Johnny Blue-Eyes

Warning: More description in this chapter. Nothing more graphic than previous chapters, but greater quantity of the same. Consider yourself warned.

Chapter 21: Breaking Johnny Blue-Eyes

The following week, Donovan sat in the media room for almost ten minutes turning a videotape over in her hands, trying to work up the courage to watch it. The tape was plain black, with a blank white label. On the box was a simple piece of masking tape with a case number written neatly on it in black marker. There was no indication on the outside of what was on the tape, but she already knew. This was the video that had kept Lestrade up at night: Johnny Blue-Eyes.

Finally she took a deep breath, pushed the tape into the VHS player, and pressed play. After a moment of static, the screen flickered and resolved into the familiar scene of the sitting room, with the wooden chair off to the right side, and the yellow and green flowered sofa on the left.

A boy wearing a blue jumper and gray flannel trousers was standing by the sofa, looking up at a man in a brown suit. As usual, the man's head was out of camera range. Donovan paused the tape and studied the scene. The boy's dark curls were a little longer and he looked a bit taller than he had in the section of the fifth videotape that she had skimmed, but it was clearly the same boy, still Sherlock. This section must have been taken from later in the tape, the part she hadn't watched.

Donovan put the fifth videotape (S 1982) into the other player and fast forwarded through, stopping every few seconds to check, until she found a part where the boy was wearing the same blue jumper and gray trousers. She started playing the tape, and a few minutes later, her patience was rewarded with a scene that looked identical to the start of Johnny Blue Eyes. She punched the pause button and compared the two screens. To her, it was obvious. This section was the source of the Johnny Blue-Eyes video.

Now for the hard part. She was going to have to watch the clip. All of it this time. So far, she hadn't been able to bring herself to watch any of the actual assaults, just what led up to them: Lindt taking the boys to the sofa and starting to remove their clothing, his hands sliding over their innocent skin like a snake. She hadn't felt able to watch any more. It made her physically ill to think about what was going to happen next.

It took Donovan at least five more minutes before she felt mentally prepared to start watching. She straightened her files. She wrote the date and time stamp of both videos on her sheet of notes. She read a few misleading news stories about herself on her phone. While the phone was in her hand, she checked for messages and found one new text, Tracey Sorrell from the Crown Prosecutor's office: Hollingberry said she's going to rule on our case today. Should have an answer by 14:00. Got that other tape for me?

So soon? Hollingberry was known for being efficient, but this was some sort of land-speed record. Donovan texted back: I'm working on it, and dropped the phone face down on the workbench.

Finally, when she had delayed as long as she could, she took a deep breath and pushed play on both players simultaneously. Both videos started moving, and in stereo she saw the man sliding his hands under the boy's jumper and pulling it off over his head, followed by the polo shirt underneath. The trousers went next. Without the bulky clothing, the boy looked impossibly tiny, all skinny arms and protruding ribs and collarbones. She was struck, suddenly, by how intensely vulnerable he looked: a small, defenceless David facing down Goliath.

Donovan forced herself to keep watching, although she could feel the bile rising in her throat. His blue-green eyes stared intensely into the camera, directly at her, it seemed. She was locked into his hard gaze and couldn't look away. His face was completely expressionless, except for a slight flinch when the man's long fingers squeezed into his pale shoulders from behind, leaving white marks along his clavicles that quickly turned pink.

After less than ten minutes, it was over. The man kissed the boy's bare shoulder, pushed himself off the sofa and started gathering their clothes. Donovan became aware that she was holding her breath, and that her fists were so tightly clenched that her nails were digging painfully into her palms. She forced herself to draw in a breath and uncurl her hands.

A moment later, as they were getting redressed, the Johnny Blue Eyes video went back to static. Donovan checked the time stamp on both tapes and wrote them on her notes. As she reached up with a trembling hand to shut off the other tape, she paused with her finger on the button, arrested by what she saw. On the screen, the boy, now fully dressed, had picked up the violin again and was waiting with his back to the camera while the man finished buttoning his shirt. They were talking about something—enough of the man's face was visible that she could see his mouth moving—but she couldn't tell what he was saying. She ran the tape back a few seconds and watched again. This time she caught something that looked like "good boy" and then "so clever," but the rest was too fast to follow.

