or you’re fired.’
‘Don’t!’ John interrupts hastily. ‘Sherlock and the police, when they arrive - they’ll want to see the scene of the explosion. Otherwise they won’t be able to deduce what happened here and who’s responsible.’
Omar looks ready to argue the point and Johnny puts a placating hand on his shoulder. Stroppily, Omar shakes him off. Johnny looks at him regretfully. Omar just shakes his head. ‘You still don’t get it, do you?’ he says. ‘I want big money. I’m not gonna be beat down by this country. Nor by you.’
The aggression behind Omar’s words makes John’s hair stand on end. He presumes that back at school, Omar and Johnny’s friendship wasn’t all sunshine and roses as John had originally surmised. Omar probably was the odd Pakistani kid, predestined to be bullied by Johnny and his cool gang. Now, the hierarchy of the playground seems to be reversed. They’re clearly not two equal business partners and they’re obviously not wearing such different outfits for nothing. Omar’s the one who calls the shots and Johnny’s the one who washes the floor. It’s possible that Omar wants revenge for all the hurt the other boy caused him. Surprisingly enough, Johnny seems willing to grant it. Or maybe there’s something else at work entirely, something John has yet to unravel.
Not now, though, where John’s head is swimming with all the accusations that Omar, Johnny, Tania, Nasser and Rachel are shouting at each other. Soon, the ravaged room is practically flooded with possible motives and suspects. They all seem to have a curious gift at getting into shady situations and making enemies. Therefore, John is endlessly relieved when Sherlock finally shows up at the launderette, not a minute too late. Sherlock’s sharp and keen features are a blessing after the loud turmoil that John was forced to witness the last couple of minutes. Sherlock’s intent gaze sweeps through the room like a particularly efficient swab, making John feel certain that Sherlock will clear this up in no time.
As ever, Sherlock’s appearance doesn’t cease to make an impression. There is something about him that is just so noticeable and commands attention, of friend and foe alike, even when he doesn’t arrive with a swirling dark coat trailing behind him - although, in this case, he does - to top off his stageworthy entry. Everybody else assembled in the launderette falls silent at the sight of him.
In turn, Sherlock looks everybody carefully up and down, nodding brusquely so that the gesture seems more like an insult than a greeting. He makes an exception for Rachel and raises her hand to his lips with a gallant flourish. She blushes with pleasure whereas Tania stares daggers at the detective’s back.
Ignoring the waves of hostility she’s sending in his direction, Sherlock then steps close to her. He glances briefly at her hands too, but when he extends his arm, it’s not to grasp one of them and place a kiss on it. Instead, his arm dives past hers and before she can protest he’s already reached inside her coat pocket and drawn out a folded piece of paper. Only when Sherlock’s hand closes over the document does John recall that he saw it protruding from her pocket when she first entered the launderette. As ever, he’d seen, but not observed. Sherlock briefly studies the piece of paper, then hands it over to John. It’s a print-out of an online-booked one-way plane ticket to Karachi leaving early the next morning. The sight doesn’t surprise John. From all he’s been forced to witness, he understands that she can’t wait to get away from her father.
Glaring at him, Tania snatches the ticket from his hands and stuffs it back into her pocket. Apologetically, John shrugs at her and continues to watch his friend’s deductive process. He’s sure that he’ll never tire of watching Sherlock check a crime-scene, both meticulous and supernaturally fast, drawing conclusions that seem to have been written in the dust all along, only no one knew how to decipher them.
Sherlock sniffs first at the washing machine that exploded and at the washing powder compartment that’s been blast off. Then, like a bloodhound on a scent, he noses the slot machine and the washing powder dispenser next to it. He straightens up with a pleased smirk. John wonders what it is that he’s worked out. Has the washing powder been tampered with? There’s no smell of gunpowder in the air, though - John knows that smell so well he’d recognise it anywhere, thank you very much. Nor would any of the explosives he’s familiar with have ignited themselves after having been mixed up with the soggy washing powder that the vending machine gives out. Still, it’s good to know that Sherlock, for one, seems to have an idea what might have caused the sudden explosion, even if John, as usual, is stumped.
Bristling with his usual case-related intensity, Sherlock asks Omar to open the washing powder dispenser for him. Omar defers the request to Tania, who pulls out the key and dutifully opens it. Intently, Sherlock examines the washing powder. Humming with concentrated contentment, he then demands to have the slot machine opened too. This time, it’s Omar who produces a key, as apparently he’s the only one who has access to the cash. Typical, John thinks. She refills the washing powder, he takes out the cash.
His curiosity in inspecting the place apparently satisfied, Sherlock proceeds to ask a few random questions, such as how much spare change is usually kept in the slot machine, whether Rachel has recently changed her brand of hand cream, when Tania usually comes in for cleaning, how many customers frequent the place, if John used the washing machine next to Rachel’s, and how much the launderette yields on an average day.
The answer to the last question is 250 pounds. Omar delivers it with furrowed brow. He isn’t happy with how the launderette’s performing financially, that much is clear. He starts blaming Johnny and Tania for not working hard enough, for not making the place attractive enough to new customers. Tania doesn’t mince matters and tells him it’s his own fault that he opened a launderette in such an unprofitable spot. Omar snaps back at her that she’s just a girl and doesn’t know the first thing about business. Watching this, John is beginning to feel a pronounced dislike towards Omar. He wonders why Johnny puts with him. Unperturbed by his friend’s outburst, Johnny goes to fetch a broom. He takes Tania’s hand and leads her away with him.
At the same time, Nasser is talking insistently to Sherlock about how he’s convinced that his wife is behind the explosion. ‘She’s a witch. She cursed Rachel.’ He intermingles these observations with questions on whether Sherlock has ever consulted in financial matters or if he would like to do so in the future, brewing a highly curious concoction of dread, greed, worry and superstition beneath his dark moustache.
Sherlock tries to stare him down with his patented ‘You’re a moron’-look, but Nasser seems completely impervious to it, as John notes with amusement. Slowly, John starts to understand why the portly, dark man with the moustache is such a successful businessman. Though he’s still pretty unclear on what exactly it is that Nasser does to earn his living - something tells him that it’s nothing so legal and boring as, say, being an accountant. But he’s sure that if he later asks Sherlock, his friend will be able to tell him where the stout man’s money sprung from, down to the last penny, going by the man’s shoe laces or something like that.
Meanwhile, Johnny has started to sweep through the place. Tania is helping him, picking up large shards of glass and plastic. Eventually, she comes across a dirty shred of pale blue silk - the pitiful remains of one of Rachel’s blouses. Demonstratively, Tania holds it up to Rachel. Even the most unimaginative of Scotland Yard’s officers would have grasped what she meant by that gesture: Look, that’s all you are.
