Johnny Blue-Eyes

Chapter 30: Saint Monica, pray for us

Sherlock was unable to convince John to drive him straight home, even though he did everything but all-out beg. He needed to be someplace private, preferably RIGHT NOW, so he could try again to get his mind palace in order. He had hoped that attending the inquest would help him get closure, but that apparently had not worked either. The only thing he had been able to think about was Where is Redbeard? And that just wasn't helpful in the slightest. And being confronted by Donovan wasn't helping either. Hadn't she done enough damage? Why was she trying to interfere in things she knew nothing about? Infuriating.

"Hey, Sherlock! You there?" John's voice intruded on his mental turmoil. That tone meant John had probably been trying for quite some time to get his attention.

"Yes. What?" He snapped back, hoping that the edge in his voice would make John back off, but alas.

"Are you hungry?" John's voice had an edge to it as well, moreso than that simple question typically contained. Sherlock took note and decided to tread lightly.

"I promise I'll eat later," he lied. Placating John was an excellent strategy for this situation, he decided. After John left he could do what he liked, but he had to get rid of him first.

"Have you got any food in your flat?"

"Yes. Maybe."

"Which is it?"

"I don't remember."

"Let's stop for take-away. Kabobs or Italian?"

"I thought you weren't staying." Sherlock thought longingly of his stash tucked away under the floorboard in his bedroom. If things got too hairy in his mind palace, at least he had that as an escape.

"I'm not. I'll take some home to Mary. She's been dealing with Alice all day and she's probably starved."

"Fine. I don't care. Whatever you think Mary and Alice will eat."

"Fine," John barked. "Italian it is." Hmm, apparently the placating was not going as well as Sherlock had hoped.

"Fine."

So Sherlock ended up riding the rest of the way home with a bag on his lap that held a container of lasagna that he had picked at random from the menu just to get John off his back, and an order of breadsticks that John had insisted he add. How tiresome. Although the warmth that was soaking through his trousers from the bag did feel nice. And the smell of the bread was making his mouth water, which annoyed him even though he knew it was unreasonable.

About six blocks from Baker Street, John suddenly steered the car over into the parking strip and pulled up the handbrake. Sherlock glared at him, but John kept staring straight ahead, mouth pressed in a straight line. That was John's "angry" face, but Sherlock didn't have the patience to deal with it right now.

"Why are we stopped? I thought you were taking me home."

"I will, but I want to talk to you first."

"You mean talk AT me," Sherlock huffed.

"Call it whatever you like. You can just shut up and listen, because I am going to say this, no matter how long it takes."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he kept his mouth shut and stared moodily out the windscreen. There was no stopping John once he got on a roll, so he might as well just stay quiet and get it over with.

"First, you need to call Molly Hooper and tell her what is going on. You know she was in tears today? She figured it out on her own, but she needs to hear it from you."

Sherlock was about to interrupt to say that he didn't owe Molly an explanation, but a warning glance from John made him break off with a huff.

"Yes, you do need to tell her, because she cares about you and she deserves to know what's going on. She's been a good friend to you and you owe her that much. She also said you've been seeing vampires, which you did not tell me about, I'm sure because you knew how I would react. Next time you see one, you will tell me. Agreed?"

"Yes, fine." Sherlock bit out. I'll do that never, he thought. If Molly already had it figured out, what was the point of telling her? What did John expect, that he would take her out to dinner and give her all the gruesome details over dessert? That would be excruciating, not to mention unnecessary. He didn't think he could handle the look of pity on her face.

"Now as to Sally Donovan. . ."

Oh, God, not this again. Sherlock knew he didn't owe Donovan anything. There was no friendship to protect with her. Donovan could go fuck herself as far as he was concerned.

"If she lied on the stand today—I'm not saying she did but I know you think that—it was to protect YOU. She risked a lot for you by doing that, and you owe her an apology and a thank you." John said in his serious dad-lecture voice. "No, keep your mouth shut," he added in response to Sherlock's intake of breath. Sherlock sank back in his seat and scowled fiercely at the glovebox. "You don't have to like her, but you do have to treat her with respect. Now let's talk about Mycroft, shall we? Or rather, I'll talk about Mycroft and you'll listen. I know you two have a history that I don't quite understand, but I also know that Mycroft does indeed care about you, despite his protestations to the contrary. He saved your life by helping you play dead, at great risk to himself. Just like you saved my life by stepping off that roof, even though I didn't understand it at the time. You may not like all the ways Mycroft tries to control you, but you do have to acknowledge that he does it out of love."

Sherlock was about to protest that John was being ridiculous, that Mycroft couldn't love him, because Mycroft didn't love or even care about anyone, but he bit his tongue when he saw the set of John's jaw. This was don't-mess-with-me-or-I-will-fuck-you-up John, and the only safe course of action was to sit quietly and take it.

