Chapter Text
Reddit took until almost 7 p.m. to get flatterfrog’s userdata to them and John felt every minute of the three hours between when he arrived back at the flat and when the email finally came through. Sherlock was crawling the walls, at one point even messaging anyone on Reddit with whom she’d ever publicly interacted. Unfortunately, she didn’t post much to begin with, and, as one would expect, the few users who responded back to his weird, snappish messages didn’t personally know her.
When they finally got the data, through the few locations she referenced, he was able to quickly ascertain that she lived near Canning Town.
Unfortunately, so did thousands of other people.
“She’s probably closer to Custom House, but that barely helps. I don’t see a ‘Rose Tyler’ in that neighbourhood listed in Mycroft’s directories.
John chuckled. “Yeah, that’s not her real name.”
“Of course it’s not. Like I said, no one ever signs up under their actual names on social media platforms, but for once it actually sounds like a real name.”
“I mean, it sort of is. That’s a character from Doctor Who.”
“Doctor Who? Interesting. So we know that she’s a fan, and that she’s a moron.”
“Oi, that’s one of the most popular British shows of all time! I love that show!”
“Yes, I distinctly remember you making me watch an episode several years ago and thinking that it was the most ridiculous thing I had ever seen. Clockwork androids trying to power their ship with organs from an 18th century French woman, let alone Madame de Pompadour? Absurd.”
“It wasn’t just any episode, it was ‘The Girl In the Fireplace’, one of their best!”
Sherlock snorted. “That’s their best? Oh dear.”
“Look, it’s Doctor Who: it’s campy and a bit crap, and it never entirely makes sense, but that’s why people love it! It’s fun! And sometimes really touching.”
“Ah yes, I famously love consuming media that is not only incoherent but also sentimental and overwrought. Your description makes me want to seek out more, well done.”
“Yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking,” John muttered under his breath. “Anyway, Rose Tyler was in that one. She was the blonde on the TARDIS.”
“Not the French girl, the other one?”
“Yeah, the sort of Cockney one, who… huh, maybe flatterfrog identifies with her. Rose is the girl from the rough part of town who’s been underestimated her whole life until the Doctor comes along and whisks her away. Unfortunately for flatterfrog, it sounds like the TARDIS isn’t coming.” John looked off into the distance thoughtfully for a moment. “Our girl posts quite a bit on the Reddit boards about the show, doesn't she? Do you think she might be into cosplay?”
Sherlock stared at him blankly. “Is that some sort of fetish thing?”
“No! Well, possibly I guess, but not necessarily. It’s what a lot of fans of shows like Doctor Who do. They dress up as their favourite characters and go to conventions, like Comic Con. Come on, surely you’ve heard of Comic Con?”
Sherlock gave him a sarcastic look.
“Seriously? I'm hardly up on pop culture, but that’s practically mainstream now! They’re massive expos with a whole subculture built up around them. Actors and writers make appearances and do meet-and-greets, there are panel discussions… Anyway, lots of fans go in character.”
“Would this be the sort of thing that one might post about on social media?” Sherlock asked, getting interested.
“I would think so? I'm hardly an expert. Mary convinced me to sign up for Facebook, but I don’t use it very often… Right, you’ve stopped paying attention.”
Sherlock had jumped up and grabbed his laptop. He quickly opened the program that Mycroft used to scour the internet and entered his brother’s credentials.
“Did you just log in as Mycroft? Does he know you have this?”
“Yes. I used it all the time when I was away.”
“Oh.”
“John, I’m sorry for the reminder, and I know I promised you a conversation, but I can’t do it right now.”
“No no, I know, carry on.”
“What would she have tagged this as?”
“Again, do I look like a social media expert?”
“Ah right, you’re pushing forty.”
“I’m only thirty-eight! Ta, you really know how to make a bloke feel good.”
“If you could please just give me a few ideas for how someone might tag those photos, you can get back to your midlife crisis on your own time,” he said, tapping away at the keyboard.
John rolled his eyes at the back of Sherlock’s head, but started throwing out suggestions. “Hashtag Rose Tyler cosplay, that’s C-O-S play, hashtag Doctor Who.”
