Johnny Blue-Eyes
Chapter 10: Best-laid plans of mice and Mycroft
The flat was semi-dark, the only light coming in through a gap in the curtains from the streetlamp in the alley behind the building. Sherlock took the first two steps inside the door confidently. He didn't have a clear plan, but it definitely started with dragging the man inside out of bed by his hair. After that he wasn't sure. He still couldn't picture the man's face, only the hands, but he was certain he would recognize him when he saw him.
Suddenly the hall light flicked on and Sherlock's heart leapt up into his throat, blocking off the air. An instant later, a man came around the corner. Sherlock gaped at him. The man was old, much older than he was expecting, heavy-set, balding, taller than Sherlock, but frail-looking and wobbly on his feet. He was dressed in baggy plaid pyjamas and a faded dressing gown. The man braced himself with a hand against the wall and blinked owlishly at them.
Sherlock blinked back for a second, trying to see past the wrinkles and jowls to the man he remembered. Slowly the image came into focus, fragmented at first: brown suit, a black pompadour, weak jaw with crooked teeth, large eyes behind black-rimmed glasses. Sherlock swallowed hard and forced air past the lump in his throat. He carefully rearranged his face into an unconcerned mask. "Hello, Mr Lindt. Remember us?"
"Who—who are you?"
"Well, you'd have to picture us smaller," Sherlock answered flippantly.
There was a brief pause, then the man's wet lips parted in a little gasp of surprise. "Sherlock? And. . . Mycroft, is it? Why are you here?"
"I remember what you did."
Suddenly the man's eyes widened and he stumbled forward a step, hand out. "I never hurt you. I—I loved you," he said in a quavering voice that was shockingly familiar, and suddenly all of the pieces came together in Sherlock's mind to form a recognizable face: The face of the Vampire that had haunted his dreams as a child. With the shock of recognition came a rush of acid into his mouth. Sherlock froze, unable to catch his breath. He gasped like a fish, shoulders jerking, but no air was getting in.
"You were special, Sherlock. So talented, so beautiful. Such a clever boy. . ."
Sherlock stared at him, unmoving except for a slight sway. Those words—he had heard those words before, many times, always associated with such a bewildering swirl of conflicting emotions. On the one hand: physical pain, as well as fear, shame, despair. On the other hand: the thrill of feeling, for the first time in his life, that he was clever, that what he had to say was worth listening to, that he was something other than an annoying little pest; all overlaid with the excitement of being entrusted with a secret that even Mycroft didn't know.
Mr Lindt took another halting step forward with his hand outstretched toward Sherlock's arm. "What we had was special. You loved me too. Both of you."
"No I didn't," Sherlock said in a small, unconvincing voice. "It hurt. You hurt me." That hand. . . long, pale fingers with very white, rounded nails. Soft clammy hands slide over his skin. Those nails dig into his shoulders. PAIN. It hurts it hurts it hurts. Bright spots of blood stain his pants. . . stop please stop can't make it stop. . .
Mr Lindt shook his head. "You loved me too. Our relationship was beautiful and special, just like you."
Sherlock wanted to scream, to run, hide; but he did none of those things. He couldn't. He was frozen in place like a statue, unable to move, unable even to look away.
Mycroft stood behind Sherlock's shoulder watching the exchange with alarm. He didn't understand exactly what was happening between Sherlock and Mr Lindt, but he knew he didn't like it. The confidence with which his little brother had strode into the flat seemed to have vanished, and now Sherlock was staring at the man with such an expression of confusion and hurt on his face that Mycroft couldn't bear it. Mycroft's phone was still in his hand, but he had forgotten all about it in the moment.
Mr Lindt had taken another step forward and now his hand was almost on Sherlock's arm, which caused a spark of fury to catch in Mycroft's throat. He stepped around Sherlock, who still hadn't moved, and pushed the hand away. "Don't touch him," he growled.
Mr Lindt tottered but stayed on his feet. Mycroft advanced and poked a finger in his chest to back him off. "You loved him?" he spat. "You interfered with him. Him, me, and dozens of other boys." When Mr Lindt opened his mouth to object, Mycroft cut him off. "You didn't love us. You violated us."
Sherlock's voice, shaky but full of spite, came from behind Mycroft. "Interfered with us? Call it what it is, Mycroft."
Not taking his eyes off Lindt, Mycroft asked, "What do you mean?" There was no answer. "Sherlock? What is it?"
"It was rape."
This spun Mycroft around. "Rape? No, it was just—just—touching. . ."
"No, it was consensual!" Lindt sputtered. "You wanted it. You—"
Suddenly all the air was gone from Mycroft's lungs, like he had been kicked in the solar plexus. And then a rush of pure rage washed over him, wiping out any other thought. His phone clattered to the floor unheeded. He turned and gave Lindt a solid shove to the chest, knocking him to the floor. The old man started trying to crab crawl backward.
"You raped my little brother?!" He shouted. "You animal! You piece of excrement!" And then he was kicking the man in the side, the back, the legs, harder and harder, scarcely even aware of what he was doing. Lindt curled up into a ball with his arms over his head, but Mycroft didn't stop.
"Mycroft!"
He ignored the voice from behind him and kept venting his fury on the pathetic creature huddled on the floor in front of him. Mycroft was breathing hard, his shirt was coming untucked, he was sweating and spittle was flying, but he didn't even notice. His vision narrowed, like looking through a backwards telescope, to include only the small area where his foot connected with flabby flesh under red and blue plaid pyjamas.