"I know you can't see it, but you are hurting Mycroft by constantly pushing him away." John gave a small nod, as if agreeing with himself. "There, I can't make you listen, but I've said my piece and I'll stop now—No, you're not allowed to speak—I'll take you home now, and if you promise you will stay sober and phone me in the morning, I'll leave you alone. Promise?"

"Yes, I promise." What John didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Sherlock would be more careful this time about his injection site so no one would find the track mark.

"Fine, good." John took a deep breath and pulled the car back onto the roadway. True to his word, he didn't speak again, and when they pulled up in front of 221 Baker Street, Sherlock got out and slammed the door behind him without saying goodbye. As he pulled out his keys, he heard John's door open and slam shut as well, and then John was standing behind him.

"I thought you weren't coming in."

"I'm not staying. Just need to do one thing." John caught the door as soon as Sherlock opened it, pushed his way past him and bounded up the stairs. Muttering to himself, Sherlock followed more slowly. By the time he reached the door to 221B, John was already headed through the kitchen to Sherlock's bedroom, and a few seconds later he came out with a small cloth bag clutched in his fist. Sherlock's stash. Shit.

"Just making sure," John said, and headed out without waiting for a response, slamming the door behind him. Well, there was that option gone.

As soon as John left, Sherlock immediately shoved the food into the refrigerator so he wouldn't have to smell it, as it had suddenly gone from appetizing to nauseating. He locked the door to his flat (hoping, perhaps in vain, that it would keep Mrs Hudson out), toed off his shoes, and flopped down on the sofa without removing his coat. The flat was cold, he told himself. It wasn't like he was trying to hide under his coat, despite what John thought.

He pushed aside John's lecture, which had been wrong on nearly every point. It hadn't been worth correcting him on it because it would just lead to an argument. Where John was concerned, it was much better to simply wait him out. Without anyone to argue with, John would soon wear himself out and then he would leave him alone. He congratulated himself on coming up with this clever strategy for fending off John's intrusions into his personal life.

Now, on to the mind palace. With his newly healed hand tucked under his chin, he visualized the front door of the mind palace and was pleased to discover that his repairs from his previous session had held. He could still see smoke damage around the windows, but it didn't seem to be any worse than the last time. So far so good. Next job: find Redbeard.

He entered the front door cautiously, expecting to have to conjure up a torch again, but this time the lights came on, flickering a bit and dimmer than he would have liked, but at least he wasn't standing in complete darkness like his previous visits. He started off down the hall, slowly, peeking in all the doorways looking for Redbeard.

"Redbeard? Come here boy!" he called as he neared the corner, but the dog did not appear. He rounded the corner, thinking of only the dog, but was brought up short when he heard the strains of Three Blind Mice again, played haltingly on a three-quarter sized violin. Suddenly a vision of a dead Joshua Strauss floated in front of his eyes—blue-skinned, tongue out, eyes black. . . Sherlock felt his breath coming faster, harsher. GO AWAY! he shouted silently at the apparition, and it vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving behind the faint scent of smoke.

He stood outside the closed door for several minutes arguing with himself about whether he was going in. Yes, he must. He had to deal with this; if he didn't, he could go insane. If the vampire's death hadn't made it go away, then it wasn't going away on its own. He had to deal with it, now.

He carefully felt the knob to find that it was no longer hot to the touch, although as he turned it and pushed the door open a crack, a puff of smoke came out through the opening. The door was lighter than he remembered (but then again, the last time he had entered this door he had been shrunk to child-sized) and he opened it just enough to slip inside.

The smoke was thick up along the ceiling, but thinner at his level, especially if he hunched over a bit. The lights were on, although they were dimmed by the gray mist that shrouded the room's contents. Sherlock peered around, squinting through the smoke that clogged his throat and set his eyes to streaming. Across the room he spotted a smallish figure seating in the wooden chair with his back to him. Would this be Joshua Strauss again, with his swollen blue face? Or would it finally be little Sherlock sitting in that uncomfortable chair? He wasn't sure which one would be worse.

After a quick glance around the room to determine the vampire wasn't lurking in a corner, he took a cautious step forward until he could make out that the boy had short, straight hair. The color was more muted than he remembered, more of a sandy brown than the usual bright ginger, but there were no unruly dark curls, so it wasn't himself he was seeing. After the second step, he could see, through the haze, a large dark shape next to the boy's knee. What was that?

He took another step, then another, until he could make out that the dark shape was Redbeard sitting next to the boy, with his chin on his knee. Sherlock squinted at him in surprise. So this was where Redbeard had gone, but why?

