Sherlock Dari drabble: Mean Girls chapter.
A/N: This one came to me in the middle of the night when I couldn't sleep. I hope it doesn't suffer from that. As always, the deductions are utter fabrication. Deductive reasoning is not reasoning, because it's not based on logical interrogation of the premises-it's just making conclusions from observation...and I'm not the most observant person ever. I can lose my keys when they're right beside me. John's super-rage is inspired by the wonderful description in chappysmom's excellent Mistaken Identities; I love this lady's work, and she is very accomplished indeed!
This is one of the cases set between 'Dari' and 'Martial Arts I': yes, it's finally happened! It's the explanation for Regina George!
Trigger warning: Mentions of domestic abuse, non-explicit discussion of child abuse, strong language.
They had found the girl hunched up in the cupboard under the stairs.
The case had begun with a perfectly respectable woman, a teacher, bludgeoned to death in her own home then dumped on waste ground a mile away. Jane Sochanik's brutal murder had shocked the local community; she was kind, well-meaning, hard-working; a fixture at the Residents' Association and the church fete with a loving husband and a daughter near the top of her class. Speculation swirled and rumours whispered their way along the leafy street: it had been a burglary gone wrong, perpetrated by one of those feral children from the local estate; some degenerate had sneaked in and robbed her of her life and her husband and daughter of their future. Alex had come home to find a pool of blood in the Farrow & Ball kitchen with his beloved wife nowhere to be found. Distraught, he had called the police, terrified by the absence of Annabel as well as by the carnage in his well-appointed home.
Of course, Sherlock had no time for any of that. Thumbing through the stack of notes neatly pinned to the 'Paws for Thought' board above the dog basket, he found evidence of disagreements centred around the family's finances-specifically those of the wife. In the bathroom, the placement of the razors-pointed straight at the wife's Dr Haushuka face wash-spoke of deep resentments and a less-than-harmonious morning atmosphere whilst the placing of the daughter's toothbrush in the holder in front of her father's was a good indicator of the value placed on each relationship. The husband's wedding ring sealed the deal. It was dirty; frequently removed for reasons other than polishing. The flecks of blood John noticed under it whilst examining the man for shock didn't help matters, given that he hadn't been anywhere near the blood spatter in the kitchen according to his 999 call. As Donovan hauled him outside for processing, frantic attention turned to the whereabouts of the girl. According to the schedule pinned up in her tasteful pastel bedroom, she had been at hockey until half past five, stopping at home at six for dinner before a violin lesson at eight. The 999 call had been made at half past seven: plenty of time for her father to do many things, all of them criminal.
As the SOCOs made their way painstakingly through the house, John noticed that the door of the cupboard under the stairs was slightly ajar. As he made his way over, John could just see a wide set of deep green eyes peering through the slats of the door. As he neared it, they disappeared. He opened in to find her squashed in under the lower stairs and trembling with fright. She shrank back from his outstretched hands.
"It's alright. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. My name's John. I'm a doctor, I'm with the police. Are you hurt, Annabel-can I call you Annabel?"
She nodded, her lips forming a word. Mum.
"Can you tell me what happened, sweetheart? What you saw?"
"Dad came home early from the firm. He was really angry. Mum had been putting money away, trying to get a house up in Manchester near Gran. He called her a lying bitch, we were in the kitchen making cupcakes and he yelled at her. She told me to run, but I only got as far as here."
Greg watched silently, making notes as his mouth thinned into an angry line.
"He took my hockey stick out of my bag, the one under the table. I didn't see what he did after that. I closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears." She sniffed. "I was really scared!"
A single tear dripped from her cheek before she collected herself.
John visibly steeled himself for the next question.
"Had your dad ever hurt your mum before?"
She nodded. "He used to hit her; throw things at her. He called her useless, a liar, a...he used a bad word that I think means a...a prostitute?"
John nodded. "Did he...did he ever hurt you?"
Slowly, not looking at him, she nodded. "Only twice, last week and then last night. I tried to run away and he grabbed me by the wrist. That's why it's all purple. He was getting worse. I think mum wanted to leave."
Gently grasping her hand, turning it so the palm was pointing downwards, John's fingers lightly pressed on the swollen right wrist, and he murmured to her as she winced.
"It's definitely badly sprained, and there's a visible handprint in the bruising too."
