Johnny Blue-Eyes

Chapter 14: Boundaries were made to be broken

Mycroft's housekeeper Elenor (well, Ms Dunphries to her face) met him at the door to his house, although he hadn't told her to. He hadn't told her anything, in fact, which meant he needed to have a chat with his driver Tim about boundaries. Later. Maybe tomorrow. Tonight he was too dead tired and mixed up to confront anyone about anything.

After he had let Sherlock go, too weary to fight him any longer (but ignoring his shouted "And LEAVE ME ALONE!"), he let Elenor bring him tea and his slippers, and ignored her concerned expression. She obviously knew something was up, but he wasn't about to fill her in on the details of such an embarrassing event. After he had his tea, he pointedly showed her the door and said "Goodnight, Ms Dunphries" in a tone she was very familiar with, and she went without a fuss.

He decided to wait until the next morning to call his mother, even though he knew it was currently late evening in Tobago, and if he didn't make the call now, he would have to wait until at least nine in the morning Tobago time. Mummy had always been a late riser, and this wasn't exactly the sort of surprise to drop on her first thing in the morning. He rationalized it by telling himself that Mummy and Dad would surely be out dancing now and wouldn't hear their phones anyway. And the fact that it would give him several more hours to decide exactly what to say to her was an added bonus.

So he was sound asleep when the phone rang, after five a.m., and he fumbled it off the nightstand and onto the floor before he had completely woken up. When the ringing stopped, he immediately fell back into the disturbing dream he had been having, where Sherlock was screaming for help but Mycroft couldn't find him because he was too busy drowning in freezing water.

When the phone rang for a second time, he was instantly alert. A single call may have been something insignificant like a coup in an unaligned country, or a minor operative having misplaced his keys. A second call meant emergency. He felt around on the floor until he found his mobile, by which time he had recognized his mother's ring: Mozart's The Magic Flute, which was her favorite composition due to its mathematical symbolism. He cleared his throat before answering, and tried out his voice to make sure it was working properly. He knew, of course, why she was calling. Bad news always traveled fast.

"Hello, Mother."

"Mycroft! I've just got a call from Uncle Rudy."

"Oh? What did he say?" he asked guardedly.

"That violin teacher you both had—Rudy said they had his name and photo in the paper being arrested for-for paedophilia. And there was a photo of Sherlock too! Oh, Mycroft, did he - What did he do?"

Mycroft was startled. They had released Lindt's name and photo? And Sherlock's photo? He hated to be caught off-guard. He prided himself on always knowing everything before anyone else did, especially his often-clueless mother. "I haven't seen the news report—"

"But you know what I'm talking about, don't you? Mykie, why didn't you tell me?"

Mycroft was flustered, which was so far outside his norm that he didn't even know what to do with it. He had expected to have several hours in which to consider how to tell his mother, and now, half-asleep, he was having difficulty thinking on his feet. He stammered out the first thing that came to mind, which happened to be the truth. "I was embarrassed. I didn't want anyone to know about it."

"What did he do to you, love?"

"Mother, please. It's hardly worth mentioning. It was just—"

"Oh, and Sherlock! You only went for a short while, but he had lessons with that man for months. Oh, my poor boy!" his mother cried.

"Honestly, Mother, he's-he's fine."

"Where is he now? Is he there with you?"

"No, he went home."

"You let him go home ALONE?! I trusted you to take care of your brother! What kind of unfeeling monster are you?! You may need to keep a stiff upper lip for the nation, but by God you can look after your little brother when he needs you!"

"Mother—"

"Do you know what that horrible man did to him? Don't you lie to me. I know you lie to me sometimes."

"I don't know all the details yet. I only just—."

"My poor Sherlock! You should have protected your brother! If you had told us, we would never have sent him to that awful man. Mycroft, this is all your fault!"

"But—but Mother, I didn't know—I did the best I could."

"No, you didn't. This is on you, Mykie. You're to blame for your brother getting hurt."

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to get his scattered thoughts together so he could formulate some sort of defense. The best option he could come up with at the moment was to buy time. "Mother, please, I've had a long night. We can talk when you get back in country."

"Oh, you can bet we'll talk later. Your father is looking for a flight for us tonight." And then she rang off without saying goodbye.

As Mycroft sat staring at the blank phone, he considered that his mother was right; it was his fault. He had had an obligation to protect Sherlock, as well as all of those other boys, and he had failed miserably. A knot of apprehension hardened and settled in the pit of his stomach. He was a successful adult, with responsibilities and an important job. People depended on him. And yet somehow, with just the right words from his mother, he had reverted to the anxious child he had been: desperate to please and somehow always always coming up short.

The next morning, Friday, Donovan sat at her kitchen table eating a soggy bowl of corn flakes, not really listening to the news which was playing quietly in the corner, when a news presenter's shrill voice caught her ear. "Sherlock Holmes was on the case last night, helping to bring in a suspected Paedophile Violin Instructor. . . "

She almost choked on her corn flakes. SHIT! She stood up and moved closer to the telly, squinting at the screen where they were showing a photo of what looked like Sherlock standing outside her patrol car on the way out of Lindt's flat. It was a bit blurry, but Sherlock's hair was unmistakable. The woman continued with the details of Lindt's arrest, along with an out-of-date photo of Lindt apparently taken from the website of a regional symphony orchestra.

When that station went on to another story, Donovan switched over to Channel 4 News just in time to see the headline flash across the screen "Child Rapist Rainer Lindt: How much did the Met know and when did they know it?" She quickly flipped to ITN and spotted a scroll along the bottom of the screen: "How long did NSY hide news of paedophile violin instructor? Could child sex assaults have been prevented? We'll find out in our next hour of news." (Donovan wanted to throw something at the telly at this headline).

When by nine in the morning, only a few hours after the story broke, Sky News was already doing promos for an upcoming "panel of experts" (aka a bunch of blowhards, in Donovan's opinion), Donovan had had enough. She switched off the telly, dumped her cereal in the rubbish bin, and grabbed her coat. She was out for blood. Specifically Lindt's blood. And she knew just where to find him.