Chapter Thirty-Seven: Eighty Days Old
John stepped out of the bedroom, freshly showered and dressed in a pair of clean jeans and a red shirt, the top button left undone. He marched down the hallway with purpose and stepped through the kitchen into the living room, Sherlock was already dressed and up, violin perched on his lap and plucking the strings distractedly as he stared into space, eyes fixed absently on a spot on the wall. The notes reverberated with a kind of repetitive hum that stimulated his brain and kept his hands busy.
Maeve was in her bouncy chair in front of him. She kicked and waved her hands in excitement with each pluck of the string as Sherlock used one of his sock clad feet to rock the chair in small springy movements.
"Morning Sher," John greeted, not expecting a response. "Maeve."
The infant reacted by glancing around the room in search of the noise, impaired by her position in the chair and John took pity on her, and moved to the side so that she could see him. Her excited movements doubled and he unstrapped her quickly, pulling her into his arms. She sighed against his neck and continued with kicking against his chest.
"Yes, thank you Miss, less of the kicking." He told her in a stern but soft voice. She continued.
"Is daddy thinking?" He asked her. She grunted in response. "Your Papa will take care of you."
"Clothes." Sherlock muttered like he wasn't aware that he was even speaking, still lost in his mind and not focusing at all on his surroundings.
John looked at the small pile of clothes on the sofa and nodded, "time to get dressed then."
When he'd wrestled her into the white romper dress with a small pattern of gold clouds and stars, he settled her firmly on his lap and picked up the newspaper. "Current affairs?" he asked her, she looked up at him with a gummy smile, "gossip? What do you fancy?"
"He was alive," Sherlock announced, finally rousing from his thoughts and looking up, slightly dazed.
"Hmmm" John replied, looking over the top of his paper.
Sherlock blinked and looked down at the unoccupied bouncy chair, his eyes widened and he frowned, eyes darting around the room. "Maeve?"
"Oh," John said quickly, he closed and folded the paper. He placed it on the empty space beside him to reveal Maeve, sat on his lap with her back against his chest and eyes now seeking out her father. "We were reading the paper."
Sherlock considered it for a moment and nodded hesitantly, hands abandoning his violin and steepling beneath his chin.
"What do you mean?" John asked and repeated, "He was alive."
"Lestrade called; Robert Innes was found alive."
"Bad shape?" John asked.
Sherlock hummed. "Broken ribs, suspected punctured lung, superficial damage to his face and four broken fingers, a sprained wrist and dislocated ankle."
"God." John winced sympathetically.
"I need to question him." Sherlock declared.
"Greg waiting for us at the hospital?" John asked. Sherlock nodded.
Greg and Sally loitered purposefully outside the private hospital room, they both looked up as Sherlock, John and Maeve approached with tight encouraging smiles.
"He's in bad shape," Greg told them, "we haven't been able to get anything out of him yet."
Sherlock nodded in understanding.
"What have the doctors said?" John asked.
"He's lucky somebody found him when they did." Sally answered.
"Why was he left alive?" Greg asked.
"Unfortunately, only Robert can tell us that." Sherlock sighed.
"Can I hold her?" Greg asked, looking up at the consulting detective with imploring eyes.
Sherlock nodded and John lifted up the carseat that she occupied. The detective inspector unstrapped and scooped her up, holding her up for a second before bringing her to his chest, holding her bum with one hand and her back with the other. She made no sound but sighed the moment her face met the juncture of his neck. "Just needed a cuddle," he explained.
"Sometimes seeing something good, something innocent, helps with the bad." Sally said.
Sherlock nodded in a slow, unhurried movement.
The door to the private room opened and a doctor stepped out, his looked slightly confused at the sight of the police officer holding the baby but kept himself composed. "He's awake, I'm not sure he'll be able to tell you much but I understand that this is a matter of importance. But try not to strain him too much."