"Mycroft, you're going to kill him!" The voice came from far away, barely audible over the pounding of his heart in his ears. A hand grabbed for his arm and he jerked away hard. His elbow connected with something solid, something that made a crunching sound. There was a grunt and the hand fell away, followed by a thud, but it didn't register. His foot kept moving in an unbroken rhythm.
Finally a small voice intruded on his awareness. "Mykie?"
Mycroft took a step back, breathing hard, and wiped the back of his shaking hand across his mouth as he turned. Sherlock was sitting on the floor breathing very fast, eyes wide and staring at the curled form of the monster on the floor, while a trickle of blood flowed from his lower lip.
Mycroft blinked and suddenly he saw a tiny boy in shorts and a green jumper, with wild black curls and huge blue-green eyes filled with tears. When he blinked again, the little boy had been replaced with the adult Sherlock, dry-eyed, in ill-fitting borrowed clothes. The look of wide-eyed confusion and pain was gone, but in its place was. . . nothing. Sherlock was staring blankly at Lindt with no emotion, no expression.
Carefully Mycroft forced his breathing back into an even rhythm. The blood was still thumping in his ears, but as he slowly inhaled and exhaled, it subsided enough for him to bring his body back under partial control. His foot was throbbing in pain and his hands were still trembling, but there was nothing to be done about that. He picked up his phone and smoothed his hair as best he could before sitting down next to Sherlock on the floor. His brother didn't acknowledge him in any way. He hadn't even moved to wipe away the blood that was now dripping off his chin.
Mycroft pulled his handkerchief from his inner jacket pocket and held it out to Sherlock, who blinked at it wordlessly.
"You're bleeding." He gestured toward Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock took the handkerchief and wiped at his lip, and then pulled it back and looked at it, as if puzzled as to how the blood had gotten there. Mycroft squinted at him. "Sherlock? Are you all right?"
After a moment, Sherlock gave a small nod. His eyes were still locked on the huddled man on the floor in front of them. They both silently sat and stared at Lindt for a moment, who was curled up in a fetal position on the floor with his arms wrapped around his midsection, making little whimpering sounds with each labored breath. He certainly didn't look so frightening now, thought Mycroft. He wondered why he had wasted all those years allowing himself to be haunted by the spectre of that man, when the reality was so wretched and pathetic.
The next step, obviously, was to call Inspector Lestrade and request his assistance. It should have been done before. He activated the phone and opened his contacts to do just that.
Suddenly, before Mycroft had a chance to find Lestrade's number, there was a sharp rap on the door, metal on metal, and then a male voice called, "Mr Lindt? It's the police, Sir. We're coming in."
Mycroft glanced over at Sherlock, who hadn't responded to the sound. He thought briefly that perhaps he could drag his unresponsive brother out the back door, but it was too late. The police officers were already coming in the door, which was still unlatched as Mycroft had left it when they entered. Lindt lifted his head and moaned softly.
The two police officers were young, one tall, one short, both built like tanks. As soon as they saw Lindt on the ground, the taller one pulled out his baton and said "Stay where you are, please. Hands where I can see them," in a Scottish lilt.
With an air of resignation, Mycroft raised his hands. When Sherlock did not, Mycroft nudged him with his shoulder until he too blinked and put his hands in the air.
"Oh, thank goodness, officers." Lindt quavered. "These men broke into my flat and assaulted me."
Mycroft opened his mouth to dispute that account, but was interrupted by the clink of handcuffs. The shorter officer was pulling an unresisting Sherlock's hands down behind his back and cuffing them together.
"That's not necessary, officer. . ." Mycroft said in a reasonable tone. He expected that at any moment Sherlock would speak up with some biting deduction, perhaps the obvious fact that, based on their misbuttoned shirts and lipstick-stained necks, these officers had been patronizing prostitutes when they had taken this call, but still Sherlock said nothing.
"You can give a statement down at the station, mate." The taller officer pulled his cuffs out of his belt one-handed and tossed them to his partner, who had finished with Sherlock and was now approaching Mycroft.
"We're not resisting," he tried again, but it was no use. They were about to be arrested by a couple of corrupt imbeciles. Mycroft forced himself to breathe evenly, then said, "Constable, could you please call Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade at NSY?"
"Why would we do that?" The constable asked. His partner took Mycroft's phone from his hand and pulled both hands down behind his back to apply the cuffs, much tighter than Mycroft thought necessary.
"Check my jacket pocket for my identification, gentlemen. Trust me, you will want to do as I say. I'm sure Inspector Lestrade will be able to clear things up."
The shorter cop dug around in Mycroft's pocket and came up with his wallet. He handed it to his partner, who flipped through it. "MI-6? What are you doing down here?"
"That is unimportant. Will you please call Inspector Lestrade?
You got his number?"
"In my phone, which your partner is holding."
"We can phone him, but I can't guarantee he'll be happy to get the call." The constable held up his hand, and his partner tossed him Mycroft's phone. "It's locked."
"Yes, if you'll just. . ." Mycroft awkwardly worked his hands around and tried to enter the code. "This would be easier if you removed the handcuffs."
"You could give me the unlock code."
"Hmm, no. I've got it." On the third attempt, Mycroft's shaky fingers finally got the unlock code right, and the constable started searching through the contact list. His partner gave Mycroft a quick patdown, then went to check on Lindt, who was now sitting up with his hands to his head, even though Mycroft was sure there was no injury there. Mycroft ignored him and worriedly watched Sherlock, who was still staring into space with a blank expression on his face.