A/N: WARNING: References to past child abuse, non con, and generally fuckedupness. Seriously. This guy gives me the creeps and I'm the one writing it. I think I've outdone myself with this psycho. What I get for watching too much Criminal Minds and almost becoming a forensic psychologist when I wanted to be an FBI profile about ten years ago.
Anyway, if you didn't read it the first time, I expanded the first chapter a bit, so if you read that one, sorry. I wasn't intending to do more than two chapters, but I really got into this psycho's mind. Oh well, good villains need depth, right? Well, here's a whole bunch of it.
Again, Sherlock Whump but not really in this chapter. Sherlock gets serious whump in the next chapter, for all those waiting for the whumpage to begin in earnest and think waxing the poor boy wasn't wumpage enough. It shall come and be severe whump.
The doll dress is here: albu_252292951_00-1.0x0/2013-two-piece-squre-neck-long-sleeves-unique. jpg (remove spaces)
The bloomers/shoes look like thus: www. /store/media/002531/002531_03. jpg
Chapter Two: Search
On the other end of the line, they heard the thump of a body. Then a noise and a new voice. "That wasn't very nice of her; after all, she is just leverage. But now, I guess I have to invite her to my tea party as well. Do you think she likes to watch tea parties? I mean, mine are much more entertaining than anyone else's I would guess." The voice was confident, and there was a surety to it that could only come from someone totally insane.
"Who are you and what do you want with Sherlock and Sally?" John yelled at the mobile that was on a tracking device sitting on Lestrade's desk.
"Why, you should be proud of him. Because of him, there won't be any more murdered lovelies because he won't break so quick. M assured me he'd last at least three weeks. So I tend to have my fun. Though I guess Sally here won't be able to leave my observation this time. My fault for leaving her alone when I took my Dolly to his first tea party. She is a police officer, I suppose. Definitely should have expected it. I could drug her like my Dolly, but you know, maybe it would be more fun if she could watch everything. And feel the pain. Maybe. She…he does look so lovely with those dark curls and big eyes…such fun to dress up! And twice as much to undress…"
The line went dead, leaving the three in the room, Lestrade, John, and Anderson blinking in surprise. John had his phone out already, texting Mycroft. He was out of the country last John knew, but he knew this would bring him back. Right now, they needed Mycroft's uncanny ability to locate people.
John turned to Lestrade. "All right, first off, we have to figure out why a man who is a serial rapist and murderer would suddenly change from young boys to someone Sherlock's age. There is no reason for that that I can fathom, otherwise I would have thought about the case earlier. He mentioned M, my guess is that Moriarty is involved in this, the guy from the pool explosion. Anderson, come on, you've got a brain, you may hate Sherlock, but you should want to find Sally. Get all the files for the three victims. We have to find what links them. Sherlock came up with the profile, and given time, no doubt found the killer, but now, we've got to rescue him before he ends up dead."
John was always impressive when his military side came out in force. Even Lestrade seemed somewhat taken aback by the authority and control he exerted around him as he spoke. In short order, the table was covered with the files of the three boys.
"We know that serial perpetrators pick their victims based on something that connects them. We had assumed it was age, but since he's taken Sherlock, that's not the case. What else is common between Sherlock and the other three victims?" John said, somehow pulling everything he'd ever learned from being with Sherlock to the surface. It was amazing after a couple years with the arrogant bastard how much rubbed off.
Anderson looked up. "All three of the boys lived with a divorced mother, two had remarried, one had not."
John looked up. "Good, what age when the divorces happened?"
Anderson skimmed it again. "Six, seven, and nine. But the freak…er Sherlock's parents weren't divorced."
"Something else then, something Moriarty found out and gave to him…" he muttered, looking over the files.
The door opened and he looked up to see the umbrella wielding Mycroft standing there with two suited men remaining outside. "John, it may be what is not in Sherlock's file that connects him to the case. But unless there is reason, I cannot reveal information. So pray, continue, and I'll inform you if something about the other three children coincides with information about my brother. And no, our parents were not divorced."
