Johnny Blue-Eyes

Chapter 9: The Beauty of the Mind Palace

Sherlock woke up, sweaty and disoriented, on the floor. He hadn't been on the floor when he went to sleep, but that was where he woke up, which meant that he had had another nightmare, and this time he remembered it. Not all of it, just enough to turn his stomach. Clammy hands touching him all over, hurting him. A voice whispers in his ear, words that he can't quite catch. Yellow and green flowers. A bear in a beefeater's uniform, with one big, staring eye. Wet lips against his neck, then teeth graze the skin. Stop stop STOP!

Sherlock could feel his breathing coming faster, too fast, but he couldn't slow it down. Music, a sad tune he can't quite recall, a cheap violin in his hands, can't quite reach the E string. Cool hands at his waist turn him around. He tries to see the face, but he can't manage it. When he struggles to lift his eyes, he feels his stomach heave and bile rise in his throat. He pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes hard enough to hurt, but it didn't help. The face remained just out of view. All he could see were the hands, and the bear watching him.

The door flew open suddenly and Mycroft burst in, still dressed in his clothes and clutching his stupid newspaper, slightly out of breath. He must have run down the hall. "I thought I locked that door," Sherlock said crossly. Mycroft's response was to hold up the key clutched in his fat fist. "But of course you have the key. You have to control everything, don't you?"

Sherlock was surprised when Mycroft didn't answer; instead he sat down next to Sherlock on the floor with his back against the side of the bed. For a moment, they both sat still, Sherlock eying Mycroft, who had leaned his head back against the rumpled bedspread and closed his eyes.

Finally Sherlock said, "Well, this has been fun, but I think I'll—"

"I know what's wrong," Mycroft interrupted abruptly, eyes still closed.

"There's nothing wrong. I just fell out of the bed. It's hardly my fault. Your sheets and pyjamas are both slippery."

"You were shouting for Daddy."

"No I wasn't. Now please just toddle off."

"Sherlock, I know there's something wrong. I know what it is."

"You don't know anyth. . ." He trailed off when Mycroft opened the newspaper to the front page and held it up to him. He caught a glimpse of the headline above the fold: Burglar with a Conscience exposes Paedophile, it blared in huge bold letters. Sherlock froze, eyes locked on the headline. He opened his mouth to tell Mycroft to piss off, but no sound came out of his suddenly dry throat. A hard swallow didn't help. He could still taste bile. Teeth against his neck. Clammy hands at his waist, turning him around. Hands inside his trousers—STOP IT RIGHT NOW!

"Sherlock, I know what he did."

"What who did?"

"Your violin teacher. I know."

"H-how do you know? I didn't even know."

"You didn't?"

"I didn't remember. It came back to me when Molly shoved that stupid bear in my face." The bear is watching him with one shiny oversized eye. He stares at the gold trim on the uniform while hands slide down his back. . . JUST STOP!

"A bear?" Mycroft asked faintly.

"Yes. It sat on his telly. It had on a red and black beefeater uniform, and it was always watching with one big eye." Sherlock hadn't intended to tell Mycroft any of this, but now that he had started, the words tumbled out and he couldn't stop them.

"Oh, God. . ."

"I didn't remember until today," he admitted. "That's the beauty of the mind palace. So easy to lock things away."

Next to him, Mycroft leaned his head back against the side of the bed again and put his hand on his forehead. "Oh, God, the bear."

"What?"

"The eye. I remember the eye."

"What are you on about?" Sherlock demanded. Mycroft's only response was to squeeze his eyes shut and press his forefinger and thumb against his eyelids. "What do you mean, you remember the bear?"

No response.

"Myc?"

Mycroft took a ragged breath, let it out slowly, and then took another and said in a sudden burst, "Mummy took me to him too, when I was eight. You were just a baby."

Sherlock jumped up, suddenly furious. "You never took violin!"

"Yes, I did. Just a short while. After three lessons Mummy let me switch to piano."

"That's not true! You're lying!"

"Yes, it's true."

"You—you never told! Why didn't you ever tell?!"

Mycroft shook his head wearily. "I didn't know that you—I was off at school. I didn't know you were having lessons with him."

"You should have told! It's all your fault!"

"You never told anyone either."

"What good would that have done? I didn't have any little brother to protect."

"No, but there were others. The article says the videos span over fifteen years."

"What? They didn't—Donovan never—She only showed me. . ." Sherlock broke off. Fifteen years? How many boys?

Now Mycroft struggled to his feet too. "You could have stopped it!" he snapped.

"And you could have stopped it happening to me!" Sherlock shouted back in his face. He could feel his breath coming in quick, ragged gasps that he couldn't control. For a moment both brothers stared at each other with matching snarls on their faces. Sherlock felt his hands ball into fists.