That search pulled in nearly ten thousand results, pages and pages of eerily similar-looking blonde women, some of whom were clearly at events but many others simply posing around London and Cardiff.
“Oooh, that one is quite good, actually, she really looks like her…”
“There are too many, we’ll never find who we’re looking for in all this noise. I need to narrow it down. Assuming of course that she does this at all.”
“What if we add the term ‘flatterfrog’? Or even just ‘frog’ or ‘frogs’?”
“There’s no way it would be that simple,” Sherlock said, but he put in the additional terms.
They both sat back, surprised. The refined search had returned three images from the previous year of a group of six women in costume outside of the ExCel exhibition centre with a caption that read, “Frogs Reunion 2012: Heading into Comic Con”. There were dozens of tags, including “rosetylercosplay” and “frogs”, and a bizarre list of frog names: jackedfrog, brainfrog, fastfrog, bitchfrog, cheerfrog…
… and “fatterfrog”.
Sherlock and John exchanged an incredulous look as he expanded the comments.
Edie86: Lol, Becks, you misspelt Nina’s name XD
RebeccaTowny: Whoops! Eh, she’s never on here anyway. Sorry, Flatter!
Sherlock scanned the photos. “I take it that one of those blondes is a Rose Tyler.”
“Yeah, uh, the one with a beehive in the poofy pink skirt. The other blonde is Caprica Six from Battlestar Galactica… I know, you don’t care. What the hell is with the ‘frogs’ though?”
“We can ask her when we meet her,” Sherlock said, already placing a call on his phone. “Mycroft! … Yes, hello to you, too, always a delight… Right of course, how dare I… Look, can you please just shut up so I can get to what I need from you and we can end this call with a minimum of superfluous brotherly conversation? … Yes, I realise that by using the word ‘superfluous’ I’ve just added to the length of this—Christ, Mycroft, just shut up for a second! Right, I need you to run facial recognition on a few photos that I’m sending over because your computers have far more processing power than mine. The priority is the blonde woman with the 1950s updo and pink skirt, but we’ll need her friends too in case we can’t find her… Isn’t preventing a murder in the interest of national security? … Alright, maybe not the nation as a whole, per se, but—oh bastard, he hung up on me.”
Sherlock dashed off an email to his brother, creatively cursing him under his breath as he did, then started impatiently pacing around the flat.
“Sherlock, it’s okay, this is going to work.”
“I know, but even if we stop her before she kills someone, we’re still left with our original problem, which is who is the mastermind behind this?”
“First things first. Prevent this murder from happening and then worry about additional ones.”
The younger man groaned and pulled at his hair in frustration. “I have no idea how we’re going to find Hera, John.”
“Frog first, Hera later.”
That got Sherlock to meet his eyes and chuckle despite his agitation.
A few minutes later, his laptop dinged with an incoming message and he pounced on it, scanning the lines that Mycroft had sent.
“Nina Cottledge, twenty-six years old, address is 39 Lambert Road which is not far from Freemasons and Custom House, I knew it! Lives with a boyfriend named Tyler Barress who has a history of assault. Mycroft says he’s working on the friends, too, but hopefully we won’t need them. Come on, John!”
“Fine, fine, keep your shirt on!”
“And call Lestrade from the cab.”
***
Lestrade had gotten there ahead of them and was already exiting the door of the flat at 39 Lambert Road when their taxi arrived. He went to meet them with a frown on his face.
“Sherlock, listen—”
“She’s not there, is she?”
“No, there’s no one home. I've already texted and called the mobile number you got from Mycroft, several times. But Sherlock, there’s an empty jumbo-sized bottle of Frosty Jack’s on the table next to a full ashtray, so she might be in play.”
John moaned, and Sherlock looked between the two of them, scrunching his face. “I take it that Frosty Jack’s is some sort of alcoholic drink.”
“It’s the kind of sugary booze-bomb that you drink when you’re either a student, dead broke, or have lost all interest in living,” John said with a shudder. “Gets you drunk fast, and gives you a hell of a hangover the day after.”
“Yeah, what John said. To my eyes, the scene inside looks an awful lot like a pre-party. You know, when you have some drinks at home before heading out for a big night at the clubs?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“No, you wouldn’t, would you.” Lestrade adjusted his mindset and looked back at him. “I think, and I believe John would agree, as blokes with relevant experience, that the scene inside looks like someone was planning on going out and getting annihilated tonight.”