Anderson frowned and looked up at Mycroft. "Who the hell are you?"
Lestrade put a hand up. "Phillip Anderson, this is Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's older brother."
"Didn't know the freak had an older brother," he muttered, going back to the files, but his arm was gripped tightly by Lestrade and he looked up to see the warning in his DI's eyes. He took one glance at Mycroft who sat twirling the umbrella and glaring through slitted eyes at Anderson. He glanced back to Lestrade and nodded, not needing to be told that it was not a good idea to put down Sherlock in front of his brother.
"Let's see, it says that there were filed charges against two of the fathers," Lestrade said. "And a restraining order against a different pair of them. All filed by the mothers before they were divorced from the fathers. There is a note about sealed child services records on all three…wait…"
John looked up. "So all three of them had an intervention through child services…and the records are sealed. That could be abuse, neglect…several things. I don't know of any connection to Sherlock there, but who knows what has been scrubbed from his files," John said, looking at Mycroft who was studying a point on the ceiling. John knew he was taking in everything about the room and what they said like a recorder. John was again amazed by the elder Holmes brother. A mind as sharp as Sherlock's but with the charisma of a politician… Not for the first time he wondered which of the brothers was actually more intelligent.
"Anderson, call the caseworkers listed, see if they'll give you any information," John said. Anderson grabbed all three papers and headed out to another office.
"What else have we got?" John asked.
"All three go to the same school…all three have recent accidents during gym…wait. Someone at the school would have best access to students, and if they're all three…" Lestrade began.
John nodded. "Still doesn't connect Sherlock. But if Moriarty is involved, we can assume that somehow he fits the profile of this psycho and Moriarty is the one to tell him so, since he didn't have access to any records. So that means that whatever connects them is something that these three kids told someone about, something not generally known…"
Lestrade frowned. "I noticed this before, all three recently moved here, within the last six months, from different areas. So they would have been adjusting to a new school. That makes them vulnerable, few friends to confide in, fewer teachers they trust to talk to yet."
"So, we know so far that the boys were all injured, all had something they told a trusted source in the school…wait…the nurse's office. What if it was the nurse? We know that it is a male, and that there is a DNA trace we're still running from the dress on the last boy, so how hard is it to find out if there is a male on nursing staff at their school?" John said, sitting up suddenly.
Moments later, they had the information. There was one man on staff at their school in the nurses' offices, and he rotated between grades. He was a short, pudgy man who spoke very little, and often ignored the other staff. His name was Jaffrey Dalton. And according to the head nurse for the school, he was a little odd, but strangely good with the kids. And he missed work every week the day after one of the kidnappings took place, including this day.
Anderson walked in, looking slightly pale. "What is it?" John asked.
"All three boys were taken in by child services after an anonymous report of child sexual assault and molestation. The charges were filed, and shortly after, they were put in sole custody of the mothers, their fathers charged. None were jailed, probation, but all were restricted in their access to children and added to the register. I don't know how we missed that. Fr…er Sherlock said that the perp had been molested, but he didn't mention the kids."
"He may have known already. Sometimes he files information away in his head and waits to see if it is proven true or not, as you know, Greg," he said with a sideways glance to the DI.
The room was quiet and considering this was the only thread they had, John turned an eye to Mycroft who sighed deeply.
"I believe you've found your commonality, then," he said quietly. "You'll find no records; I've purged all the hospital files as well as child services and police reports. What was left after our father paid off everyone he could. Obviously, Moriarty was able to find someone who had been involved when my brother was removed from the home briefly before money and position won out. I'm sure father bought off every individual that knew of the situation, but time loosens lips, especially now that he's dead," Mycroft said clinically.
John blinked. "You're telling me your family bought off everyone so no one would find out your father…" he stammered. "And where were you? I thought you took care of him!"