Rachel gasps in shock. Nasser finally lets up on Sherlock, puts a protective arm around his mistress’s shoulders and booms imperatively in his nephew’s direction, as though that were the solution to all his problems, ‘Omo, marry Tania, get her off my back!’ When Omar just stands staring wordlessly at him, Nasser adds impatiently, ‘What are you waiting for? I say you marry her, you damn well marry her. Your penis works, doesn’t it?’
Just like that, John is reminded that Nasser and the frail old man he met previously are indeed brothers. He can barely keep himself from sniggering. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that Sherlock is smirking too. Obviously for entirely different reasons, but going by Sherlock’s flashy movements, John is going to be made privy to them any minute now.
‘Marry me, Tania,’ Omar says, half-jokingly. Johnny frowns at him. So does Tania.
‘If you can get me money,’ she says coolly. ‘But - look at you: You’re too greedy to share, just like my father. And I’m just a girl. So - no.’
‘What - no?’ her father exclaims indignantly.
‘I’d rather drink my own urine,’ she declares passionately.
‘I hear it can be quite tasty, with a slice of lemon,’ Omar quips back.
Sherlock’s brows rise to the most sardonic heights John has witnessed so far. Even before Sherlock opens his mouth, John knows that an eruption of sarcasm, far more volatile than the small explosion of the washing machine, is imminent.
‘Let me just point out,’ Sherlock drawls, ‘in case you’re hopelessly deluded, that this really wasn’t funny. It was a terribly weak attempt to camouflage the fact that you won’t marry her,’ he nods at Tania, because ostensibly he really can’t be bothered to retain her name, ‘because you’ve just had sex with him in the backroom,’ this is accompanied by a nod in Johnny’s direction, ‘and intend to repeat the experience at the earliest possible moment. Did you realise you’re wearing one of his socks?’
With wonder, John sees Omar’s face turn slightly towards Johnny. He smiles, completely unabashed, a little saucily even. And all of a sudden, John understands why all that aggression, all that history between them can’t break them apart: There’s love there, amply. They just don’t have a space of their own to live it out, a refuge from the rest of the world, a nest of domesticity and affection like 221B. It’s clear that Omar doesn’t invite Johnny over to where he’s staying with his father - in his stead, John would also rather leave his parent in doubt if his penis is in full working order. And Johnny doesn’t look like he can afford to live on his own, either. This means that all they have are the back-offices of their launderettes, where they can only ever half escape the beckoning call of work and money. It’s a wonder, then, that there’s so much to their relationship as there is.
Gradually, John realises that he must have been staring at the odd couple for quite some time. He recollects himself and becomes aware that Nasser is showering his nephew with terms of abuse, most to the point that he should stop ‘this nonsense’ at once and marry Tania.
Omar does a lot of smiling and talking in return, sounding very much like the pacifying, opportunistic individual that he’d previously revealed himself to be, but now John also sees the playfulness behind it. Omar may sweet-talk his uncle and personal business angel, but at heart he’s quite firm. He’s a despicably greedy boy, no doubts about that, but his greed isn’t only for money. He wants Johnny and is going to keep him. Infinitely. Nasser may not have realised that yet, but Johnny certainly has, judging by the way he grins at his own feet.
A warm, fuzzy feeling spreads through John as he watches them. Whatever their differences, he can tell they’re going to be fine. He thinks of last Saturday night and everything that happened since and hopes the same will be true for him and Sherlock too.
Involuntarily, he glances sideways at Sherlock - and what he sees arrests his gaze and increases the delicious warmth circulating inside him: Sherlock, too, is watching Omar and Johnny. There is an expression on his face that John has never seen there before. For lack of a better word, he decides to call it wistful.
Slowly, Sherlock turns to face him. He smiles slightly and just like that, John is certain that he, too, has been thinking of last Saturday night. There’s something in his quicksilver eyes as they focus on John that takes John’s breath away and makes him forget all their surroundings. Drawn in, like a helpless moth to the flame, he takes a step towards his friend - when Sherlock claps his hands and announces with a dramatic swirl of his coat, ‘The whole affair is tediously transparent.’
John feels very much like that bicycle tyre which Sherlock had first pumped up and then pricked with a knife to prove his theory about the tracks in the Peak District kidnapping. He wonders briefly if he’s misread the entire situation. The electric atmosphere between them, those gazes exchanged, crackling with suspense and intensity - maybe they were only an expression of the thrill of the case, nothing more. Maybe John has been living in a dream, these past few days, interpreting Sherlock’s actions in the light of last Saturday night, when he should have seen them as a preparation for today. It is possible that Sherlock was only waiting for the next case - and not for John.
Suddenly, John feels short of breath and lead-legged. A little sick, too. Very much like the wet laundry that he’s dropped somewhere - spin-dried ad nauseam and heavy, waiting to be hung up. The comparison seems curiously fitting since he could well be a senseless piece of clothing, for all the attention Sherlock pays him. A scarf maybe, cherished and comfortable, but still only a scarf. He feels like an utter idiot for ever having considered that he could be more than that.
‘John?’ Sherlock’s voice cuts through his dismal thoughts.
John looks up to find that everybody is staring at Sherlock in anticipation. Sherlock, however, is staring at him.
Right. He wants John’s attention. Of course. He wants John to be impressed. To exclaim ‘Fantastic!’ and to write a gushing blog post about it. Reluctantly, John looks back at his friend. All he wants to do is get back to the flat and crawl under his blankets. But he’s never denied Sherlock his full attention. Okay, he’s never denied Sherlock, full stop. He nods to indicate that he’s listening and hopes that it will be over quickly.
To John’s astonishment, Sherlock doesn’t immediately launch into his usual glib stream of deductions. Instead, ignoring the whispering behind his back, he keeps on looking at John. Eventually, he tilts his head lightly to the side, his eyes twinkling with promise, directed at John alone. John feels himself go weak in the knees and what’s left of his battered brain is in danger of melting to jelly, irreversibly, but he still manages to pick up on the blessed, wonderfully real fact that Sherlock also wants to get out of the launderette as quickly as possible. To be alone with John. Maybe his thoughts have wandered to John’s blankets too, and to what they might get up to when they’re both buried beneath them - who knows?
John wants to laugh out with giddy joy. He doesn’t, because he’s afraid that he wouldn’t be able to stop. He also refrains from taking his friend’s hand and dragging him out of the place right away. Because he understands that Sherlock would never sell the art of deduction cheaply. He’s not going to leave without putting on a show. As for John, he’s going to watch, gasping and clapping at all the right places. And he’s going to publish a smashing review of it later, on his blog.
