Disclaimer.
Warnings: crime-scene, description of abuse, child abuse, trauma, violent crime, self-harm, and Anderson
Sorry I haven't updated this week - I spent these past eight days traveling. Being on the road is so much fun! But, it did keep me from writing, so my apologies!
This chapter is unbetaed, so any inconsistancies and typos are mine to claim. It is also a completely new dynamic, so I don't know how I feel about it yet.
Tell me what you think of this chapter, I'd really like the feedback because I especially don't know how to write crime! Thanks for reading!
Medical Knife
A case. John was working on a case. Although a familiar sight to be seen, the crime scene and all its accessories – the people milling about in the doorway to the apartment, the flash photography, police-tape, busy-body rookies, seasoned professionals, the works – was still something to reacquaint oneself with. John kept reminding himself that this was indeed happening, that he was leaning over the body of the strangled children, and there were expectations a Doctor was to be held to. He looked up to Sherlock, Lestrade at his side, and then down the young boys, who laid in supine position across the carpeted floor of the foyer.
How was he supposed to go about this? Had it been that long since he worked a case that he'd feel like such an amateur? Like such a fool?
"Go on," Sherlock urged, looking particularly bored. John knew Sherlock well enough to see that he had already deduced the hell out of the well-maintained first-story apartment unit, and was waiting on input from John purely for his benefit. John shook his head, feeling more out of his element than ever, then returned to the task at hand, to his job.
"Well, firstly, I must say that whoever did this was a sick bastard."
"He'd have to be," Lestrade added. He'd been giving John odd looks all afternoon, a sort of furrowed eyebrow that John knew to be more than just the standard are you okay? Look. Anytime John caught this look, the look that was asking if he would be able to handle the violence that obviously transpired on this particularly horrible case, Lestrade would shift his eyes. He would look to his feet, then coordinate with the press, the police officers in training, even Anderson. Now was no exception, and he turned his eyes to the deceased children.
"Yes, yes, quite tragic – now on, if you must linger, we really don't want to waste time with this, do we?" Sherlock nearly huffed. He remained statuesque, however, still waiting on John.
"Right. Okay," John gestured to the first boy, a blonde, who was nearest to the door. "Elliot, 13, was, from what I can tell, the first one to have been killed. I've looked over his body, and although clothed now, he wasn't always in this… winter get-up. He wasn't harmed in ways that normally leave marks, like torturers usually are inclined to do. He tied off his wrists, his forearms, look there at the ankles: there are still distinct rope-burn marks. And… well, you see he neck? "John pulled down the plaid collar, exposing hotly-angry red marks and deep divots, four or five smaller ones and then one unifying indention. "These happened at different times. It looks –"
A flash went off, a crime-scene photographer taking keen interest of the neck that John's white-gloved hands exposed. Sherlock gave the young woman a look that paled her complexion considerably. John blinked as she walked to the other side of the hallway.
"Well, this is going to be a field day for the profilers," Lestrade added. He'd grown impatient, and John could see the effort that he gave to keep himself from pacing or tapping his fingers or generally do anything except stand watch over the bodies.
Sherlock snorted, something he did when he realized that he couldn't laugh at a crime scene, but was inclined to make some sort of noise in appreciation of the humor of certain situations, certain word choices, or simply just stupid remarks. "Profilers? They're not even here yet. You're looking for a man, obviously, considering the fact that these children were over powered with ease, and the fact that they were tortured in a fetishized way. On further inspection, I reason that at least Elliot, if not Marvin, was raped, then redressed in thick clothes to mask the vulgarity of his skin. These sorts of criminals prey on children due to past trauma – the style and actions of the past trauma typically carried out on the new victims, and, in this case, it happens to be a sexual abuse. More often than not, these predators attack children of roughly the same age or social standing as they were when abused, and rarely seek any other victim. Their MO is characterized by age, gender, and method of choosing their victim. Lestrade, I haven't heard of any other killings of this nature in the city, as well as other divisions. Is this true?"
