Johnny Blue-Eyes

Chapter 28: Redbeard, where are you?

After Donovan dropped Sherlock off at home, where he got out and slammed the door behind him without even a goodbye, she went back to NSY to face the music. She knew it would only be a matter of time before Lestrade or someone else recognized her on the security video from Lindt's flat. Even though she had tried to keep her face turned away from the camera, she was sure they would be looking for the mysterious woman who had called on Lindt. Someone would find her necklace, and eventually they would put it together, and then her career would be over. Oh well, it had been a good run, she supposed.

When she showed up at the door to Lestrade's office, he said, "Hey, Sally, just the person I wanted to see. Here." He held out a handful of videotapes. "Can you please go through these CCTV videos from Lindt's building and see if he had any visitors last night."

"Visitors?" she said weakly.

"Yeah. We found some takeout containers in his flat from Sushi Palace and a bottle of Oxycontin filled yesterday from the Boots around the corner. We need to see if he. . . um. . . had any other visitors."

"Oh. Ok." No mention of the necklace yet, which was good. Maybe it had fallen off on the pavement somewhere. She reached out her hand for the videos, but Lestrade didn't pass them over right away. Instead he looked down at his desk with his eyebrows furrowed. Oh, God, he must suspect. . .

"Boss?"

"Yeah, it's just that—well—I'm worried that maybe Sherlock went there last night. He never showed up to help me with the interrogation. His brother says he lost track of him in the morning and didn't find him again until late at night."

Donovan blinked. She was fairly sure that Sherlock was off somewhere getting high last night, but how could she tell Lestrade that without getting him into more trouble? And what if he had paid a visit to Lindt after she left? "What do you want me to do if I find. . . something on the tape?"

"Just come and tell me. I'll figure something out. Coroner's ordered an inquest. We've got to keep this above board."

"Lindt wasn't in custody when he died."

"No, but you know Cummings; he's cautious. You'd better get started right away. I really hope the evidence will show this is straight-up suicide due to remorse, but whatever we find, we've got to do the right thing."

"Yeah, right. Ok." Donovan took the tapes and trudged down the hall to the media room, while disjointed thoughts buzzed around in her head. She had been at Lindt's flat around 18:00, which meant that she was bound to turn up on the tapes she held in her hand. So what to do? What to do?

She reviewed her options while she set up the first tape in the player. Oh, who was she kidding—she had no options. Within a few minutes, it was all going to come out. She resolved that when her visit showed up on the tape, she would tell Lestrade everything and throw herself on his mercy. Not that it would change the outcome, but she hoped at least he would be on her side.

She started watching at 17:00. The CCTV camera had been on a motion sensor, which meant it only switched on when someone approached the door. At timestamp 17:34, a dark-haired woman in a green coat came to the door and let herself in with a key. Probably a tenant, but Donovan took a photo of her face anyway and kept going.

Three more people arrived between 17:40 and 18:17, all of them men, and all of them apparently tenants. Donovan kept waiting to see herself on the screen but it didn't happen. After 18:17, the next arrival was at 18:52: a woman, OAP* in an enormous purple overcoat, carrying a tiny dog in a clashing plaid jumper. Donovan hit the pause button and squinted at the screen. Where the hell was her own appearance? Surely it had been before 18:52, because she remembered she had come out of the tube station at 17:58. She had had her phone turned off because she was paranoid, so she had glanced at the clock on the way out of the tube station. If she left the station at 17:58, and it was only about a ten minute walk at the most to Lockyer street, then she should have arrived between 18:10 and 18:15. Why wasn't she on the tape? It was bizarre, and slightly creepy. She knew she had been there, so what had happened to the video evidence? Had the camera malfunctioned and simply not clicked on when she arrived? Or had the tape been tampered with? And if so, why and by whom?

Still puzzled, Donovan hit the play button again and kept watching from 18:52 onward. At 19:37 she found a visit from a delivery boy wearing a blue and white waistcoat that said "BOOTS" on the back. So had Lindt had the pills delivered after she had left? That would mean he had most likely made the decision to kill himself based on what she had said, which caused the anxious knot in her stomach to harden and grow.

Donovan made herself a note to look up the phone number for the Boots in the neighborhood to confirm the delivery, and kept watching. At 21:16 another delivery boy arrived carrying a white bag labeled Sushi Palace. He pressed the button for flat 101, so there was Lindt's dinner. Last meal. And probably an expensive one too. She was familiar with that restaurant, having been there once with a wealthy boyfriend. It was a high-end sushi place, too rich for her blood. Boyfriend too—she had dumped him after he took her for a ride in his Bugati Veyron expecting it would impress her so much she would fall into his bed.

