Johnny Blue-Eyes

Chapter 27: Four little rules

Donovan spent the rest of that night and all of the next morning walking around on eggshells, terrified that at any moment Sorrell was going to call her in and tell her she had gotten a call from Pomeroy. She would most likely be fired on the spot, and probably arrested too. And then the case against Lindt would continue, and Sherlock would still have to have an exam, and both the Holmes brothers (and probably their mother too) would have to take the stand to testify against him.

She tried to keep busy, but she kept seeing flashes in her mind's eye: Johnny Blue-Eyes crying as Lindt kissed his neck. Mycroft's bruised foot and trembling hands. Joshua Strauss' sad green eyes. She wanted to tell Sorrell about Joshua, but what could she tell her? That he looked an awful lot like a boy in one of the videotapes which is now inadmissible because I am an utter idiot? Every time she thought about it, her hand went to her throat and she remembered anew that the necklace was gone and next she saw it, it would probably be in an evidence bag to be used against her.

At 12:30, Donovan reluctantly got her coat and headed out to fetch Sherlock for his appointment. Maybe she would get lucky and he would refuse to go with her. She didn't understand why he had agreed to do this. He must have known what Sorrell was up to.

When she got to Baker Street, she sat in the car for a good ten minutes, arguing with herself about whether she should go through with this, or just call Sorrell and beg off. Or maybe call Sorrell and say, "Fuck you, I'm not your lap dog." But that wouldn't go over very well. Of course, if she lost her job over this, she could say it then. That thought gave her a tiny bit of warmth in an otherwise bleak and disheartening picture.

She noticed out of the corner of her eye the curtain of 221B twitch, so Sherlock knew she was there. He had probably figured out why she hadn't come in as well, knowing him.

Before she could decide to go in and fetch him, he came out alone with his coat wrapped tightly around himself and a green scarf knotted around his neck. She had hoped he would have John with him to keep him in check. Or maybe not, considering how her previous encounter with John had gone. But still, it didn't seem right for him to go through this with only her for company. Somehow she didn't think he would find her presence comforting.

Sherlock got into the front passenger seat without a word, buckled his seatbelt, and sat staring silently out the windscreen. Donovan eyed his expressionless face while she turned the engine over. A bandage with spots of dark, dried blood crossed his cheek under his eye. He appeared emotionless, but she had an idea of what lay behind that mask.

Hand on the gear-shift lever, she asked, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Why would you care?"

"I just—I don't want—It doesn't seem. . ."

The corner of his lip twitched, although he was still staring out the windscreen. "You're afraid of my brother."

"No! I'm just—well, sort of," she finished lamely.

"You should be. But he doesn't decide what I do. I agreed, so I'll do it."

Donovan chewed the inside of her cheek. He looked ok. He sounded ok. But did that mean he was really ok? And what about later, when he had to take off his clothes and let the doctor touch him? "Do you want someone with you?" she asked impulsively. "Like John, or maybe. . . Molly?"

His eyebrows pulled together. "Why would I want someone with me?"

"It's likely to be. . . invasive."

"I know that."

"And you know—" Donovan stopped and cleared her throat. "You know Sorrell asked me to take photos?"

"Of course she did," he said in a sharp voice, sarcastic. "I know she detests me even more than you do."

"So why are you doing this?"

He let out a sharp, exasperated breath through his nose. "What do you want me to say?"

"I guess. . . that you want justice."

"Justice?" he sneered. "Justice would be his body on a slab being carved up by Molly Hooper."

"He'll go to prison."

"Prison is a poor second, and that's only if you get a conviction, which is unlikely given how you've bungled this case."

"Oh, God, Sherlock, I didn't—I'm—"

"Donovan, just shut up and drive, please. I'm not in the mood to chat."

"Ok, fine." Donovan gripped the steering wheel harder and stared out at the road. She didn't trust herself to say anything more anyway. Her gut was churning and the lump in her throat was making it hard for her to breathe.

As soon as she pulled into a parking spot in the hospital garage, Sherlock jumped out and headed inside without waiting for her. Donovan sighed while she gathered up her camera, notepad, and jacket, then trailed along after him with her eyes on his back. Although the lobby was fairly crowded, he was deftly avoiding physical contact with anyone. She couldn't help but remember how he had flinched when someone had bumped into him at the courthouse.

