Johnny Blue-Eyes

Chapter 5 : A picture of me when I was younger

Sherlock spotted Mary's car as soon as the cab turned the corner onto Baker Street. He couldn't tell immediately through the fogged windows who was sitting in the driver's seat, but he was sure it was John, come to harass him in person for not answering his phone. He leaned forward and told the cabbie that he had changed his mind and to keep driving and even hinted that there would be a big tip in it for him. As they passed Mary's car, Sherlock slouched in the seat and kept his head down, but he could see that he needn't have bothered, because John was looking down at his phone with a funny little smile on his face.

Sherlock was almost positive Molly had told him about the results of his latest drugs test, even though he had been quite convincing in his arguments otherwise. He didn't want to talk to John about his "drugs problem"—not that there was a problem, but he was sure that was what John would turn it into. It wasn't a drugs problem; it was a sleeping problem. He just needed to get some rest, that was all. It wasn't his fault that he kept waking up in the middle of the night in a different position to the one he went to sleep in (and even occasionally on the floor, granted). He put it down to stress. Stress that came from trying to protect the people he cared about. John. Mary. Alice. Molly. Graham—er, Grant Lestrade. He had never had this problem before, when he didn't care about anyone. So if anyone was at fault, it was that lot, not him. And it also wasn't his fault that one sleeping pill alone didn't work for him, so he had to mix them.

"Sir, where to?" asked the cabbie, loudly enough to make Sherlock realize that he had probably asked the question several times.

"Oh, erm. . . "Sherlock considered. He had planned to go home and go through security camera footage looking for Miroslav Popovic's distinctive prizefighter's nose, but John's presence had put paid to that idea. He needed a bolthole, preferably one with wi-fi and a kettle. And that meant Molly's flat. Cozy, comfortable, even with the presence of a psychotic cat. Molly's place would do nicely.

He gave the cabbie Molly's address and sat back to consider what password Molly was probably using on her laptop now. He hoped it wasn't still MollyHolmes, because that was more than a bit creepy.

Sally Donovan's attempted interview with burglar Andrew Gilbert went exactly nowhere. He kept claiming that he would tell her where he got the videos if only he could remember. The problem was, she actually believed him, because who would tell the police that they had broken into so many houses they couldn't remember them all, unless it were true? The guy was as cocky and annoying as she remembered, but also a bit pathetic and incredibly naive. She sent him off to lock-up with a sigh and a request to please let her know immediately if he remembered anything. At least she knew where to find him. And since their search of his flat had turned up a load of stolen goods and several poorly secured mayonnaise jars full of homemade black powder, it looked like he would be staying put in lock-up for a while.

After the interview she sat at her desk wondering where the hell Constable Fadil had gone and if she could convince him to write up the arrest report. She put her feet up on her desk and flipped through the stack of screenshots and notes for at least the dozenth time. Picture one: aged about eight, with neatly combed sandy hair and pointy nose dotted with freckles. Picture two: a gangly blond boy about ten, with an overbite. Picture three: straight dark hair and brown eyes. Picture four: a slim, sad-eyed boy of about seven, with short ginger hair that stuck up from a cowlick in front. Picture five: Johnny Blue-eyes (obviously Sherlock, despite his protestations), with wild dark curls and cupid's-bow lips. Picture six: crewcut and glasses . . . Thirty-two little boys with a secret hidden behind locked doors, and now she was holding the key. The key that would expose them to the world. It was a big responsibility, the weight of which felt like it was about to crush her. And her biggest concern right now was making sure she didn't expose these victims before she had her perp in the dock.

After Donovan had finished skimming the videos, she had spent hours going through old booking photos, looking for a jawline and mouth that matched her mystery perp, with no luck. As far as she could tell, this man had never been arrested for anything. No fingerprints, no DNA, no ID, no address, so how were they going to identify him?

The sharp ringing of the phone on her desk startled Donovan, and she sat up and snatched the handset off the hook.

"D.S. Donovan."

"Sergeant Donovan, how are you this evening?" Woman's voice, youngish, middle-class accent, overly sincere tone. The question instantly put Donovan on edge. Only one type of person greeted you like that, and there was no one in that class of people that she wanted to talk to.

"Fine. Who's this?"

"My name is Kitty Riley, and I'm a reporter for the Daily Mail—"

"I know exactly who you are, Ms. Riley, and you no longer work for the Mail. In fact, you've been unemployed for nearly the past three years."