The boy continued to scrape the bow over the strings inexpertly in a halting rhythm, not seeming to notice Sherlock's presence. Now that Sherlock was closer, he could see that the boy's hair was definitely more of a light brown rather than ginger. Who was this, then, if not Joshua Strauss?

Sherlock came around the front of the chair and tried to see the boy's face, but as soon as he did so, the boy stopped playing, laid the violin on his lap, and lowered his head. Sherlock frowned down at the hair which was neatly combed back over a widow's peak. It seemed familiar.

The boy sniffed and dragged his sleeve across his nose, while his other hand tangled itself in Redbeard's fur, scratching behind his ears just like Sherlock knew he loved. Biting his lip, Sherlock lowered himself to one knee and peered upward into the boy's face, which was streaked with tears. Freckles, too-pointy nose, rounded jaw. . .

"Hello, Mycroft," he said softly.

Sherlock found himself sitting on Mycroft's front steps in the dark, staring out into the rain at nothing. He didn't know why he was there. He certainly didn't want to talk to Mycroft, but he had to get closure on this somehow, and his latest visit to his mind palace had convinced him that perhaps John was right (on one point, anyway) and Mycroft was the key.

After several minutes, he heard the door open behind him and a sliver of light illuminated the steps, casting his shadow on the walkway. He turned just enough to see Elenor's stout figure silhouetted in the doorway.

"Come on in, Sherlock," she said simply. "He's in the study." It was always "Sherlock" with Elenor. Mycroft was "Mr Holmes," or even "sir," but Sherlock was just Sherlock. He supposed it had to do with the fact that he had been a rebellious, obnoxious sixteen when she had met him, prone to showing up at Mycroft's door at all hours when he needed desperately to escape his mother's nagging but had nowhere else to go.

Sherlock wordlessly got to his feet and edged past her into the entryway. Elenor stood waiting to take his coat, but Sherlock just pulled it in more tightly around himself and headed off down the hallway in the direction of the study. He hadn't made up his mind to go in yet, but his feet led him there anyway.

The door stood halfway open, and Sherlock could see Mycroft sitting in a chair facing the fireplace with his back to him. The back of his neck was lightly freckled, just like in Sherlock's mind palace. Sherlock closed his eyes, but he could still see the image on the inside of his eyelids, so he opened them again, to find Mycroft had half-turned and was regarding him with a raised eyebrow.

Silently, Mycroft held up an empty tulip-shaped stem glass and a decanter of cognac. Well, it was too late to run away now. May as well take the opportunity to waste some of Mycroft's expensive stash. Sherlock crossed the room and took a seat in the other armchair facing the fire while Mycroft poured a healthy serving of cognac into the glass.

Mycroft held out the glass and Sherlock took it carelessly, almost disappointed when none spilled on the leather upholstery of the overstuffed chair. He swirled the cognac around in the glass, staring into the amber liquid for a long moment before taking a small sip that trailed like fire down his throat.

Finally Mycroft, who was also staring into his glass, broke the silence. "Do you know why Lindt committed suicide?"

"I imagine he realized he was a paedophile monster who didn't deserve to live," Sherlock blurted out bitterly.

"No. Sergeant Donovan talked to him."

Sherlock snorted into his cognac. "She tends to have that effect on people."

"She told him what would happen to him in prison. She told him to plead guilty to avoid a trial."

Sherlock's eyebrows pulled together in the middle while he digested this bit of news. Donovan could lose her job over a stunt like that. It seemed highly unlikely that she would risk herself to spare him having to testify. She must have had some other motive. "Why would she do that for me? She hates me."

"She didn't do it just for you, you self-centered git. She also did it for me and all the other victims."

"I don't understand."

"Oh? You don't understand self-sacrifice to save someone else?" Mycroft put down his glass and dug around in the pocket of his dressing gown. "Hold out your hand."

"Why?"

"Just do it, please."

Frowning, Sherlock held out his hand palm down, concentrating on keeping it steady. "I'm not high."

Mycroft silently took his hand, turned it over, and placed something warm and light in his palm. Sherlock gazed at it curiously: a small silver pendant on a tarnished chain. When he held it up, he discovered the jump ring that had held the clasp to the chain was broken. He carefully turned the pendant over in his hand to find a relief of a woman, seated, with a staff across her lap. The folds of her dress were worn almost smooth from years of handling. . . Oh, he recognized this pendant.

"This is Sergeant Donovan's necklace," he said with a frown.

"Yes. It fell off on her way out Lindt's door."

"How did YOU get it?"

"Figure that one out, clever boy." Mycroft took an unconcerned sip of his cognac.

"You were there too, at Lindt's."

Mycroft's eyebrows did a little nod of acknowledgement. "Yes, I went there later, after I saw her on the security video. He hadn't decided whether to take only one pill or all of them. I helped him make up his mind. Then. . ."—Mycroft paused to drain his glass with a grimace—"I deleted the evidence."

