Johnny Blue-Eyes

Chapter 25: Telling vs telling everything, take 3

Sherlock wasn't at Baker Street. He also wasn't at Angelo's, or St Bart's, or Molly's flat, or any of the other boltholes that John knew about. So where the hell had he gone? There must be another bolthole somewhere, a little place that only Sherlock knew about, where he had gone to hide (maybe Mrs Hudson was right about one of the boltholes being behind the clock face of Big Ben—John hadn't felt like climbing up to check). But why? He had seemed fine—well, maybe a bit twitchy and on edge, but not likely to bolt. It frustrated John that he didn't know what was going on inside Sherlock's head, and that Sherlock hadn't turned to him for help when he needed it.

When John was nearly out of money for cabs, he sat on a park bench next to the greenhouse in Kew Gardens and texted Sherlock for the dozenth time. Where the hell are you?

There was no response. After five minutes, John texted him again. If I don't hear from you in five minutes, I'm contacting Mycroft.

Five more agonizing minutes passed. John spent the time texting Mary to let her know what was going on and asking if she knew of any other boltholes. Her only response was Leinster Gardens?

Already checked there.

Then I'm out of ideas. I'll let you know if he turns up here.

When the five minutes were up, John reluctantly sent a text to Mycroft.

Your brother took off. I don't know where he went.

The response came across almost instantly, just one word: Looking.

We were somewhere in Newham borough when he bolted, if that helps.

Got him entering Baker Street ten minutes ago.

Dammit! Of course he would show up there now, when John had already left and it would cost him almost ten pounds to get back. The tube was cheaper but it would take too long—too much risk Sherlock would take off again in the meantime. Shaking his head, he texted back Have you got eyes on the inside of the flat?

No, he keeps finding the cameras.

Ok, ta. I'll look there.

Let me know if you need help.

He was about to tuck his phone back into his pocket when it started ringing. Incoming call from Mrs Hudson. With a knowing sigh, he punched the answer button.

"Hello, Mrs Hudson. He's turned up, has he?"

"Oh, John! He's here, but he's a right mess. I keep hearing him shouting and banging about up there. I wanted to go up and see if I can help, but I'm afraid I'll end up with something chucked at my head."

John considered, just for a moment, what would happen if he didn't go. He had just one lonely ten pound note left in his wallet, which was only enough for cab fare one way. He could either use it to go to Baker Street, and probably get the cold shoulder (or worse) for his efforts; or he could use it to get home, where Mary was waiting for him, and his daughter would be snuggly and sweet-smelling fresh from the bath. Oh, it was so tempting just to go home and snog his wife and forget about Sherlock Holmes for once. But where would that leave Mrs Hudson?

"John, are you coming back?" Mrs Hudson's voice quavered.

"Y—yes, Mrs Hudson, I'll be back in about fifteen minutes. Just hold tight. And don't go up there. I don't want to have to treat you for concussion when I arrive."

"All right, John. Thank you, dear."

"Don't mention it."

When he got to Baker Street, Mrs Hudson met him at the door with a plate of homemade biscuits. "He's quiet now. It's almost worse."

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson," John said automatically, taking a biscuit and looking up the stairs. No music this time, melancholy or not. The silence was almost eerie. John's thoughts immediately went to where they always went these days when he hadn't heard from Sherlock: worry that he was dead on the floor in a pool of blood. . . God, just STOP IT, he told himself sternly. Just because he wasn't currently raising a ruckus didn't mean he was dead, for pity's sake! It just meant the temper tantrum was over and he was probably asleep with his thumb hanging out of his mouth like the giant toddler that he was.

John headed up the stairs slowly, counting them out in his head like he always did (well, at least as he had done ever since Sherlock had chided him for not knowing the number of steps). Somehow, the fact that the number of stairs never changed was reassuring. One of the immutable laws of the universe. The earth goes 'round the sun, rubbish pick-up is Tuesdays, and there are seventeen steps leading up to 221B Baker Street.

