Too Close to Holmes - 5/?
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5 - A Nibble
John was confused.
"What?" He said, staring. "You're going to pose as a rape victim?"
Sherlock simply turned to glare at him. He opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the door to the office bursting open, and Mycroft Holmes burst through the door.
"Sherlock!" He exclaimed, his ordinarily calm, controlled eyes alive with rare emotion. "What do you think you're doing?"
"My thoughts exactly." Lestrade commented, his arms crossed. "Sherlock, you're insane!"
"Ok, ok." John said. "Can someone please explain to me what exactly is going on?"
There was a brief hesitation, in which Lestrade and Mycroft looked questioningly at Sherlock, before, with a brief nod from the Consulting Detective, Lestrade began to explain.
"January 5th 1989 was my first proper case at the yard, once I'd moved beyond the typical traffic watching and walking the beat." He explained. "It was... horrific. This kid was found in a park in Kensington. He'd been raped. This was... even now it's one of the worst I've ever seen, and they'd carved the numbers zero-one into his back."
John nodded, glancing briefly at everybody else in the room. Mycroft had moved to sit on the chair behind Lestrade's desk, looking mildly nauseous, while Sherlock was staring blankly out of the window. Anderson and Donovan were both, like John, looking interested but confused.
"It was only the day before his tenth birthday." Lestrade continued. "But this kid was something else. He was weird, not doubt about that." Lestrade snorted slightly at this, glancing again at the Holmes brothers. "He was in shock, really spaced out, but every now and then he'd kind of snap back to himself and say something brilliant. Things about how the guy's clothes felt cheap, so he obviously wasn't well off, so couldn't live in a place like Kensington, but he smelt of gardening compost, so he either lived somewhere with a garden or worked in a garden centre or as a gardener. Bright as a button, you know, and, it turned out, just this guy's type."
"His type?" Donovan asked, her eyes looking slightly wary, her face pale.
"Beautiful kid." Lestrade clarified. "The kind you'd see playing the lead's kid in a film or something. All porcelain skin and dark curls. Bit of a cherub. He always goes for the same kind of kid. The same look."
"Ok." John said, breathing deeply. "And Sherlock's thinking of pretending to be this kid, right?"
"Oh, for the love of God, don't be thick, John!" Sherlock snapped, turning to glare at him. "Even Anderson will figure it out before you, at this rate. Think about it! Look at all the data! The fifth of January 1989 was the day before his tenth birthday! I was born on the sixth of January 1979! And in front of all the cameras today, I've been showing him proof of who I am!"
John stared, his eyes wide, the pieces slowly, reluctantly, falling together in his mind. "What proof?" He asked, praying to a god he had long since stopped believing in that he was wrong.
Sherlock turned his back, lifting the back of his shirt as he did.
Carved into the alabaster-white skin of his back, shining silver but clear against the already white canvas, were the numbers 01.
"Oh god." John muttered, staring, horrified, even after Sherlock had dropped his shirt. "I think I'm going to be sick."
There was silence in the room, as John, Anderson and Donovan absorbed the new information.
"And Lestrade?" Sherlock added, shattering the stillness. "If you ever describe me as a cherub again, I will fulfil all of Donovan's expectations and kill you myself. Violently."
"Anyway," Lestrade said, choosing to ignore Sherlock's threat. "Sherlock, you just can't go handing yourself on a plate to the man who abused and raped you! You just can't!"
"I can and I will!" Sherlock shouted. "If anyone has a right to catch this guy it's me! This case has been nagging at me for twenty-two years! I want it over and done with!"
"You think catching him will make it go away?" Lestrade replied. "This isn't just another case, Sherlock! Just catching him won't make you forget what he did!"
"No." John said, staring at Sherlock, his eyes wide with a sudden revelation. "But it will give him closure." Sherlock sat down on the edge of the desk, his eyes fixed on John, as though he couldn't believe that it was him of all people supporting his plan. "Maybe then he can start to move on."
Lestrade said nothing, just looking between Sherlock, John and Mycroft, rubbing at his face anxiously. "Alright!" He finally growled. "But you're working so closely with us on this one we're practically joined at the hip, you got that, Sherlock? You try to go off by yourself and the drugs bust won't be fake! We'll turn your place upside down until we find something. That clear?"
"Crystal." Sherlock replied with a smirk. "Now, are we done here? I think I can be excused a cigarette given how my week's been so far."
John stood and followed as Sherlock stalked out of the door. On his way out, he heard Mycroft's final comment.
"Marvellous. He's relapsing back to smoking. Should I make an appointment with the drug rehab and the eating disorder clinic now, or wait to see which he needs first?"
"Why didn't you tell me?" John asked, as soon as they closed the door to 221b Baker Street.
"It wasn't relevant." Was Sherlock's reply. "There was no need to talk about it. And there still isn't."
John nodded, recognising the dismissal. "Should I order Chinese?"
"Not hungry."
John sighed and nodded again, cringing as Mycroft's quip about eating disorders echoed in his head.
"Can I borrow your laptop?" Sherlock asked, already lifting the lid on John's computer.
"You don't normally bother to ask." John commented.
"Well, you've had a bit of a shock." His flatmate replied as he typed in the password. "If I made you angry the rise in blood pressure would probably kill you."
John nodded, sitting down on the sofa and picking up the newspaper. He had barely glanced at the front page, however, when Sherlock swore, jumped to his feet, and pulled a cigarette from his pocket, pacing in a small circle in front of the computer as he lit it.
"What's wrong?" John asked, standing up and waving a cloud of smoke from his face with a glare at Sherlock. The only reply he received was a vague towards the laptop before Sherlock disappeared behind another cloud of smoke as he sucked vigorously on his cigarette.
John glanced down at the screen and saw Sherlock's emails were open. "What is it?" He asked.
"A nibble." Sherlock replied. "He's taking the bait."
John stared, horrified, before looking down at the screen again in alarm.
One new message was open on the screen:
Leave it alone, Sherlock.
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