Johnny Blue-Eyes


Chapter 29: Perjury


As Donovan made her way into the courtroom for Lindt's inquest, she caught a glimpse of Kitty Riley's red hair through the crowd. Riley made eye contact, briefly, then quickly turned away and headed to the other side of the room to find a seat.

Molly Hooper was the first witness to be questioned by Cummings, so Donovan sat in the front row of the galley with Lestrade, waiting her turn with equal parts anxiety and impatience. She had submitted a statement to the coroner's office, in which she outlined the case against Lindt, and had never mentioned her own visit to his flat on the night he died. She already knew what she was going to do if Cummings asked her about it on the stand: she was planning to lie through her teeth. And why not? There apparently was no evidence that she had ever been there. And if some evidence—her necklace, for example—were to suddenly appear - well, she was already in for a penny, may as well be in for a pound as well. What more could they do to her?

Lestrade kept shooting her curious glances, so Donovan sat on her hands to keep from chewing her fingernails while Molly Hooper was questioned. Most of her information was already in the report, but since Lindt had been under police investigation, Coroner Alan Cummings was apparently leaving no stone unturned. Molly appeared confident, unfazed, which of course she would be. This wasn't her first inquest, and she was apparently secure in her findings, so it wouldn't bother her to be called in for questioning, even in open court. Donovan had testified at inquests before as well, but never when she had something to hide.

"Ms Hooper, can you confirm for me the cause of death?" Alan asked, with the pathologist's report in his hand. Molly, who had been frowning at the upper level of the galley, blinked and cleared her throat.

"Uh, yes, the autopsy revealed proximal cause of death was heart failure. Postmortem toxicology testing indicated a lethal dose of Oxycontin in the system. Portions of 27 partially digested white pills were found in the stomach contents."

"Any signs of injuries that could have contributed to the cause of death?"

"No, none."

"Any injuries on the body which could be considered signs of struggle?"

"No, none."

"Nothing to indicate he had been forced to take these pills by another party?"

"No, there were no signs of any current injuries on the body whatsoever, although two of the ribs had been recently fractured and were partially healed. The evidence indicates those recent injuries did not contribute to his death. There was no physical damage to the lungs or heart."

"Stomach contents?"

"Sushi, rice, and sake, all fairly well digested, in addition to the partially digested pills."

Cummings consulted the autopsy report again, then dismissed Molly with his thanks, and called Donovan to the stand. Her mouth was dry and her insides were twisted into knots from anxiety. Please don't ask me if I was there please don't ask me if I was there, she silently begged. Just because she was determined to lie didn't meant that she wanted to. In fact, she'd just as soon not, if it could be helped.

As she took her seat in the witness box, she glanced up to where Molly had been looking and spotted Sherlock and John, just as they had been during the interlocutory hearing. Recalling Molly's frown, she wondered now if the pathologist knew Sherlock's connection to this case. Surely she must.

Cummings started out his questioning by asking her a few clarifying questions about the charges against Lindt and the videotapes that had been thrown out, then several questions about what she had seen on the CCTV footage from Lindt's building. Donovan made sure to keep her responses to what was on the tape: the delivery boys from Sushi Palace and Boots, and her follow-up calls to those businesses confirming Lindt's orders.

Just as Donovan was starting to relax, Cummings tossed this question at her. "Sergeant Donovan, in the course of your investigation, did you discover any person or persons who might have had a grudge against Rainer Lindt, who may have wished him dead?"

"Well. . ." Donovan said, thinking quickly. "We were investigating allegations of paedophilia running back for decades and involving dozens of victims. Finding names was proving difficult - but of course the victims themselves would know, given the newspaper reports. I expect a 'grudge' would be a rather normal reaction from someone who had been abused in this way."

"Do you know of anyone specifically who might have had the means and motive to kill him in this way - forcing the pills on him?"

Donovan kept her eyes focused on the coroner and carefully avoided looking up into the second level of the galley. "No, I didn't," she lied with a straight face.

"Thank you, Sergeant. You may step down."

After brief interviews of both the Boots and Sushi Palace delivery boys, Cummings read out a statement by Andrew Gilbert detailing how he had found the videotapes in Lindt's flat, then started summing up the evidence presented. Donovan listened on the edge of her seat, trying to predict his verdict from the tone of his summary, but it was impossible.