Mycroft sighed, glancing down. "I was away at Uni. I didn't know until Mummy called me in a panic telling me he was hurt and was afraid to take him to the hospital out of fear of what Father would do. I told her to take him anyway, and of course, he was ten at the time, so child services immediately stepped in. Terribly hard to make up excuses for a boy who's obviously been beaten and… He spent a week in the hospital, and then another week in care of child services before Mummy could convince them she would not return to the mansion with him. Divorce was not possible, in this case. That's when I put him and her up in the flat in London until Father died, I'd already gained enough connections to secure it for them. Then, she returned to the mansion."
Mycroft looked distant. "That's why I wasn't surprised when he went to Uni and turned to drugs. The slightest indication of anyone coming close to him set him off after that. Even you know how he hates to touch anyone or anything without gloves. Or hates to be touched. He never lost the slight hapnaphobia after the assault. You can't imagine how hard it was on Mummy, having a ten year old that she couldn't even pick up. He pulled away, locked it away in his mind palace, along with everything not essential. I tried, desperately, to get him to come out of the shell he built himself. As you've seen, John, it doesn't work too well. He pushes me away, and refuses even to visit Mummy. He says seeing her makes the walls shake, and he won't have those things come back to him. He utterly refuses to come near the mansion, and hasn't been back since the day she took him to the hospital."
A pin could have dropped in the room. Mycroft sighed and stood. "Other than that, the only other connection with your victims is a lack of sexual activity, other than the obvious childhood trauma. Sherlock, since then, has refused all romantic entanglements and become asexual in nature, referring to sexuality as a 'bother' and 'non-essential'. Refusal of touch is in particular one thing that makes intimacy difficult. It became a part of him that he simply didn't touch or allow anyone to touch him. I tried to send him to therapists, dragged him there on occasion, especially around the time of his drug problems, he tended to put them in such a state they called me saying if I ever sent him back, they were going to move from the country. I instead simply kept an eye on him."
John nodded. "And the cutting? When did that start?" Mycroft frowned and looked surprised. "I've seen his arms, Mycroft. We do live in the same flat."
Mycroft nodded. "Yes, after the drugs, it was the cutting. Sorry, I just assumed you knew about it, John. You know more about him than I do these days. Which, unfortunately isn't very hard to do. I'm not sure he's ever really stopped."
John nodded. He wasn't stupid. He knew what an addiction self-harming was. And he wasn't blind to the times Sherlock would disappear for hours into his room or the bathroom for a shower. But without proof, he couldn't push the issue, and he'd never indicated there was anything wrong with his arms, and John had made sure to check now and then, in a hopefully inconspicuous way. But he blinked, feeling entirely stupid all of a sudden.
"I know his arms are scarred but he hasn't had fresh cuts in a long time… Dammit. I never checked his legs or sides," he said softly. Mycroft nodded slowly, sadness coming over his eyes.
Lestrade frowned, "His legs and sides?"
John sighed deeply. "People that cut, often times when they've been 'caught' they appear to stop, to appease everyone. But a lot of times, they move location. From the arms to the legs, from the extremities, to the torso, places harder to be caught cutting. Stress exacerbates the need. My guess is that's how he deals with cases. Especially this one…" he said, thinking. "Actually, come to think of it, just after the first crime scene, I found a bloody washcloth. I asked him, he said he'd cut himself when he was doing one of his experiments. I don't remember seeing any bandages."
"You're telling me that the…er Sherlock actually cares about the victims of his cases?" Anderson asked incredulously.
John sighs. "Of course he does. Why do you think he goes days on end without sleeping or eating just to solve a case? He can't rest until he's done, and says eating slows his thinking down."
"DI Lestrade?" came a voice from the door, a detective looking warily between the two suited men and into the room.
"Yes?" he asked.
"There's an old lady here, Mrs. Hudson? Says she needs to see you or John Watson about Sherlock…" he said softly.
"Show her in," he said, standing up.
"Who's Mrs. Hudson?" Anderson said softly.
"Oh, John!" came the high pitched worry voice of the landlady.
"What are you doing here, Mrs. Hudson?" John said, coming closer. "I told you I'd tell you when we found out where Sherlock went."
"I know, I know, but I found this on the doorstep," she said, handing an envelope to John with his name written in elegant script. There was a folded note attached.
