Johnny Blue-Eyes
Chapter 24: Pushing in the right place
John was sitting on the bench outside of the entrance to the Yard when Sherlock walked out, with his coat wrapped tightly around himself and scarf firmly in place, even though the sun had finally come out and the temperature was rising. John himself was wearing only a light jumper and jeans. It practically felt like summer.
He only knew that Sherlock was coming in to give his statement today because Greg had called him. Sherlock himself hadn't mentioned a word, which didn't surprise John in the slightest. Possibly he was embarrassed about it, but most likely he thought it unimportant. 'Oh, just going in to tell the police all about how I was raped as a child. Nothing to concern yourself about, best friend.'
He never saw Sherlock actually look at him, but he slowed when he got to the corner and John was able to catch up. John came abreast of him and was about to greet him when Sherlock spoke first.
"Ah, John, care to have an adventure?"
"What sort of ad—Wait—how'd it go?"
"Hmm? How'd what go?"
"Your interview."
"Oh, that. Fine. It's not important. We're going to track down Popovic." Sherlock started across the street without looking for traffic. John quickly looked both ways, determined their lives weren't in danger, and hurried after.
"Now?"
"Yes, since you've not got a baby strapped to your chest at the moment, I think now would be a good time." Sherlock held up his left hand to hail a taxi, and John caught a glimpse of a bandage wound around it.
"What happened to your hand?"
"It's nothing. I'm fine. A small cut." The cab pulled up to the kerb and Sherlock opened the door for John. "After you."
"You cut yourself?"
"It was an accident."
"Bandaged it yourself, did you?" John slid over on the seat and waited for Sherlock to climb in after him.
"Yes." Sherlock leaned into the front window and gave the cabbie an address in east London, then climbed into the back beside John.
"Should have called me. Your fingers look a bit pale. Let me see."
"It's fine."
"Don't be silly." John caught Sherlock's left hand and turned it over palm-up, inspecting the bandage. Sherlock sighed dramatically but let John examine his hand with a long-suffering air.
The bandage looked a bit tight. John squeezed the base of Sherlock's index finger and held on tight when Sherlock tried to pull his hand away.
"Ouch. Stop that."
"In a second. Ok, see? Slow capillary refill. You've got to loosen that bandage a bit."
"It had to be tight to stop the bleeding.
"When did you cut yourself?"
"Two days ago."
"And it's still bleeding? You probably need stitches."
"I don't need stitches. Here, I'll loosen the bandage a bit. It's fine." Sherlock peeled the surgical tape from the end of the bandaged and re-affixed it a bit looser. "There, see? No problem."
"You should let me have a look at it."
"No! John, I'm not a child! Stop treating me like one!"
John snorted and shook his head, turning to look out the window so Sherlock wouldn't see the annoyance in his eyes.
"What?
"Those words sound familiar."
Sherlock just scowled at him as the cab came to a stop in what looked like a rather sketchy area of Newham. John hadn't been paying close enough attention to know exactly where they were, but with the amount of boarded up windows and trash on the streets, it was enough to make him wish he had brought his pistol. He didn't suppose the cabbie would let him borrow his tyre lever, either.
"You really want out here?" The cabbie asked. John could see in the rear view mirror that his eyebrows were raised skeptically.
"Yes, thank you. Pay the man, John." Sherlock climbed out without a backward glance, leaving John to struggle along after and try to find the right bills in his wallet. He finally just ended up shoving a twenty pound note at the man and not waiting for change, because Sherlock was already half-way down the block and John did not fancy getting left behind again.
A few steps on Sherlock ducked into an alleyway so quickly that John almost lost him. He jogged the rest of the way down the pavement and ducked in beside him.
"Tell me again why we're here?"
"Popovic is bunking in that block of flats." Sherlock gestured across the street. John peered around the corner dubiously at the building opposite, which looked entirely derelict. All of the windows were broken and the doorways were either hanging open or boarded up. John didn't see how anyone could be living in there without dying of exposure.
"That one? Are you sure?"
"Yes. Now shut up. I'm thinking."
John snorted and looked away, down the street to his left. It was completely empty: no cars, no people, no noises coming from windows. As he turned to scan the other direction, he realized that Sherlock was muttering under his breath.
"What was that?"
"I didn't say anything."
"Yes you did. You were mumbling."
"I wasn't talking to you. Now be quiet and stop distracting me."
John fell silent, but he kept watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock was looking to his left, toward the abandoned block of flats, but occasionally he would quickly cut his gaze to his right, mutter something with a quick shake of his head, and turn back to his left again. His right shoulder twitched.
John scanned the street to the right, looking for what Sherlock could find so fascinating, but all he could see was a lonely busker on the corner, holding the silhouette of a violin. He could barely even hear the music, something classical that John didn't recognize.
When Sherlock did the little head turn-shake-twitch thing for the fourth time, John asked, "Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine."