Greg nodded and smiled apologetically at Sherlock, who took Maeve and then handed her to John. They stepped into the hospital room and nodded at Mr and Mrs Innes, sitting in plastic chairs beside his bed.
Robert Innes cracked his eyes open and looked up at the new arrivals. His face was a mess of purple and blue, nose red and bloody, a gash above his eyebrow and eyes swollen. He coughed.
"Robert," Greg spoke with a loud authoritative yet, soft and caring tone. His brown eyes flicking over the boy in the hospital bed, he swallowed audibly, throat constricting. "We understand that this must be difficult for you but we need to ask you a few questions. We'll need your help to find the man who did this to you."
Robert managed a nod, a small movement almost too small to be seen, and obviously painful.
"You were taken when you were leaving a party, is that correct?"
Robert nodded and croaked, "h-he had a knife."
"We suspected as much," Greg nodded. "Did he say anything?"
"That I-I had to be qu-quiet or he'd cu-t me." Robert struggled. "He forced me in-into a car."
"Do you remember the make or model, colour?" Sally asked, she was already noting down everything that he said.
Robert shook his head and focused on Sherlock. "Is that a b-baby?"
Sherlock manged a small smile, "this is my daughter."
"You-your that cons-sulting detective," he recalled, wincing.
"Yes, I'm consulting on your case." He informed him. "Do you know where he took you?"
Robert shook his head. "He put me in the b-boot."
"We suspect the man we're dealing with is a sexual sadist" Sherlock told him. "He enjoys the pain he inflicts and has little care about the gender of his victims, but he left you alive, do you have any indication why?"
Mr and Mrs Innes looked scandalised but Robert was quick to answer, as quickly as he could manage. "He said th-that I was boring, n-not like the others."
"The others?" John asked.
"Yee-ah. He prefers the g-girls." Robert answered.
"When he moved you, were you in his boot again?" Greg asked.
Robert shrugged and cried out at the movement, he ignored his horrified mother to answer. "I c-can't remember, I must have lost con-consciousness."
"Did you hear or see anything that would suggest that he had another victim?"
He shook his head. "He listened to the radio."
"The radio, did you recognise the channel?" Sherlock asked.
"BBC London."
"Are you sure?"
Robert nodded. "There were news updates about the kidnappings, I and that you were working the case."
"He knows that I'm involved?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes."
"And did he seem angry?"
"He started breaking things, I-I couldn't see but I could hear h-him, he started hitting th-things."
"Like punching and kicking or with some kind of instrument?" Sherlock pressed.
Mr Innes stood up and asked, "Is this really necessary?"
"If you want to find the man responsible," Sherlock answered.
"And the way he broke things is important?" Mr Innes asked, anger building and face glowing red.
"Yes," Sherlock answered somehow managing to keep his cool, his tone level. "If he used his hands, then there will be contusions across his hands and possible broken bones, this could help us to identify the man that kidnapped and for all intents and purposes, tortured your son."
"By the marks on his hands?" Mrs Innes seemed both horrified and surprised.
"Yes," Sherlock gave a curt answer.
"It sound-ed like he used his hands," Robert informed him.
"I need to see where he was found," Sherlock commanded.
Greg nodded and gestured towards the silver BMW.
"The forensics team have just finished photographing and are now documenting the scene," Sally informed them, climbing into the passenger seat. She plucked her phone from her pocket and began texting.
"She ok?" John asked, nodding at the infant seemingly attached to his partner's front.
"Tired." Sherlock answered. He craned his neck to get a better look at her face, her eyes were drifting shut and mouth slowly parting with her soft breath.
"Need a moment?" Greg asked, pausing with his hand on the top of the car and open door.
Sherlock nodded and John mouthed a quick 'thank you' at him. The grey haired detective climbed into the car and closed the door, leaving the pair outside with the child.
"You've got ideas," John voiced.
Sherlock hummed and he rocked slowly from side to side, holding the infant tight against his chest and watching as with each passing moment she fell into a deeper and deeper sleep.