As some kind of appetising prologue to the first act, accompanied by the confused murmurs of his waiting audience, the consulting detective makes a move as though to sweep out of the launderette, but - as he’d undoubtedly planned - the others call him back in a wild cacophony of demands for an explanation. With a show of histrionic impatience that causes John to roll his eyes, Sherlock turns back to the assembly.
‘A simple reaction between hydrogen peroxide and bleach activator. Add a recalcitrant girl to the equation and you get the scene we’re currently investigating.’
‘Recalci - You bitch!’ Nasser screams, lunging himself at his daughter, but his quick soldier reflexes kicking in, John shoots forward to detain him.
Undeterred, Sherlock continues, ‘Due to its low hydrolytic stability, bleach activator is only contained in washing powder, not in liquid detergent, since there it would immediately react with potent oxidising agents such as hydrogen peroxide, which doesn’t happen in the solid phase. However, if you add a bit of liquid detergent to your washing powder, lock it in a tight space, give it a bit of time and maybe a bit of heat, you’ll get a beautiful redox reaction. Isn’t that so, Tania?’
‘If you say so,’ she says coolly. ‘I’ve never studied chemistry.’
‘You may not understand the chemistry behind the process, but you do know the process, don’t you? Or at least your mother does? Judging by the last, faint traces of a delightful rash she’s caused on her hands,’ he nods at Rachel, ‘your mother really knows her way round materials. No witchcraft about that, by the way.’
‘No witchcraft?’ Rachel asks disbelievingly. ‘But I’ve never met her!’
‘He,’ with this Sherlock obviously means Nasser, ‘often gives you presents, doesn’t he? Most of the jewellery you’re wearing only appeared in the display windows of the top London jewellers in the last couple of months. All she would have had to do is rub one or several of these gifts with some of the more phototoxic plants in her back garden. But obviously the skin-irritating qualities of plants are not all she’s familiar with. Which brings us back to the case at hand. A box of washing powder in her pantry might have gotten rather damp one day and exploded over night. She wouldn’t have forgotten it. And she’d have remembered it when you,’ now he was back to addressing Tania, ‘came to her saying you needed money.’
‘If you hatched this plot to scare Rachel, you and your mother, I’ll kill you!’ Nasser swears, his face purple with rage.
‘If you weren’t constantly thinking with your purse and your penis,’ Sherlock says disdainfully, ‘you’d know that you’re spouting complete nonsense. Just now I explained that the explosive concoction of washing powder and liquid detergent served no other purpose than to give your daughter the money she needed to start a new life in Karachi.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Rachel says while Omar, Nasser and Johnny gape at the consulting detective. ‘My washer exploded. What’s it to do with money? And Karachi?’
‘That your washer exploded was an unfortunate accident. Just think. You used the washing powder from the vending machine. Thus - contrary to the tiringly tedious suggestions of the idiot standing next to you - the explosion can’t have been aimed at you personally, since any other customer using the washing powder could also have been exposed to one. Treating this as a general act of sabotage would make no sense, either, since this building is neither frequented by many people nor in any way symbolically important. On top of that, it would have been difficult for an external gang of rioters or terrorists to exchange the washing powder without anybody noticing that the dispenser had been broken open. The simplest conclusion is therefore to suppose that the person who possessed the key to the vending machine exchanged the washing powder.
‘This theory is supported by the fact that there’s a bucket and a ladder standing outside. Someone was cleaning the windows although they’re still rather clean. And that some is none other than you,’ Sherlock adds with a meaningful nod at Tania. ‘The skin on your fingers is still a bit wrinkled. So,’ he explains for the benefit of the rest of the audience, ‘why would she do something so unnecessary? Clearly, the answer is that she was just trying to pass the time as innocuously as possible, waiting for something else to happen. An explosion.’
‘However, why would she wish to randomly blow up washing machines?’ he asks rhetorically, pointing at Tania. ‘The obvious answer is: She didn’t. She had quite another explosion in mind. Sadly, she had no idea that the washing powder could also cause one of the machines to blow up. She hadn’t taken into account that the strong vibrations caused by the spin-drying of one washer could heat up the washing powder compartment of the machine next to it, thereby catalysing the redox reaction process and unlashing an unwanted explosion. Which is exactly what happened, going by the fact that John dropped his bag of laundry close to the entry, meaning that he was on the point of leaving, from which I inferred that the explosion took place just after his washing was done. Hence the spin-drying as a likely catalyst.’
‘Blimey!’ Johnny exclaims in amazement.
‘Fuck!’ is Tania’s more frustrated reaction, while John lets out a low whistle and the rest of them gape in astonished silence.
‘What did she want to blow up, then?’ John asks, aware that there’s a decidedly awed quality to his voice.
Preening, Sherlock replies, ‘The slot machine. As you’ll have noticed, it’s situated right next to the washing powder dispenser. She knew that she’d have to wait a while before it blew up, which made it very likely that the launderette would be completely empty, since hardly anybody frequents it outside the happy hour, from what you told me. She was going to wait here until it did and pretend to be busy cleaning the windows or whatever. Adding together the average earnings plus spare change, this would have provided her with a sum somewhere around 500 pounds.’
‘But why?’ Rachel asks, sounding just as stunned as John feels.
‘Why she wanted to blow it up?’ Sherlock repeats in his most exasperated ‘Why do I have to be surrounded by complete idiots all the time’-voice. ‘That’s obvious, isn’t it. She didn’t have a key to open it, of course.’
‘No, why did she want the money?’ Rachel amends her question.
‘She wanted to start a new life in Karachi. One-way plane ticket leaving early tomorrow morning. Obvious that. She just lacked the money for her enterprise. Her father wouldn’t give her any, nor her cousin. So together with her mother she concocted an alternative plan to get it.’
Her cheeks flushing with shame, Rachel lowers her gaze to her shoes. Omar also has the good grace to look mildly abashed, while his uncle’s still too staggered to show any other reaction. Johnny gives Tania’s arm a sympathetic squeeze.
Turning to Nasser, Sherlock ends his brilliant deductions with a last piece of advice, ‘You want to ensure that there’s no repeat of this incident and you want to have your daughter off your back, once and for all? - No need to marry her off to someone she doesn’t want to marry and who doesn’t want to marry her, either. Just give her some money and she’ll be gone to Karachi in no time.’
Everybody gapes at him. John tries to do so slightly less obviously than the rest. After all, by now he should be well used to Sherlock’s startling deductions. And yet - he can’t help but be amazed, again and again. Sherlock glances at him, briefly, as he always does, checking for signs that he’s managed to impress him. The corners of his mouth quirk, pleased and just a touch disbelieving, even after all this time. With great fondness, John rolls his eyes.
