Johnny Blue-Eyes

Chapter 23: Telling vs Telling Everything, Take 2

Donovan was expecting the call from Mycroft Holmes, but she didn't answer because she knew what he was going to say, and she didn't feel she could give him an adequate response. His message was terse. "Why is my brother receiving phone calls from the Crown Prosecutors' office? This is not what we agreed to." She was terrified to call him back. What could she say? It was quite beyond her control, but that didn't stop the lump of guilt that settled in her gut like a rock.

So she was quite surprised when Tracey Sorrell texted her on Wednesday morning that Sherlock was coming in for an interview later that day. She was not so surprised to learn that under no circumstances did he want her in the room while the interview was taking place. Of course he didn't want her there, any more than she wanted to be there. And if the situation were reversed, she the victim and he the investigator, she would not have tolerated his presence either.

Now Donovan was watching quietly from the observation room, finger and thumb rubbing over the pendant at her throat, while Sherlock talked to Lestrade and Sorrell. Sherlock's hand was bandaged, which made her curious. At least the black eye and swollen lip had healed.

Donovan wondered if Sherlock knew that Sorrell hated him much more than Donovan ever had. Yes, he probably did. For all his claims to be a sociopath, Sherlock was remarkably perceptive in some ways. And that dislike appeared to be mutual, judging by how the conversation was going, but at least Sherlock hadn't stood up and left the room yet.

"Tell us how you met Rainer Lindt," Sorrell asked. It seemed to be an ordinary request, but there was a little smirk on Sorrell's lips that didn't quite match her tone.

"He was my violin teacher. I thought that would be obvious."

"Pretend like you are telling the jury. They don't know any of the facts of the case."

"Then they're idiots, as it's been all over the papers."

Sorrell shot Lestrade an exasperated look, but the ghost of a smile was still there, just for an instant. "Just take us through it, please. How old were you?"

"Six."

"And how long were you his student?"

"Seven months, from end of November 1982 to mid-June 1983."

"And tell us what he did to you." Sorrell was looking down at her paperwork while she said that.

There was a pause. Donovan saw Sherlock glance briefly at the one-way mirror and swallow hard. Sorrell looked up, her narrowed eyes fixed on Sherlock's face, which had gone back to a neutral expression. "Mr Holmes, we need your statement."

"Don't you have this all on videotape? I can confirm that the child in question is indeed me."

"The jury needs to hear it from you." Sorrell's voice was smug. She checked the voice recorder in the middle of the table and pushed it a little closer to Sherlock.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

Sherlock sat back in his seat and said "Fine," in an unconcerned, flippant voice. "He removed my clothing. He touched me inappropriately."

"On the genitals?"

"Yes, among other places."

"Penetration?" There was a small, cruel twinkle in Sorrell's eyes that made Donovan's chest hurt.

"Yes." Sherlock's voice was still perfectly unruffled.

"Anal?"

"Yes."

"Oral?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He was staring into the one-way mirror, directly at Donovan, she thought. Just like Johnny Blue-Eyes had stared at the camera. Oh God. Donovan's stomach did a painful flip-flop and she squeezed the pendant harder, until the hard metal folds of Saint Monica's dress left indentations in her fingers. Traumatized little boy staring at a teddy bear, she reminded herself. He may have gotten bigger, but was that trauma still there, buried somewhere under his tough, untouchable facade?

"Mr Holmes, did he force you to perform oral sex on him?"

Sherlock blinked. "Yes." He was clearly aiming for the flippant tone he had been using before, but he didn't quite manage it. Donovan's eyes widened and her hand flew over her mouth. She had never seen that on the tape. It must have been in the section she hadn't had the nerve to watch.

Sorrell picked up her pen and put it to her notepad. "Penetration with an object?" she asked in a casual tone.

Another pause, then Sherlock bit out, "yes." He was staring blankly at the window again. Donovan pressed her hand harder against her mouth and looked anywhere but at him. Even though she knew he couldn't see her, it still felt like a violation to make eye contact, because she knew he wouldn't want her watching.

Sorrell scribbled a note on her notepad. "Did your parents know what was happening?"

"No, they never asked and I didn't tell them."

"Why did you not tell anyone about this before now?"

"I didn't remember. I deleted it. Or at least I thought I did."

"You. . . deleted it? What do you mean?"

"From my mind palace. I locked it away."