"Yes, it's true –" Anderson piped up. He came from around the body, having previously been examining the bed room just to the left of the boys, holding a bag in his hand that contained large strips of decorative wall paper. His jacket, which always looked too big to fit on him John always thought, was tinted in shavings of paint like that of the bag he held. "No one has killed or reported to have abused young boys in this city in the past two months. However," He held up the bag. "There have been a string of robberies along this street, and all of them have had their wall paper chipped away. This came from the bedroom, but a lot more has been taken."
"Trophies?" Lestrade suggested.
"Astute observation," Sherlock said in an ambiguous tone, stepping around the body, opposite of Anderson, to the door way that lead out to the street, effectively blocking the photographers that were zoning in on John and the children. John stood, then looked to the other boy while Sherlock continued his explanation. "That doesn't explain for the robberies, however – nothing has been taken, and none of the houses had families living in them. The nature of this sort of murder is always premeditated – he would have sought a child that resembled either himself or someone important to him during the time of his abuse. He doesn't break into homes randomly. He's recently suffered some sort of trigger that lead to certain crimes. He's psychotic."
"I guess it takes one to know one."
"Anderson," Lestrade said loudly, eyeing his man. "You can make yourself useful somewhere else."
"I'm just saying –"
"Shut the bloody hell up if you're not going to do your damn job" John snapped, pursing his lips and looking from Anderson – standing stupidly useless on the other side of Marvin, the 9 year old – to Lestrade (his eyes suddenly wary in the way he'd been every time he looked to John), then to Sherlock. Several familiar forensic men, working on cataloging the items from the living-room-bed-room, stopped momentarily, looking at John. Sherlock remained impassive, except for the knowing look in his eye that only John would know to be recognition. John was peaking on his stressors, and it was showing. But there was nothing he could do to not be stressed, what with having to listen to the chatter around him, feeling the presence of the media, feeling the need to read the trauma accurately. Then there were the flashing lights that, though not directed toward him, were still there and disarming – and, just look at those poor children… John rubbed his eyes, looking down, then turned to look into the bedroom just over his shoulder. One more duty to perform, he breathed in deeply.
"I don't know about the damn profile, but I can tell you that Marvin was taken out by a blunt hit to the head because of the welt… he's awfully fond of strangling, so I'm going to guess that Marvin wasn't planned for and he had to improvise. He chloroformed Elliot, took him to that bed, tortured him, bound him, strangled him, afterwards killing Marvin. Who knows what else happened to Marvin, but that's sure as hell what happened here. Where the hell are their parents, anyway?"
Sherlock didn't say anything, and Anderson resigned himself to silence as he overlooked the kids. John huffed a little, this time being the one to avoid eye-contact from the Detective Inspector.
"The cleaning service found them, and we've since contacted their parents." Lestrade said. His voice was calm, and John suspected there was a similar look in his eyes as Sherlock wore, the one that realized that he was a bit too frazzled for their liking. He tugged on his jumper, his sealed wounds suddenly very warm with blood and a striking need to be reopened.
John almost said something that might have resembled an apology – what was he apologizing for? – when Sally suddenly appeared from behind Sherlock, having just arrived and looking half-slept and highly caffeinated. "Sorry! Sorry!" She rushed, eyes focused on her hands as she tried to glove them. "The bloody traffic was horrible, and the cabbies just didn't know how to drive. Some days, they're lucky I can't get my hands around their throats."
Sherlock couldn't help but huff at that, trying not to laugh but not quite able to repress the reaction. Everyone else looked mortified, Anderson amongst the most blatantly shocked.
"Do you even read the files, woman?" Anderson said, breathless. Sally looked down, seeing the marks on the boy from the down-turned collar.
John was almost sneaky enough to excuse himself, but he still had Sherlock to get past. Sherlock stood in his way, hands in pockets, looking down very intently while John tried to usher him aside. John had the feeling it wasn't going to do any good when, to his un-solicited rescue, came Lestrade. "Come on, John," He started, catching both Sherlock and John's attention. "Sherlock, give us a moment, will you?"