All of a sudden, the shrill sound of a police horn fills the street and a second later a harassed-looking Lestrade and two of his officers barge into the laundrette.
‘You’re late,’ Sherlock greets them. ‘Small domestic quarrel, though of a rather explosive nature, I grant. I think the family can sort it out by themselves. Good day. Come along, John.’
With a dramatic swirl of his coat, Sherlock sweeps out of the building. John seizes up the bag containing their laundry and follows him. Once he’s closed the door behind him, John quickly glances back.
Lestrade stands there, scratching his greying head. Tania, her father and his mistress are back to arguing. There’s something half-hearted about the rapid movements of Nasser’s mouth and moustache, though. John rather feels that if any metaphorical tyres have been burst this afternoon, it must have been Nasser’s self-image as a tyrannical patriarch on discovering that the rest of his family is just acting up with him. In profile, Nasser’s porky cheeks look a bit deflated. Flabby almost.
The thought of flabby skin suddenly reminds John that he’s completely forgotten to tell Omar of his father’s earlier visit. Blast! Well, there’s nothing he can do about that now. Omar and Johnny have somehow managed to steal away, quiet and unnoticed by the rest. Chuckling contently, John turns away.
A couple of steps away from the entrance, Sherlock is waiting for him, biting his lip as though now that he’s delivered all his deductions, he no longer knows what to do or to say.
‘That was amazing!’ John calls out to him, brimming over with the well-known, but nonetheless delicious post-case happiness and something else entirely that he can’t even hope to put into words. There’s an awful lot he wants to say, even more that he feels he should say, since Sherlock is gazing at him in silent, slightly awkward expectation, but John’s tongue can’t seem to form the words. He sticks to humour instead, which is always readily available. ‘You can make a bloody good story out of the most ordinary, everyday situations. Never had so much fun in my life doing the washing.’
Sherlock blinks and looks at him again, as dazed and excited as John feels. It’s as though John has reached the end of the corridor that he walked down the entire week and finds that there’s nothing there save a wall and some sort of modernist painting that could as well be a child’s clumsy scrawl. Yet when he turns around, he finds that, gloriously, spectacularly, Sherlock has followed him all the way. John’s still the one carrying all the washing, Sherlock still exhibits too much dramatic flourish not to be a movie character, and they’re both too confused and tight-lipped for their own good, but somehow they’ve both made it to this point, together.
‘Let’s go home, John,’ Sherlock says slowly.
Suddenly John can’t not touch his friend. Blindly, he reaches out his hand - and miraculously, Sherlock’s comes to meet his half-way in a strong, confident grip. They look at each other and smile.
As they slowly make their way back home, perhaps to resume things where they left off last Saturday night, neither stops smiling and neither lets go.
Recipient: jazzy_fay
Verse: BBC Sherlock
Author: frozen_delight
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Beta: Many, many thanks to my fantastic beta dioscureantwins for all her help, advice and encouragement. All remaining mistakes are mine of course. Extra thanks to the lovely canonisrelative and stardust_made for their sound advice and patient hand-holding.
Summary: A minor commotion in a launderette on Balcombe Street leads to a major alteration in John Watson’s life.
Additional Notes: Incorporates elements of the film “My Beautiful Launderette”. My apologies to Hanif Kureishi for making such irreverent use of his dazzlingly brilliant script.
Dear jazzy_fay, I wasn’t able to work in all the things you requested, but here’s a fluffy, relationshippy casefic which you’ll hopefully enjoy all the same.
‘Are you all right?’ he shouts, dropping his bag and hastening to where he last saw them. ‘I’m a doctor, it’s okay, I can help you.’
The smoke already lifts and he can see them, crouched on the floor, their clothes covered in dust and dirt, their faces white and shocked. The washing machine in front of them has exploded. The door has been torn out of the holder and lies dented a couple of steps away. The washing powder compartment has soared into another direction and cracked during its bumpy landing. The floor is littered with minor glass shards. The pungent smell of burnt plastic penetrates the room. The whole place looks like its formerly shiny exterior has been covered with drab widow’s weeds. Amazingly, miraculously, none of the people present seem to have been hurt.
As soon as he’s established that no one sports any physical injuries that require immediate attendance, John pulls out his mobile and calls Sherlock. Thankfully, his friend deigns to pick up almost at once.
‘Sherlock, get down here, there’s been an explosion. I’m in the launderette on Balcombe Street, the one that opened a couple of weeks ago, close to the Taunton Centre,’ he says, brief and to the point, because he knows that his friend likes it best when he gets all the facts served as quickly as possible, with no added hysteria. He expects Sherlock to hang up immediately, but surprisingly enough, he lingers and asks, ‘John?’
‘Yes?’
‘Are you all right?’
John would very much like to giggle at the absurdity of it, but as Sherlock’s voice actually sounds untypically worried, he hastens to reassure him. ‘Yes, of course, I’m perfectly alright. Everybody is. Just an explosion, no casualties.’
Satisfied, Sherlock ends the call.
For a moment, John smiles at his phone display. Thanks to Sherlock, the days where nothing happened to him are long gone. Now, apparently, he can’t even complete so mundane a task as doing his washing without attracting trouble. Serious trouble. The thought makes him smile all the more.
Just as John stashes his phone back into his pocket, two young men burst into the room from a door at the back. Despite the fact that they’ve been nowhere near the explosion, both have a somewhat dishevelled appearance. They’re roughly of the same height, build and age, but otherwise John has never seen two people looking so strikingly different.
One is dark-haired with a round, shining face, wearing a black suit, white shirt and a plain-coloured tie. He looks like the leading man straight out of one of those Bollywood movies. He’s got the charming, cheerful face of a new-born baby - the kind of face that invites trust and love. But the suit and the determined set of his brows show that he’s more than just one of those cuddled darlings of fate - he’s an active sort who knows what he wants and gets it too. The conclusion that he must be Omar, the owner of the launderette, Nasser’s ambitious nephew who prefers making money to going to college as his father would like him to, presents itself quite naturally to John.
This means, of course, that the other young man must be Johnny, the friend from school who runs all those laundrettes together with Omar. He’s got nicely chiselled, sharp features and a very distinctive nose. If he wore a suit like Omar, he’d be dashingly handsome, no two ways about it. As it is, in his well-worn street wear he doesn’t make John feel terribly inferior. And his rebellious blond highlights do nothing to improve that, either, for which John is rather grateful. He’s not particularly self-conscious about his looks, but he doesn’t need to be constantly surrounded by other men who are blessed with several more inches in height and other advantages in appearance on top of that.