"What are we going to do with little Miss then?"
"She'll stay with us," Sherlock told him.
John nodded, "what are you thinking?"
"This is more than just pleasure," Sherlock articulated, "he's in it for the money, we're looking for somebody with a similar background to the victims, his parent, most likely his mother, married into money. He wants the lifestyle but he hates it, he hates his victims or the original victims he's attempting to recreate."
"So we look for clues at the scene, anything that can lead us to this…man!" John hissed the last word, obviously wanting to replace it with something more vulgar but stopping himself last minute with a glance at the snoring baby. "He must have tools of some sort that he uses and transports."
Sherlock nodded and John opened the car door for him.
Sherlock stared out of the car window deep in thought and rested his hand absentmindedly on his daughter, not applying any weight, just touching her with his palm, fingers tightening in minute movements in the fabric of her dress – reassuring himself that she was still there and grounding his thoughts – as Greg pulled up the car and turned off the engine. The grey haired man glanced back with a tight smile and nodded to Donovan, the pair climbed out of the car and settled on the pavement beside a group of officers and forensic workers.
"Sherlock," John said softly, not wanting to shock him from his thoughts too violently. "Do you want me to stay with her?"
Sherlock blinked and refocused on his surroundings. They had parked outside an old terrace house with the windows boarded up and the front door hanging haphazardly on its hinges, cordoned off with police tape. He shook his head and turned to face the pair; his partner and daughter. John was smiling at him – a soft smile, both reassuring and friendly, one that often settled on his features – and his hand was resting on the side of the carseat. "No," the detective voiced, "your input will be useful."
"Was that a compliment?" John asked, teasing, his eyebrows raising.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I compliment you all the time."
His eyebrows furrowed, "when?"
"The other night," Sherlock recalled.
John frowned and rolled his eyes in realisation, he informed him "In bed doesn't count."
"So, you evoking the power of deities instead of using my name, is not a compliment?" Sherlock asked.
"God." John muttered, cheeks turning a delightful hue of pink.
"Precisely," Sherlock smirked and climbed out the car, leaving John to follow trying his best not to look flustered as he opened his own door and stepped onto the road.
John cleared his throat, "you could ask Greg or Donovan."
Sherlock shook his head and scanned over the small crowd in front of the house. He gestured with a wave of his hand at a young officer with neat blonde hair. He looked up and stepped closer to the car, "can I help you Mr Holmes?"
"My daughter is sleeping, I need you to watch her." He informed the young officer, eyes scanning over him in what was clearly his 'I'm deducing the crap out of you' look.
"Me?" the officer repeated, unsure of himself, he glanced down at his feet.
"Yes" Sherlock said firmly, "she'll be no trouble. You just have to keep your eyes on her while I look at the scene."
The officer glanced at Greg, the DI nodded and he turned back to Sherlock, nodding his head.
"Good, keep the door open and do not touch her unless she starts crying, if she does have an officer collect me and I will come straight out, do not leave her alone for a second."
The officer nodded wildly.
"Good." Sherlock stepped away from the car, leaving the door wide open and allowing the officer to get a good look at the sleeping baby in the carseat.
"What do you think?" Greg asked, "Got anything?"
"He was meticulous and fast," Sherlock rose to his full height and turned to face the grey haired man. "He brought the body in and left him, Robert didn't move, obvious from the blood on the floor. The person that found him…"
"A woman who lives down the road," Greg supplied, "saw the door was open."
"Checked that he was alive and called the ambulance, smudges and footprints, scrapes in the dust."
"There's nothing here is there?" Sally asked.
"Nothing of any use," Sherlock articulated carefully.
"Nothing?" John asked, "No hairs or fibres."
"The house is abandoned, it's been used by homeless people as a lodge for quite some time, any evidence would be contaminated." Sherlock placed a hand on his hip.
"We can't wait until he's made a mistake," John said simply.
