Johnny Blue-Eyes
Chapter 13: Coming up empty
Wearily Donovan drove back through the rain to Lockyer Street. Lestrade had texted that he had the warrant in hand, and Lindt had been shipped off to hospital to have his ribs checked, so they had the run of the place to do the search.
As she was locking the door to Constable Stauffer's patrol car, she spotted a glint of light out of the corner of her eye. What was that? Not a camera flash; it was too subtle. She turned her head and saw it again, through the open window of a car across the street. Light reflected on glass—a camera lens, definitely. Shit. Shit shit shit SHIT!
The camera suddenly disappeared, then the engine sputtered to life and the car quickly roared off, too fast for her to catch the license plate in the semi-dark, but she knew already who it had to be. Kitty Riley, or someone doing legwork for her. How had she known where to find them? And how long had she been sitting there? Long enough to get a shot of Sherlock getting into the patrol car earlier? Oh, shit, she was in big trouble. Mycroft Holmes was going to have her murdered in her bed. In a fury, Donovan pulled her phone from her pocket, and dialed D.C. Fadil's number. She didn't care it was the middle of the night. She was going to give him a piece of her mind.
After the third ring Fadil finally answered, voice croaky from sleep. "'lo?"
"Abdul, why is Kitty Riley snooping around my crime scene?!" she hissed angrily.
"Wha?" He cleared his throat and tried again. "I don't. . . what crime scene?"
"You know what I'm talking about!"
"No, honestly, Sergeant Donovan, I don't know anything." He sounded wide awake and a bit panicky now. "I didn't—I barely know her. I only told her one thing last week. I haven't talked to her since, I swear!"
"You'd better not be lying to me."
"You won't tell the inspector, will you? I never meant any harm. I really thought she was just being friendly."
"That sort is never 'just being friendly', Abdul. You are lucky you still have a job." Donovan punched the end button and dropped the phone into her pocket. She still hadn't decided if she was going to rat him out to Lestrade. It depended on what happened in the next few hours. They would have to release the name of their suspect at some point, but she had really wanted to control how the story broke. And if Kitty Riley had gotten a recognizable photo of Sherlock, God only knew what she would do with it. Legally she wasn't allowed to release his name, but little things like legality and truth had never gotten in Kitty Riley's way before.
Donovan ducked under the crime scene tape, flipped Constable Stauffer her keys, and stomped down the hall to Lindt's flat, where the door stood open and white light flooded out into the corridor. The crime scene team must have their floodlights set up already. Outside of the doorway, she tucked her necklace inside her collar and paused to pull on protective gear—coverall, booties, head covering, gloves. The several minutes it took cramming her hair into the shower cap-like head covering only increased her irritation. By the time she got the last strand of curls inside, she was in a thoroughly foul temper. It didn't help that her last conversation with Sherlock was still rattling around in her head. Somehow he always managed to push her buttons, and she always reacted without thinking. It was more than him just being an arrogant arsehole. He was doing it on purpose, trying to get a rise out of her, just like the bully who had followed her around in year seven at school, taunting her with "Sally the Slag" and laughing at her furious reaction until she had bloodied his nose. It made Sally sort of wonder what would happen if she bloodied Sherlock's nose. Would he burst into tears and run away like the schoolyard bully had done? Unlikely. It was more likely that he would use it as ammo in future confrontations.
There were several more strands of crime scene tape strung up in the doorway to the flat (thanks, Constable McLoud!) that Donovan had to contort her body around, made more difficult by the slipperiness of the booties and fact that the protective suit was one-size-allegedly-fits-all, which meant it was miles too big for her petite frame. Phillip was in the sitting room with the cover off the sofa while he applied chemicals and swabs to the cushion. He was kneeling with his back to her and didn't look up when she walked in, so she slipped past and kept going without disturbing him. Things had been strained between them since the day Sherlock stepped off a roof and Phillip had torn himself apart from guilt. Now they mostly acted like polite strangers, and it was a bit wearing, hence her preference to avoid encounters with him as much as possible. She held Sherlock responsible for their breakup, and had been angry with him for months, but she couldn't say she was still too upset about it, because honestly she knew life was easier without all the intrigue of sneaking around behind Phillip's wife's back.
She found Lestrade in the back bedroom going through the closet. The doors of every cabinet and drawers on every chest were standing open in the bathroom and bedroom, and toiletries were sitting all over the floor: Towels, flannels, bog rolls, clothes, hair products, etc. It all looked innocuous.
"Hey, Guv," she greeted Lestrade, who grunted in reply. "Find anything interesting?"
"Expired box of condoms in a drawer in the bathroom," he said with his head still in the closet. "Wouldn't call that evidence, exactly. Anderson found some spots of dried blood on the sofa cushions."
"How about recording equipment or videotapes?"
"Nope, nothing of that sort yet. Still looking."
Donovan swallowed her disappointment and looked around the room. The covers were thrown back on the bed and there was an indentation in the pillow, but the pillowcase and sheets looked undisturbed. "I'll start on the bed," she said.
"Anything out of Sherlock and Mycroft?"
"Mycroft gave me a statement," she replied as she opened a bag to put the sheets in. "Sherlock basically told me to bugger off."
"Yeah, what did you expect? At least you got one of them."
"Yeah, I suppose." She carefully removed the sheet and slid it into the bag. "Oh, and boss? I think we've got a reporter sniffing around outside."
Lestrade made a noise that sounded an awful lot like a nasty swear. "I thought you took care of your leak."