"Dear John, Thought you'd enjoy a little extra reading material, JM," he read out loud. "Dammit, it is from Moriarty."
Mrs. Hudson frowned. "Isn't that the man who blew you and Sherlock up?"
"Yes, yes, it is…" he said, opening the envelope and nearly dropping the contents. "Oh my God," he muttered.
Lestrade frowned. "Wait, is that a copy of all the missing files? How…" he said, taking it.
Mrs. Hudson put a hand to her mouth, lifting up a group of pictures, obviously from when Sherlock was admitted to the hospital, taken by children's service. Mycroft's eyes were wide.
"I had everything destroyed. How could this even be here…" he said, taking the pictures, still amazed at the state his little brother had been in.
"It's another not from him. 'In case you're wondering, some good Samaritan decided to take copies of the files when she found out they were to be shredded the next day. JM.' Well that explains how this exists," John said with a sigh. It looked like the complete file from children's services. "My bet is on whoever his caseworker was. So why'd she give it to Moriarty?" John mused.
"I remember her, Cheryl, I think," Mycroft said. "I remember how she looked when she came into the hospital room the first night. I think if Father had been there, the lady may have gone to jail on her own…"
John made a choked sound. "Wait, if this guy, this Jaffrey, has this…what's it going to do to Sherlock if he actually shows him this stuff?"
Mycroft stood stiffly. "I'm not sure, I'm really not. He refused to talk about it, even then, completely avoidant about it. If I brought it up, he stormed off, you know how he is. Refused for the longest time to acknowledge our father had done anything. Then he just referred to it as the 'bad time', and that was it."
"Mr. Holmes!" came a call from the doorway, and another suit stood there.
"Yes?" he answered.
"We've traced the mobile signal. We're already en route."
"Fine, transmit the information to DI Lestrade, we'll meet the team there," he said, nodding.
They were off, before long standing in front of a large abandoned house surrounded by a large lot. It was outside the city, and a little secluded. As they approached, they saw the abandoned phone by the step, Sherlock's phone, as well as brick with wet blood on one side. They entered, and found a completely empty house. However, they knew they had the right place. The dining room was dressed as the other scenes had been. Fine china tea set, several Victorian style dolls. The living room had the remains of red satin, black lace, and black silk fabrics strewn around a chair. Sitting in the chair was a Victorian doll in a dress made of those exact materials. John swallowed thickly because the hair on the doll was identical to Sherlock's thick, dark curls, but the doll was faceless.
"He doesn't need the doll anymore," he said quietly, looking around the room again.
"Basement," called Anderson.
Lestrade and John went down and they found it dimly lit, and near the two poles in the center were all of Sherlock's clothes as well as several sets of handcuffs. He saw a table where more handcuffs were hooked and frowned, then glanced into a trash bin and looked away.
"What is it?" Lestrade asked and looked. "You've got to be kidding me…"
"His preference is for dolls and boys, Greg, you can't be surprised," Mycroft said, hands at his back and looking into the discarded wax and a couple disposable razors. "Waxing is the most efficient method of removing hair from the human body and the method that takes the longest for the hair to grow back other than laser removal," he added, arching brows at the DI. Beside the table were a couple of wax bowls that were often used at spas. John was sure the heating unit for them would be upstairs.
Anderson flinched back. "Good God, that had to hurt…it…her waxed everything by the looks."
"Good thing Sherlock wasn't too hairy," Lestrade said softly. All, however cringed at the thought of having their lower regions waxed. That just…ow.
"Sir!" came a voice from up the stairs. "There's something else up here!"
"Anderson, get your team, bag all the evidence, I want to know if we can figure anything else out from what he's left behind," Lestrade said, heading up, followed by John and Mycroft.
"Mycroft, you didn't know he'd left already?" John asked as they headed back to the living room.
"There aren't any security cameras or traffic cameras close enough to this place. I wonder if Moriarty warned Sherlock of the fact that I often use them," he said thoughtfully. He sighed. "I'll leave a detail with you, I've got to go back. Let me know if you find anything."