‘What happened?’ Omar asks while Johnny picks up some pieces of rubble.
‘Bloody machine exploded!’ Nasser swears furiously. ‘Right in front of Rachel.’ Turning to her, he adds, ‘If this was Bilquis, that’s really the last straw! I’ll belt her up till she’s all black and blue!’ For John’s benefit (because apparently, after surviving an explosion together with them, John’s been accepted into the family circle) he explains, ‘Bilquis is my wife. She’s a witch. She tried to curse Rachel.’ Then he tries to lunge at his daughter who retreats with the well-trained reflexes of life-long practice. ‘If you’ve had a hand in this, you little bitch, I’ll kill you, you and your mother!’
Since Nasser makes no further move towards his daughter and just stands there, scowling and breathing heavily, John sees no immediate reason to tackle him to the ground. ‘By all means,’ he instead tries to placate him, ‘this looks more like an act of terrorism. Or like the beginning of one of those riots. I mean, this is Balcombe Street, after all. Even nowadays there are several gangs here in the area, I think.’
Unfortunately, while his words seem to have the desired effect on Nasser, the smart nephew now pounces on Johnny and stabs a finger at his chest. ‘If this was one of your fascist mates, you’re fired. And I’ll never want to see you again!’
‘They’re not my mates no more,’ Johnny protests. ‘Gave it all up for you, remember?’
Omar just counters this with a contemptuous little nod. Johnny hangs his head. He looks unhappy, defeated even, as though they keep on having this argument, again and again. John feels most sorry for him.
Mentally, John reverses all the assumptions he’s made, based on their appearance. Whereas Omar has the sweeter, softer face, he seems to be a lot harder and harsher than his friend. And Johnny, for all his striking looks and defiant rig-out, has the more pliant and dependent nature. It makes John wonder how on earth their friendship has survived for so long. Probably people looking at him and Sherlock also ask themselves what their companionship could possibly be built on, but compared to those two in front of him, his friendship with Sherlock seems astonishingly simple, almost mundane.
‘What a mess, what a mess!’ Nasser’s anxious voice interrupts John’s musings. He’s rubbing soothing circles over Rachel’s back where she stands shock-frozen in front the destroyed washing machine. ‘If only my damn brother were here! And sober! He’s the only one who knows anything.’
‘Don’t worry,’ John tries to reassure him. ‘My friend Sherlock will be here soon. He’s a detective. He’s really clever. He’ll solve this.’
‘Sherlock?’ Nasser repeats. ‘Odd name. Think I’ve read it somewhere - Sherlock Holmes?’
‘Yep, that’s him.’
‘He works with Scotland Yard, doesn’t he? There was something in the papers about that Peak District kidnapping?’
‘Yeah, he helps them out occasionally. When it’s interesting.’
‘Is it well-paid?’ Nasser asks, his small, dark eyes shining greedily.
‘It’s not paid at all. Sherlock does it because he likes it.’
‘Christ, that’s rich!’ Nasser exclaims. ‘I mean, really rich! To be able to look down on money. I couldn’t do it. We’re nothing in England without money.’
John shrugs because he doesn’t really know what to say. After all, his attitude to money is a little different from Sherlock’s. He’s no posh offspring of one of the oldest families in England, with a trust fund, a country estate and an omnipotent older brother to round off the picture of perfect independence. Fortunately, that’s not troubled their friendship ever since Sherlock delegated all things to do with money to John. It might be a very immature solution, but it works well for them.
Omar, whose sense of business and money is infinitely more pronounced than either Sherlock or John’s, meanwhile surveys the mess caused by the explosion. Turning to Johnny, he says, ‘What are you waiting for? We’re losing valuable time. What if someone comes to do their washing? Get to work! Clean this up! Or you’re fired.’
‘Don’t!’ John interrupts hastily. ‘Sherlock and the police, when they arrive - they’ll want to see the scene of the explosion. Otherwise they won’t be able to deduce what happened here and who’s responsible.’
Omar looks ready to argue the point and Johnny puts a placating hand on his shoulder. Stroppily, Omar shakes him off. Johnny looks at him regretfully. Omar just shakes his head. ‘You still don’t get it, do you?’ he says. ‘I want big money. I’m not gonna be beat down by this country. Nor by you.’
The aggression behind Omar’s words makes John’s hair stand on end. He presumes that back at school, Omar and Johnny’s friendship wasn’t all sunshine and roses as John had originally surmised. Omar probably was the odd Pakistani kid, predestined to be bullied by Johnny and his cool gang. Now, the hierarchy of the playground seems to be reversed. They’re clearly not two equal business partners and they’re obviously not wearing such different outfits for nothing. Omar’s the one who calls the shots and Johnny’s the one who washes the floor. It’s possible that Omar wants revenge for all the hurt the other boy caused him. Surprisingly enough, Johnny seems willing to grant it. Or maybe there’s something else at work entirely, something John has yet to unravel.
Not now, though, where John’s head is swimming with all the accusations that Omar, Johnny, Tania, Nasser and Rachel are shouting at each other. Soon, the ravaged room is practically flooded with possible motives and suspects. They all seem to have a curious gift at getting into shady situations and making enemies. Therefore, John is endlessly relieved when Sherlock finally shows up at the launderette, not a minute too late. Sherlock’s sharp and keen features are a blessing after the loud turmoil that John was forced to witness the last couple of minutes. Sherlock’s intent gaze sweeps through the room like a particularly efficient swab, making John feel certain that Sherlock will clear this up in no time.
As ever, Sherlock’s appearance doesn’t cease to make an impression. There is something about him that is just so noticeable and commands attention, of friend and foe alike, even when he doesn’t arrive with a swirling dark coat trailing behind him - although, in this case, he does - to top off his stageworthy entry. Everybody else assembled in the launderette falls silent at the sight of him.
In turn, Sherlock looks everybody carefully up and down, nodding brusquely so that the gesture seems more like an insult than a greeting. He makes an exception for Rachel and raises her hand to his lips with a gallant flourish. She blushes with pleasure whereas Tania stares daggers at the detective’s back.
Ignoring the waves of hostility she’s sending in his direction, Sherlock then steps close to her. He glances briefly at her hands too, but when he extends his arm, it’s not to grasp one of them and place a kiss on it. Instead, his arm dives past hers and before she can protest he’s already reached inside her coat pocket and drawn out a folded piece of paper. Only when Sherlock’s hand closes over the document does John recall that he saw it protruding from her pocket when she first entered the launderette. As ever, he’d seen, but not observed. Sherlock briefly studies the piece of paper, then hands it over to John. It’s a print-out of an online-booked one-way plane ticket to Karachi leaving early the next morning. The sight doesn’t surprise John. From all he’s been forced to witness, he understands that she can’t wait to get away from her father.