When the man was dressed again he sat in the chair and pulled the boy in front of him, facing the camera, with his arms wrapped loosely around his slim waist. Then the boy began to play. As soon as the bow touched the strings, his hard gaze softened and his eyes slid closed; long dark lashes lay against the pale skin of his cheek. Even without sound, Donovan recognized that he was an excellent violinist. His movements were fluid, natural, without a hint of fumbling or awkwardness. Donovan continued to watch, transfixed at the confidence and skill with which he played.

While he was playing, the man leaned over and gently kissed the back of his neck. Suddenly the boy's face, which had been completely calm and composed, crumpled, then tears slipped out from under his dark lashes and slid down his cheeks. He continued to play, even though his shoulders were shaking from silent sobs.

Donovan tapped the pause button and the image froze. For a long moment, she sat in the dark and stared at the boy's face—Sherlock's face—streaked with tears. His eyes were screwed shut and his face was twisted in complete devastation.

Donovan felt gorge rising. Through vision clouded over with unexpected tears, she reached out and laid her fingers against his cheek, almost surprised when she felt glass instead of wet skin. Her other hand worried the Saint Monica pendant on her necklace, her thumb rubbing over the folds of fabric in the saint's skirt and the shepherd's staff in her hand. Saint Monica, protector of abused children. What a crock of shit, she thought. No one had protected this little boy, and it wasn't right. Whatever she may think of Sherlock, he certainly didn't deserve to be hurt like this, to have his innocence stolen by a monster.

Donovan swiped at her face and noticed that her hand came away smeared with mascara. Damn, her makeup was probably a mess. Wiping her hand on her trousers, she started the video again.

On the screen the man turned the boy around to face him, with one large hand resting on the boy's hip. With his other hand he gently wiped the tears from boy's face. The man's lips moved, and this time the words were obvious. "I love you, Sherlock. Did you know that?" and the boy gave a small nod through his tears. The man tipped the boy's chin up and placed a firm, possessive kiss on his lips. Donovan slammed the stop button on the remote. She couldn't watch anymore.

Donovan allowed herself a moment to pull her emotions together before she removed both videos. Thinking back to when Sherlock had burst into tears, she suddenly realized that to him, he wasn't staring at a camera: he was a traumatized little boy staring at a teddy bear. Not just some abstract unknown boy like the others in the tapes. Sherlock had been that traumatized little boy.

A buzz from her phone distracted her—a notification for a text. When she picked up the phone, she saw through bleary eyes a message from Lestrade.

Judge ruled against us. Expect a call from Sorrell.

Donovan sat and stared at the phone in disbelief. The judge had thrown out the tapes? Just like that? Her emotions, which were already raw, caused her throat to close up and her stomach to clench painfully. This case could not get thrown out, not now. There had to be justice for Johnny Blue-Eyes and all those other little boys. She had seen the pain in their eyes, and she wouldn't give up on them now. She wouldn't settle for one count of second-degree sexual assault when she knew the full extent of that monster's violations.

While she was staring at the phone, it buzzed in her hand. Incoming call from Tracey Sorrell. Shit.

"Donovan here."

"Sergeant Donovan, your videotapes are out."

"Yeah, DI Lestrade told me."

"You said you had another one."

"I do. I've just finished watching it. It's definitely probative."

"The problem is linking it to Lindt. Lestrade said they never found the boy or the source of the tape. Can you tie it definitively to our suspect?"

Donovan considered. Did she really have to tell Sorrell who was featured in that video? Yes, she did, even though it made her want to vomit. Sherlock would have to testify, and Mycroft would be unhappy, but it was the only way to get justice for all those boys.

With Johnny Blue-Eyes accusing stare burning in her mind, she said heavily, "We know who the victim is."

"You do? Who is it? Can we get him to testify?"

"He doesn't want to."

"Give me his name. I can convince him."

Donovan took a deep breath and told herself she had to do this. It was the only right course of action. "It's Sherlock Holmes."

There was silence on the other end of the line for several seconds, then Sorrell said, "Really?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock Holmes was a victim of a paedophile?"

"Yes. He's as much as admitted it."

"Interesting."

"Ms Sorrell, you should know he doesn't want to testify. I made an agreement with his brother to keep him out of it."

"What did Lindt do to him?"

"Excuse me?"

"Was he raped?" Sorrell sounded almost excited at the idea.