John looked for a moment. "We both know you will already know before I can send you a message," he said dryly. Mycroft merely nodded and left.
"What have you got, Lestrade?" he asked, coming into the room.
Lestrade handed him a note, John cleared his throat and read out loud. "Okay, it says: 'Good job, but too late. I liked this place too. No nosy neighbors in case my pretty is a screamer. He probably is, I can tell, you know. However the nice sergeant messed things up for me, but Doll didn't want me to punish her, so I agreed. Of course, I'll have to punish someone. I guess we'll deal with that later. Don't bother looking at the school, I won't be returning there, or any property connected with my family. So many empty buildings and warehouses in and around London. And yes, I know of Dolly's brother and his penchant for using cameras, so plan on us avoiding them. I've left a little picture to remind you of your friend, though I doubt he remembers having it taken. I might have given him a little too much this time, but he's quite resistant to opiates. Doesn't he look darling! I'll take good care of him, like a good daddy should, and I'll be so much better to him than his real daddy was! See, I've already treated him to keeping his not-friend alive! Would his sad excuse for a daddy have done that? No, I don't think so! I'll be what he needs, and I'll treat him so much better, you'll see. And this time, he won't leave me like the others, he'll stay, and he'll be mine. Because if he tries to leave, he'll end up like my broken dolls. And I really don't want to break him. He's a lovely doll…' Oh, my God, this guy is completely insane."
John picked up the instant photo and swallowed. "Wow, if I didn't know this was Sherlock…I mean, I saw the pictures of what he did to the other boys, but still…"
Sherlock was dressed identically to the doll that sat in the chair. The picture had been taken with him sitting in that same chair instead of the doll. The dress was obviously hand made for him, just like the dress on the doll sitting in the chair now. Red satin over black lace, with a set of petticoats in black, and a pair of ruffled bloomers most likely made from the silk they found scraps of. He'd put a pair of black socks and black Victorian shoes on him. The sleeves were long tiered with lace, to flare down on his wrists. There was a large black bow on the chest, and a high collar with black lace down the front. Sherlock was awake, but he was obviously heavily drugged, his eyes wide and almost black with the pupils completely blown. His jaw was slack and he sagged against the chair he was in. If it weren't for the mop of dark hair on top of his head, John would have no idea he was looking at his flatmate and friend.
Anderson cleared his throat, having just caught what was said as he came upstairs. "What makes someone do this? I mean, really? The guy is a pedophile to start with, kidnaps boys, dresses them like girls, and treats them like dolls?"
"I think we need to find out," Lestrade said. "Pack up everything, dust everything, and then get back to run tests. We need to find them, fast. This man is unstable at best. Having to move locations before he was finished could be extremely detrimental to Sherlock's safety."
Before long, they were back at Lestrade's office, a large file open on the table for one Jaffrey Dalton.
"Okay, he's forty six years old, employed for the last ten years at the school as an assistant nurse, lives above a dollmaker's shop, damned if he wasn't right about that, and sometimes goes down to help with the dolls on his days off. Parents were divorced when he was fifteen, father was an alcoholic, mother was abused by the father. Mother collected Victorian dolls, and dressed him up like them as a young boy." Lestrade arched a brow and looked at the group. "Well, that explains the obsession with the dolls."
"Says here that she had always wanted a girl, and until he started school, everyone who knew them thought he was a girl. When school started, they forbid her dressing him as a girl. At home, though, she continued to sew and dress him up. When he was about ten, father comes home drunk, thinks he's his wife, beats and rapes him badly enough to send him to the hospital. Mother claims he was attacked by a mugger. Repeats again several times until he runs away and gets taken into the foster system. Mother refuses to leave her husband until he's fifteen when father dies of an overdose on prescription narcotics, then Jaffrey returns to live with her. School describes him as gender confused, going between wearing women's and men's clothes, and seemingly not bothered by what others consider 'normal' behavior. Goes on to become a nurse, living his life mostly as a female, until the last couple of years, when he decided to 'give living as a man' a try. Coincidentally, he is around the same age now that his father was when he was assaulted," Lestrade said, heaving a heavy sigh.
