SH-The Russian Ballerina 1

"Hmm . . ."

John Watson slid his eyes sideways, eyebrows slowly creeping up his forehead.

He had long since learnt to be wary of that interested little 'hmm' from his flatmate. The last time John had heard that particular 'hmm' from Sherlock Holmes, the end result had been his one decent suit getting ruined after an unfortunate dip in a bog, Sherlock getting part of his head shaved and both of them finding a hidden cache of smugglers booty. Most of it got subsequently donated to the National Gallery. The rest was in their safe, bar a diamond ring which they gave to Mrs Hudson and a sapphire embossed locket which they gave to Sherlock's eldest niece, Ophelia.

John turned and looked at his flatmate.

Sherlock was facing away from him, his dark curly head bent over his laptop, eyes fixed on the screen.

"Hmm?" John echoed Sherlock's tone in an effort to coax an explanation from the recalcitrant detective.

"Hmm . . ." Sherlock repeated, his baritone rumble sounding increasingly pleased.

John sighed and stuck his bookmark in his page, gently shifting Gladstone from his lap. "Come on then, what's caught your interest this time? Another murder?"

"A visitor. Two in fact."

John blinked in surprise. Sherlock HATED visitors. Last time his brother had visited Sherlock had shot at him. Yet now he had a devious gleam in his quicksilver eyes. "A visitor? Who?"

"My Russian cousin and his friend." Sherlock's nimble fingers leapt spider-like over his laptop keys.

"You have a Russian cousin?" John said, incredulously.

Sherlock looked sideways at him. "You've got this bad habit of repeating everything I say all of a sudden."

John just looked at him sardonically.

After a moment Sherlock's lips quirked into a smile and he left his laptop, vaulting into his armchair, dislodging Dante in the process. "Yes." Sherlock explained, crossing his legs and steepling his fingers. "In the 1960s a few members of my family who were in the Intelligence Services defected to the Soviet Union, became KGB agents. My second cousin Vasili was born about six years later and he was raised as a Russian."

"Hey! Rewind!" John protested, falling back into his own armchair. "Your family defected to the KGB?!"

"Well that's what was thought at the time although now of course it turns out they were double agents and were reporting everything back to the SIS."

"SIS?"

"Secret Intelligence Services, otherwise known as MI6, otherwise known as Mycroft's Saturday job . . ." Sherlock looked at John's gobsmacked expression, then he let out a blinding smile. "Come on John, you really expect a Holmes to defect to the KGB? You really expect us to be that predictable? Or that treacherous?"

John raised his hands in placation. "Alright, I take it back. So your cousin Vasili is coming to visit?"

"Yes, and the man he lives with, Vitaly Mitrokhin."

"Oh . . . Erm . . . " John  hated it, knowing this was the question so often asked about them but he felt he had to ask. " . . . Are they . . . um?"

Sherlock gave him an amused look. "No. They are not 'um'. Their situation is basically the same as ours. Needed a flat share and then grew on each other. Rather like mould."

"Oi!" John threw his Union Jack cushion at Sherlock, who caught it, grinning.

"Either way, Vasili and Vitaly are detectives for the Organised Crime unit of the Moscow Police Department and one of their cases is leading them to London. " Seeing John's confused look Sherlock continued, "Several sections of the Russian Mafia operate in countries throughout Europe, particularly the former Soviet Bloc but for some reason they're also quite active in the UK and particularly London."

"Good grief . . ." John  murmured. He always hated being reminded of the seedy side of London. It was HIS city and his possessiveness made him angry when he was reminded of the more organised criminal factions which ran parts of it.

"Either way," Sherlock's gleaming eyes turned once more upon his laptop, his body radiating suppressed energy. "Vasili's requested my help because I know the London underworld better than him. He should be here tomorrow and he's promised to explain more then. One thing's certain though; if this anything like the two other cases I've worked with him then it's going to be one for the record books . . ."

It wasn't until a few days later that Sherlock realised just quite how accurate that statement had been . . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Liverpool Street Station, London, is always teeming with people. Commuters, day-trippers, the random crazies that get drawn towards the Devil's City, the bewildered looking foreign tourists who attempt vainly to make sense of the madness, the odd flash-mob every so often. And the next day Sherlock Holmes and John Watson joined the crowds, awaiting the arrival of the Russians.

Sherlock turned his head, his dark brows furrowed as he watched a man who had just stolen a book from a stall. As the individual in question stopped and appeared fascinated in a newspaper in order not to attract attention to himself, Sherlock sidled away from John.