Glaring at him, Tania snatches the ticket from his hands and stuffs it back into her pocket. Apologetically, John shrugs at her and continues to watch his friend’s deductive process. He’s sure that he’ll never tire of watching Sherlock check a crime-scene, both meticulous and supernaturally fast, drawing conclusions that seem to have been written in the dust all along, only no one knew how to decipher them.
Sherlock sniffs first at the washing machine that exploded and at the washing powder compartment that’s been blast off. Then, like a bloodhound on a scent, he noses the slot machine and the washing powder dispenser next to it. He straightens up with a pleased smirk. John wonders what it is that he’s worked out. Has the washing powder been tampered with? There’s no smell of gunpowder in the air, though - John knows that smell so well he’d recognise it anywhere, thank you very much. Nor would any of the explosives he’s familiar with have ignited themselves after having been mixed up with the soggy washing powder that the vending machine gives out. Still, it’s good to know that Sherlock, for one, seems to have an idea what might have caused the sudden explosion, even if John, as usual, is stumped.
Bristling with his usual case-related intensity, Sherlock asks Omar to open the washing powder dispenser for him. Omar defers the request to Tania, who pulls out the key and dutifully opens it. Intently, Sherlock examines the washing powder. Humming with concentrated contentment, he then demands to have the slot machine opened too. This time, it’s Omar who produces a key, as apparently he’s the only one who has access to the cash. Typical, John thinks. She refills the washing powder, he takes out the cash.
His curiosity in inspecting the place apparently satisfied, Sherlock proceeds to ask a few random questions, such as how much spare change is usually kept in the slot machine, whether Rachel has recently changed her brand of hand cream, when Tania usually comes in for cleaning, how many customers frequent the place, if John used the washing machine next to Rachel’s, and how much the launderette yields on an average day.
The answer to the last question is 250 pounds. Omar delivers it with furrowed brow. He isn’t happy with how the launderette’s performing financially, that much is clear. He starts blaming Johnny and Tania for not working hard enough, for not making the place attractive enough to new customers. Tania doesn’t mince matters and tells him it’s his own fault that he opened a launderette in such an unprofitable spot. Omar snaps back at her that she’s just a girl and doesn’t know the first thing about business. Watching this, John is beginning to feel a pronounced dislike towards Omar. He wonders why Johnny puts with him. Unperturbed by his friend’s outburst, Johnny goes to fetch a broom. He takes Tania’s hand and leads her away with him.
At the same time, Nasser is talking insistently to Sherlock about how he’s convinced that his wife is behind the explosion. ‘She’s a witch. She cursed Rachel.’ He intermingles these observations with questions on whether Sherlock has ever consulted in financial matters or if he would like to do so in the future, brewing a highly curious concoction of dread, greed, worry and superstition beneath his dark moustache.
Sherlock tries to stare him down with his patented ‘You’re a moron’-look, but Nasser seems completely impervious to it, as John notes with amusement. Slowly, John starts to understand why the portly, dark man with the moustache is such a successful businessman. Though he’s still pretty unclear on what exactly it is that Nasser does to earn his living - something tells him that it’s nothing so legal and boring as, say, being an accountant. But he’s sure that if he later asks Sherlock, his friend will be able to tell him where the stout man’s money sprung from, down to the last penny, going by the man’s shoe laces or something like that.
Meanwhile, Johnny has started to sweep through the place. Tania is helping him, picking up large shards of glass and plastic. Eventually, she comes across a dirty shred of pale blue silk - the pitiful remains of one of Rachel’s blouses. Demonstratively, Tania holds it up to Rachel. Even the most unimaginative of Scotland Yard’s officers would have grasped what she meant by that gesture: Look, that’s all you are.
Rachel gasps in shock. Nasser finally lets up on Sherlock, puts a protective arm around his mistress’s shoulders and booms imperatively in his nephew’s direction, as though that were the solution to all his problems, ‘Omo, marry Tania, get her off my back!’ When Omar just stands staring wordlessly at him, Nasser adds impatiently, ‘What are you waiting for? I say you marry her, you damn well marry her. Your penis works, doesn’t it?’
Just like that, John is reminded that Nasser and the frail old man he met previously are indeed brothers. He can barely keep himself from sniggering. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that Sherlock is smirking too. Obviously for entirely different reasons, but going by Sherlock’s flashy movements, John is going to be made privy to them any minute now.
‘Marry me, Tania,’ Omar says, half-jokingly. Johnny frowns at him. So does Tania.
‘If you can get me money,’ she says coolly. ‘But - look at you: You’re too greedy to share, just like my father. And I’m just a girl. So - no.’
‘What - no?’ her father exclaims indignantly.
‘I’d rather drink my own urine,’ she declares passionately.
‘I hear it can be quite tasty, with a slice of lemon,’ Omar quips back.
Sherlock’s brows rise to the most sardonic heights John has witnessed so far. Even before Sherlock opens his mouth, John knows that an eruption of sarcasm, far more volatile than the small explosion of the washing machine, is imminent.
‘Let me just point out,’ Sherlock drawls, ‘in case you’re hopelessly deluded, that this really wasn’t funny. It was a terribly weak attempt to camouflage the fact that you won’t marry her,’ he nods at Tania, because ostensibly he really can’t be bothered to retain her name, ‘because you’ve just had sex with him in the backroom,’ this is accompanied by a nod in Johnny’s direction, ‘and intend to repeat the experience at the earliest possible moment. Did you realise you’re wearing one of his socks?’
With wonder, John sees Omar’s face turn slightly towards Johnny. He smiles, completely unabashed, a little saucily even. And all of a sudden, John understands why all that aggression, all that history between them can’t break them apart: There’s love there, amply. They just don’t have a space of their own to live it out, a refuge from the rest of the world, a nest of domesticity and affection like 221B. It’s clear that Omar doesn’t invite Johnny over to where he’s staying with his father - in his stead, John would also rather leave his parent in doubt if his penis is in full working order. And Johnny doesn’t look like he can afford to live on his own, either. This means that all they have are the back-offices of their launderettes, where they can only ever half escape the beckoning call of work and money. It’s a wonder, then, that there’s so much to their relationship as there is.
Gradually, John realises that he must have been staring at the odd couple for quite some time. He recollects himself and becomes aware that Nasser is showering his nephew with terms of abuse, most to the point that he should stop ‘this nonsense’ at once and marry Tania.