John nodded. "Yeah, he's totally insane. Only explanation. So he's basically reenacting what happened to him as a child because it gives him control over what happened to him. He tried with boys the age he was, but found it not satisfying, or they were too fragile since he said he 'broke' them, and decided to find someone who was older and would still submit to him the way he wanted to when he echoed their childhood trauma…"
Both Anderson and Lestrade looked at him. "What?"
"I think you've been hanging around Sherlock too long, it's rubbing off," Lestrade said finally.
John shrugged, "Bound to happen. As long as I don't start insulting everyone, I'm good."
"Okay, but we still have to find them," Anderson said. "And the longer we wait, the more likely he is to just get rid of Sally. We're pretty sure that he's not going to kill Sherlock, especially not if he's as drugged up as we think he is," he said, pointing to the picture and an evidence bag full of emptied syringes. "He's been using fentanyl on him, relatively high dosages. Honestly, if he hadn't been addicted to opiates before, he wouldn't be conscious."
John pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled nosily. "Okay, he's going to be messed up when we get him out. It's bad enough to be on the lookout for a relapse without one being forced on him. I'll end up having to detox him."
"I think you should be less worried about the drugs, John," Lestrade said with a sigh. "If he does what he did to those others…"
"Okay, I missed this entire case, and I barely skimmed the files when you brought them in. So I don't know what the autopsy reports said, and I haven't seen the bodies. What did he do to his 'dolls' before he 'broke' them? And what does that even mean, 'broke' them?"
Lestrade and Anderson exchanged a glance. "Okay, I'll grab the autopsy reports," Anderson said quietly.
From that glance, John gathered a lot of information. It was bad, whatever it was, and it was enough that even Anderson wouldn't wish it on Sherlock. After a minute he returned and John's eyes flicked over them with the scrutiny and interpretation only a doctor could use. And he tried very hard to distance himself and take an objective stance.
"He held them for one week," he mused, looking over the information. "Minimal nutrition during that time, severe malnutrition in all bodies, severe dehydration as well, but considering that dehydration didn't kill any of them or get the point of organ damage, they were given enough hydration to survive, but just barely, same could be said of the food intake. Physical injuries were extensive and severe, indicating prolonged abuse and possible torture over a week long period of capture."
John stopped, arching a brow. "Bodies when recovered were clean, wounds dressed and clothes arranged neatly. Underneath, multiple contusions of various stages of healing, lacerations also in various stages of healing and scabbing, all bandaged including salves when appropriate. Two victims had broken wrists, one had a broken wrist and ankle, and all had severe lacerations around wrists and ankles, most likely from restraints. Metal fragments indicate handcuffs or shackles of some sort. Signs of recent severe sexual trauma, leading to internal hemorrhaging. Indicates that if they had not been poisoned, they would have bled out eventually, within hours with the youngest victim, within a day or so with the oldest."
He looked up. "So basically, he 'broke' them, knew they were going to die from what he'd done to them, so he poisoned them and left them to find another victim. So what he means that Sherlock won't break…oh God. That's why the first victim was the youngest, and the last was the oldest. He found out he couldn't be as rough as he wanted with the younger ones, so he moved up in age, thinking they'd be stronger and able to handle it. And then Moriarty comes along…I think I might be sick." John set the files down and turned away, swallowing bile that started to rise in his throat.
Lestrade himself looked a bit green as he stared at the floor. "So, you see why I want to find him quickly, because over the course of the week…"
John nodded, tapping the three manila files. "I understand. Even if we find him today, this bastard has already begun. We might be too late as it is. He escalates as time goes on. He starts out 'playing nice' but then starts losing control. That's why it takes a whole week. Then he feels remorse, so he cleans the bodies, dresses the wounds and redresses them in their clothes he made for them, leaving them to be found like that, and rather than letting them bleed out, he poisons them when he realizes that he's 'broken' them. In some weird, twisted way, he really does care about them."