Sherlock pushed past Lestrade into the flat’s small kitchen and lounge, taking in the details, and glanced briefly at John, who nodded.
“If she’s getting him blackout drunk, then she’s almost certainly already got him out at the pubs, getting ready to act. I’ve got numbers for three of the other friends from those photos. We should reach out to them, maybe one of them knows where they went. Or…” Sherlock let out a resigned sigh and pulled out his mobile. “Lestrade, can you call the friends? I have another idea, but I hate, hate to have to do this…”
***
In his richly panelled study at home, Mycroft poured himself a snifter of brandy as CCTV feeds from around London cycled through on the large television screen.
He was agitated, and he hated it.
To Mycroft, agitation was a sign of a disorderly mind and he went to great lengths to always keep himself calm, cool, and collected.
Now, his mind was churning and, worse still, the source of his perturbation was emotional.
Emotional!
His irritation had been building over the hours since Anthea had left the office, thinking about the text exchange between her and Mary.
He wasn't angry with Anthea (never her), nor even really with Mary (of course she resents our interference, can't exactly blame her for that), but moreover with himself and a guilty feeling that he couldn’t shake.
Mary called her my secretary. As if Anthea just takes minutes and manages my schedule.
Well, she does manage my schedule, because we go to all the same meetings and she's quite good at it. It took me months to notice that she always plans budget meetings for the end of the day because she knows I find them exhausting—
Stop. Concentrate on the matter at hand.
Why, why, WHY, is this getting under my skin?
In his heart, he knew the answer. He took a large swallow of brandy and sat down heavily at the desk, rubbing a hand over his forehead.
His firmly-repressed emotions were becoming increasingly hard to ignore, which was disconcerting to someone who prided himself on his self-control. Mycroft had built not just a career but an entire life around his reputation as “The Iceman”, the one man unencumbered by personal attachments who reliably operated from a point of pure, cold rationality. It was his best defence and his suit of armour—as long as one ignored the fact that he’d always had an obvious soft spot for Sherlock.
Now he had another. It had been growing for years like a tumour while he’d firmly looked the other way and pretended it wasn't happening.
I can’t have another attachment, another weakness. It’s risky for her, risky for me…
Unfortunately, when it came to Anthea, arguing with his emotions only succeeded in giving him headaches. The tumour had started in his heart but had metastasized to his brain, lungs, and stomach and he suspected that any attempt to excise it now might just kill him.
I like her and I care about her.
Alright, and I always sort of secretly fancied her, too… This past year, all of those feelings have only gotten stronger.
I think I might love—
STOP THAT THOUGHT RIGHT THERE. You can’t.
Denial won’t work forever. I don't really know what love is, but this feeling, whatever it is, doesn’t feel like it can be bottled up and locked away in a safe somewhere.
He pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to calm the conflict in his mind.
Ignore that for now. What, exactly, is making me angry about the messages with Mary tonight?
I’m angry because my inappropriate feelings for Anthea apparently include indignation that someone would so rudely dismiss her, as if she were inconsequential. She’s my second in command, more important to me than anyone else.
And I'm irritated with myself because I could've—no, should've promoted her months ago so that no one would dare to mistake her for an underling.
Years ago, when he’d hired her, he told her that they’d call her a “senior personal assistant” slash agent, but that she’d essentially be his partner. It was hard for him to recall now why he had behaved so impulsively, why he’d wanted to recruit her after less than twelve hours of even knowing she existed, let alone to such an elevated position.
Something within him had apparently known, even then, that he wanted her by his side.
I had no idea how good she’d be at managing our operations, or, frankly, at managing me. And I certainly couldn’t have imagined how much I’d like working so closely with another person.
She’s so far beyond an “assistant”. She's my…
…
… What is she to me?
The words streamed into his mind unbidden:
Essential, irreplaceable, vital, precious, belov—
STOP!
He groaned and dropped his head into his crossed arms on the desk.
I’m doomed.
He jumped slightly when his mobile rang for the second time in two hours. Looking at the caller ID, he rolled his eyes and shook his head to clear it before answering.
