Chapter 21

A few hours later, Sherlock and Lestrade returned to the flat. John looked at them. "Did you find anything?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Not everything, but we're off to a start. You remember the graffiti artist who helped us with the Blink Banker case?"

"'Fraid so." John grimaced. "The same one who got me in trouble, and almost got me an ASBO."

"But you didn't. The graffiti artist did own up when the case was over," Sherlock pointed out. John nodded; that was true, thanks to Sherlock, who had persuaded the artist to confess to the deed. "Well, he told me what paint was used. It turns out, it was used to paint over some graffiti that was painted on that same wall last Wednesday. So, while we don't know exactly when that threat was painted, we do know it was done since last Wednesday. I suspect that Gruner hired a homeless person to paint the threat on the wall, so he wouldn't be seen doing it. Unfortunately, there are no CCTV cameras on that street, so Mycroft can't help us there. He checked."

John nodded again. That made sense.

"I've sent some of my Homeless Network to make inquiries in that neighbourhood. If they find out that a homeless person painted that threat, they will tell me who did it, and when."

John sighed. "The sooner, the better."

He froze as fragments of an unpleasant memory started seeping into his mind. His father giving him an item he had borrowed, to return to Mr. Gruner…Mr. Gruner inviting him into the house…John entering Mr. Gruner's house…Mr. Gruner coming at him with a stretched-out scarf in both hands…a terrified John rushing out of the house.

He shook his head violently. No! No, I don't—!

"John?" Mellie laid a hand on his shoulder.

"No." He shook his head violently. "Please don't ask me! Please—" He clenched his fists. "How could I forget something like that?!" He clenched both of his hands so tightly, his knuckles turned white.

Siger sat down in front of him. "But now you remember, don't you?" he asked. "What happened, John, that you're just now remembering?"

John looked at him, still shaking his head violently, taking deep, shuddering breaths. "Gruner tried to kill me!" He took another deep breath. "I was—I was just seven years old!"

The Holmeses exchanged expressions of distress and concern. "Tell us," Greg said. John gave him a beseeching look, silently begging him not to press the issue. The D.I. leaned forward. "You listened to Sherlock when he needed to come to terms with the distressing memories from his two years away, John,"* he said, and Sherlock nodded agreement. "You and Mary helped him by doing that, more than you will ever know. And then, more recently, you listened to him again when he had to come to terms with his recovered memories of Eurus and Victor."

Sherlock looked at him intently. "It's our turn, now, to help you. Let us do that, please."

Leaning forward, John buried his face in his hands. In that moment, all he wanted to do was to make the horrible memory go away. A hand was laid on his right shoulder, followed by another on his back.

"You don't have to face this alone, John," Mellie told him gently. She squeezed his shoulder. "This memory won't go away or cease to be real if you don't face it, John. Memories don't work like that."

Sitting back up, John nodded and wiped the tears off his face. "Sorry, sorry," he mumbled. "I know you're right. It's just…" He scanned the faces surrounding him and nodded. In a choked, halting voice, he said, "This…" He cleared his throat. "It was on a Saturday when it happened. I was seven—I think I said that earlier. My father sent me to Mr. Gruner's house to return a screwdriver that he had borrowed from him…"

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One Saturday, Hamish sent Johnny to Mr. Gruner's house to return a screwdriver that Hamish had borrowed. Even though Mr. Gruner gave Johnny and Harry a creepy feeling, so that they always stayed in their room whenever he came by to visit their father or kept away from his garden whenever they passed his house—especially when Mr. Gruner was outside in his front garden—Johnny knew that he had to do as he was told. He knocked on Mr. Gruner's front door, the screwdriver in his right hand. A moment later, the door swung open, and Mr. Gruner was framed in the doorway, an eager expression in his eyes that made Johnny feel uneasy.

"Mr. Gruner?" The little boy held up the screwdriver. "Daddy told me to bring this back to you." He hoped he could leave as soon as he had handed over the screwdriver.

"Thank you, Johnny." Mr. Gruner took the screwdriver from the little boy. As Johnny turned to leave, Mr. Gruner added, "Before you go back home, Johnny, I need your help with something."

Johnny shook his head rapidly and pointed down the street at his house. "No, sir, I gotta get home. I've got chores to do." And it was true; he did, and besides, he wanted to get away from Mr. Gruner as fast as he could.

"This'll just take a minute," Mr. Gruner assured him, and then he nodded behind him. "I'm trying to carry a box outside so I can dump it in the bin by my door, and I need some help." He knelt in front of Johnny and smiled. "You look like a strong boy to me, Johnny, and I could really use a strong boy like you to help me out with this job."