While Donovan was writing herself a note to call Sushi Palace, her mobile buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out and answered it without checking the caller ID. "Sally Donovan."

"Sergeant Donovan, why did you cancel the medical exam?!" came Sorrell's furious voice. Shit.

"Lindt is dead. There was no point."

"The coroner is planning an inquest."

"I know that."

"So we need that information. Sherlock needs to submit a statement and be questioned at the inquest."

"That's Cummings' call, not yours. I'll tell him I'll testify."

"I want Holmes up there. How do you know he didn't say or do something to push Lindt to commit suicide?"

Donovan felt her neck and ears heating up with rage. God, the woman simply would not quit! "He didn't! I'm reviewing the security video and he's not on it. You just want to humiliate him! If you want to be angry with someone, be angry with Moriarty. He fixed the jury."

"Holmes ruined my reputation and humiliated me in front of the press. I want him to pay!" Sorrell hissed.

"Just drop it, Sorrell! It's over!"

"What about the brother? We've still got charges pending against him, haven't we?"

"The complainant is dead. Those charges can be dropped."

"Only if I decide to do so."

"How about this," Donovan spat. "You drop those charges, or I'll go to your boss with what you said, how you threatened to leak a victim's name to the press."

"You wouldn't! What's got into you, Donovan? I thought you'd be on my side, with how he dragged you through the mud too. Let you think he was dead for two years."

"What I think of him is beside the point. He was six years old and he was an innocent victim! He deserves protection and respect, not more abuse. I'm on the side of justice, Ms. Sorrell, and that means I won't condone further traumatizing a victim of sexual assault. Now if you try one more thing—just one more phone call or attempt to humiliate him or his brother, I'll call your boss. And even worse, I'll tell Mycroft Holmes what you threatened to do."

"Yeah? I put in a good word for you with my boss over your improper use of civilians to steal evidence for you. Don't make me regret that."

"You couldn't possibly regret it more than I do! Now piss off!" Donovan jabbed her finger into the end button and slammed the phone down onto the counter, breathing hard. She had promised Sorrell that Sherlock hadn't visited Lindt, but she remembered what he had said on the way to the exam about his definition of justice: Lindt dead on a slab, and now that was exactly what had happened. She couldn't be sure that he hadn't been there until she finished reviewing the security tape. Of course, just because Sherlock didn't show up, didn't mean he wasn't there. Maybe the camera hadn't recorded his visit either, just like it apparently hadn't recorded hers.

Molly was running behind again (When was she not?). She still had the autopsy report to finish up for Owen Sprott, along with two accident victims, an overdose, a apparent-heart-attack-but-suspected-food-poisoning, and a body which had been brought in Friday evening after she had left, a 79-year-old male who came with a note that said "RUSH—Inquest requested."

She finished the report on Sprott before she started on the new one, because she knew DI Lestrade had a suspect in custody and was waiting on it. Once it was finally signed and sent off, she got started on the new body. The others could wait their turn.

She did an external exam first. Rainer Lindt, age 79, obese, bad teeth with at least a dozen fillings and cavities, apparent untreated abscess of an upper molar. No external injuries visible, no petechia, nothing under the fingernails. Traces of whitish powder in the fingerprint ridges of his right forefinger and thumb.

She made note of her findings, and then made the Y-incision for the internal exam. Half an hour later, she had found evidence of moderate congestive heart failure, chronic pyelonephritis, pulmonary fibrosis, advanced atherosclerosis, and a gallbladder full of stones. If someone had wanted this guy dead, there would be no need to kill him—they would have been better off just waiting a few years until his internal organs finished him off.

When she opened up the stomach, she discovered what she was sure was the immediate cause of death: at least twenty small, white, partially-digested pills, mixed in with the slurry of what looked like partially digested seafood. She would have to run tests on the powder on his fingertips, but she would bet it came from picking up the pills to put them in his mouth.

Just as she finished weighing and cataloging the stomach contents (not her favorite job by far), the door swung open. Ah, yes, Tuesday again, so that'd be Sherlock. She was about to greet him when she realized that she had forgotten to call John about what he had told her last week about the vampire. Crap. When she got too busy at work, she lost focus and couldn't keep things like that in her mind.

"Hey, Sherlock," she said without looking up, and was surprised when a woman's voice answered.

"Hullo, Dr Hooper."

Molly looked up. Sergeant Donovan? Molly didn't know Donovan was on any of the cases she had landed lately. Donovan never came to the morgue unless she had to.

