Chapter Text
It was a very polite morning for both Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Of course, after a long time hiatus of trying to get along together again, John had enough of arguing and decided to move back to 221B, a place he used to call home. He certainly was greeted enough by Mrs. Hudson with a welcome back treat. Sherlock, on the other hand, didn’t look as if he moved a flinch when he heard the news, though deep inside he was very much pleased that his best friend has decided to move in with him instead, as the sofa across him was getting a little dusty, even though Mrs. Hudson cleant it at least once a week. It was a different loft without his oblivious blogger.
The two men sat on their usual place, John taking a sip of his tea while reading newspaper and Sherlock looking through his emails (using John’s laptop, as he didn’t bother to take his in his bedroom). It has been precisely 30 months since Sherlock’s so-called ‘death'; 6 since he made his way back to John, and a week after John moved back to 221B. He spent the last 6 months trying to interrogate John into solving cases again. To Sherlock, solving cases wouldn’t be that much of entertainment anymore now that he doesn’t have another blog post written about him at the end of the day. John hasn’t had much fun either. 2 years without Sherlock and he didn’t quite manage to move on (he was secretly thankful and relief when Sherlock revealed himself not dead as he didn’t imagine being able to move on at all) and he isn’t that lucky either when it comes to relationships. John has never seen himself as an emotional wreck and a ‘widow hoping for a little closure’, yet he believes that’s what his dates saw the first time they met him. John Watson, the forgotten writer that fled away from reality.
John peeked through the newspaper to see how’s Sherlock’s doing, as he hasn’t spoken anything for so long (which is nothing extraordinary to be done with the Sherlock Holmes he knew, but quite strange and out of league for the ‘revived’ Holmes would do), and noticed that he obviously wasn’t checking out emails. His eyes were deprived and enervated. He was focused on whatever else he was doing, but it certainly wasn’t emails. “Sherlock?”
“Hm?”
“What are you doing?”
“Emails.”
John stood up from his seat. “Well, it doesn’t look like it-“ He stopped. His eyebrows twitched furously. “Um, since when are you interested in figure skating?”
A certain YouTube video of a man with brunette hair ice skating wasn’t something John expected to see Sherlock watching. Even though he noticed a couple of changes from Sherlock, he didn’t expect it to be this bizarre. “It’s for a case.”
“What case?”
Sherlock checked on his watch. “The one Lestrade is going to beg of solving right about now.”
The entrance door bursted open, showing the very distressed inspector of Scotland Yard, Greg Lestrade, bringing plentiful amounts of paperworks that couldn’t fit in the thick, brown file that he brings almost everyday. It was a pain to always take a cab to Baker Street every time there is a complex case, but Lestrade simply has no choice. The irritating, disrespectful consulting detective that might still be high is his best option, unless he’d like to have unsatisfied clients yelling at his face.
“Men’s or Women’s Singles?” Sherlock asked bluntly.
“I’m sorry?”
Sherlock glared at him. “You heard me the first time.”
Greg shook his head. “Men’s—I’m sorry, how did you-“
“You are dragging your shoes against the floor instead of raising it, basically as if you are on ice, desperately trying to skate. Brushes of ice is all over your coat, and you look as if you were about to freeze to death. Did you fall during your little ‘investigation’? Yes, that proves a point.” Sherlock sighed. “And you didn’t clear the browser history when you secretly wore John’s laptop.”
John squinted. “Wait, what?”
“He had a lovely chat with Mrs. Hudson while he’s on it. We were too busy arguing about your horrible mustache, John, that night?”
“Oh, that.” John nodded profusely. He certainly will remember that night.
Lestrade muttered. “Well, it was nice to actually enjoy Mrs. Hudson’s tea without having you being a dick.”
“Haha, that’s cute. Please, sit down.” Sherlock closed the laptop and gestured him to sit down at his usual place. Greg Lestrade found himself a comfortable position and started diving through the pages of paperwork. “What do you have for us, Giles?”
He glared at him.
“Just kidding.” Sherlock managed to cast out a fake smile, although deep inside he was trying the best that he can to find Lestrade’s first name in his mind palace, but nothing rang the bell. “Carry on.”
Lestrade took a piece of photo that was covered with see-through plastic. It was a picture of a man with silver hair, no far from his late twenties, standing in a podium with a gold medal on his hand. Sherlock leaned to take a closer look. “Viktor Nikiforov.” He whispered softly. “Russian, a literal, living skating legend for winning five consecutive World Championships, five straight Grand Prix Finals, and numerous European championships.”
John looked at him curiously. “Since when are you an expert on figure skating?”
“I keep various of basic information in my head.”
John wheezed. “Yes, and you don’t even know who Miss Margaret Thatcher was.”
“Yes, this is him.” Lestrade continued. “He is currently in Japan, possibly planning for his retirement on skating.”
“Incorrect.”
“What?”
“He’s not retiring, he’s taking a break. Currently living with the dime-a-dozen young skater Yuuri Katsuki, the one who happened to face a big failure in last years Finals, being his coach and preparing him for the Grand Prix Finals this year. Although I did hear that the 15-year-old Yuri Plisetsky came all the way from Russia to bring Viktor back. Certainly the problem is complicated, but I don’t know much about it.” Sherlock still managed to keep a straight face whilst saying those information, although it did look like he was interested with such topic.
John noticed something suspicious about the detective. “Are you sure it’s just basic information?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I observe, John. Unlike you.”
Lestrade snickered. “Sherlock’s just so into this topic because Mr. Nikiforov is charmed and attracted by both women and men.”
John laughed. “Yeah, I could totally see that.”