Jostling the man slightly and murmuring an apology, Sherlock quietly lifted the book from the man's pocket.

"Look at you, Mr. Justice." John teased as Sherlock returned from sliding the book back onto the stall where it belonged.

"Not really. I lifted his wallet too." Sherlock grinned, evilly.

John rolled his eyes. "Give it back to the man."

"No. He has to learn that stealing is wrong." Sherlock said, smugly, rifling through it. "£35.57 in cash, driver's license, security pass for an art gallery, probably place of work to judge by the £1000 Armani suit he's wearing . . . No blood or organ donor cards. Unsurprising in someone so conceited.  Condom." Sherlock lifted out the small, foil packet and looked at it. "Out of date. Careless." Sherlock tucked it back in. "Family photo . . . he and a wife, two young children. Photo's over three years old. When couples have been together that long they tend to shift to other forms of contraception rather than condoms. The fact that he has one in his wallet suggests he's cruising for an illicit sexual relationship in order to recapture some sense of excitement which he has lost in his domestic life." He flipped the wallet shut again. "Calf-skin leather, high quality. Label says Dolce and Gabbana. Steals cheap books simply for the thrill of it, not because he can't affor-"

They paused as a lazy, Russian-accented drawl reached their ears. "Plain black leather, serviceable. Over ten years old. Never replaced, possibly a gift. If so, most likely from your mother or your niece as I know you destroy all presents from Mycroft on principle . . ."

Turning, they found two middle-aged men standing behind them. One, a man with tawny hair, a neatly greying moustache and a surprisingly delicate-featured face, was smiling at them in amusement. The other, a slim man with inky black hair and a sleepy look on his face which belied the alertness in his dark eyes, was holding what John recognised as Sherlock's wallet. He waved it, tauntingly. "You should be more careful with your own possessions, cousin."

There was a deeply satisfying moment where Sherlock's bright eyes widened and he reached automatically for the pocket where his wallet had been. Then his face cracked into a smile. "You have got to stop doing that."

The man let out the dirtiest, most infectious laugh John had ever heard. "So do you. You have Police I.D. in here claiming you are a Detective Gregory Lestrade."

"It's a long story. It's good to see you, Vasili. How was the flight?" Sherlock stepped forward and embraced his cousin, leaving John and Vitaly to shyly shake hands, the latter introducing himself in heavily accented, hesitant English.

"Well, I have had smoother journeys. To be truthful, we are uncertain as to whether we actually landed or whether we were shot down. I think the pilot might have been drunk." Vasili then turned to John, sharp eyes deducing everything he needed to know. Nevertheless he stuck out a hand and smiled warmly. "A pleasure to be meeting you at last, Dr. Watson. (His surname was rather charmingly pronounced by the Russian as 'Vat-sun') Sherlock speaks highly of you."

"Oh he does, does he?" John said, looking sideways at his flatmate who was carefully not meeting his eyes and blushing slightly.

"Yes." The Russian said, also smiling at his younger relative's embarrassment at getting caught out. "He says you have a good head upon your shoulders."

John blinked in amazement and felt something in his chest swell with delighted pride at this. Coming from Sherlock of all people, what sounded like a minor compliment in fact became an incredible statement of respect.  "Which is good," the Russian continued.  "Because we are going to need it."

Both John and Sherlock noticed the slight cloud that passed over the two Russian's faces at this.

"Is it big?" John asked. "The case I mean."

"Da." Vitaly said, solemnly. "If we are doing this right. We can be . . ." He paused, brow wrinkling as he struggled to recall the word.

"Terminating?" Vasili supplied gently.

"Terminating . . . the largest section of one of the most dangerous criminal enterprises in Russia." Vitaly ended, shooting his friend a grateful look for the help.

Sherlock and John looked at each other. Both of them were unapologetically rational men, not prone to romanticising a situation, yet both of them now were deeply aware of the heavy weight of the sheer potential of this case as it descended onto their shoulders.

If we pull this off, this will be one for the record books indeed . . .

Sherlock reached out and took the handle of Vasili's case. "I think we need to talk . . ."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"What do you know of the Russian Mafia?" Vasili asked his cousin as Sherlock handed him a cup of tea. John considered it noteworthy that Sherlock had unhesitatingly directed the Russian to sit in his armchair, the self-same armchair that ordinarily had Sherlock throwing projectiles at anyone who dared sit in it. He also thought it interesting that Sherlock had made the tea himself instead of getting John to do it.