When he reached the top landing, he hesitated a moment before knocking on the door, listening, but he heard nothing. He knocked quietly once, twice. No answer. Tried the knob. Locked. Sherlock never locked the door. He usually didn't even close it. Luckily John still had a key.

"Sherlock? I'm coming in," he called in a clear but calm voice. There was no response.

John unlocked the door and carefully pushed it open a crack, calling "Sherlock?" There was still no answer, so he pushed the door the rest of the way open and discovered Sherlock sitting on the floor beside the green chair with his violin lying across his lap. The shattered remains of a table lamp lay strewn across the floor around him. His cheek was bloody, he was holding his left hand with his right, and John could see spots of bright red on the bandage as well.

Sherlock didn't look up when John entered. He didn't need to. John's footsteps told it all. How slowly he took the stairs, how his steps stopped when he opened the door. John had seen the blood, obviously. If he didn't look up, perhaps John would stay focused on the blood and not see that Sherlock's eyes were red and his hands were trembling.

"You see, John? I told you the bandage needed to be tighter." Sherlock was aiming for a light tone and almost managed it, except for the way his voice cracked at the end. Couldn't be helped. Maybe John wouldn't notice.

Of course, John did notice, obviously, by the sound he made, which could have been either a laugh or sob, or possibly both. "Sherlock, you idiot."

The tone was affectionate, so maybe John had forgiven him for taking off and leaving him behind? Or was there anger behind those words? For all his powers of observation, that was one detail he knew he sometimes missed, especially when it came to John. He always realized too late when John was seething. Sometimes he didn't catch on until he got a fist to the face.

Sherlock risked a glance to check John's face for tension, but John was already moving past him to the kitchen, stepping carefully around the shards of glass from the broken lamp. Sherlock could hear cupboard doors opening and closing, then he returned carrying a red bag. First aid kit.

John knelt beside him and opened the kit, laid out antibiotic ointment, rolls of bandages, scissors, tape. Sherlock watched him out of the side of his eye, wondering at what point John would start in on the lecture.

He felt a pressure lift as John gently took the violin from his lap. The instrument moved up and out of his field of vision. Yes, probably better for it to be out of reach, in case he felt the need to smash something else.

"What did the lamp ever do to you?" John asked. His tone was light too. Still playing along. Still too little data to deduce exactly how angry he was.

"It was a better option than breaking the violin." He squeezed his eyes shut, where the image of the violin was burned on his retinas. Big hands over his, moving his fingers on the strings. Lips graze his neck—No stop it now please please please. . .

"Oh. Yes, I suppose so." The sound of a plastic package being cut open, then John said matter-of-factly, "I'm going to touch your face now."

He felt John's warm fingers on his cheek, gently probing the new injury. After the cut on his cheek had been sealed up with steristrips, John said, "Now I'm going to see to your hand." He took Sherlock's cold hand in his warm ones and carefully unwrapped the bandage. Hands slide down his back it hurts it hurts please stop please stop. . . Sherlock held very still, barely breathing as he attempted to chase away the crawling sensation all over his skin. It would be better to open his eyes, he decided. Watching John work would distract him from what was happening in his head.

John made a little tutting noise and shook his head when he saw the wound. "When did you say this happened?"

"Day before yesterday."

"Hmm. . . should get some stitches in there. Should have done already."

"No need. Just bandage it up. . . please," he tacked on belatedly.

"Well, I can seal it up with steristrips, but I can't guarantee it will heal properly," John said. He picked up the plastic package again and used tweezers to remove a steristrip from it. Sherlock stared at the broken lamp while he worked, the evidence of his lack of self-control. His inability to put out the fire that smoldered in his mind palace.

He wasn't even aware that John had finished his work until he felt a hand pat his shoulder. Touching him. No no no no nononono! His mind rebelled, and his body reacted instantly, before he could stop it, by flinching violently away.

"Oh. Sherlock, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. . ." John shifted until he was sitting cross-legged on the floor facing Sherlock. "Sherlock, are you . . What happened back there? I need to know."

Sherlock's head was pounding. Everything was smoky in there. He couldn't see clearly. He couldn't think clearly. But he couldn't tell John that, could he? What would John do? Would he leave? Walk out and never come back? Likely. Walking out was John's typical solution to any sort of drama.