Finally, after he had droned on for over thirty minutes and she felt like she was about to scream, he concluded by saying, "Thank you all for your input. The finding in the matter of the death of Rainer Lindt in his flat on 18 November of this year is death by suicide."

Donovan nearly fell out of her seat with relief. Her mouth curved up into a grin that she couldn't control. When she caught Lestrade's eye, she found the same expression mirrored on his face as well.


Donovan took the back way out of the courtroom to avoid running into Kitty Riley, ending up in a rarely-used corridor. As she rounded the corner, she was surprised to see Mycroft Holmes seated on a stone bench, hands folded in his lap and an umbrella leaning against his knee. She hadn't seen him in the courthouse, so she had assumed he had stayed away, but apparently she was wrong about that.

She was about to turn around and walk back the other way, because he was almost the last person she wanted to talk to. She felt sick to her stomach remembering all the ways she had screwed up this case, and she was sure that if he saw her, he would make her regret it in other ways. But before she could sneak out of sight, he stood and turned to her. "Ah, Sergeant Donovan, just the person I wanted to see."

Oh, shit, she was in for it now for sure. What would he do to her? Would he go directly for the thumbscrews and boiling oil, or would he toy with her for a while first? While she stood in the corridor gaping, he took a step toward her, and she took a step back. "Sergeant, I wanted to thank you."

Thank her? Now that was a surprise. "For what?"

"I know what you did," he said quietly. Was that a threat? It sort of sounded like one. What would he do to her now?

Donovan blinked hard and took another step back. "Oh God. I didn't tell him to commit suicide, and I certainly didn't—." Her hand went unconsciously to her throat, where she was reminded for the umpteenth time that her necklace was gone forever.

"Don't worry. No one else will find out."

It wasn't a threat then? He was actually planning to keep it a secret to protect her? But how did he—Oh! "I wondered why I never got called out on that," Donovan breathed. "So you're the reason—That's sort of scary, that is. Sherlock told me I should be scared of you."

The corner of his mouth tipped up, just slightly. "You needn't fear me."

"Well, thank you. I could have been in big trouble. You saved my job."

"It was the least I could do. I know you don't get on with Sherlock. Thank you for doing that for him."

"I didn't do it just for him."

"Well, of course for the other boys as well."

"And for you too."

He blinked at her for a moment in what looked like complete surprise. His mouth opened, then closed and opened again like a goldfish. "I—I made an error. I failed to protect Sherlock."

"What, you mean when you were kids? That wasn't your fault. You were powerless and that man took advantage of you. You can't blame yourself for that."

He gave no obvious reaction to that statement, but his hand gripped the umbrella handle so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. "I can't help it."

Donovan's lip twisted in sympathy. "You blame yourself for everything, don't you?"

Mycroft took a breath and exhaled noisily through his nose. "It's my curse, I'm afraid."

"Have you. . . talked to Sherlock about what happened?"

He let out a small, humourless laugh. "That is not going to happen."

"You could try. He might. . ."

"Those bridges were burnt long ago. We don't have that sort of relationship."

"But you'd like to," Donovan said slowly.

"What I would like is unimportant. Caring is not an advantage. Good day, Sergeant."

He turned on his heel and quickly strode away, toward the back exit, away from the crowds gathered at the front of the building where Donovan was sure Lestrade was taking a bullet for her and being interviewed by the press. Mycroft's back was straight, and his hand on the umbrella was steady, but all she could see were his white knuckles. He may have said that caring was not an advantage, but that didn't mean he didn't care. His relationship with Sherlock was broken, and that was obviously more painful to him than he cared to let on. It was also obvious that he didn't blame Sherlock for that pain, but Donovan couldn't help blaming him on Mycroft's behalf. Sherlock was holding all the cards in their relationship, and he either didn't know it or didn't care. Or more likely he did know it and was intentionally twisting the knife.

Hoping the press attack would be over by now (and also not wanting Mycroft Holmes to think she was following him), Donovan turned left down another corridor that led toward a side door of the courthouse. She intended to circle around and meet Lestrade out front to hitch a ride back to the Yard. She hoped she didn't run into Sherlock on the way or she might tempted to give him a piece of her mind, or maybe even a new bruise to match the assortment he seemed to be collecting lately.


