Johnny Blue-Eyes
Chapter 4: Samples on Tuesday
Greg Lestrade was frustrated, to put it mildly. He had sent Sherlock no less than eleven texts in the past five days, asking him to come in, or suggesting they meet somewhere, with no response. He had called him, but had gotten no answer. He had even driven out to Baker Street and lurked outside for nearly an hour, waiting for Sherlock to come home, to no avail. It worried him that Sherlock was avoiding him: it made him wonder if perhaps Donovan was right. It wasn't like Sherlock to stay away when he was involved in a case.
He knew Donovan was getting impatient (when was she not, Lestrade wondered). On Monday morning, she came into Lestrade's office and sat her hip on his desk with her arms folded until he looked up from the crime scene photos he had been studying and raised his eyebrows at her.
"Did he get back to you yet?"
"No. Did you watch the rest of those videos yet?"
"Just finished number seventeen. Only skimming - can't watch the whole thing."
"Only fifteen more to go then. Off you pop."
Donovan groaned and pushed her hand through her hair. "I can't watch any more of them, Boss. It's the same thing over and over. I honestly haven't slept more than an hour a night for the past five nights. And to think this bastard is still out there. . ."
"We don't know that. He could have been arrested for something else. He could even be dead. The videos end at 1992, right?"
Donovan shook her head. "He's not dead. Our burglar found the videos at his flat, remember? He's still out there. Signing more little boys up for violin lessons."
Lestrade shuddered at that thought. Another innocent kid walking into that trap, thinking he's going to learn to play the violin, and instead getting an education of a different sort.
"We've got to get Sherlock in here and make him tell the truth."
"We don't have any evidence he wasn't telling the truth, Donovan. You don't know that's him. True, it sort of looks like him, but that doesn't mean anything."
"But the eyes! Heterochromia!"
"Yes, that affects one in 6,000 people. It's not conclusive."
"If he won't come in, maybe we can get a baby picture from somewhere else."
"I'm not calling his mum!"
"Doesn't he have a brother? Mike or something?"
"Mycroft," Lestrade corrected warily.
"Yeah, that's it. What's wrong with their parents anyway? Who names their kid Mycroft?"
"The same people who name their other son Sherlock, apparently."
Donovan snorted. "Yeah, well, maybe Mycroft has a baby photo of Sherlock."
"Possibly."
"You could call him and ask," she said hopefully. At the doubtful expression on Lestrade's face, she continued, "Please? For me? Help me catch this bastard?"
"I'll think about it," he muttered.
"Thank you! That's all I ask." Donovan pushed off his desk and headed toward the door. "Now I'm off to watch video number eighteen. Should be riveting." And then she was out the door.
Lestrade dropped the photo of the McClinchy's blood-stained carpet down onto his desk and looked at his phone thoughtfully. As terrifying as it was to contemplate calling Mycroft Holmes, it might be worth it if it led to a break in this case. And he might finally be able to clear the cold case of Johnny Blue-Eyes at the same time. The possibility was too tempting to deny. He pushed the photos out of the way and picked up the phone.
Molly Hooper paused in her dictation of the autopsy report for Howard Belanger (poor old chap—suffering from advanced lung cancer but ended up choking to death on a chicken bone) and glanced at the clock. Already gone 15:00 and no sign yet of Sherlock. She really didn't want to call John on him, but if he didn't get in there before her shift ended today, she would have no choice. Anxiously chewing her lip, she picked up her phone and texted him.
It's Tuesday. It took almost ten minutes for him to respond, which she knew meant he had no intention of coming in.
So?
Sample time.
I don't want to.
If you don't, I'll call John.
This is tiresome.
Just come in and give me a sample and you can be done with it.
Fine. This is blackmail.
Sherlock brought in the urine sample in a used pickle jar. At Molly's grimace, he said sulkily, "I cleaned it out first."
She carried the jar gingerly over to the lab station and gathered her supplies, whilst Sherlock stood at the end of the counter and played with his phone. After she had finished the tests, she stared at the results with a frown. That couldn't be right. So she ran the tests three more times just to be sure. Statins? That didn't make any sense. Unless. . .
With an exasperated huff, she grabbed a clean sample jar and strode down to Sherlock, who was leaning against the counter nonchalantly studying his fingernails now.
"Try again, mate."
He cocked a lazy eyebrow at her. "I beg your pardon?"
"Sherlock, you shouldn't buy samples from the geriatric population."
He snorted and looked away, but said nothing, so she held out the sealed container. "Give me another sample, your own this time."
When Sherlock continued to stare at the far wall with a scowl on his face, Molly prodded, "Come on, do I have to follow you into the toilets?"