"What is the thing with that note, being a better daddy? I don't get that, he doesn't know Sherlock's father. And he's barely ten years older than Sherlock anyway…" Anderson mused, looking up at John from his seat at the desk.
John closed his eyes and tried to distance himself, tried to forget that it was Sherlock. "Look, I'm bullocks at what Sherlock does when it comes to distancing himself," he said. "I wish I knew how he did it, pull himself back and pretend he's completely clinical and remove all emotion from himself during a case, oh God how do I wish I knew how to do that."
Anderson fixed him with a frown. "What do you mean by that?"
John swallowed. He wasn't sure how to explain it. "He…does this thing…where he steps back, leaves everything but his logical mind behind, shuts it down, so he can go into a crime scene with a clear mind, emotionless, distant. It makes it easier for him to take in the facts and understand them if there is no emotional component, so he discards it. It makes him better at what he does, and for the life of me, I'll never get how he does it…"
Anderson just stared. "You mean he's not always like that?"
John arched a brow at him. "You don't know him outside of crime scenes at cases, Anderson, you really need to stop acting like you do. You've never seen him go completely insane on someone that hurt Ms. Hudson. You've never seen that fierce look in his eyes when he thinks someone he knows is going to get hurt. You don't know how confused and amazed he is about the world around him. Bloody brilliant, and bloody annoying at the same time, but he tries. He really does try. He just has a hard time with emotion, of course, now I understand why he locks them away…" he said thoughtfully.
John sighed and went for coffee and returned, stirring the awful tasting stuff with the silly little straw like stirring stick. "Okay," he said. "I'm going to do what I can. We know where he lived, what did you find there?"
"Definitely got the right guy. Pretty sure he took the rest to his home. Found a load of different opiates, syringes, antibiotics, all sorts of medical supplies. Found the clothes belonging to each one of the victims in a box with numbers one through three written on them. Found this, too," Anderson said as a woman came in and handed him an evidence box. He pulled out a manila folder and handed it to John.
Inside was a file on Sherlock. It was printouts from the blog, newspaper articles, pictures, and there were notes, written by Jaffrey. Bone structure ideal. Skin color porcelain-like already. Research. Then there was a letter in the back from Moriarty, labeled as M.
"Moriarty sent him a letter. He kept it in this file. 'Dear Mr. Dalton, I've seen your work and would like to offer my services as a consulting criminal in this field. It seems you are on the search in the last couple weeks for the ideal playmate but keep coming up short. Might I offer a suggesting of finding someone more durable? I understand you want someone unsoiled, but you simply must stop going to those that break so easily. I know of someone ideal to your preferences. Find attached a full file of his history, and I already noticed you took interest in him. As luck would have it, he is perfectly suited to your unique needs. Yours, M.' Dammit!" John rubbed his head, feeling another headache.
Anderson pulled out a couple other files and let the others look them over. All the evidence in the box had been photocopied and scanned so that it could be cataloged in the system. John thumbed through similarly put together files for the other three boys. Again, there were notes scribbled around the pictures, comments on skin, bone structure, age… He sighed. Lastly, Moriarty handed John a journal. He knitted his brows, unsure if he wanted to look.
"Have you?" he asked Anderson.
"The pages were scanned in for evidence, but I haven't read them yet," he said.