Suddenly Mycroft took a step back and dropped his hands to his sides. "We are standing here blaming each other, while the man who really deserves the blame is sitting comfortably in his flat on Lockyer Street, just around the corner from a primary school."

"You know who he is?"

"Yes. Don't you?"

Sherlock shook his head with a growl. "I can't remember. I can picture his hands perfectly, but I can't quite see his face. His name and the location of his house are gone entirely. Every time I try to remember, I feel as if I'm about to be sick." Sherlock unbuttoned the silky pyjama top and began changing into the spare clothing that had been left out for him. Mycroft's tan trousers, made from a finespun wool, were very soft, but were baggy at the waist so he cinched the belt to keep them up.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting dressed, obviously. I'd think even a dullard like you—"

"It's the middle of the night! Where are you going?"

Sherlock finished buttoning the shirt and jammed his bandaged feet into the expensive shoes, which were a size too big. "I'm going to Lockyer Street. I'll recognize the building when I see it." He pulled the green jumper on (he wasn't even sure why Mycroft bothered to own a jumper, as all he ever wore were three-piece-suits), then headed toward the front door with his shoes untied, while Mycroft hurried along after.

"And then do what?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"We should call Inspector Lestrade."

"Really?" Sherlock busied himself with tying the shoes. "I notice you haven't done that yet."

"I was planning to do it in the morning."

"Well, feel free. I'm going to do something about this now." Sherlock said as he grabbed Mycroft's anorak off the hook in the entryway. Mycroft scooped up his umbrella and followed him out the door into the rain.

"You stay here."

"No, I'm coming with you. We can call Lestrade when we get there."

As Sherlock stomped down the front steps, wondering how on earth he was going to find a taxi in Hampstead at this time of night, a black car pulled up to the kerb. Goddammit! How did Mycroft do that? Sherlock yanked open the back door and slammed it behind him, leaving Mycroft to circle around the car to the passenger side.

While Mycroft was getting into the car, Sherlock leaned forward and opened the window to the front. "Lockyer Street," he said shortly, but of course Mycroft overruled him.

"Let us off on Kipling Street, please, Tim."

"Yes, Sir. Shall I wait for you?"

"No need. I'll let you know when and where to pick us up." Mycroft shut the window and leaned back in the seat. As they accelerated smoothly onto the street, Sherlock pretended to look out the window while he watched Mycroft out of the corner of his eye. Hair and suit a bit rumpled, tie loose, but otherwise looking completely unruffled. Part of him hated Mycroft for always being so controlled. Nothing affected him. Another part of him depended on that strength and stability to keep him on an even keel. Whatever happened, Mycroft could (and would) handle it.

As soon as the car pulled up to the kerb on Kipling Street, a block away from the entrance to Lockyer, Sherlock ejected himself and strode off down the street. He knew where he was going now. He remembered walking with his mother from the primary school around the corner, his hand small and sweaty in hers, his stomach knotted from anxiety of knowing what was about to happen. Some of the landscaping had changed, shrubbery had gotten taller, but otherwise the neighborhood looked just as he remembered it. The little corner shop with the bubblegum machine out front (he would always beg his mother for gum, and she always said no), the brick buildings lining the dead end street on both sides. Sherlock was aware that Mycroft was following closely behind, umbrella held up to cover them both. He found it irritating. So like Mycroft to try to protect him when he hadn't asked for it and didn't need it. He lengthened his stride to get out from under the umbrella, ignoring the protest from his still-bandaged feet.

Mr Lindt's flat was in the building on the right side of the street, so Sherlock headed that way. He remembered the door to the building. Blank, gray metal, like a prison, or so it had seemed to his six-year-old mind. A prison and he was the prisoner. Well, no longer. The door was locked, but that didn't matter.

"Give me a credit card."

"Sherlock. . ."

"Give it to me!"

"We should call Inspector Lestrade now. He can meet us here."

"You call him. I'm going in. Now give me a card."

Mycroft took out his wallet and extracted a card, which he handed to Sherlock with a sigh. "What are you planning?"

Sherlock slid the card into the gap between the door and frame and pulled up on the knob. "I'm still deciding." The door popped open with a satisfying click.

"Hurting him won't change anything." Was that a note of anxiety in Mycroft's voice? Excellent. He took a sort of grim satisfaction in making Mycroft nervous. Mycroft had his phone in his hand, but Sherlock could see that he hadn't attempted to make a call yet.

"But it will feel so good." First door on the right. He remembered it clearly now. Flat number 101. Tan welcome mat with a brown cartoonish owl, faded now, but the eyes were still bright. He had always imagined those eyes were accusing him of some nameless crime, and what happened inside the door was the punishment. Sherlock made a point of stepping directly on the owl's face while he slid in the credit card and bumped the door open with his shoulder.

Author's note: What, did you think they'd have a nice chat and all would be resolved? These are the Holmes brothers we're talking about here!