"No," he grunted. He snatched the container out of her hand and stomped away toward the toilets. Molly watched him go, frowning. His pupils didn't look contracted, and he didn't appear to be high, but she knew he was a master at hiding it. He had fooled her before, more than once. In fact, for nearly the first year of their acquaintance, he had been high as a kite almost every day, and she had never suspected until Greg Lestrade (sergeant at the time, with hair more pepper than salt) had marched into the morgue one day and hauled him out by his ear.
By the time he came back with the new sample, still warm, she had cleaned up from the previous attempt and was ready to run the tests again. This time when she read the results her frown turned into an expression of concern. Eszopiclone, Trazodone, and Estazolam? Together? Any one of those sleep medications could be dangerous for a recovering drug addict, but all three at the same time could lead to some serious side effects. She wondered where he had even gotten them, as no ethical doctor would prescribe all three to the same patient. She was certain John would never have done.
Molly picked up her list of results and went over to Sherlock, who was leaning on the countertop with a scowl still fixed on his face. When she stepped up in front of him, he flinched noticeably. Molly sighed.
"I'm not going to hit you."
"You say that. . ."
She folded her arms across her stomach. "Better?"
He shrugged and stared over her shoulder again, refusing to meet her eye. She just watched him for a moment. His coat was looking a bit rumpled, she noticed now, and he had dark half-moons under his eyes. He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.
"What?!"
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
She raised her eyebrows at him and waved the paper with the test results.
"Oh, that. I needed to sleep. I'm working on a difficult case and I needed a break."
"Try some melatonin. I'm positive your doctor didn't prescribe you three sleep medications, especially since your doctor is John and he called me yesterday asking if I'd seen you lately."
Sherlock picked at his cuticle and didn't respond, so she continued. "You shouldn't mix these. It could lead to life-threatening side effects, not to mention dependence."
"It was only temporary. You don't understand."
"Help me understand."
"No."
Molly dropped the paper onto the counter and pulled her mobile out of the pocket of her lab coat.
"What are you doing?"
"Calling John."
"Why?" Sherlock demanded as she started to dial. "I'm clean. I'm not using."
"He'll want to know."
"It's not his business. He said to tell him only if I'm using, which I'm not!"
Molly pressed her lips together and looked down at her phone, her finger hovering over the "send" button. Finally she sighed. "Fine." She punched the home button instead and slipped the phone back into her pocket. "But you've got to promise me you won't—" as she was speaking, Sherlock scooted off the counter and headed toward the door—"mix these anymore."
"I promise. Scout's honor," he called back without turning around. And then he was out the door, leaving Molly standing with her hand in her pocket, wondering how he always managed to catch her wrong-footed.
At Donovan's urging, Lestrade spent the better part of three days sending Sherlock pointless text messages, although he grumbled under his breath that Donovan could bloody well do it herself.
"I could hear that, you know," she remarked from her spot by his door, where she had been lurking in hopes of a reply.
"Maybe I meant you to."
"He'd never respond to me, you know it."
"He hasn't responded to me either."
At that moment, Lestrade's mobile gave off an annoying foghorn sound, which made Donovan smirk and Lestrade grimace as if in pain. Sometime within the last month, Sherlock had changed the text alert on Lestrade's phone to that awful noise, and Lestrade hadn't been able to figure out how to change it back.
Lestrade reached for the phone, but Donovan was quicker. "I've found your murderer, if you still care," she read aloud, and then handed the phone to him. "There's a photo."
Lestrade glared at the screen, which held a photo of a heavy-set Caucasian man, mid-fifties, with a shaved head and crooked nose.
Who is that? he texted back.
Miroslav Popovic. Ukrainian hitman. Hired by the wife but ended up doing a side job for a different employer.
Moriarty?
No. He's dead, remember? Edward Goldwater.
Now that was a name that hadn't even shown up on Lestrade's radar yet. Great, come on in and we'll talk about it.
I'm far too busy to come in. Doing your job, you know. Lestrade heard a snort by his ear and looked up to discover that Donovan was reading over his shoulder. He gave her a helpless shrug. She rolled her eyes at him and plucked the phone from his hand. Holding it so he could see the screen, she typed, Sherlock, come in and talk to us. Please.
You don't need me. Go on and arrest him. Do your job for once.
"I'm telling you, you're barking up the wrong tree. It's not him."
"Then why is he reluctant to come in? You know full well that if he had nothing to hide he'd be all over the chance to 'help' you catch this fellow."
"Ha! He's probably out chasing him down himself right now."