But as much as he couldn't tell John, he also couldn't not tell him. The fight was too much. He couldn't stop the truth from finally freeing itself and jumping out of his mouth.

"There's a fire." He glanced up at John through his lashes and saw that he was looking around at the broken base of the lamp like it might have suddenly burst into flames.

"Where? I don't see one."

Sherlock tapped his temple with his right index finger and clarified, "in here."

John blinked at him uncomprehendingly. "I don't quite—"

"I can't put it out, John," Sherlock ground out through gritted teeth. "I can't make it stop. I keep seeing him. I keep feeling him touching me."

"Oh God. Sherlock. . . I'm so sorry." John slid closer but his hands stayed in his lap. Of course John wouldn't want to touch him, after that. "I'm so sorry he hurt you."

John's voice was soft, familiar, comforting. Sherlock's already weakened defenses were suddenly flooded by the overwhelming need to tell him everything. He couldn't fight this by himself anymore.

"He said he loved me. He said I was special, and talented, and clever." The words tumbled out in a rush; he couldn't stop them. "No one ever told me I was clever. Mycroft always told me I was stupid. He was touching me all over. And then he hurt me. There was blood in my pants. I couldn't make him stop. I just stared at that stupid bear the whole time he was doing it. When I told him it hurt, he said he was showing me how much he loved me. That's what people do when they love each other." Sherlock broke off and rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "That's not true, is it, John?"

"No, Sherlock, that's not true." John had moved closer; he had shifted to his knees and his shoulder was right in front of Sherlock's face. Sherlock kept his eyes locked on the stripes in John's jumper. John was still talking in that gentle voice, the one that slipped right through Sherlock's tattered emotional shields. "That's not what love is like. It's not meant to hurt."

Of course it wasn't true. He knew it couldn't be. What an idiotic thing to believe. And he had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. So why had he believed it? Why had he fallen for it so completely that he was willing to lie to keep the Vampire's secret? He was complicit in his own abuse. "Of course not. I should never have believed that," he spat bitterly.

There was a pause. Even though Sherlock kept his head down, he could feel John's eyes on him, appraising him as no one else was ever able to do. "Sherlock, it's not your fault."

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes again, hard enough that he saw sparkles in the darkness. "What if it is? I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that I was special and clever."

"He knew just what to say and do to get you to trust him. It's called grooming. He got you to trust him, and then he took advantage of that trust. You were a child. It wasn't your fault."

"But I shouldn't have fallen for it, John. How could I have been so stupid?"

"You were a child."

"Even Mycroft managed to quit after three lessons. Why couldn't I get away from him?"

"Mycroft? Oh. . ."

"He listened to my little deductions and said I was going to be a genius detective someday. He gave me a magnifying glass! I let him manipulate me. I let him and I never told anyone," he said bitterly. A worrisome lump had grown in his throat and his eyes were burning behind his hands. Don't cry don't cry oh god don't cry in front of John.

"Sherlock, look at me."

Sherlock froze with his hands against his face. He couldn't let John to see the tears that threatened to overflow. John didn't do well with drama. John tended to throw things and stomp away.

Sherlock felt John's fingers close on his wrists and gently pull his hands away from his face. He pressed his lips together hard and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Clammy hands slide over his skin, wet lips graze his neck. He can feel the vampire's hot breath. Shame floods over him, paralyzes him.

John gave a faint sigh. "Please listen," he continued. "It's still not your fault. You were six years old. You could not have consented even if you had wanted to. You know that. It is not your fault."

"I wish I could believe that," Sherlock choked out. "I keep feeling him touching me. I can't make it stop, John." And then his voice cut out entirely. His shoulders suddenly spasmed with a gut-wrenching sob. He pulled his wrists from John's grasp and put his arms over his head to hide his face. He didn't want John to see him weak. He didn't want John's pity. He wanted John to leave, but at the same time he wanted John to stay. If John stayed, maybe he could get the vampire to leave him alone. Maybe.