After the coroner read out his verdict, John stood up to leave the courtroom with the crowd, but when he reached the aisle he realized Sherlock wasn't following him, so he fought his way back past the press of people who were trying to get to the stairs. Sherlock was still sitting in the same spot, eyes glued to his phone and a frown on his face.

"Are you coming?"

"There's no point. Lestrade is going to do a press conference so that damnable crowd will be blocking the doorway for ages."

"Well, it's cleared out up here. Let's go downstairs at least."

Sherlock's lip twitched and he looked toward the stairs with an uncertain expression that quickly morphed into a scowl. "I'd rather stay here."

Suddenly John remembered the flash of long ginger hair he had seen in the lobby on the way in, and he got it. Sherlock didn't want to stay here; he just didn't want to admit he was afraid to go downstairs into the open where Kitty Riley might be lurking.

"How about I go check if she's gone, all right?"

Sherlock's lip tugged upward in the corner briefly before the scowl returned. "Do what you must."

Taking that as permission (and all the thanks he was going to get), John headed down the stairs and took a glance around the lobby. No Kitty Riley that he could spot. Through the window in the door he saw Lestrade's silver hair and a glimpse of a crowd gathered around him.

Back upstairs, he said to Sherlock, "The coast is clear. Let's go."

Sherlock stood, pulled his coat tightly around himself, and followed John down the stairs, but when they got to the lobby, he suddenly turned away from the main entrance down an empty side hallway where there was a wooden bench.

"Aren't we leaving?"

"Not yet. Lestrade will be yammering on for a while." Sherlock sat on the bench and pulled out his phone again.

"We could go out the back way."

"No thank you," he said without looking up.

"Why not?"

"I need to talk to Lestrade about our homicide case. He's busy, so I'll have to wait."

"We could wait out front. It's hot in here."

"Then take off that hideous jacket."

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"What makes you thing something is wrong?"

John smirked at him. "It's roasting in here and you are hiding in your coat. . ." Sherlock opened his mouth to interrupt, but John plowed on ". . . in a back hallway instead of leaving out the front door. Of course something's wrong."

"I'm not hiding," Sherlock sulked.

"Yes, you are."

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. " All right, fine. Kitty Riley is already on my scent, and I think I know how she got my name. Those blasted reporters will be all over me if they see me. That's why I don't want to go out there. Understand?"

John folded his arms. "Then why did you even want to come here today?"

"I had to make sure Donovan didn't sell me out."

"Well, she didn't. Does that mean anything to you?"

"Not really." Sherlock gave a dismissive shake of his head and went back to his phone.

"Sherlock, you've got to admit—"

"Oy, Holmes!" interrupted a woman's voice from down the hallway, echoing off the marble walls.

John looked up, sure that Kitty Riley had tracked them down, but it was Sergeant Donovan, coming toward them from the corridor that led to the back door. He had been angry with her after the interlocutory hearing, especially when he learned that the tapes had been quashed, but her testimony today had convinced him that perhaps she really did care about protecting victims. He was about to greet her when he took a closer look at the sour expression on her face.

"What do you want now, Donovan?" Sherlock snapped, before John could say anything.

"You've got to talk to your brother."

Sherlock scowled fiercely at her. "Whyever would I do that?"

Donovan stepped in closer and said in a quietly intense voice, "He blames himself for what happened to you."

Now Sherlock's lip curled up into a sneer. "Good. He should. It's his fault."

Donovan wrinkled her nose incredulously. "No it's not! He was a kid! He was much of a victim as you were."

"Mycroft, a victim? Hardly."

"Why do you do this to him?" she said, shaking her head in disgust. "It's sick."

"Do what to him? You think I'm hurting him? Nothing can hurt him, because he does. not. care."

"That's not true!"

Sherlock stood and looked down his nose at her, eyes narrowed. "You lied on the stand."

Now she took a step backward. "No I didn't!"

He stepped in, using his size as an advantage as he towered over her. "Yes, you did," he said quietly, almost in her ear. "You said you hadn't found anyone who wanted Lindt dead."