Taking his flatmate's example, John had directed Vitaly to his own armchair; the Russian was now cradling the Union Jack cushion to his side, leaning down and calmly holding out his hand for Gladstone to sniff. Both the dog and the cat were curious about the new arrivals but Dante was showing it by sitting on the window ledge and giving the two new arrivals the most unbelievable stalkerish look John had ever seen on a feline countenance.

"Not a lot." Sherlock admitted, handing John his own mug. "I know that they generally operate out of Moscow and St Petersburg, most criminal gangs do gravitate towards capital cities first. Other than that the only names I can remember of the gang sects are the ones from the Soltsnevo District, the Tambovs of St Petersburg and the Vory V Zakone-"

"Ah." Vitaly held up a hand. "My apologies. Vory V Zakone is a term applying to any respected member of any of the criminal groups. They are not a group in their own right."

Vasili sat back and crossed his legs, looking every bit as comfortable in Sherlock's armchair as the man himself. "We are interested in a splinter group of the Tambovs operating out of the Arctic port of Arkangelsk, although you might know it in its anglicised form, Archangel. The Tambov normally perform . . ." He muttered something, angrily to himself. "Kak eto slovo . . . ?" What is the word . . . ?

To John's amazement Sherlock responded in, what sounded to John at least, as reasonably fluent Russian.  "Narkotiki? Torgovlya lyudʹmi? Otmyvanie deneg?" Drugs? Human trafficking? Money laundering?

"Da."

"Um . . ." John said, awkwardly.

"They're primarily money launderers." Sherlock said, taking pity on his flatmate. Out of the corner of his eye, John noticed Vasili take out a notebook and scribble something down, presumably the translation of the word that was giving him trouble.

"Da." Vitaly interjected. "This new group is named the Morskiĕ Vedʹmy-"

"The Sea Witches." Sherlock murmured to John.

"-They are a . . . fragment of the original group and they have started an enterprise based on the trafficking of girls out of Russia through the Arkangelsk port."

John felt momentarily light-headed as he contemplated the full horror behind the Russian's words.

The sociopath next to him however was not so bothered and sat forward interestedly. "How do they get them out? Bribe the port officers?"

"Da. They put them in shipping crates. Bribe the guards not to check."

"Hang on." John cut in, the doctor in him protesting automatically. "This is the Arctic Circle we are talking about here. There is no insulation in a shipping crate. How do they stay ali-" But as soon as he asked the question he knew he didn't want to know the answer.

There was a small, sad pause.

"The girls that die are put in the sea." Vitaly said, quietly.

John felt a swell of dizzy nausea and got unsteadily to his feet, heading into the kitchen in an effort to distance himself from the words being spoken.

"Not a particularly elegant solution but effective nonetheless I suppose." Sherlock admitted, begrudgingly. "And some of these girls must end up in the UK. Otherwise you would not be here."

Vasili nodded, putting his tea cup aside, eyes glittering excitedly. "We managed to track a consignment of girls out of Arkangelsk, they were subsequently transferred to a small trawler in the North Sea which probably docked at night in a quiet area of coastline. We think somewhere in Suffolk, South of Orford. They were then transferred to a brothel in London."

Sherlock's eyebrows quirked upwards. "So?"

Vitaly and Vasili looked at each other in satisfaction. "We intercepted a message from the London faction to the Arkangelsk headquarters." Vitaly explained. "One of the girls has escaped."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "What does she know?"

"Apparently enough. There are people out looking for her with orders to have her recaptured." Vasili sat forward, eyes blazing. "We have to find her. If they are that desperate to reclaim her then she must know something of value. She may be able to help us."

"You guys are missing something."

All eyes turned towards John who had spoken.

He looked at them, feeling very old and weary all of a sudden. "You're thinking on too large a scale, forget the gang, this also operates as a single case. At best, although you can hardly call it that, if she was recaptured this girl that they're chasing would doubtless be returned to a life of repeated rape. At worst, I'm guessing these Sea Witches will wish to find out if she has informed on them and if so what did she say, and so she will probably tortured and then murdered. We need to find her first to save her life."

His grim words left a humming silence behind them.

"We do have one advantage though." Sherlock said, finally, his voice awkward and tentative.

"How so?" Vitaly asked curiously.

Sherlock looked at them all and, startling all of them, grinned cheerfully. "I already know where she is."