His face when he looked up at Greg from his crouching position at the bottom step would have struck fear into the highest General or the lowest infantry cadet. Greg thought even Mycroft Holmes might have quailed a little under the icy gaze. John was incandescent with rage. Searing fury radiated from him, and the crowd of officers and scene examiners parted like the Red Sea as he strode out toward the squad car. Sally looked up, opening her mouth to protest and then shutting it with an audible pop as she saw the expression on the calm and mild-mannered doctor. Yanking up the slouching man into a standing position, she took a warning look at Lestrade, who was standing flush with John's right shoulder-his punching hand.
Taking in John's compact stature and poker-straight bearing whilst the doctor looked to Sally, Alex scowled. This little Hobbit of a man wasn't going to threaten him. He was 6'4, for God's sake! He sneered and prepared to win another pissing match.
Then John turned his gaze on him, and the bottom fell out of his world. His first thought was that he was probably going to die: the man in front of him was definitely capable of killing, that was certain. The second was that he had never been so terrified in all his life. God, he wished he'd never picked up that hockey stick...
Instead of eviscerating him where he stood, John stood in a deceptively relaxed 'at ease' position, legs slightly akimbo with his hands safely clasped behind his back. His voice was light, friendly even, but the assembled Yarders knew something Alex Sochanik didn't.
"Do you know what happens to child abusers in prison, Alex? Oh, you're a lawyer. Of course you do. I hope you enjoy being on the receiving end, because it will certainly expand your worldview. You physically abused a nine-year-old girl. You beat her loving mother to death in front of her and tore any thought of safety and security out from under her. You are not a man, because real men don't treat women like objects or slaves, or use violence to make themselves feel good. They treat others with respect and dignity because they know their worth, and they only ever use violence in self-defence or in defence of others. You are vermin. You are the lowest of the low. You are nothing. If you ever come near that little girl again, I will fucking end you. Is that clear?"
Despite the tears and snot currently making their way down his quivering face, Alex was still cocky enough to smirk down at John, who promptly took a step back, looking at him as if to say 'right, that's it'.
Everybody within a hundred metre radius jumped. John had done being a doctor, and tried being a Captain, used to giving orders calmly and rationally, even on a battlefield. Now he was a commander. Settling back on his heels, then rearing up into Alex's face, John opened his mouth...and roared.
"I WILL FUCKING END YOU, do you understand me? DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!"
Alex was bundled into the car by two slightly skittish constables as Sally looked down at the new puddle on the sunny street with disgust.
Three hours later, with a slightly shocky Annabel safely ensconced in a private bay in the nearest children's ward, John poked his head around the door. Her family liaison officer, a lovely young sergeant called Marie, smiled up at him from her seat next to the bed as Annabel looked up. Her face lit up as she recognised him.
"Doctor Watson! Marie said you might visit!"
"Your auntie's on her way down from Manchester just now, and she said you liked films, so I brought along a couple of DVD's that one of my friends says you might like. We've got...some popcorn? How did that get in here?", he teased. "Okay, there's Shrek, Madagascar, Up, Despicable Me, or Mean Girls."
"Mean Girls", she squealed. "I love Mean Girls, it's like my favourite film ever!"
Marie looked at him sympathetically. "You have no idea what you're letting yourself in for."
John made a funny face at Annabel as she settled back on her pillows, and settled in to watch. When the film finished, he stretched and stood up. Annabel peered up at him sleepily. "Why were you so angry at daddy? You don't even know me." Looking into her puzzled face, John sank back down into the plastic chair. Marie regarded him levelly over her cup of coffee as he cast his eyes around the room.
"I know what it's like to have a daddy that hurts you," he said simply.
"My dad liked a drink, and he was always a very angry, jealous person. He thought mum loved us more than she loved him, so he shouted at her, hit her, called her names...he didn't like who my sister went out with, so he started to do the same to her, to make her be more like he thought she should be. When she ran away, when she was 18, I was thirteen. My mum had died of cancer when I was twelve, so he had no-one else to take his anger out on. I ended up in hospital more than once, but I never told anybody anything. My biology teacher guessed, but I begged him not to say anything. I thought that if I could get good grades and be on the football and squash teams, maybe he'd start to like me. It didn't work. When I was 18, I moved in with my sister and her partner. He died when I was 20. I just don't like people who do that to anybody, never mind children. It's part of why I wanted to be a doctor."
Noting the studied absence of pity or sympathy on Marie's face, he gave Annabel a gentle hug, getting a proper squeeze around the middle in return. He'd never see her again, he knew, but he'd damn well see her father convicted in court.
A/N II: Poor wee John, and poor wee Annabel. Actually, poor Alex, too: I've seen a quitely raging Martin Freeman in a couple of interviews, and the way he says some very snarky things in that light and friendly tone is quite discomfiting, so imagine how shocking a livid Captain Watson is to behold!