"Are you sure? Because you seem a bit. . . twitchy."
"I just don't like waiting. It's boring."
Really? This from the man who could sit perfectly still and stare at the wall for hours? "Then let's talk."
"I don't want to talk."
"Then what do you want to do?"
Sherlock turned to look at John. "I want to look for Miroslav Popovic, and you're distracting—" He suddenly broke off. He appeared to be staring at something over John's right shoulder, but when John turned to look, he could see nothing there, just an empty street. He turned back and saw that Sherlock's eyes were wide. His breathing was loud and far too fast, shoulders jerking with each noisy inhalation.
"Sherlock? Are you all right?"
Sherlock didn't respond, just rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands and kept staring down the street at nothing.
"What's wrong?"
"NOTHING!" Sherlock responded in a harsh whisper.
"Then what are you looking at? There's nothing there!" Suddenly, around Sherlock's arm, John spotted a man ducking out of a doorway from the abandoned building across the street: broad shoulders, black jacket with the collar flipped up, black watchcap. "Hey, look there," he whispered. "Is that him?"
Sherlock shook his head hard. "No, I was wrong. There's nothing here."
"But you didn't even look."
"There's nothing here. Let's go." Sherlock brushed past John and headed down the alleyway, away from the direction they had come, leaving John staring dumbly across the street at the man in black, who had pulled his cap low and was now striding away down the sidewalk with his hands tucked into his pockets.
John turned back down the alley to find that Sherlock had disappeared around a corner. "Hey!" he hissed. "Wait for me, you plonker!" He hustled around the bend to discover that Sherlock had hopped a low fence and was already out on the next street (which was not so deserted as the one they had been staking out) hailing a cab.
"Oy, Sherlock! I'm right here." But Sherlock appeared not to hear. A cab pulled up, he got in, and it sped off without John. "Aw, fuck it. I thought we were past this!"
John pulled out his phone and dialed Sherlock's number, but it went to voicemail after four rings. He had well and truly been left behind. So now he had a choice: chuck it and go home, or try to track Sherlock down. In an unfamiliar section of London. In the drizzle with evening approaching. Damn Sherlock for putting him in this situation!
Resigned to his fate, John hailed his own cab and directed the cabby to take him to Baker Street. Might as well start where Sherlock was most likely to turn up, right?
Sherlock was a twitchy mess in the cab. Twice he caught the cabby shooting him anxious glances, and when he spotted a glimpse of his own face reflected in the window, he could understand why. His eyes were rimmed with red and looked a bit wild, his hair was sticking up where he had been running his hands through it, and the muscle in his jaw was twitching from grinding his teeth. His knee was jumping in a staccato beat that he had no control over. Neither could he control the sensation that clammy hands were sliding all over his skin, nor that his mind was replaying Mozart's Concert No. 5 on an endless loop. It was all the fault of that damnable busker. The music had distracted him from his focus on finding Popovic, and then when he had looked the other direction and spotted the vampire, all thoughts of the case had flown from his mind. He just needed to get away as quickly as possible, from the music, from the vampire, and from John and his prying questions.
He had the cabby let him off a block from Baker Street, on Melcombe Street, then watched around the corner as John's cab pulled up. John jumped out and went in, and then came out a minute later looking very put out, just as Sherlock had predicted he would.
As soon as John had jumped back into the cab and had turned the corner, he practically ran down the street and into 221, up the stairs to his flat, ignoring Mrs Hudson's cry of "There you are, Sherlock!" He could barely hear her over the music that went round and round in his head.
Once inside, he slammed the door and locked it, as if that could keep the vampire out. Nothing could keep the vampire out. Nothing he did could silence the music or keep the hands off his skin. Nothing nothing nothing. He was helpless, and he hated it. It made him want to smash things, just to feel powerful, to feel he had control over something.
His eyes fell on his violin, sitting on the stand by the window. As soon as he saw it, his skin began to crawl anew.
"You play so beautifully, Sherlock. You're my best student. So talented." Hands slide down his sides. "I love you." Teeth graze his neck while Mozart's concerto No. 5 swells around him. He can taste the tears that track down his face and into his mouth. Blood is running down the inside of his leg. "Don't cry, my love. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'll make it better. I want to show you how much I love you."
Sherlock was suddenly seized with an overwhelming need to smash his violin, just to make the music stop. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat to keep them from seizing the violin, and his fingers closed around the pocket magnifier. Immediately that tape began to play: bright paper, hands over his hands sliding the black plastic open to reveal the clear bubble inside. "I can't wait to see what you observe with this. You're so clever." STOP JUST STOP PLEASE!