Sherlock rubbed the pendant between his thumb and forefinger, an oddly comforting gesture, while he thought about that. It didn't make sense for his straight-laced brother to risk his reputation, and even his career by breaking the law in this way. "Why? To get out of the assault charge?"

"Is that what you think?"

"If not that, then why?"

"I couldn't bear to watch you self-destruct," Mycroft said, staring into the remains of the amber liquid in his glass. His voice was hard, almost fierce. "He hurt you once; I wasn't going to let him hurt you again. I couldn't undo what I did by keeping silent back then, but I could protect you from further harm now."

"Maybe I wanted to testify."

"You know as well as I do that Ms Sorrell wanted revenge over her ruined career and reputation. If you had taken the stand, she would have stopped at nothing to destroy you."

Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the small pendant and squeezed it tightly. "If you cared so much about protecting me, why didn't you do anything at the time?" he asked bitterly.

"I couldn't," said Mycroft, shaking his head.

"Yes, you could have. If you had just said one word—one word, Mycroft—this never would have happened to me."

"I did what I could."

"Which was what exactly? Bury your head in the sand? Hope it wasn't happening?"

Mycroft sighed. "I was away at school. I didn't know you were having lessons with him. As soon as I found out, I did what I could."

"What does that mean? Did what you could?"

"I arranged for a different teacher for you."

Sherlock frowned. A different teacher? He had a fuzzy memory of a large, frizzy haired woman waving a conductor's baton in time to a ticking metronome on the mantel. "You mean that Polish woman with the sour disposition and unpronounceable last name?"

"Mrs Tzmielewski, yes."

He made a face. "I called her Mrs T. She hit my knuckles whenever I said it wrong."

Mycroft's lip pulled up again. "Ah yes, the lisp that Mummy indulged for far too long. She thought it was adorable. She thought YOU were adorable. You certainly had her fooled."

"You told her to switch me to a different teacher? She didn't tell me that."

"That doesn't mean it isn't true. Mummy didn't want to be seen as taking orders from me."

Sherlock set his glass down on the side table and busied his fingers with attempting to fix the jump ring on Donovan's necklace as he processed this information. An image of little Mycroft in tears, sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair, kept pushing its way to the forefront of his mind. That little boy was trapped, just as he had been.

"Why did you do that?"

"I didn't want you to get hurt. Despite what you think of me, I wouldn't wish that on you. I know I haven't always been the best big brother, but I tried. I l—" Mycroft broke off, staring hard into his empty glass, as if he might find his fortune written there. He let out a huff, then took a quick noisy breath. "I care for you, Sherlock."

Sherlock sat in silence, facing the fire but watching his brother out of the corner of his eye. Whatever happened to "caring is not an advantage?" His brother cared about nothing and no one. Proclamations of caring were so far outside of what he had come to expect from Mycroft that he had no idea how to respond. He could hear Donovan's voice echoing in his head, "YOU are the only one he cares about." Could she possibly be right?

Without looking up, Mycroft said, "Aren't you going to say it too?"

"Say what?"

"That you care for me too?" A tiny lilt in the intonation turned it into a question, one that Sherlock was not prepared to answer, but he could not help that his mouth twitched upward at the corner.

"Who says I do?"

Mycroft's head didn't move, but his eyes cut to the side, and when he caught a glimpse of Sherlock's face, the corner of his lip twitched upward as well.

Sherlock pushed himself out of his chair and held out his hand to return the necklace, but Mycroft shook his head. "No, it's your responsibility now."

"What am I to do with it?"

"I don't know. . . keep it, melt it down it for an experiment, use it to blackmail her. . . Or you could give it back to her."

Sherlock frowned down at the broken chain and worn pendant, warm from his body heat. Damaged, Donovan's voice whispered in his ear, and then Molly's voice chimed in. We are all damaged; what matters is what we do with it.

He carefully tucked the necklace into his pocket, drained his cognac in one go, and headed out the door without saying goodbye. He was halfway home before he realized that he hadn't felt any ghostly hands touching him for the entire day, and he hadn't seen the vampire for at least a week, not since Donovan had shoved his clothes into his hands with a stupid grin on her face. Did that mean he was gone? Sherlock had no idea.

Sherlock put his hand in his coat pocket and rubbed his fingers over the ridges on the small silver pendant. His mind palace was damaged but could be repaired. Donovan had perjured herself to shield him from having to testify. John had deduced where his stash was hidden. Mycroft had said he cared for him, and had proved it by driving a man to suicide for hurting him. The whole world was upside down, but he wasn't sure he minded.

A/N: Nearly the end of the story! I'd love to read your review. It would make me oh-so-happy!