"Oh, fine, get on with it."
"Don't pretend like you're not interested in this case one bit," Lestrade goaded, putting a hand on John's left shoulder. "Look, there come the profilers. I bet you can have circles of fun with them."
"Interesting, it may prove to be, though there's little left here to attain. Let the have their fun with the profile, I already know who I'm looking for. John, meet me at the lab, why don't you? I need to be there for more than one reason, but I doubt it'll take very long, so don't keep me waiting. I'll pick up your lunch as well. Inspector, have you any new information, you know to call me first."
"Right. Always do. Shall we?" He beckoned toward the door. Anderson and Sally kept bickering as they left. Sherlock, leading the way out as John and Lestrade followed mechanically, aimed for the farthest street at the residential intersection, by-passing the remaining media while seeking out a means of transport. They diverged on the street, and Lestrade pulled John to the side, just between complexes.
"How are you doing?"
John hated the sympathy in his voice, no matter how well-intended. "I'm doing well."
"John, I may not be a genius sociopath, but come on, I can tell that you're not completely honest here."
"Well, what do you want me to say, then? I'm doing good enough. What else can I say that won't put me back into therapy or put me through a psych-ward hold?"
Lestrade didn't know how to handle these sorts of things – he was a hardened man, having to be one to deal with the high-crime rates of London and all the atrocities humanity is capable of committing – and he looked almost scared of saying the wrong thing. John sighed, wondering how hard it must be for someone to speak to a cutter.
"I'm… Greg, I'm doing okay. Better than I was. I just need to make the adjustments again. I feel like a rookie, and it's just a bit overwhelming. But I'll get used to it. I can always manage."
Lestrade smiled, stiffly and just a bit wary, loosening his tensely crossed arms. "That's good to hear. I know it's hard getting back out there, and some cases are harder than others, but I know you can get your self standing again. Just give it time. And, if you want, I can have you start in on another case – I didn't know you'd be tagging along, otherwise I wouldn't have called in Sherlock."
"No, no, it's fine, really. This is as good as any other start. I think I might have to ask that you keep Anderson on a shorter leash, though, I don't reckon I'd be able to not snap at the man every time he opens his mouth."
"You really are high strung, aren't ya?"
John snorted. "Granted, though I would rather not deal with him at the moment."
"Well, wish granted. He can stick with paper-work and light-weight entry-level chores this case. Not like he's been helpful lately, anyway – he and Sally are always at each others throats."
That earned another partial laugh from John. "I guess they need someone to pick on, don't they? What with Sherlock taking care… of me these past few months, I guess they don't have anyone to pick on."
John's phone buzzed. Welcoming the distraction, he quickly pulled out his phone to read the text. "Sherlock wants me at the lab, I suppose I have to run."
"Oh, no problem. I just needed to check in. And, hey, John –" John was already walking away, a bit desperate to end the conversation, but Lestrade took hold of his Shoulder. "I won't be sending you off anywhere. You know that I wouldn't just surrender you to a mental health facility, right?"
"Oh, right, of course."
"No, I mean it. I trust you, and I know you're going to be okay. Nothing more is going to be said about it, though I hope you keep on going to therapy. That being said, only you and me and Sherlock know, and it'll stay that way unless you want to change that."
John really did appreciate Lestrade's efforts to help him, he really did, but he was wanting to do things to himself at that moment, and he didn't know why, and he reasoned that he was in no position to be accepting other people's sentiments when he was doubtful of his own abilities. He smiled curtly, pretending to be interested in his response to Sherlock. "Thanks, Greg, that means a great deal. I'll see you later, okay?"
John excused himself and resigned to the back of a cab, holding his arms to himself as he pondered the color red and all its implications. Withdrawal, he realized, wasn't going to treat him favorably.