"Oh." Donovan chewed her lip. "Yes."

"I'll have to watch the video." There was definitely a hint of glee in her voice now. "You start thinking of how to get him to testify. I'll send a courier over for the video."

"I need to warn you that you'll be taking on Mycroft Hol—"

"I'll have my assistant call him to set up an interview. I'll let you know when it's scheduled so you can sit in."

Sorrell rang off, and Donovan was left staring at her phone again. Shit. She closed her eyes, and without her consent, her mind called up an image of Sherlock's tear-streaked, devastated face. She couldn't get rid of it, no matter how she tried. Had she just thrown Johnny Blue-Eyes to the wolves?

Sherlock pulled his coat more tightly around himself and pushed his lukewarm coffee away. He was tucked into the front booth of The Jumping Bean Coffee Shop (who named all of these awful coffee shops anyway?) and after the first hour the barista had insisted he purchase an overpriced cup of coffee in order to stay in his seat.

Across the street, the abandoned block of flats was still quiet, although he was sure Owen Sprott would be showing up any second. He knew Sprott was planning to meet with his supplier today, as he did every Monday and Thursday afternoon. Lucky for Sherlock, Sprott was a creature of habit, which Sherlock was sure would be his downfall.

While he waited, he tried again to figure out where Popovic might be holed up. He was avoiding accessing his mental maps because of the condition of his mind palace, so he had been reduced to using physical maps like a mere mortal. He pulled out his phone and opened the photo he had taken of the map of London with the photos of Popovic at the places he had been caught on camera. He kept coming back to those partial words on Popovic's coffee cup: "affei. . . ow." Doodling on his napkin, he ran through all the possible patterns, discarding each. Suddenly—OH! One finally made sense. The Caffeinated Cow.

He opened a web browser on his phone and discovered that there was a coffee shop with that name on the corner of Stukeley and Neville Roads in Newham. And if Popovic had been heading north on Green Street, then he must have been going to—to—no use: without the mind palace, he couldn't picture which street lay beyond Neville Road. He turned to his phone again, the map app this time. It took some scrolling around, and a bit of annoying zooming in, but eventually he found Shaftesbury Road, which street view showed holding a block of abandoned flats similar to the one Sherlock was staking out right now. Perfect spot. He would have to check it out later, after he had taken down Sprott.

Sure enough, at half past 14:00, Owen Sprott came sauntering down the street, with his hands tucked into his armpits. When he ducked through a broken board in a doorway, Sherlock scooted out of his seat and headed toward the door, leaving his cup behind.

When he reached the door, he saw through the glass that Sprott was already being followed, by Miroslav Popovic. There was no mistaking those bulky shoulders and off-centered nose. This put a wrinkle in things, but nothing he couldn't handle. Sherlock stepped back behind the coat tree until Popovic squeezed through the broken doorway, and then he quickly exited the coffee shop.

There were only a few people on the pavement, and Sherlock stepped around them to the edge of the kerb. He looked to his left where his attention was diverted by something across the street: a tall man with black-rimmed glasses, dressed in a brown suit, leaning against the side of the building, with a boy next to him—the slim, ginger-haired boy from Sherlock's mind palace, there was no mistaking him. And the man was Mr Lindt. The sight distracted Sherlock so much that he stepped into the street without checking to the right for traffic. There was a squeal of brakes and a car honked at him.

The noise drew Sherlock's attention to the right for a second, where he saw a woman through the windshield of a Mini Cooper making a rude gesture at him. When he looked back to the left, he almost expected the man and boy to be gone (it had to be a figment of the imagination, right?), but they weren't. Now the man's hand was resting on the boy's shoulder. Hands on his shoulders, nails digging into the flesh, holding him down. Rough carpet makes patterns on his bare knees —no stop it stop it please stop no no no. . .

Suddenly Lindt's head swiveled Sherlock's way. When he made eye contact, the man's upper lip curled up into a terrifying smile, exposing vampire fangs dripping with blood.

Sherlock's throat closed up and cut off his air supply. For a moment he stood in the street gasping for breath, and then a shriek pushed its way up through his clenched vocal cords. He scrambled backward, caught a confused glimpse of the wide-eyed driver of the Cooper, then turned and fled.

A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed so far! You all make me very happy. Since you've read this far, you might as well review this chapter too. :-)