"Oh, Sherlock. . ." He felt John move even closer, but he still didn't touch him. The heat from John's body warmed his frozen limbs. It felt good. Comforting. Safe. He didn't deserve that comfort, but somehow his traitorous body wanted it anyway. Sherlock leaned forward until his forehead rested against John's shoulder, every muscle taut and trembling from the futile effort to keep control.

Almost immediately he felt John's arms go around him, a slight pressure from John's hand on the back of his head. John was firm and solid and warm. He wanted to crawl inside that warmth and stay there forever. Of their own accord, his fingers curled into the front of John's jumper and his forehead pressed in hard against John's collar. "I can't make it stop," he whispered shakily through his tears. "Please, make it stop. . ."

John's fingers slid down over his hair to his neck. His touch was warm and dry, not cool and clammy like the vampire. Sherlock felt that warmth soaking in through his skin, down his arms, unfreezing his hands, quieting the hurricane in his mind. As the storm died down, he slowly regained some small measure of mental and emotional control, just enough to shove the images into their room and bolt the door shut. Not a long-term solution, but it would have to do for now. The fire was still burning, but at least it was contained. After several minutes, the sobs died down and the shaking decreased.

With the turmoil dealt with temporarily, he could finally expend some of his mental energy on the case. Without raising his head from John's shoulder, he choked out, "I need to. . ." He stopped. His voice was still shaky and too small. Swallowing hard, he continued, "I need to text Lestrade and tell him where to find Popovic."

"But we didn't find him."

"Yes, that was him," Sherlock said impatiently.

John pulled back a little. "Then why did you run off?"

"Because of the—" He broke off suddenly. Alarm bells were going off in the back of his mind. Alert! Alert! Definitely not good to tell John about the vampire. Medical professionals tended to overreact to that sort of thing. John wouldn't let him get away with it the way Molly had. "Because of the busker."

"The busker? The one who was playing violin?"

"Yes. I recognized the piece. It was one he taught me. I just couldn't listen to it anymore."

John was frowning now, Sherlock could tell even though he wasn't looking at his face. "Really? I could barely even hear the music."

"I could hear it. Believe me. I recognized it."

"All right. Want me to text Lestrade for you?"

"No, I can do it." Sherlock straightened up, out of John's arms. He immediately missed the warm and protected feeling, but he shoved his emotions aside. The case was what was important. He needed to keep focused on the work.

He pulled his phone from the pocket of his coat, ignoring the fact that his hands were still trembling slightly. Found Popovic. I'll take you there first thing in the morning. Meet me at NSY at 9 am.

"In the morning?" John asked, eyebrows raised. "Why not now?"

Sherlock waved him off. "Popovic won't be there now. He was heading out for his night's work. He'll be sound asleep at nine in the morning."

"I see," John said slowly, although he clearly didn't. "So shall I meet you here in the morning or at NSY?"

"Mary has to work tomorrow morning, remember? You can't exactly go haring off after a murderer with a baby strapped to your chest, now can you?"

John snorted. "I suppose not. But I could leave her with Mrs Hudson. I'm sure she'd be agreeable."

"No need." Sherlock held up his phone to show John the text back from Lestrade. Ok, I'll meet you here. Wish you'd tell me the address but I know you won't so never mind. "See? Gary and I can handle it."

"You mean Gr—yeah, whatever, I'm sure you and Gary will be fine."

Almost as soon as Sherlock finally convinced John it was all right to leave, almost an hour later (he could tell John desperately wanted to go but was being too kind to say it), his phone rang. Probably Mycroft, or possibly his mother, calling to pry for more details, or to ask him repeatedly if he was all right. He would be more all right if they would just leave him alone.

When he glanced at the phone (just to see who was calling, with no intention of answering, of course) he saw that the caller ID showed Tracey Sorrell, CPS. Her own private number, not her assistant this time. Sherlock frowned. Should he answer or let it go to voicemail? He knew Sorrell was planning more humiliation for him, and if he didn't answer, she would simply make the plans and he would have to follow along. Perhaps it was better to answer so he would have a say in what happened.