"Mind palace?" Sorrell shot a quizzical look at Lestrade.

"It's a memory technique—" Lestrade put in, but Sherlock interrupted him.

"It is an organization system for the mind. The Method of Loci, adapted from the Greek philosopher Quintilian."

Sorrell was giving him a skeptical look. Donovan heard a slight sigh and then he changed tacks. "You may think of it as a computer hard drive. The file was deleted, but apparently recoverable."

Sorrell pounced. "So it was suppressed due to trauma? How did you feel when he raped you?"

"How do you think I felt?"

"I need to hear it from you."

"It hurt. I bled. Is that what you want to know?"

"Emotionally, how did you feel?"

"I didn't feel anything."

"Oh, come on, Mr Holmes. You were six years old and you were raped repeatedly. You can't tell me you felt nothing."

Sherlock's calm cracked a little. "I've already told you!" His hands, which had been resting on the table, clenched tightly into fists.

Lestrade, who had been sitting on the edge of his chair, interrupted. "He's answered your questions. He told you what happened. That's enough for today."

"I need more details."

"Not now," Lestrade said firmly. "He's agreed to testify. We can continue this another time."

Sorrell's face was a mask of barely contained glee, but Lestrade was looking at Sherlock, and Sherlock was looking down at his clenched fists on the table, so Donovan was the only one who saw it. Sorrell gathered up her papers, shoved them into her file folder and left.

A second later, Donovan heard the doorknob on the observation room turn and Sorrell entered.

"Ah, Sally."

"Tracey," Sally responded coolly, barely sparing her a glance. Her attention was still focused on Lestrade and Sherlock, who hadn't moved from their seats in the interview room. Lestrade was talking softly while Sherlock stared blankly at the wall.

"I take it you saw all of that."

"Oh, yes I did."

"Good. I've seen the video, but I'll need photos of the assault for trial. Pick some video clips as well."

"Of the—of the actual sexual assault?" Donovan asked, heart sinking.

"Yes, the more detail the better. Get me some shots of him naked. Let's show them everything."

"He was six! Do you really want to show that at trial?"

"We need the evidence, Sergeant Donovan. You know that."

"But he was a victim!

"He's not a victim." The corner of Sorrell's lip was raised in a snarl. "Did you ever find your leak?"

"It's taken care of."

"Hm, pity. It would be a shame if his name got out to the media."

Donovan was shocked. She knew Sorrell didn't like Sherlock, that she was still angry for the way he had made her look incompetent during Moriarty's trial, but she hadn't thought the woman would take it that far. Donovan had actually felt some sympathy for Sorrell after Sherlock had embarrassed her in front of the judge and the press. Sorrell could lose her job this time if it was found out that she'd intentionally leaked a victim's name to the media.

While Donovan was trying to think of something to say that would make her change her mind, Sorrell, who was staring at Sherlock through the one-way glass, continued in a pensive voice. "I wonder if I could get him to cry on the stand."

"No!"

"Hmm. . . probably not. He didn't even cry while he was being raped. Heartless bastard. Just staring into the camera defiantly."

Donovan felt as if something heavy were sitting on her windpipe. What would Sorrell do if she knew that he had cried, that he had wept as if his heart were broken? Would she have some sympathy for him? No, Donovan was sure that Sorrell would use the knowledge to eviscerate him.

"I think I'll asked my assistant to make an appointment with his mother. Would you like to sit in on that interview? I'll bet we could make her cry."

Donovan stared at her in horror. Oh, Mycroft Holmes was going to have her killed now; would probably kill them both, maybe even do it himself with his bare hands.

Sorrell, who was still watching Sherlock through the one-way mirror with a small, cruel smile, said, "I'm planning to schedule him for an exam as well. Maybe there will be scar tissue. You can take photos."

"I—I don't think there'll be scar tissue. We shouldn't do that to him."

"Oh? I thought you would enjoy that. He nearly sank your career as well, didn't he? With his little game he played on us."

"I admit there's never been any love lost between him and me, but you've got me wrong if you think I would enjoy humiliating a victim like that. It's not right."

"Don't be ridiculous. We need corroborating evidence for his testimony. All we have is his word for it that that's even him on that tape and that Lindt was his violin teacher. His mother can back up that part of it, and the exam would give us evidence of sexual assault. Penetration with an object might leave scarring. If we could prove that, it would mean more charges for Lindt."