“Two calls in one day, Sherlock? Is it my birthday? Oh wait, you don’t call at all for that.”
“Shut up, Mycroft. I need you to track a phone for me,” Sherlock said testily on the other end.
“And you’re ringing to rudely demand another favour! Lucky me.”
“I just sent you a text. Where is she? Nina Cottledge. Lives are at stake.”
Mycroft sighed, but took his mobile away from his face for a moment and forwarded the phone number on to the agent on duty with a request for a trace. “Lives are always at stake, Sherlock. And in this case, I suspect it’s more a life than lives, plural.”
“That shouldn’t matter,” his brother replied indignantly.
“It rather does when you’re asking me to divert resources away from important things like preventing attacks on English soil, but then you never could see the bigger picture. I looked up the details of your case. Your would-be victim, Tyler Barress, is a regular ASBO machine and, assuming that the other two corpses that washed up this past week are any indication, a domestic abuser to boot. I’m supposed to tell my agents to drop everything they’re doing in order to find this woman and save her awful partner whom no one will miss?”
“Mycroft, I don’t give a fuck about the boyfriend, this is not about saving his life. I’m trying to save her from becoming a killer.”
There was a long pause and Mycroft sighed again.
“Her phone is pinging at a location not far from you, a nightclub called the LA Lounge. But, Sherlock, don’t bother looking inside because she’s on my screen right now.”
“What, the CCTV?”
“Yes. When I asked for the phone location, my agents started scanning video feeds nearby. One of the private companies at the end of Bell Lane, behind the club, has a security camera pointed at the river and I’m watching your two targets out there arguing. It looks heated, you'd better hurry.”
On the other end, Sherlock barked orders at Lestrade but then, to Mycroft's great surprise, came back on the line for the briefest of moments.
“Thank you.”
Before he had a chance to process it, Sherlock disconnected.
Mycroft stared at the mobile in his hand, thrown by his brother's expression of gratitude.
Sherlock is getting emotional about this case. More sentiment. Neither of us are supposed to be sentimental, it's a disadvantage.
Dear gods, we’re both coming unhinged.
He got up and poured himself another measure of brandy. On the screen, Nina Cottledge was stamping her foot in frustration as she screamed at her boyfriend. It was a disturbing domestic tableau that his brother was even now racing to get in the middle of.
These are the problems that come from associating with other people. You let them in and then you aren’t in control anymore because your well-being is inextricably bound up in another person. It leaves you open to a world of pain.
Look at Sherlock: he took John in and quickly grew attached to him. He allowed him, no, invited him into every part of his life, his home, and his work, and where did it get him?
It drove him up to the roof of Bart’s hospital, faking his own death in order to save John, knowing full well that his reputation would be destroyed and that he’d possibly lose him forever anyway.
Two years ago, when Sherlock had come to him for assistance with engineering his “suicide”, Mycroft had asked him point-blank: what if he succeeded in taking down Moriarty’s network and endured all the hardship that that would entail, but at the end of it all John wouldn’t forgive him?
“I don’t care. Better to know that he’s still alive and hopefully happy without me.”
At the time, Mycroft had privately pitied his brother for his weakness and congratulated himself for being above such idiocy.
Now, he wondered what he would’ve done if he were in Sherlock’s position and Anthea had been threatened. Back then, they’d been working together for two years but he wasn't quite in love with her yet.
There's that bloody word again.
Regardless. Would I have done the same for her? Was I already attached to her but unaware of it? Possibly, I couldn’t say.
Feeling how I do now, what if I hadn’t risked everything to save her?
The thought was unbearable. And it no longer mattered because now, he would go to the roof and take the fall, no questions asked, and hope that she’d be there when he returned.
And wish her well if she weren’t.
He took a sip of his brandy and sat back down at his desk, considering.
Having a partner hasn't been all bad for Sherlock, though. His drug use has largely fallen by the wayside, and some of the cases he's solved he likely wouldn't have without John’s assistance. One could make a credible argument that John makes him a better detective.
The solution to his problem tonight, at least, seemed clear. Inconvenient and difficult, but clear.
She helps me think more creatively, execute operations, and stay steady in the face of adversity.