"Oh. Hello, Sergeant, how can I help you?"

"I need to see a—oh."

"See what?"

"That's the one." Donovan gestured toward Lindt's body, but didn't come any closer.

"Rainer Lindt? Was this your case?"

"Sort of. Not any more, I guess."

Molly didn't quite understand what Donovan was getting at with that, but she let it go. "Hmm. . .ok." She carried on weighing the enlarged spleen and returned it to the stomach cavity.

"Do you think it was suicide?"

"Well, I haven't finished the autopsy yet, but I've found no signs of struggle, no wounds. He had a lot of partially digested pills in his stomach, and no evidence he didn't take them voluntarily. I'll have to wait for the tox report, but I'd say suicide is the most likely scenario at this point."

"There's going to be an inquest."

"I saw that. Do you know why?"

Donovan took a step closer, staring at Lindt's slack face. "Do you know who this is?"

"Um. . ." Molly consulted the file, which was lying on the cart next to the exam table. "Rainer Lindt, age 79."

"Paedophile violin teacher."

Molly paused in her task of checking the integrity of the liver (diseased but no signs of trauma) and raised her eyebrows at Donovan.

"Oh! From the news?"

"Yeah."

"I see. So I guess your case is over then?"

"Yeah, not exactly the outcome I expected, but I can't say I'm too upset about it."

Molly squinted at Donovan's face, which didn't look "not too upset." Her lips were pressed together and her eyes were scrunched up. It almost looked like she was about to cry.

"Everything all right, Sergeant?"

Donovan swallowed hard and rubbed her face. "I'm all right. Can't say the same for—" She broke off abruptly, rubbed her face again, and continued. "Well, probably or the best, I guess. Don't have to go through a trial."

"I suppose not."

Donovan started backing away. "Anyway, thanks, Dr Hooper." (thanks for what, Molly wondered) "I'll—I'll see you later. She headed toward the exit, only to almost run smack dab into Sherlock who had just come through the double doors on his way in. For an awkward moment, they both sort of danced around each other. Molly held her breath, bracing for a fight. She knew the two of them didn't get on. She had heard Donovan call Sherlock names, most notably Freak, but there were others that made Molly wish she were the sort of person who knew how to throw a punch. But she had also heard Sherlock lay into Donovan with an extra dose of his usual scorn, so he probably deserved what he got.

However, this time, instead of starting a fight, Sherlock just stepped back and waited for Donovan to pass. Donovan hesitated, chewing her lip, eyes on his face, but he didn't look at her, and after a couple of seconds she brushed past him and out the door.

"Hi, Sherlock," Molly greeted him while she returned the kidneys to their place inside the abdomen. His reply was to hold up a small jar and set it on the counter. Right. Sample day. "Ok, thanks."

Molly removed the spleen and placed it on the scale, expecting that at any moment Sherlock would either walk out or start pestering her for more body parts, but he did neither. When she turned back to look at him, he was standing in the exact same spot, staring blankly at the body on the slab. Molly looked back and forth between Sherlock and the body, frowning. What was wrong with him? It wasn't like this was the first time he had seen a dead body.

"Sherlock? Do you need something?"

"Um—yes—I did some research on the—on the—" He broke off, still staring at the body without moving.

"Sherlock? Research on what?"

He blinked and looked at her like he had just realized she was there. "I did some research on the cuts on Sprott's arm. I think they were made by a Shirogorov 111. Very thin, sharp blade."

"Oh, all right. Did you figure out what the design is?"

"It's from an old form of the Cyrillic alphabet. It took me a while to figure it out because I couldn't. . ." He trailed off, eyes cut to the side to look at the body again.

"Couldn't what?" Molly prompted.

"I had to look it up. I can send you the link."

"Ok, thanks. Hey, do you have a few minutes? I'm almost ready for a break. Maybe we can have lunch together."

"No time. I have to go."

"Go where?"

"You know, busy busy." He gave her a fake grin that disappeared immediately, shot one last glance at the body on the slab, and escaped out the door without saying goodbye. Well, that was strange, but she supposed it was no stranger than his typical behaviour.

She decided to take a break from the post-mortem on the old man, since it was nearly lunchtime anyway and she was at a good stopping point. She still needed to take samples of blood, bile, vitreous humor, and other organs, but those could wait until after lunch. That way she could do a quick analysis on Sherlock's sample while it was still fresh.