Omar does a lot of smiling and talking in return, sounding very much like the pacifying, opportunistic individual that he’d previously revealed himself to be, but now John also sees the playfulness behind it. Omar may sweet-talk his uncle and personal business angel, but at heart he’s quite firm. He’s a despicably greedy boy, no doubts about that, but his greed isn’t only for money. He wants Johnny and is going to keep him. Infinitely. Nasser may not have realised that yet, but Johnny certainly has, judging by the way he grins at his own feet.
A warm, fuzzy feeling spreads through John as he watches them. Whatever their differences, he can tell they’re going to be fine. He thinks of last Saturday night and everything that happened since and hopes the same will be true for him and Sherlock too.
Involuntarily, he glances sideways at Sherlock - and what he sees arrests his gaze and increases the delicious warmth circulating inside him: Sherlock, too, is watching Omar and Johnny. There is an expression on his face that John has never seen there before. For lack of a better word, he decides to call it wistful.
Slowly, Sherlock turns to face him. He smiles slightly and just like that, John is certain that he, too, has been thinking of last Saturday night. There’s something in his quicksilver eyes as they focus on John that takes John’s breath away and makes him forget all their surroundings. Drawn in, like a helpless moth to the flame, he takes a step towards his friend - when Sherlock claps his hands and announces with a dramatic swirl of his coat, ‘The whole affair is tediously transparent.’
John feels very much like that bicycle tyre which Sherlock had first pumped up and then pricked with a knife to prove his theory about the tracks in the Peak District kidnapping. He wonders briefly if he’s misread the entire situation. The electric atmosphere between them, those gazes exchanged, crackling with suspense and intensity - maybe they were only an expression of the thrill of the case, nothing more. Maybe John has been living in a dream, these past few days, interpreting Sherlock’s actions in the light of last Saturday night, when he should have seen them as a preparation for today. It is possible that Sherlock was only waiting for the next case - and not for John.
Suddenly, John feels short of breath and lead-legged. A little sick, too. Very much like the wet laundry that he’s dropped somewhere - spin-dried ad nauseam and heavy, waiting to be hung up. The comparison seems curiously fitting since he could well be a senseless piece of clothing, for all the attention Sherlock pays him. A scarf maybe, cherished and comfortable, but still only a scarf. He feels like an utter idiot for ever having considered that he could be more than that.
‘John?’ Sherlock’s voice cuts through his dismal thoughts.
John looks up to find that everybody is staring at Sherlock in anticipation. Sherlock, however, is staring at him.
Right. He wants John’s attention. Of course. He wants John to be impressed. To exclaim ‘Fantastic!’ and to write a gushing blog post about it. Reluctantly, John looks back at his friend. All he wants to do is get back to the flat and crawl under his blankets. But he’s never denied Sherlock his full attention. Okay, he’s never denied Sherlock, full stop. He nods to indicate that he’s listening and hopes that it will be over quickly.
To John’s astonishment, Sherlock doesn’t immediately launch into his usual glib stream of deductions. Instead, ignoring the whispering behind his back, he keeps on looking at John. Eventually, he tilts his head lightly to the side, his eyes twinkling with promise, directed at John alone. John feels himself go weak in the knees and what’s left of his battered brain is in danger of melting to jelly, irreversibly, but he still manages to pick up on the blessed, wonderfully real fact that Sherlock also wants to get out of the launderette as quickly as possible. To be alone with John. Maybe his thoughts have wandered to John’s blankets too, and to what they might get up to when they’re both buried beneath them - who knows?
John wants to laugh out with giddy joy. He doesn’t, because he’s afraid that he wouldn’t be able to stop. He also refrains from taking his friend’s hand and dragging him out of the place right away. Because he understands that Sherlock would never sell the art of deduction cheaply. He’s not going to leave without putting on a show. As for John, he’s going to watch, gasping and clapping at all the right places. And he’s going to publish a smashing review of it later, on his blog.
As some kind of appetising prologue to the first act, accompanied by the confused murmurs of his waiting audience, the consulting detective makes a move as though to sweep out of the launderette, but - as he’d undoubtedly planned - the others call him back in a wild cacophony of demands for an explanation. With a show of histrionic impatience that causes John to roll his eyes, Sherlock turns back to the assembly.
‘A simple reaction between hydrogen peroxide and bleach activator. Add a recalcitrant girl to the equation and you get the scene we’re currently investigating.’
‘Recalci - You bitch!’ Nasser screams, lunging himself at his daughter, but his quick soldier reflexes kicking in, John shoots forward to detain him.
Undeterred, Sherlock continues, ‘Due to its low hydrolytic stability, bleach activator is only contained in washing powder, not in liquid detergent, since there it would immediately react with potent oxidising agents such as hydrogen peroxide, which doesn’t happen in the solid phase. However, if you add a bit of liquid detergent to your washing powder, lock it in a tight space, give it a bit of time and maybe a bit of heat, you’ll get a beautiful redox reaction. Isn’t that so, Tania?’
‘If you say so,’ she says coolly. ‘I’ve never studied chemistry.’
‘You may not understand the chemistry behind the process, but you do know the process, don’t you? Or at least your mother does? Judging by the last, faint traces of a delightful rash she’s caused on her hands,’ he nods at Rachel, ‘your mother really knows her way round materials. No witchcraft about that, by the way.’
‘No witchcraft?’ Rachel asks disbelievingly. ‘But I’ve never met her!’
‘He,’ with this Sherlock obviously means Nasser, ‘often gives you presents, doesn’t he? Most of the jewellery you’re wearing only appeared in the display windows of the top London jewellers in the last couple of months. All she would have had to do is rub one or several of these gifts with some of the more phototoxic plants in her back garden. But obviously the skin-irritating qualities of plants are not all she’s familiar with. Which brings us back to the case at hand. A box of washing powder in her pantry might have gotten rather damp one day and exploded over night. She wouldn’t have forgotten it. And she’d have remembered it when you,’ now he was back to addressing Tania, ‘came to her saying you needed money.’
‘If you hatched this plot to scare Rachel, you and your mother, I’ll kill you!’ Nasser swears, his face purple with rage.
‘If you weren’t constantly thinking with your purse and your penis,’ Sherlock says disdainfully, ‘you’d know that you’re spouting complete nonsense. Just now I explained that the explosive concoction of washing powder and liquid detergent served no other purpose than to give your daughter the money she needed to start a new life in Karachi.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Rachel says while Omar, Nasser and Johnny gape at the consulting detective. ‘My washer exploded. What’s it to do with money? And Karachi?’