Sherlock yanked the magnifier from his pocket, threw it to the ground and stomped on it, hard. The plastic cracked under his foot. As soon as he heard the crunch, he stopped in disbelief, just for a moment. Had he really just smashed his magnifier? He lifted his foot and stared at the splinters of black plastic. Fear, shame, and despair bubbled painfully in his chest, but they were mixed with an almost palpable sense of relief. He had power, even if it was to destroy.
If smashing something small like the magnifier had helped him overcome the powerless feeling, then maybe smashing something bigger would help even more. He crossed to his music stand and snatched up his violin. With trembling hands, he raised it over his head to smash it, and then he froze. What the hell was he doing? He couldn't break his violin; he loved it. In fact, sometimes he thought it was the only thing that he loved. Destroying it didn't make him powerful. If he destroyed his violin because of what Mr Lindt did, then Mr Lindt still had the power to control his actions.
Shaking hard, Sherlock carefully set the violin on the stand and backed away. There was no escape. Lindt had won. He would never be free.
With a savage cry of despair, he grabbed the lamp off the side table and threw it at the floor. The lightbulb shattered with a POP, and pieces of glass flew in all different directions, one slicing a gouge into his cheek.
Sherlock stood trembling in the middle of the rubble, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. Smoke. He smelled smoke. He spun around and discovered a curl of gray coming up from the remnants of the lightbulb. Without even thinking he stomped on the broken glass until it stopped smoldering.
When the danger was over, he slowly turned and surveyed the carnage. Bits of broken glass and plastic littered most of the sitting room, and the carpet was now blackened where the hot bulb had singed the fibers. Why had he done that? Any feeling of empowerment had now faded, and all he felt was regret.
He spotted his violin, still sitting safely on the stand. His violin! Oh, thank god he hadn't destroyed it too. He picked his way over to it through the glass, carefully picked it up, and sat down in a clear area with the instrument cradled in his arms. He noticed peripherally that his hand was bleeding through the bandage, and a trickle of something warm was oozing down his cheek, but he decided to ignore it. John could handle it when he returned. Even though the fire in the carpet was out, he could still smell the smoke and feel it swirling around him. Since there was no smoke in the flat, it must be in his mind palace. The fire that he had started with the lantern was still smoldering.
John would be coming back; he knew he would. Mrs Hudson was probably calling him already. He had only a few minutes to pull his shit together and get his body back under control. He thought yearningly of the baggie of heroin stashed under the floorboards in his bedroom. Just one hit, and he could forget all about the fire, and the hands, and the ginger-haired boy. But John was coming, and John would know he was high. He didn't mind John being disappointed in him—it had happened before. No, what he was afraid of was that John would turn around and walk out, leaving him to face this alone, and he didn't think he could do that. But he couldn't live like this either. He would have to go back into his mind palace to put out the fire; there was no way around it.
Sherlock tightened his grip on his violin, closed his eyes and approached his mind palace. The front door was still off its hinges, which no longer surprised him. His mind still was unable to conjure up a torch, and in fact he ended up with a small lighter as his only light source.
Holding the lighter up, he crept inside, keeping low to stay under the smoke, which was thin near the doorway, but thickened as he ventured down the hall. The lighter wasn't much help, so he resorted to running his hand along the wall to guide his uncertain steps.
He found the turn that led to The Door, but the smoke was even thicker here. He could make out that it was creeping out from under and around The Door. His hand on the wall was becoming uncomfortably warm. There was no way he was going to be able to enter that room, not without risking significant harm, not to mention making the fire spreading more quickly.
Sherlock put one arm over his mouth to keep the smoke out. He had only one thought at that moment: rescue Redbeard before the damn mind palace burned down around his ears.
With that in mind, he turned to head down the hall toward Redbeard's room, when suddenly the smoke parted and he caught a glimpse of the ginger-haired boy standing about fifty meters away, down the hallway back toward the entrance. He was wearing a green school jumper and carried a black bookbag over his shoulder. Sherlock stared, frozen in place, and a new tape started playing.
He is standing on a walkway in front of the school, wearing gray shorts and a green jumper, knapsack on his back. A press of green surrounds him—other children, almost all taller, waiting for their parents after school.
The crowds part and Sherlock can suddenly see down the walkway where the ginger-haired boy is standing unmoving, staring at him. For a moment they lock eyes and Sherlock feels a sudden flash of fear and shame. This boy knows his secret.
A warmth spreads across the front of his shorts. He looks down to discover that he is standing in a puddle. He has wet his pants.
He feels a tug on his arm and looks up to see his mother standing over him. Her smile turns into a frown when she sees the dark splotch on the front of his shorts. "My goodness, Sherlock. You should have told someone you needed the toilet!"
A bark coming from down the hallway brought Sherlock out of the unwanted memory. Redbeard! "Come here, boy!" he commanded. There was a whining and scratching sound, but no dog appeared. When he tried to run down the hall to find him, he was driven back by the heat and smoke. Finally he was forced to dash toward the exit, past the ginger-haired boy, and out the door.