Twenty minutes later, she made a face and pulled out her mobile. She knew Sherlock didn't have gout, so his sample shouldn't contain traces of Colchicine (did he think she was a complete idiot?). Maybe it was nothing, but the fact that Sherlock was trying to pass off someone else's sample as his own again made her concerned. He must be hiding something, and if so, John needed to know. And while she was at it, she could tell him about the vampire sightings as well.

John answered on the fourth ring, just as she was mentally preparing a voicemail.

"Hello, Molly." His voice sounded harried, and she could hear the baby wailing in the background.

"Oh, hi, John, um. . ."

"Everything all right?" The baby gave another shriek, and John hushed her. "Quiet, Alice, I'm on the phone!"

"I'm sorry, this sounds like a bad time. I can call back later."

"No, it's fine. What's up, Molly?"

"I'm a bit concerned about Sherlock. . . "

"Oh? You too? What's he done?"

"Well, he came in today and left a sample, but I don't think it's his. You didn't prescribe any Colchicine, did you?"

John gave an exasperated scoff. "No, not that I know of. What a git."

"So I don't know if he's. . . well, he didn't stick around for me to collect a real sample, so who knows?"

"All right, Molly, I'll check in with him. Thanks."

"Also. . ."

"Was there something else?"

"Has he been talking to you about what's going on with him lately?"

"Yeah, a bit. Did he tell you about it?" John sounded surprised, which made Molly curious. What would there be to tell?

"Not really what was going on, but he said. . . I mean, did he tell you about. . ."

"About what?" John shouted over the baby's sudden deafening scream.

"I—I'm sorry; you're busy."

"Yeah, a bit—Alice, put that down!"

"It's fine, I can just tell you later."

"Molly, I think I already know everything. No, Alice, don't pull on that!" There was a loud clatter, then the baby gave another earsplitting wail. "Oh, now you've done it."

"Everything all right?"

"Alice pulled some pans down on herself. Now she can pull herself up she's become a right menace."

"I'll let you go. We can talk later."

He rang off with a hurried, "Ok, great, bye." Molly pocketed her phone with relief. Of course John knew everything. There was no need to worry.

Sherlock had planned to stop by the Yard on his way home to check in with Lestrade, but his head was buzzing too much. He had hoped that seeing Lindt's body on the slab would give him some closure, but all it did was increase his anxiety. He needed to calm himself down, but he didn't dare go find another stash. He might have gotten away with the swap this time, but Molly would figure it out eventually, and then he would have either John or Mycroft tossing his flat and making noises about rehab. In fact, he was a bit surprised Mycroft hadn't already been at his flat with his sniffer dogs, considering the suspicious look in Donovan's eyes when she examined the inside of his elbow.

"221 Baker Street," he told the cabbie. He needed to get some things tidied up before the hammer fell. He needed to be rid of hard evidence before John and/or Mycroft showed up. If he could stay clean, then by tomorrow the injection site should be completely healed, and his system should definitely be clear so it would be safe to give Molly a real sample. Tomorrow he would be in the clear.

When the cab stopped in front of his flat, he could see before he got out that the knocker was still crooked, so Mycroft still hadn't been there. Four days already since Donovan had inspected the inside of his arm and still no follow-up from Mycroft. The British Government was slipping.

As soon as he entered the front door of the building, he realized he had been wrong because he could smell Mycroft's cologne. Shit. Time to get a new tell. He looked up to see Mycroft standing at the top of the stairs leaning on his umbrella, watching him with a pensive expression on his face, so it was too late to run.

"Took you long enough. I expected you on Friday," Sherlock grumbled, pushing past Mycroft into his flat. No stench of adolescent body spray, so no Anderson this time. Was Mycroft alone? Or was John hiding inside somewhere?

"John called me a half hour ago. Isn't your drugs test on Tuesdays?"

Ah, so Molly, not Donovan. Surprising, but he supposed Donovan had been too busy to call just yet, what with all the recruiting of convicts to break into houses for her and conspiring with the CPS to humiliate him. "You didn't mess up my sock index, did you?"

"Oh, shut up, Sherlock. You don't have a sock index."

"Yes, I do. You just don't understand it."

Mycroft heaved an affected sigh. "I didn't bother searching here because I knew I wouldn't find anything."

Sherlock prowled the room, willing himself not to look toward his bedroom where he knew there was a stash hidden under the loose floorboard. Mycroft would find it if only he bothered to walk on the board and hear the squeak. "Then why are you here?" he groused. "Are you planning to drag me off to rehab? Or worse?"

"I would if I thought it would do any good."

"Then go away."

"I wanted to talk to you."