"I'm doing a freelance job for the Mail. I'm hoping you might be able to confirm some details for me."

"I'm not giving you any information about an open investigation."

"Oh, I'm not asking for information, Sergeant. I'm just giving you a chance to clarify some details before I run my story."

"What story?"

"I heard you received some videotapes—"

Dammit! How did she get that information?! Donovan forced herself to reply calmly. "Who told you that?"

"Unfortunately I can't reveal my source. . ."

"Bullshit."

"Is that your comment, then, Sergeant? Is that one word or two?"

Shit! Donovan tried again. "Ms. Riley, do not run this story yet. The victims deserve privacy."

"Victims? Plural? So is that confirmation? What was the average age of the boys?"

"I'm not confirming anything. Do not run this story."

"Luckily for me the police don't control the press, Sergeant Donovan. I'll just put you down as 'no comment', then, shall I?"

Donovan bit back the angry words that sprang to her lips, words that would only make it worse, and hung up the phone. Where could Riley have gotten her information? The only ones who knew about this case were herself, Lestrade, that bloke from Counter-Terrorism (and he only knew there were videotapes, not what was on them), and. . . DAMMIT! She was going to kill that little weasel.

Molly stumbled in the door of her flat, bleary-eyed and laden down with shopping, at half-seven at night, and gave a small shriek when she discovered Sherlock Holmes on her sofa, wearing her snuggie backwards like a dressing gown, with her laptop on his lap.

"What are you doing here?" she asked once she had recovered her breath.

Sherlock didn't look up from the laptop screen. "You said I could use your place," he grumbled.

"That was while you were playing dead." She shoved Toby out of the way with her toe and kicked the door shut. "Why don't you go home?" she asked on the way to the kitchen. She tried to get a glimpse of what he was doing on her laptop, but the screen was at the wrong angle.

"I'd rather stay here."

"Why? Who are you hiding from? What have you done?"

"Whom."

"What?" she called from the kitchen. Setting the bags on the counter, she started rummaging through them for the ingredients for dinner.

"It's 'whom', not 'who'. 'From whom are you hiding?' And the answers are no one and nothing. Just didn't feel like going home. Did you tell John about the test results?"

"What test results?"

She could hear his exasperated huff from the sitting room. "From yesterday. You promised you wouldn't call him."

"I didn't—well, not exactly. I may have texted him that I was a bit worried about you. . ."

"There's no need to worry."

Molly pulled out the wok and started it heating up for the chicken. "You say that, but I don't think it's true."

"You worry too much. You all worry too much."

"Yes, well, it's our cross to bear, I suppose." Sesame oil and garlic went into the wok, followed by cut-up chicken.

"What is that supposed to mean?" came Sherlock's voice from directly behind her, startling her.

"Good heavens. Never mind. Stop scaring me like that."

"That smells good." Sherlock sat at the table with the blanket pulled tightly around him, tapping away at her laptop. It was clear he expected her to feed him dinner. Of course, she would do it. She didn't even mind making dinner for him. It was just the fact that he expected she would, without him even asking her, that made her feel so. . . taken advantage of. It was annoying. But she didn't say anything. She just kept adding ingredients to the stir-fry with her back to him.

"Your password is SherlocksLips."

Molly tried, and half-way succeeded, to suppress a giggle. She was glad her back was to him so he couldn't see the grin that was spreading across her face.

"What?" he demanded at the little choking sound she had made.

"Did it ever occur to you that I'm doing that on purpose?"

"Whatever for?"

"To make you uncomfortable."

"Why would you want me to be uncomfortable?"

"You're hacking into my laptop! You SHOULD be uncomfortable!

He gave an annoyed hrumph, but when she turned her head partway to glance at him, she saw a little half-grin on his face that matched her own.

After dinner, Sherlock disappeared into Molly's bedroom with her laptop, leaving his plate, fork, and cup on the table. She stared at the dishes for a moment before deciding to leave them where they were. He made the mess; why shouldn't he clean it up?

After she washed up her dishes and put the leftovers away, she went to her bedroom door and knocked on the closed door. No answer. Could he be asleep?

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Are you staying the night?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Ok. I need. . ."

"WHAT?"

She had been about to say "my pyjamas," but changed her mind at his tone. She could sleep in the extra pyjama bottoms she kept in the spare bedroom for him (and that she had told Tom belonged to her brother when he had found them and asked).

"Never mind. Sleep tight."