Sherlock clicked his tongue. “Well, it’s not my fault that I could keep as many information I want to in my head. Something you guys fail to succeed. I just find figure skating something to prioritize, that’s all.”
John raised his eyebrow. “Name me one popular skater from the Women’s Singles.”
“Okay, you got me. Lestrade, continue talking.” Sherlock ordered.
Lestrade took a breath. “Two murders. Figure Skaters. Both involved with something related to Nikiforov-“
“Of course he's related, he’s a literal skating god, the whole skating community must know him.” Sherlock interrupted.
Lestrade sighed. “Can I please finish this first?”
“Okay, go on.”
“The first victim is 24 year old skater from Swiss, Elias Hannes, found dead in his home rink in Saturday morning. The body is expected to be dead in more or less 7 hours. Elias was last seen practicing there at 9.28pm, and he was the last person on the rink.”
“Excessive practice for the Nationals that week. Continue.”
“The last guy who saw him said he was last seen performing Viktor’s very highly-anticipated program, ‘Stay Close To Me’-“
“The one skater Katsuki Yuuri also performed.”
“Sherlock,” John said in a passive-aggresive tone.
“And that it was a remarkable performance. He got all the jumps right and it was practically flawless-“
“Just like Katsuki Yuuri’s.”
“Sherlock.”
“You know, it is bad enough to have your very irritating behaviour, let alone you and all your fanboy moments is nothing but pain for all of us.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Oh, so you want me to leave-“
“Oh heavens no-“
“Sherlock, can you please stop being such a drama queen?” John asserted, which made Sherlock close his mouth.
“Elias has very similar features to Viktor; his long hair, blue eyes, similar height—it couldn’t possibly just be a coincidence.” Lestrade took a paper that had a picture of Elias Hannes, still alive and had a big smile on his face whilst holding a bronze medal.
“Tell me about the second murder.”
Lestrade took another paper from the file, revealing a picture of a kid with blonde hair and green eyes. “Alexei Ivanov. Russian. 13 years old. Expected to be the next Viktor Nikiforov, proved by his flawless skating.”
John whimpered. “Just 13 years old?”
Lestrade dolefully nodded. “After Yuri Plisetsky now upgraded to the Men’s Singles, Ivanov is highly expected to win the Junior Grand Prix, judging by him winning silver last year, not far behind Plisetsky.”
Sherlock’s fingers slowly created a small pattern on the table. “How did he die, suffocated in ice?”
“People say that he broke his backbone while practicing, but there is no actual proof.” Lestrade explained. “His death was so private and confidential, no one clearly knew what happened, until..”
“Until what?”
“Pictures online started leaking, revealing the poor young skater’s corpse, with him having a bruise around his neck, most likely caused by immersive choking by hand or by rope.”
“Dear god, poor kid.” John murmured quietly. Sherlock had his head down.
Two murders, all lead to Viktor Nikiforov.
“What do we have to do, then?” Sherlock asked. “What does this have to do with us?”
“Yeah, about that—back to him.” Lestrade pointed at the picture of Viktor Nikiforov. “There is something, um, something the Russian government are requesting the British to do.”
“They can't possibly expect Nikiforov to be the murderer, right?”
“Oh god, no.” Lestrade shook his head. “Nikiforov is far one of the most trusted representative in Russia.”
“Yes, and?”
Lestrade sighed. “The Russian government have been trying to bring him back to Russia, but he simply’s just ignoring everyone by this point. He doesn’t even care about his life’s sake, the fact that he is being targeted.”
Sherlock wheezed. “We don’t even know if he’s the next target.”
“Look Sherlock, this is not a case, it’s a request, and it could end up being a forced commandment if you don’t cooperate.” Lestrade stated thoroughly. “You and John are told to look after Nikiforov for a while, or in other words, protect him from whatever that’s going to happen. They could not lose their best recruit, their best representative.”
John squinted his eyes. “Look after Nikiforov? In Japan?”
“If he continues to stay there, then yes.” Lestrade replied. “It is only until everything is under control.”
Sherlock muttered. “This is obviously not something up from Scotland Yard, so this is not a case from you. Is this from Mycroft?”
Lestrade took a deep breath and nodded. “He sent me.”
“What a surprise.” Sherlock stood up from his seat and looked out the window. “Brother mine can’t even come here for a favour by himself.”
John still didn’t understand which such situation. “i’m sorry, why can’t Russia send their own spies to take care of Nikiforov? Why are they sending us?”
“Because surprisingly, you are the most reliable and the most trusted recruit that they could ever think of.”
“I have never even been to Russia.”
“That is a very useless fact, don’t you think, John?” Sherlock curtly pointed out. “So instead of a case, you’re asking us to babysit a Russian, figure-skating legend who seems to be having a vacation in Japan?”
Lestrade shrugged. “I think that’s about it.”
“And if we really did go to Japan, when are we leaving?”
Lestrade glanced at his watch. “If possible, they have already prepared a plane for your flight to Japan right about this afternoon.”
“Economy?”
“Business class.”
Sherlock sighed. “Exactly.” Sherlock has grown to the luxurity and exquisite taste his brother has, especially if it has something to do with the government. He turned around. “I guess we’d better get ready then.”
John widened his eyes. “Wait, what?”
“Come on, John. A little trip to Japan to take care of a fully functioning 27 year old wouldn’t be that bad. Besides,” Sherlock smiled mischievously. “Do we even have a choice?”
John tried to argue, but Sherlock was right. This was Mycroft they were talking about, the Russian government begging (not really) them to accept their request. Messing with them is the last thing he’d like to happen. He sighed. “Sherlock Holmes, talk about such a bizarre comeback.”