"Boss—" Whatever Donovan was about to say was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door. Lestrade could make out the silhouette of Constable Fadil through the glass.
"Come on in, Constable," he called loud enough for Fadil to hear him. The door opened partway and Fadil stuck his head in.
"Were you waiting for some fingerprint results, Sergeant?" He held out a piece of paper, which Donovan took.
"Oh, yeah. Thanks. Took 'em long enough. Oh, and Abdul, did you get anything on those school uniforms?"
"Thirty-seven primary schools in London currently use green blazers or jumpers with a gold insignia. If we're talking thirty years ago, it's going to take some legwork to figure out."
"Right. Keep on it."
"Yes, ma'am," he said and withdrew. Lestrade waited impatiently while Donovan silently scanned the paper in her hand.
"Well?" he finally prompted.
"No prints on the tapes. One print on the underside of the packing tape on the box."
"Who is it? Someone we know?"
"Oh, yeah, he's known to us. Andrew Gilbert. Remember him? You arrested him twice for housebreaking in 2011.
"Oh, right, I remember him. Did a stretch in Feltham, didn't he?"
Donovan consulted the document in her hand. "Six months in 2008. Hasn't been arrested since."
I haven't heard from him in a while. How old is he now?"
"Looks like. . .24."
"Didn't we use him as a C.I. on a few cases?
"Yeah, but that was almost six years ago. I haven't heard from him since. Have you?"
"Nope. Looks like he's up to his old tricks. Go pick him up. Maybe he'll have incentive to cooperate so he can stay out of adult prison. Take Fadil with you."
"Yes, sir." Donovan said on her way out. As soon as she was gone, Lestrade picked up his phone and scrolled up to the photo of the man Sherlock said was their murderer. The surveillance photo looked to have been taken at Heathrow, judging by the background. Date-stamp said it had been taken over three weeks ago, only two days before the McClinchys turned up dead. So where was he now?
On Wednesday evening, 221 Baker Street was locked up tight, so John scrunched down in the driver's seat of Mary's car and pulled his cap low over his face. As if that would keep Sherlock from recognizing him. He knew he hadn't a prayer of that. His only hope was to move quickly as soon as Sherlock came around the corner, and try to catch him before he could get away. He wasn't quite sure if Sherlock was avoiding him, but based on the number of unreturned texts and phone messages John had sent him, he was beginning to wonder if that was the case. Maybe Sherlock thought he was still upset about the thing with the coffee shop? No, more likely Sherlock was so absorbed in his case that he had forgotten that John even existed.
John's phone buzzed insistently in his pocket, two short buzzes and one long, so it was Mary calling. Probably wondering what was taking him so long and whether she and Alice should go ahead and eat supper without him.
"Hey, Mary, what's up?"
"Any sign of His Nibs?" Mary said in lieu of a greeting.
"Nope, none yet. No Mrs. Hudson either, so I'm sitting in the car."
"You know he'll recognize the car and probably tell the cabbie to keep driving."
"Yeah, well, it's raining. I don't really fancy sitting in the rain."
"Oh, come on. It's barely October. How cold can it be?
"This is London," he responded flatly.
"Point taken. How much longer are you planning to continue the stakeout?"
"Just go ahead and eat supper. I'm going to wait here a bit longer.
"John, I'm sure he's fine, really."
"Mrs. Hudson says he's been making so much noise in the night he's been waking her up."
"When does he not?"
"And he hasn't been answering my texts. Or anyone else's."
"That's just Sherlock being Sherlock."
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Don't make excuses for him like he's a child."
"Well, he sort of is."
"No, he's a grown man. If I behaved like that, I'd expect someone to take me to task for it. Why should we do differently for him?"
Mary sighed. "All right. Let me know if you need any help. I can manage him."
"Oh, I know you can."
"See you later on?"
"Yeah, I shouldn't be late. Bye."
John leaned back in the seat with his phone in his hand. He was feeling increasingly annoyed that Sherlock hadn't been answering his texts or calls. Oh, he knew Sherlock wasn't lying in the flat dead or anything. Mrs. Hudson claimed to have seen and certainly heard him, and Molly said he had come in the day before for his weekly Tuesday drugs test, so he was definitely alive. This was just his usual forgetting that the rest of the world existed when he was immersed in a case, and John was getting bloody tired of it.
His phone buzzed in his hand, just once, and he looked down to see a text from Mary, with a picture of Alice standing at the coffee table, hanging on for dear life. She did it herself! the text read. John didn't have the heart to tell her that Alice had done that two days previous as well, while Mary was at work.
Author's note: Thanks for reading! The action will be picking up in the next couple of chapters.