There was no response to that, so she went back to the sitting room and curled up on the sofa with her book. Halfway through the first chapter, a buzzing sound interrupted her reading. It was Sherlock's phone, which was laying face-down on the coffee table. She picked it up and turned it over.

Text Alert: Lestrade
Sherlock, you're not in trouble. Please come in and we'll just. . .

Her sense of guilt overwhelmed her at that point and she quickly set the phone face down on the coffee table. A minute later it buzzed again and she impulsively picked it up.

Text Alert: John
Could you phone me please? We need to. . .

She dropped the phone like it was hot. It really was a bit not good to read someone else's text messages.

D.I. Lestrade was on his way out the door when a courier arrived at NSY looking for him. He heard the man asking at the desk for "Gregory Lestrade", and considered slipping out the back way unseen. Whatever it was, it could wait until tomorrow. He was exhausted and starving, and apparently he had some CCTV photos related to his homicide case to go through at home, because Sherlock had been emailing them to him at the rate of at least one per minute for the past hour.

Before he could put legs to his plan, the receptionist pointed his way, and the courier looked up and spotted him. Then they were both standing waiting for him to come over, and it wouldn't look right for him to just take off running, now would it?

He took the package, a stiff A-4 sized envelope, and signed the man's iPad awkwardly with his finger. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned pen and paper?

The envelope had his name written on the front in neat handwriting, and "From the desk of Mycroft Holmes" printed in the upper left corner. Why would Mycroft Holmes. . . ? Ah, yes, the photo that Donovan asked him to request on Monday. He pulled out his phone and texted her. Got something for you from Holmes the Elder.

Lestrade was about to just drop the envelope onto Donovan's desk and head out, when she came around the corner with Constable Fadil right behind. She looked flustered and out of sorts, and Fadil had an embarrassed expression on his face. What was that about?

As they approached her desk, Donovan said to Fadil, "We'll talk about this later."

"But Sergeant—"

"Later. Dismissed."

"Yes, Ma'am." He peeled off and headed for his desk without looking back, and Donovan turned to Lestrade.

"Photo came?" she asked quietly, with narrowed eyes still following Fadil's retreating form.

Lestrade held up the envelope. "Of course he had it delivered just when I was walking out the door."

"Yeah, I'm sure he did it just to inconvenience you. Let's see." Donovan took the envelope, scooped up a stack of file folders off her desk, and led the way toward Lestrade's office.

"Do I have to go back into my office? I just left there."

"The walls have ears."

While Lestrade closed the door, Donovan dropped her file folders onto his desk and slit open the flap of the envelope with her finger. She pulled out a piece of paper first, looked at it, and handed it to Lestrade. It was an expensive piece of stationery, with the initials MJH across the top, and the words "As requested. MH" written in smooth fountain pen on it.

When he looked up, he saw that Donovan had pulled out the photo and was staring at it with a perplexed expression on her face. "What? Not him?" he asked.

"It's not that. . ." She turned the photo around so he could see it. The photo was of two boys against a blue background: one clearly Sherlock, about age three, with a head full of wild black curls. He was half-off the end of a bench, red-faced, mouth open, struggling to get away from the older boy, apparently Mycroft, who was holding him by the shoulders trying to keep him in his seat. Mycroft's hair was perfectly coiffed, his suit had obviously been pressed but was now rumpled from his fight to keep his little brother in check, and he had a tight smile painted on his face. Lestrade smirked at the sight. It was just so. . . them. It was like their bodies had gotten bigger but they had never actually grown up.

"That's Johnny Blue-Eyes, you know it is," Donovan said.

Lestrade had to admit that she was right. The hair, the eyes, the lips—Even after ten years he still had that image burned into his mind. He nodded reluctantly and was about to confirm it out loud when Donovan pointed to the other boy in the photo.

"Who's this kid?"

Lestrade's eyebrows went up in surprise. "That's Mycroft, I suppose. Looks like him."

"That's the kid in the first video."

"What?!"

"Yeah. Look here." She opened her top file folder, took out a screenshot and held it up next to the photo of Sherlock and Mycroft. "See? Look at that nose. That's him, Boss."

It was obvious. Not just the nose—it was the freckles, the sandy-brown hair, the shape of the eyes. The boy in the screenshot was clearly Mycroft Holmes. Lestrade let out a noisy breath and scrubbed at his bristly chin.

"Now what do we do?" he said, shaking his head. "Call Mycroft Holmes in here and ask him to show us where on the doll the bad man touched him?"

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