"Yeah, so did I."
"Want me to have a go?"
"No, thanks. I've got it sorted. I've been assured it won't happen again."
He made a noncommittal grunt in reply. As she was writing out the label on the sealed bag of linens, Lestrade backed out of the closet empty-handed. Donovan finished her label and dropped the bag on the floor next to the bed.
"Anything?"
"Not a thing. This guy is clean as a whistle. What do you want to bet we won't find so much as a hair on those bedlinens?"
The rest of the search went about the same. Besides the few small spots of blood, Philip also found a single drop of semen on the sofa cushions under the cover, but they discovered no evidence of any recording equipment, videotapes, or photos of young boys anywhere in the flat. In fact, there were barely even any dust or smudges on any of the furniture, and the baseboards and carpets were completely free of hairs or other fibers.
"You know what this means?" Donovan said in frustration on their way out. "He knew we were coming. I bet he started cleaning house the day those videotapes went missing. He's had plenty of time to get rid of the evidence."
It took Sherlock over an hour to wear Mycroft down enough that he finally let him leave, and even then the ridiculous arse insisted on having Tim drive him home. Sherlock would have resisted further, but he realized it was his only chance of getting out of there tonight, and he really needed to get home to Baker Street to do a bit of house-keeping - well, make that mind-palace-keeping.
He checked his phone on the way home, and found five texts and three messages from John, two texts from Lestrade, three texts and a message from Molly, and one message from Donovan from the previous day (he deleted that one immediately without listening to it). He didn't reply to any of John's texts, because it was the middle of the night and he wouldn't get it until morning anyway. And if John did happen to hear the message alert now, it would wake him up and he would be irritable. He had learnt the hard way it was best to wait until at least half eight in the morning to phone or text John these days.
He also checked the major news websites for the story he knew was about to break. There had been no mistaking that glimpse of long ginger hair in the streetlight on the way out of Lindt's flat, and the reflection off the camera lens. As soon as he had seen it, he had scrunched down in the seat, but he knew by that time it had been too late. The few seconds he had spent dithering before he got into the patrol car had likely sealed his fate.
There was no nothing new on the story on any of the news outlets yet. A couple of new aggregators had picked up the original story from the Mail, but no update. It was just a matter of time until Kitty Riley got her information together and submitted her story. He wondered if she had recognized him, and if she had, if his name would be attached to the story as well and in what capacity.
When he got home, his first act was to search the flat for hidden cameras, and he wasn't surprised when he found one peeking out of the eye socket of the skull. He took it into the loo and attached it to inside of the toilet so the lens was pointing into the bowl. Served Mycroft right to literally get pissed on.
Once the flat had been debugged, he sat in John's chair wearing his own comfortable pyjamas instead of Mycroft's unsuitable clothes, with his coat pulled on over his dressing gown to ward off the chill. A cup of rapidly cooling tea sat unheeded on the small round table next to him. Tucking his fingertips beneath his chin, he shoved thoughts of Kitty Riley and salacious news headlines aside. It was time to deal with this nonsense once and for all, before it interfered with his work. Shouldn't be too difficult. Obviously there was a hidden room in his mind palace; he just needed to find it and set it to rights. Tidy it up. Examine the contents and file them accordingly. Then lock the door and never go there again. Simple.
Taking a deep, cleansing breath, Sherlock tucked his fingertips under his chin, closed his eyes, and visualized the front door. It was hanging off its hinges.
Sherlock's eyes flew open. Why was the door off its hinges? No matter. It was in his mind. He could fix it. He closed his eyes again and visualized the door. Still off its hinges, and now he could see there was a large hole in it, like it had been kicked in. No. . . kicked open from the inside, based on the angle of the break.
He tried to make the door correct itself, but it remained hanging at an angle with the boards broken. Damaged. Beyond the shattered door, he could see a bit of the front hallway, but it was dark inside. Foreboding. Not at all welcoming as it usually was. It's in my mind, he reminded himself sternly. I am in control. What could possibly hurt me inside my own mind? He forced himself to enter, slowly, heart pounding. One step. Two steps into the dark hallway. The lights didn't come on as he was anticipating.
Sherlock attempted to visualize a strong torch in his hand to light the way, but it turned into a small candle that only put out enough illumination to light the next step. Cautiously, hand out to feel the way, he proceeded another step, then another. Soon he passed the room that held his memories of family camping trips. That door remained securely locked, thankfully. He had no desire to relive those episodes. Who pays good money to spend a week living in the woods like the homeless?
While he was distracted by the camping room, he had rounded a corner and suddenly found himself in front of an unexpected door: blank gray metal, open just a crack. This was THE room, he knew, even though he couldn't remember ever having seen it there before.
Sherlock stood swaying in front of the door, candle held high. No light came out through the crack in the door, but he could hear the strains of violin—Mozart's violin concerto #5. His favourite piece, one that he played when he was sad to help himself feel better. His hand was on the doorhandle when suddenly he remembered Mr Lindt teaching it to him. Large hands on his guide him through the notes. Lindt's soft voice whispers in his ear, telling him how clever he is. He feels wet lips on his neck, then teeth graze his skin. NO NO NO NO NO!
Sherlock's candle suddenly went out, leaving him in almost complete darkness. He dropped it with a curse and slammed the door shut. Then he took off running through the dark, navigating by memory: down the hall, around the corner, and up the stairs to where he knew Redbeard was waiting.