"Yes, sir, I can help you!" Johnny smiled as he followed Mr. Gruner inside the house, flattered that Mr. Gruner thought he was strong; for the moment, the creepy, uneasy feeling the man always gave him, and which he had just felt as he had given the man his screwdriver back, had gone away. "I'm real strong!"

"Yes, I've noticed." Mr. Gruner smiled. "And fortunately, this box isn't so heavy that we can't manage it together." He stepped back, and then aside, so that Johnny could enter the house.

Nodding, Johnny stepped into the middle of the lounge. "Where's the box?" he asked his neighbour, looking around as the latter closed the front door, laying his screwdriver on the coffee table.

"Come into my bedroom, and I'll show you." Upon Mr. Gruner's gesture, Johnny walked ahead of him into Mr. Gruner's room. As soon as the latter had also entered the room, he closed the door.

"That's the box." He gestured toward a plain wooden box against the wall across the room from the door. "Go see if you can lift it, Johnny. I'll be with you in just a moment."

Nodding, the little boy approached the box. He wondered what was in it. "Can I look inside?" he asked. Mr. Gruner didn't answer. Johnny was about to ask again when he heard light steps coming up behind him. Turning around, he saw Mr. Gruner approaching him with a big woollen scarf stretched out from both hands in front of him, a mean expression etched on his face. Immediately, the creepy feeling welled up in Johnny's heart once more.

"Uh, Mr. Gruner? Wh—what are you doing?" Johnny stammered, apprehension filling his heart. Mr. Gruner didn't say anything, but came closer to the little boy, still holding the scarf stretched out in front of him. In an instant, the apprehension changed into outright terror.

"No!" Whatever Mr. Gruner wanted him for, it was clear that it wasn't to help him move a box—he wanted to hurt Johnny! "Stay away from me!" he screamed, backing up as Mr. Gruner approached him. "Don't hurt me! Please don't hurt me!"

Before Mr. Gruner had a chance to grab him, the child kicked Mr. Gruner as hard as he could in the shin and practically tore the bedroom door open in his haste to get out. He rushed through the lounge, and he could tell from the rapid thuds on the creaking floor just behind him that Mr. Gruner was chasing him. He jerked open the front door and darted into the front garden and ran almost all the way down the street towards his house, screaming.

His first thought was to get to his mummy; as he reached the front door and stopped screaming, he slowed down and then froze on the porch as he realized that he couldn't tell Daddy, since Daddy liked Mr. Gruner. And if he told Mummy, she would insist on going to Mr. Gruner's house, Mr. Gruner would say he wasn't going to do anything to Johnny, and nothing would happen other than his father "making him sorry for lying"—he would do that by beating Johnny. Instead, the little boy hurried toward the garden shed in the back garden and slammed the door behind him, and crouched behind a box in the corner, shivering.

He was gonna kill me! Johnny thought, his teeth clenched. Mr. Gruner tried to kill me! He curled up against the wall and wrapped his arms around his chest, still shivering.

Johnny never did tell his parents. Daddy, for sure, wouldn't have listened to him if he had, and he wasn't at all sure they would have believed him, especially Daddy. It was almost dark when Johnny finally went back into the house; he didn't say anything to his parents, but just went straight to his room and stayed there till morning. Hamish and Jean didn't say anything to him at all when he went back in, not even to make sure that he had come back in, and that he was all right. He didn't see either of them again until morning, and then none of them said anything

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John took a deep, shuddered breath. "I never did tell my parents. They wouldn't have listened to me if I had, and I'm not at all sure they would have believed me. I know my father wouldn't have; he would have punished me for lying, even though I wouldn't have been. It was almost dark when I finally went back into the house; I didn't say anything to my parents, but just went straight to my room and stayed there till morning. It was in June, the year before David went missing. I guess I must have blocked it out of my mind shortly afterwards, because I didn't remember it at all until now."

"Did either of your parents say anything to you at all, when you came back in?" Mellie asked him, with a frown. John shook his head. "Not even to make sure that you had come back in, and that you were all right?"

Grimacing, John shook his head again. "I didn't see either of them again until morning, Mellie, and then none of us said anything."

Sherlock, his parents, and Lestrade exchanged sombre looks. "Well, I'm glad you told us, John," Lestrade told him. "If other relevant memories come back to you, I want you to tell Sherlock or myself."

John took another deep breath, and then nodded once. "All right."

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*From "Scheherezade," by sgam76, posted on Archive of Our Own.