The first of the pages were somewhat normal. He was obviously confused about his gender identity, writing at length about his mother and dressing him in girls' clothes, then the reaction at school. Something seemed to have triggered the struggle. Ah, there it was, he was attracted to a woman. That was what led him to start dressing and living as a man again. So what had…
"Oh, now it makes sense…" John said, getting Lestrade and Anderson to look toward him. "Listen. Dated three and a half weeks ago. 'I think my world has ended. Really this could not have been more disastrous. Today, I approached Marietta. I told her I thought she was beautiful, and I would like to take her out for coffee and get to know her. She looked at me and for a moment I thought she was going to smile, but she didn't, she laughed. Why did she laugh? I'd been sincere, and presented myself as a man for the last three months just for her sake, knowing that she was interested in men. Otherwise I would have presented myself as a woman, which I am far more comfortable as. But no, she laughed. Telling me that I was far too old for her, when she is in her mid-thirties herself. And then she said it. Same words, echoing in my brain. Too bad you're not a girl. I don't date men, I thought you knew. Her laughter died off and I realized she was laughing because she thought I knew she was a lesbian. I CHANGED FOR HER. AND I DIDN'T HAVE TO.' Next entry is a few days later. 'Oh, I saw him and I looked at my favorite doll, the one with the short blond bob, and I thought, wouldn't that look nice on him. So tonight, I'll slip into his bedroom and steal him away from his family. His family doesn't really love him, not like I can. I can help him, teach him to be the prettiest thing, just like mom did. And I'll be a good daddy.' A week more. 'I can't be angry, it was my fault, what is wrong with me? I need someone else, and I've found him. He's sweet, and he looks just like that lovely red haired doll. He'll look good in green. This time I'll be more careful.' Again, a week. 'This is so tedious! I can't believe I broke another one, and I loved him so much more than those terrible people he lived with. No, no, this time, I have an older toy in mind. He came in yesterday, and he was crying about being teased, and he told me everything I needed to know. Tonight, yes, tonight.'" John stopped.
"Okay, there's a last one, 'What is wrong with me? I can't believe it…but I remembered what M sent me, and I know what to do. Yes, yes, he's right. So pretty. And won't break easily. No, not easily at all, but I suppose now I enjoy breaking them, don't I? Yes, I left the body, pretty as he could be, and now I'll go back and wait. He's always with that other man, the military one. M says they're friends. I'll take them both. I don't care about the other. But with one so much older, I need some sort of safety net. I have to make him behave. And if this friend of his is what I can use, I will do it. I won't tell him, of course, that he'll never leave alive. I'll use his freedom, and then he'll be so much more pliable, doing what I ask without a fight, and if he doesn't fight, I won't have to break him so fast. I've stocked up on blood though, this time, just in case. I have a whole icebox full of it in O type. That and fentanyl. M warned me he used opiates, so I'll take the strongest with me. I can't stay here, I know that. So it will be off to parts unknown. Good thing I know plenty dark places to hide. M said his brother uses CC cameras in the city. Can I do what Mum couldn't do? Can I make him into the perfect doll? I think I might be able to this time. Mum tried, but obviously failed with me. I couldn't be her little doll forever. Now, now I can try. And be a better daddy than he had, I've seen how terrible he was. I'll be gentle and loving, and he'll stay as my doll, and then I'll kill his friend, and he'll have to stay because it will make him alone. And if he doesn't, I'll kill him and find another to take his place. But I hope not, he is such a pretty one.'" John blinked and looked up. Everyone was staring now.
Lestrade broke the silence first. "Okay, if there was any doubt this fucker wasn't stark raving mad before, I think that just blew it out of the water. And good deductions there, John, you did figure part of that out before Anderson brought in the journal. Now, we have a consulting detective to find…"
Lestrade strode out into the front, clapping his hands to get attention.
"Alright, I want everyone not otherwise occupied on priority work to listen up. You're all familiar with Sherlock Holmes. Sergeant Donovan and Sherlock have been kidnapped by what we can only describe as a madman. His target was Sherlock, and he's probably using Sally as leverage on him to keep him from fighting back against him. His name is Jaffrey Dalton, and he's a nurse for a local school. He has raped, beaten and murdered three boys in three weeks. We need to locate Sally and Sherlock as soon as possible. He is highly unstable, and it is unknown how long he will allow them to live. He is to be considered armed and dangerous.
"Our first priority is to get Sherlock and Sally back alive, no matter how. He is avoiding cameras as we have access to security and traffic cams. His last known location was outside London proper. Given the timeframe between contact with the sergeant and now, we are looking at a time of three hours. Confine searches to abandoned buildings within three hours travel of their location. Stay in radio contact at all times. Do not engage unless you have a clear shot. I'm authorizing arms on this mission," Lestrade said. "Any questions? No, then go!"