"We don't have to," Greg announced, placing his phone back in his pocket. "We've got CCTV images."
"What are we waiting for?" John asked rhetorically.
Sherlock swept out of the room. John snorted and followed, it would have looked far more dramatic if he had been wearing his coat, but the consulting detective carried himself in a way that was both intimidating and elegant. Greg and Sally waited for John to pass before following.
The group of forensics and officers were still outside the house, stood on the pavement conversing quietly and the young officer that Sherlock had sanctioned to look after his daughter was lent against the car with his arms crossed over his chest. He started at the sight of Sherlock and pushed himself from the car, arms dropping to his side uselessly.
"Any problems?" Sherlock asked as he hopped over the garden wall using one arm to support his body, the movement smooth and well executed.
"Nope." The young officer answered. "None."
Sherlock nodded and ducked towards the car door, it was open but not as wide as it had been previously. His eyes ran over the car and settled on the carseat, his heart caught in his throat and it felt like the earth stopped spinning for a moment, long enough for the ground beneath his feet to crumble. He almost stumbled but caught himself with a hand on the car door, John noticed, so did Greg and Sally. They both looked up at him and the doctor frowned and asked, "everything alright?"
The words garbled as though he was underwater and he could hear nothing but ringing in his ears.
He pulled back the blanket. It was empty…Maeve was gone.
He swallowed the rising bile in his throat, head pounding and asked, voice sounding alien even to himself. "Where is she?"
The young officer frowned and looked through the window at him, "what?"
Sherlock pulled back and turned to face him, eyes wild. "Where is she?"
"She's in the car."
"No." Sherlock shook his head, he rubbed his forehead in an attempt to clear his mind. He now had the attention of everyone standing on the pavement. "No, where is she? What have you done with her?"
"She -" the young officer fumbled with his words, he was visibly shaking now. "She was sleeping in the car."
"Yes, but where is she now?" Sherlock shouted.
"What?" John was confused and horrified by the direction this conversation was headed.
"In the car." The young officer replied, voice a mere squeak.
"No, she's not." He barked.
"Sherlock, calm down, she's not in the car?" Greg asked, rushing towards the BMW.
John had crossed to the other side and glanced in, stepping back with a horrified look on his face. He admitted, throat dry, "she's not here."
Sherlock took a step towards the young officer who instinctively took a step backwards. The consulting detective's eyes flicked madly over the faces of the officers, "has anyone picked her up?"
There was a rush of 'no' and shaking heads.
"Where is she?" Sherlock looked away, eyes rushing over the street which was for all intents and purposes empty, save a handful of people.
"Did anyone get close enough to the car?" Greg was asking the officer.
The young officer shook his head, "a reporter was fishing but I sent him away."
"Did he ask about me or Maeve?" Sherlock demanded.
He nodded. "I-I only turned away for a second."
"Which way did he go?"
The young officer pointed to the right and Sherlock took off running in that direction. John cursed and followed, with Donovan at his side, both were unable to keep up with Sherlock's long strides. He ran until he reached the end of the road, which split off in four ways; the direction he had come from, straight on and to the left and right. He looked frantically, eyes wild and jumping from person to person. He stopped and clamped his eyes shut, both hands coming to rest on either side of his head. His expression was tight like that of physical pain and his breathing ragged.
"Call Mycroft." He instructed.
John managed a nod and reached into his pocket, he fumbled with his phone.
"Can you see her?" Donovan asked, craning her neck to look at the busy junction.
"No," Sherlock answered, voice cracking.
"Mycroft, no this is important, I need to speak with him now…Anthea, someone's taken Maeve." Sherlock could hear John speaking but was too focused on the passing people. "Mycroft, thank God, someone's taken Maeve, yes, she's gone! We were at a scene, an officer was meant to be watching her, she's gone."
Sherlock took a ragged breath and blinked hard. If Donovan saw a tear run down his cheek, she said nothing.