Donovan let out a shaky breath. "Don't change the subject. You think nothing can hurt your brother, and you're almost right. The only one who can hurt him is YOU, because you are the only one he cares about."

"Donovan, you should probably shut up now."

"Why do I even bother?" muttered Donovan. Shaking her head, she turned and strode away, around the corner toward the back entrance to the courthouse. With an exasperated backwards glance at Sherlock, John chased after her.

"Sergeant Donovan?"

She turned and folded her arms defensively, gaze fixed on a point behind his shoulder.

"He means thank you," John said, a little out of breath from chasing after her. "Thanks for testifying and keeping his name out of it."

"No he doesn't. Don't go around apologizing for him. You're only enabling him. If he really wants to thank me, he should do it himself."

"I know, but you know him. He won't."

"And that's the problem."

Yes, it was, John silently agreed, but he couldn't tell Sally Donovan that. "He and his brother—their relationship is complicated."

"No, it's not. They think it is but it's not. If they would just bend a little bit, put in a little effort to understand each other. . .Mycroft's in pain, John. He'd never admit it, but he is. And Sherlock is either too blind to see it or too callous to care."

"I don't know what to say, Sally. I can't make Sherlock talk to him. Lord knows I've tried."

"I'm done wasting my breath. Those two can lie in the bed they've made." She turned and strode away, her back stiff and her hands tightly clenched.

John pressed his lips together and headed back to Sherlock, hoping he was still where he had left him. It would be just like him to up and take off as soon as John was out of sight. As he neared the corner, he spotted Molly Hooper leaning against the wall in an alcove, with one arm tightly wrapped around herself and her other hand over her face.

"Molly?"

"Oh! John." She sniffed and wiped at her face. Her eyes were red and her makeup was smeared.

"Everything all right?"

"John, why are you here today?"

"Oh, I—uh—I came with Sherlock."

"The papers said he was helping with that case, but that's not true, is it? That was his violin teacher."

John bit his lip. "I can't—"

"No wonder he was seeing vampires. I didn't even know."

"Seeing vampires? More than once?" Shit, was that what was going on with him? John had been so distracted lately with the demands of parenting that he hadn't had the energy to really even be Sherlock's friend; much less his doctor/psychiatrist/babysitter. And Sherlock had never told him, which rankled. What was the point of having a best friend if you shut them out of the worst of your problems?

"Yes, I asked him about it and he said he had a couple of times. But I didn't know about all of this."

"I'm sorry, Molly. I'll tell him he should talk to you."

"He's lucky he's got you, John."

"You think so?"

"You should have seen him before he met you. You definitely changed his life for the better."

Even though he didn't quite believe that, John gave her a wry half-smile. "Thanks. That means a lot."

She nodded at him and headed off down the corridor toward the side door, and John went to find Sherlock. He was still sitting on the bench, head down, eyes on his phone. He didn't look up when John approached, so John folded his arms and glared at the top of his head.

"You think she's right," Sherlock said finally, without looking up from his phone.

"I think there's nothing to be gained by blaming Mycroft. He didn't do anything to you. He was a victim himself."

Sherlock looked up, his lip curled up into a snarl. "You know nothing, John. It's best to keep your mouth shut."

"I'm planning to do just that," John said in a quiet fury.

Sherlock pocketed his phone and stood. "I'm going home."

"What about Lestrade?"

"I can talk to him later. The bloodsuckers have still got their hooks in him out there. It'll be ages."

"Then I'll take you home."

"I don't want company."

"I'm coming with you, like it or not."

"Stop babying me!" Sherlock hissed. "I don't need another mother."

"I'm your friend," John fumed, "and yes, you do need a friend."

Sherlock huffed through his nose. "I just. . . need some space. I won't do anything rash."

"No drugs?"

"No drugs, no jumping off roofs. . ."

"Don't joke about that please."

"Yes, all right; I didn't mean to bring that up. Just let me have some space. Please."

John sighed. "All right, I'll take you home but I won't stay. But you have to promise you'll call me in the morning."

"Yes, I promise."

As they headed toward the back door, John considered that the tricky part of being a friend, particularly Sherlock's friend, was treading that fine line between 'being there for him' and 'trampling on his autonomy.' He had trouble knowing exactly where that line was sometimes.