When they got to the second floor clinic where his appointment was, Donovan sat in the waiting area while he checked in. She didn't expect him to sit with her, but he surprised her by dropping into the chair next to her and silently pulling out his phone. From the glimpse she got of the screen, it looked like he was comparing photos of cut marks in pale (obviously dead) flesh to graffiti of gang symbols. Of course he was. What did she expect—that Sherlock Holmes would be watching cat videos?

Donovan pulled out her own phone and tried to look busy, but a million questions were flitting through her brain. She wanted desperately to ask Sherlock about Joshua Strauss. She was sure they must have known each other: although Joshua was a couple of years older, they had gone to the same school at the same time, and, if her hunch was correct, both had been having violin lessons with Lindt in 1982.

Just as Donovan had almost made up her mind to ask him, a petite, dark-haired nurse appeared to escort Sherlock back to the exam room. Sherlock got up to follow without a backward glance, and the nurse said, "Do you want your friend to come with you?"

That earned a raised eyebrow and a silent sneer from Sherlock, so Donovan introduced herself to the nurse. "I'm Sergeant Donovan, Metropolitan Police." She held up her camera lamely. "I'll just. . . wait out here until you're ready."

"Oh, all right. Come with me, Mr Holmes."

They disappeared down a hallway, and Donovan settled awkwardly back into her seat. She tried to read the news on her phone, but it was increasingly difficult to concentrate. Her mind kept presenting her with an image of Johnny Blue-Eyes' devastated face. And now she was going to have to watch him be violated again. No wonder no other victims had come forward, if this was what the police put them through.

After the nurse left, Sherlock sat for nearly ten minutes, still fully dressed, holding the hospital gown in his hand, staring at the pattern of yellow and blue stripes in the fabric until they blurred together. The opening notes to Mozart's Concerto #5 were echoing loudly in his head, which would not do. He decided he must lay some groundrules, if he were to get through this exam with his dignity intact.

Rule #1: Avoid any eye contact or conversation with Donovan. Pretend like she isn't there. Should be easy enough, as it was what he typically did.

Rule #2: Do not attempt to enter the mind palace. It was on fire and infested with a vampire at the moment, so it was not a safe place. Must remember that.

Rule #3: Speaking of vampires, don't think about vampires. Think of something pleasant. Perhaps working on identifying the post-mortem cuts Popovic left behind in his victims, or connecting Miroslav Popovic to Edward Goldwater. Yes, that should work. And don't think about Joshua Strauss or Mozart's Concerto #5 either. Easier said than done, that. In fact, he was still hearing it, playing endlessly in the background in his mind. He should have brought some earbuds so he could listen to music during the exam, but of course he hadn't. Donovan probably had some in her pocket, but asking to borrow them would mean breaking rule #1, so that was out.

Rule #4: DO NOT CRY IN FRONT OF DONOVAN. This was a rule that absolutely must not be broken. Do not squirm, or put hands over face. Hold perfectly still, try to relax—Oh, god, that was going to be difficult, considering that the doctor would undoubtedly be touching him, which recently had been setting off alarm bells in his head. He could already feel the clammy hands ghosting over his skin.

Maybe he couldn't do this after all. He could just set the gown down on the exam table, put his scarf back on, and walk out the door. And then tomorrow Tracey Sorrell, whose entire goal was to punish and humiliate him, would call up his mother and bring her in for an interview, and he could not let that happen. No, he was stuck with this, and if he simply followed the rules he had laid out for himself, he could survive it.

Sherlock forced himself up and started removing clothing. First the coat and jacket, which he carefully hung on the hook on the back of the door. Next the shirt and trousers, which he folded and laid on the bench along the wall.

There was a light knock at the door. "Mr Holmes?" came the nurse's voice. "Are you ready?"

Shit. "Just a moment." He moved a little faster to finish getting undressed, then pulled the gown on. It tied in the back, of course, which was a bit difficult to reach. The gown was voluminous, but even after it was securely tied, he still felt exposed, vulnerable. He didn't suppose they would let him do the exam with his coat on, would they?

Another light knock at the door, and this time he called "Come in." The doctor, a tall woman with light brown hair pulled back into a pony tail, entered quietly, with Donovan on her heels. The latter looked quite uncomfortable and didn't attempt to make eye contact, thankfully.