Donovan shook her head. "Come on, Sorrell. Leave him alone."

"I can't believe you're not on board with this, Donovan. You've already done enough damage to this case. Don't destroy what's left of it out of some sort of misplaced sympathy for that man. I guarantee he wouldn't throw you a rope if you were drowning. I'll phone you when I've got the exam scheduled."

Sorrell turned and left. Donovan could hear her heels clicking angrily on the lino before the door closed behind her. With mind whirling, Donovan returned her attention to Sherlock and Lestrade, who were still talking in the interview room.

"Are you sure it's all right?" Lestrade was asking in what Donovan thought of as his 'Papa Greg' voice—just the right mix of soothing and concern. It was the voice that got hardened criminals to open up and pour out their hearts. But it had no obvious effect on Sherlock.

"Of course it's all right. I've already agreed."

"It's just that you sounded a little—"

"I assure you, this. . . incident was in the past. I've processed it. There's no cause for concern."

"Yeah, ok. I'm sorry. It's just I don't want you getting hurt." Lestrade looked down at his notebook, where Donovan could see he had written almost nothing. While he was looking down, Donovan saw Sherlock's unconcerned expression dissolve. Just for a split second, she was looking at Johnny Blue-Eyes' completely devastated face. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the devastation was gone and the mask was back in place.

"You needn't worry about that. I can take care of myself. Now, what have you got on Owen Sprott's murder?"

"Oh, uh - Waiting for autopsy results. You're sure it was Popovic?"

"Yes, I've told you already. I saw him following Sprott."

"I still don't understand why you didn't notify me right away."

"It wasn't convenient for me to do so." Sherlock stood up, took up his coat and scarf from the back of the chair next to him, and said, "I'll text you when I've tracked Popovic down for you."

"Sherlock, don't go getting yourself into trouble."

"Never," he said flippantly. While he was putting on his coat, he shot a glance at the one-way glass and his lip curled up just a tiny bit at the corner into the slightest sneer. Then he popped his collar and headed out the door with his back straight and his head high.

Donovan sat back in her chair. She knew, of course, that he knew she was watching. That sneer was for her, his little parting gift. It was meant to convince her that he was still his old self. Unconcerned. Unbothered. But was he? She knew the answer to that question. It was as plain as the tears running down Johnny Blue-eyes' face. He had said he hadn't felt anything, but that was clearly a lie. She had seen Sherlock break.

The door to the observation room opened and Lestrade entered. "Well, that was about as awful as I expected," he said, shaking his head. "And it's only going to get worse."

"We can't let her put him on the stand."

"Did Mycroft Holmes phone you too? Sherlock calls his own shots, and he decided to come in of his own free will. Mycroft won't stop him."

Donovan shook her head anxiously. "That's not what I'm talking about. We can't do this to him."

What do you mean? He's all right. It's not easy for him, of course, but he'll be fine."

Donovan shook her head more firmly. "He's lying when he says he felt nothing."

"I don't think so. I know he's good at faking it, but he'll make it through."

"You didn't see."

"See what? I was sitting right there in the room with him. I saw everything you saw."

"He's barely holding it together. If they put him on the stand, make him tell the world what that piece of shit did to him, he'll fall apart."

"I know him better than you do, and I've seen him at his worst. He always bounces back. It would take a lot to break Sherlock Holmes."

"Boss, you don't get it. You don't see."

"Tell me, Donovan, what am I missing?"

"He's already broken; you just have to push in the right place. And Tracey Sorrell would love to be the one doing the pushing. After he ruined their case against Moriarty. . ."

"Tracey is a professional. She wouldn't do that on purpose."

"Yes she would! She asked me for screenshots of the rape. She wanted photos of him naked. He was six years old, for Christ's sake!"

"She won't use those at trial."

"You know she will. You know how this will go. She's going to start pushing, and he'll push back, then she'll treat him as hostile and rip him to shreds."

Now Lestrade was shaking his head, his hand on the doorknob. "It won't come to that. Tracey won't risk her career for revenge. He'll be fine. Now I'll see you later, yeah? I gotta go see about an autopsy."

"Yeah, all right." After Lestrade left, Donovan sat for several minutes in the dark, staring at the empty interview room. What a mess, and she couldn't help but think it was all her fault.

A/N: Ah, Reviews! How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. . .