His finger hit the answer button before he had really decided, but then it was too late. Hanging up now would only give her more ammunition.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said shortly.

"Mr Holmes? Tracey Sorrell. How are you?"

"You know how I am. You only saw me a few hours ago. What do you want?"

"I need corroborating evidence to back up your testimony, Mr Holmes."

"What sort of evidence do you want? My bloody pants?" Sherlock asked indignantly. "I'm afraid I haven't got them anymore. Had to hide them from my mother, you know."

"I have two options to present to you. One is that you submit to a physical examination. . ."

Sherlock stopped breathing. Physical examination meant removing his clothing, allowing a doctor to put hands all over him, invade his privacy, violate him in every possible way. And for what purpose? There was no physical evidence to be found. "This happened nearly thirty-five years ago. What would be the purpose of a physical exam?"

"There may be scarring. . ."

"There isn't."

"That would be for the doctor to determine."

"What is the second option?" he asked brusquely.

"Or I could call your mother in for an interview to see if she backs up your version of events, that Lindt was your violin teacher and you are the boy in the video. She'd have to watch the video, of course. . ."

Sherlock's stomach gave a violent twist while his mind presented him with an image of his mother crumpled in John's chair in silent, broken tears. He simply could not allow that to happen on the witness stand. He would not allow Tracey Sorrell to take out her hatred of him on his mother.

"That will be unnecessary."

"Excellent. I've had my assistant set up an appointment for you on Friday, 13:00 at St Barts. Sergeant Donovan will fetch you at 12:30. Does that work for you? I'll give you a moment to consult your calendar."

With his eyes screwed shut, Sherlock said, "No need. I will be ready. I'll do this under one condition. . ."

"What would that be, Mr Holmes?"

"That no matter the outcome of the exam, you leave my mother alone. Humiliate me all you like, but there's no need to drag my mother through the mud, and you know it."

"Agreed." Sorrell responded quickly. "I'm looking forward to continuing your. . . interview next week. I'll have my assistant contact you to make the arrangements.

"Fine," Sherlock said, forcing his voice to stay even and light, and rang off.

When John left Baker Street (only after Sherlock practically shoved him out the door proclaiming he was "fine"), his first act on the way to the tube station, after turning the corner so Sherlock wouldn't see him, was to phone Mycroft, who answered on the first ring.

"Ah, found my brother, have you?"

"Yes. He told me something interesting."

"Oh?"

"He said you had lessons with Lindt as well."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. John waited, and finally Mycroft said, "It was only for a short while. I wasn't. . . harmed the way Sherlock was."

"I'm sorry that happened to you," John said carefully.

"Thank you, Doctor, but I assure you I'm fine."

"Have you talked to Sherlock lately?"

"I managed to catch him a few weeks ago, but not since then. He won't answer my phone calls."

"Have you come by? Anything?"

"I am monitoring him, John. It's all I can do. He doesn't want to see me. I've tried waiting in his flat but he never shows up. Somehow he always knows I'm there. He won't call Mother back either. How did he seem?"

"He was acting very odd."

"More oddly than usual?" Mycroft's tone was mild, almost teasing, which irritated John. He clearly wasn't taking this seriously enough.

"Funny, Mycroft. He says he can still feel that monster touching him. He begged me to make it stop."

There was a deep sigh on the other end of the line. "John, what am I to do?" The lightness had disappeared from Mycroft's voice, and John had the feeling he was asking a sincere question.

"Don't let him testify. Get him out of here for a while."

"I tried to prevent it, but he is determined. As for getting him out of here, how would you suggest I do that? Hogtie him and throw him in the back of a van? Only a crowbar could remove him from Baker Street."

"I don't know, Mycroft. I guess I hoped you would have some sort of magical solution to this."

"Alas, my powers are not unlimited, especially when it comes to controlling my little brother. I have to rely on you to help me keep him in line."

"Keep him in line? Hardly. I'm his friend, and I think he needs that more than another mother right now."

"Point taken, but his friend is something I can never be. He's very lucky to have you, John."

"Yeah? Tell that to him. Maybe he'll stop running off and leaving me behind."