"Well, I don't want to talk to you."

"I thought you'd be relieved."

"Why would I be relieved?"

"Lindt is dead. You won't have to testify."

"Sorrell and Donovan both hate me. I'm sure they'll find some other way to humiliate me. Don't you have a job to do? Why don't you shove off?"

"Sherlock. . ."

"GET OUT!" He gave Mycroft a push toward the door.

Mycroft kept his footing, unfortunately, and turned back when he was halfway out the door. "Mummy and Dad are quite concerned about you. They want you to come stay with them for a while."

"Absolutely not."

"Sherlock, if you aren't able to care for yourself, then we will have to do it for you. Mother and I agree on that, at least."

"I can take care of myself!"

"Oh? You've been a near-hermit for the past few months. And now a drugs relapse. . ."

"I don't need mothering!"

"Then prove it! Pull yourself together! If I don't hear from John that you are at least putting in an effort to rejoin society, I will be back here to pack you a suitcase."

Mycroft picked an imaginary speck of dirt off his tie, smoothed his jacket, and left with his nose in the air. At least he was gone, although Sherlock had no illusions that this might bring an end to his attempts to control everything. Why couldn't Mycroft just leave him be?

Sherlock's phone buzzed, two short buzzes, so a text. He pulled it from his pocket, and discovered a text from Molly. I'm sorry, I had to tell them. Please tell me you understand.

He had also apparently missed three messages and five texts from John, the last of which was sent forty minutes prior and said simply, I'm calling Mycroft. Sorry.

Sherlock tossed the phone on the sofa so hard it bounced off onto the floor. If John were truly sorry about calling Mycroft, why would he do it in the first place? Why not just stay out of it?! Why did everyone think they needed to be his mother? He didn't need a mother. He didn't need friends. He didn't need anyone! He could solve his own problems!

Oh yeah? his mind taunted him. You won't even enter your own mind palace because you're afraid of vampires. Useless! Damaged!

All right, that was quite enough. He would enter his mind palace. He would take control, if only to stay out of Mycroft's clutches. The vampire was dead, so it couldn't hurt him anymore.

His mind helpfully reminded him that just because people were dead in the real world didn't mean they were gone from his mind palace, Moriarty being a case in point. Better hope he didn't escape from his padded room in the dungeon. So would he find the vampire shut back up in his room again? If so, he could put a lock on the door and never go there again. But that would mean entering the room at least one more time to check.

If that was what he had to do, then he would do it. No more of this pussyfooting around. He had to check if the mind palace was still standing, and if it was, he had to get to work making repairs. He had his Work to do, and he needed the resources of his mind palace. He couldn't spend the rest of his life looking up everything on the internet like the rest of the goldfish.

Without removing his coat or shoes, Sherlock flopped down onto the sofa and tucked his fingertips under his chin. He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing (which took several tries but was ultimately successful, so he called it a win), and pulled up a mental image of his mind palace. The door was still off its hinges, but there was no smoke pouring out of the open doorway, so that was an improvement. He could spot extensive smoke damage, but the structure was still standing. Ok, so far so good. First order of business: fix that damn door.

It took him five tries to get the door standing upright again. There was still a hole in it, and the hinges still weren't right, but he couldn't picture how they were meant to go, so it would have to do. At least it was upright, although a strong wind might undo that progress.

The lights were still out as well, but this time on his third attempt he was rewarded with a strong torch that provided more light than the dim candle he had ended up with previously. Yes, things were definitely looking up.

With a bit more spring in his step, he strode down the hallway, past the camping rooms and around the corner. When he spotted the blank gray door, now intact and tightly shut, he came to an abrupt halt. While he stared at it, the door appeared to grow in size again until he was eye-level with the doorknob. Despite his suddenly pounding heart and labored breathing, he took a step toward it, then another. He was almost to the door when the music started: Three Blind Mice, played clumsily on a scaled-down violin.

Sherlock stopped dead, swallowing hard. His mind obligingly supplied him with an image of the ginger-haired boy, Joshua Strauss, with his blue-tinged face and bloodshot eyes. Oh no. Nope. Not ready to see that again. Horrified, he pushed the image away, backed away from the door, then fled down the smoke-damaged corridor in search of Redbeard.

Only this time, Redbeard wasn't in his room. Sherlock searched up and down the hallways, calling "Redbeard! Come on, boy!" with increasing anxiety, but the dog never appeared.

*An OAP is an Old Age Pensioner. In America we would say Senior Citizen.

A/N: Thanks for reading. Reviews make my little heart go pitter-pat.