"Hi, Mr Holmes," the doctor said in an annoyingly soothing voice. "I'm Dr. Finn. I'm going to be doing a physical exam to document scars or signs of old injuries."

Sherlock gave her the once over and instantly his mind started making deductions. Thirty-one years old, married, two—no, three—children, all horrible noisy boys. Had a ham and mustard sandwich for lunch. Self-conscious about the mole on her nose. Her hands looked cold, maybe clammy as well. Don't look at her hands don't look at her hands don't think about her hands touching you don't think about cold, clammy hands ghosting over your skin vampire teeth biting into your neck. . .

Sherlock swallowed hard and forced his eyes away from her hands. He was already breaking rule #3, and the exam hadn't even started yet. He forced himself to focus instead on keeping his breathing slow and even, which was difficult because his chest felt tight and his airway constricted. He was sure he smelled smoke in the room, but neither Donovan nor the doctor appeared to have noticed it, so it must have been only in his mind.

When he didn't respond, he saw the doctor exchange a concerned glance with Donovan, who shrugged. He wanted to say to her to go on and tell the doctor what she was really thinking, but that would be breaking rule #1, so he kept silent.

"Can you tell me what happened to your cheek?" the doctor asked.

"It's nothing," he muttered. "Taken care of."

"What about your hand?"

"It's fine." Was that smoke? He definitely smelled smoke now, but Donovan was still fiddling with her camera and the doctor was consulting his chart and neither of them was reacting, so it was still in his mind. Shut it out. Try to think about Popovic. What was that symbol he carved into his victims' arms? Nope, not working. His mental image of Popovic suddenly sprouted vampire teeth.

He was vaguely aware that the doctor was saying something to him, but he couldn't make out what it was. Suddenly he felt a cool hand on his shoulder and he jerked away involuntarily.

"He doesn't like to be touched," came Donovan's voice. What was she doing? In his mind he shouted at her to shut up. He didn't need to be reminded that he was a freak.

"It's fine," he hissed through his teeth, keeping his eyes on the far wall. He could see out of his peripheral vision that Donovan had her phone out and was staring at the screen with her eyebrows raised. His mind immediately started speculating about what she could have found surprising. Perhaps she had just discovered that the earth went 'round the sun, or was it the other way 'round? Or maybe 'round and 'round the garden, like a teddy bear. . . Oh, god, no, don't think about teddy bears. . .

"All right, Mr Holmes," said the doctor gently, "I'm going to have you lie down on your side now please."

Sherlock was about to comply when he noticed that behind the doctor's shoulder Donovan had snapped the lens cover on her camera and was putting it back in its case. Then she picked up Sherlock's pile of clothes off the bench and said abruptly, "We're leaving."

"What?" said the doctor. "The Crown Prosecutors' office ordered the exam. . ."

"Well, I'm canceling it." Donovan held out the pile of neatly folded clothes. "Sherlock, get dressed."

Sherlock ignored the pile of clothes, narrowed his eyes at her, and pointedly reached for her phone, which she was still holding in her other hand. When she didn't give it to him, he said quietly, "Let me see."

"What makes you think-?"

"You looked at your phone and said we're leaving. There must be a connection. Let me see."

Donovan tapped the screen, which had gone dark, and held out the phone. Just as he was about to take it, she grabbed his wrist and pulled his arm out straight. She narrowed her eyes at the small pink dot on the inside of his forearm, then glared up at his face. Damn. STUPID STUPID STUPID! Why had he been in such a hurry? He should have taken the time to find a less conspicuous place to shoot up.

He forced his face to stay neutral and said nothing, but he couldn't help it that his eyes flicked to the doctor to check if she was watching. She had her back to him, typing something on the computer, so he was safe there. Now he had to trust Donovan to keep her mouth shut. He didn't hold out much hope on that front. He would probably get home to find his brother tearing his flat apart looking for his stash.

After a few seconds, Donovan dropped his wrist and held out the phone again. He snatched it from her hand and saw a text from Lestrade: Found Lindt dead in his flat. Looks like suicide.

Sherlock was so surprised he broke rule #1: he made eye contact with Donovan, whose lip pulled upwards into a tiny half-smile that he couldn't help but match. Trying, and failing, to suppress the grin, he handed the phone back and took his clothes.

"So are you going to leave, or are you planning to stand there and watch me get dressed?"

A/N: Thanks for reading and for all your lovely reviews. Still a few more chapters to go!