‘That your washer exploded was an unfortunate accident. Just think. You used the washing powder from the vending machine. Thus - contrary to the tiringly tedious suggestions of the idiot standing next to you - the explosion can’t have been aimed at you personally, since any other customer using the washing powder could also have been exposed to one. Treating this as a general act of sabotage would make no sense, either, since this building is neither frequented by many people nor in any way symbolically important. On top of that, it would have been difficult for an external gang of rioters or terrorists to exchange the washing powder without anybody noticing that the dispenser had been broken open. The simplest conclusion is therefore to suppose that the person who possessed the key to the vending machine exchanged the washing powder.
‘This theory is supported by the fact that there’s a bucket and a ladder standing outside. Someone was cleaning the windows although they’re still rather clean. And that some is none other than you,’ Sherlock adds with a meaningful nod at Tania. ‘The skin on your fingers is still a bit wrinkled. So,’ he explains for the benefit of the rest of the audience, ‘why would she do something so unnecessary? Clearly, the answer is that she was just trying to pass the time as innocuously as possible, waiting for something else to happen. An explosion.’
‘However, why would she wish to randomly blow up washing machines?’ he asks rhetorically, pointing at Tania. ‘The obvious answer is: She didn’t. She had quite another explosion in mind. Sadly, she had no idea that the washing powder could also cause one of the machines to blow up. She hadn’t taken into account that the strong vibrations caused by the spin-drying of one washer could heat up the washing powder compartment of the machine next to it, thereby catalysing the redox reaction process and unlashing an unwanted explosion. Which is exactly what happened, going by the fact that John dropped his bag of laundry close to the entry, meaning that he was on the point of leaving, from which I inferred that the explosion took place just after his washing was done. Hence the spin-drying as a likely catalyst.’
‘Blimey!’ Johnny exclaims in amazement.
‘Fuck!’ is Tania’s more frustrated reaction, while John lets out a low whistle and the rest of them gape in astonished silence.
‘What did she want to blow up, then?’ John asks, aware that there’s a decidedly awed quality to his voice.
Preening, Sherlock replies, ‘The slot machine. As you’ll have noticed, it’s situated right next to the washing powder dispenser. She knew that she’d have to wait a while before it blew up, which made it very likely that the launderette would be completely empty, since hardly anybody frequents it outside the happy hour, from what you told me. She was going to wait here until it did and pretend to be busy cleaning the windows or whatever. Adding together the average earnings plus spare change, this would have provided her with a sum somewhere around 500 pounds.’
‘But why?’ Rachel asks, sounding just as stunned as John feels.
‘Why she wanted to blow it up?’ Sherlock repeats in his most exasperated ‘Why do I have to be surrounded by complete idiots all the time’-voice. ‘That’s obvious, isn’t it. She didn’t have a key to open it, of course.’
‘No, why did she want the money?’ Rachel amends her question.
‘She wanted to start a new life in Karachi. One-way plane ticket leaving early tomorrow morning. Obvious that. She just lacked the money for her enterprise. Her father wouldn’t give her any, nor her cousin. So together with her mother she concocted an alternative plan to get it.’
Her cheeks flushing with shame, Rachel lowers her gaze to her shoes. Omar also has the good grace to look mildly abashed, while his uncle’s still too staggered to show any other reaction. Johnny gives Tania’s arm a sympathetic squeeze.
Turning to Nasser, Sherlock ends his brilliant deductions with a last piece of advice, ‘You want to ensure that there’s no repeat of this incident and you want to have your daughter off your back, once and for all? - No need to marry her off to someone she doesn’t want to marry and who doesn’t want to marry her, either. Just give her some money and she’ll be gone to Karachi in no time.’
Everybody gapes at him. John tries to do so slightly less obviously than the rest. After all, by now he should be well used to Sherlock’s startling deductions. And yet - he can’t help but be amazed, again and again. Sherlock glances at him, briefly, as he always does, checking for signs that he’s managed to impress him. The corners of his mouth quirk, pleased and just a touch disbelieving, even after all this time. With great fondness, John rolls his eyes.
All of a sudden, the shrill sound of a police horn fills the street and a second later a harassed-looking Lestrade and two of his officers barge into the laundrette.
‘You’re late,’ Sherlock greets them. ‘Small domestic quarrel, though of a rather explosive nature, I grant. I think the family can sort it out by themselves. Good day. Come along, John.’
With a dramatic swirl of his coat, Sherlock sweeps out of the building. John seizes up the bag containing their laundry and follows him. Once he’s closed the door behind him, John quickly glances back.
Lestrade stands there, scratching his greying head. Tania, her father and his mistress are back to arguing. There’s something half-hearted about the rapid movements of Nasser’s mouth and moustache, though. John rather feels that if any metaphorical tyres have been burst this afternoon, it must have been Nasser’s self-image as a tyrannical patriarch on discovering that the rest of his family is just acting up with him. In profile, Nasser’s porky cheeks look a bit deflated. Flabby almost.
The thought of flabby skin suddenly reminds John that he’s completely forgotten to tell Omar of his father’s earlier visit. Blast! Well, there’s nothing he can do about that now. Omar and Johnny have somehow managed to steal away, quiet and unnoticed by the rest. Chuckling contently, John turns away.
A couple of steps away from the entrance, Sherlock is waiting for him, biting his lip as though now that he’s delivered all his deductions, he no longer knows what to do or to say.
‘That was amazing!’ John calls out to him, brimming over with the well-known, but nonetheless delicious post-case happiness and something else entirely that he can’t even hope to put into words. There’s an awful lot he wants to say, even more that he feels he should say, since Sherlock is gazing at him in silent, slightly awkward expectation, but John’s tongue can’t seem to form the words. He sticks to humour instead, which is always readily available. ‘You can make a bloody good story out of the most ordinary, everyday situations. Never had so much fun in my life doing the washing.’
Sherlock blinks and looks at him again, as dazed and excited as John feels. It’s as though John has reached the end of the corridor that he walked down the entire week and finds that there’s nothing there save a wall and some sort of modernist painting that could as well be a child’s clumsy scrawl. Yet when he turns around, he finds that, gloriously, spectacularly, Sherlock has followed him all the way. John’s still the one carrying all the washing, Sherlock still exhibits too much dramatic flourish not to be a movie character, and they’re both too confused and tight-lipped for their own good, but somehow they’ve both made it to this point, together.
‘Let’s go home, John,’ Sherlock says slowly.
Suddenly John can’t not touch his friend. Blindly, he reaches out his hand - and miraculously, Sherlock’s comes to meet his half-way in a strong, confident grip. They look at each other and smile.
As they slowly make their way back home, perhaps to resume things where they left off last Saturday night, neither stops smiling and neither lets go.