It's a risk, relying on another person, but having her beside me makes me stronger and I need to recognise how important she is. It’s long overdue.
And there’s no point in denying it anymore.
Steepling his fingers in front of his lips, he began to outline a plan.
***
Sherlock sprang out of Lestrade’s car the second it stopped near the top of Bell Lane, noting that another team of officers had already arrived on site and were quietly organising an armed intervention. Among them was Sally Donovan who was watching Nina Cottledge and Tyler Barress arguing on the riverfront through a pair of binoculars.
This won’t do. Nina needs a chance to stand down.
“Lestrade! This isn’t Guy Fawkes trying to blow up Parliament, this is one woman and her boyfriend, and she hasn’t technically done anything illegal yet. We can’t even be sure that she dosed him. Tell your people to stay back and let us try to reach her before we bring in the cavalry.”
“I know, I know,” Lestrade replied, and picked up his radio. “All officers, hold your positions. Do not, repeat, do not engage the targets unless I give the word.”
“Have they spotted us yet?” John asked.
“No, don’t think so,” Sally said. “They’re completely trollied. I doubt they'd hear a tank approaching.”
Sherlock nodded. “Do you have a bullhorn handy?”
“Yeah, of course.” He held out his hand, asking her for it, and she scoffed and turned to Lestrade. “Oh come on, sir, you don't seriously intend to let Sherlock play hostage negotiator?”
Lestrade glanced at Sherlock, who looked calm and determined, and came to a decision. “I do. We’re going to let him have a crack at this.”
“But sir—”
“SALLY. We are giving Sherlock a chance.”
She looked put out but handed over the bullhorn. “I hope you know what you're doing.”
“So do I,” Sherlock said and strode down the lane towards the scene with John close behind.
“What’s the plan? Any idea as to what you're going to—?”
“No clue, John.
He'd been trying to come up with a plan on the drive over but had eventually given up and hoped that he’d magically know what to say in the moment.
Now, the moment was here. He was standing two hundred feet away, listening to Nina and Tyler screaming at each other, and his mind was completely, utterly blank.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. This was foolish. What can I possibly say to this woman that would be of any use at all? The guilt is going to make her suicidal once she pushes him in, and who am I to argue against that? Lord knows I thought about it myself plenty of times, I sometimes don't know why I haven’t. Relating to people has never been my specialty, and now I’ve volunteered to try to save someone who’s at their lowest, most vulnerable point, and I’m going to fuck it up.
“Hey.”
He was jerked out of his thoughts by two strong hands gripping his arms and looked up to see that John, beautiful, wonderful, courageous John, was standing in front of him and looking steadily into Sherlock’s eyes.
Determination, faith, warmth, confidence. His face is always like an open book. How could I have forgotten that? I feel like I haven’t really seen him in ages, not since…
Not since the rooftop of St. Bart’s.
“Don’t overthink this. I know you, and I can tell that you’ve taken this case personally for some reason. Something in you understands what Nina is going through, so forget your audience and just speak to her. Call her back from the edge.”
Sherlock’s mind cleared in a blinding flash of light and the words were suddenly on his lips.
“John, my John, you’ve always been my conductor of light,” he said with a small smile before turning serious. “I’m sorry you have to hear this.”
“It’s alright. I’m here, I’ll always be here.”
Sherlock nodded and John squeezed his arms again before stepping back and facing forward, unconsciously coming to parade rest by his side.
He took a deep breath and raised the bullhorn.
“Nina, don’t do it.”
Both of the figures by the riverfront jumped at the sudden intrusion. Even though he couldn’t make out the details of their faces at this distance, he could imagine their expressions.
Nina will be guilty and terrified, probably sobered up just now. Tyler will be confused and ready to start swinging because this idiot always throws fists first and thinks later, if at all.
“Who the fuck are you, then? Piss off! Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something here?” Tyler yelled as Sherlock walked forty yards closer with his hands held up in the air to clearly show he wasn’t a threat.
He stopped and raised the bullhorn again. “Nina, you haven’t done anything yet that can’t be taken back. I know you’ll have figured out why I’m here, you’re a clever woman. Do you see those cars further back, behind me? That’s the police. It’s over. Please, please stand down.”
“Who the fuck is—what the fuck is this posh twat going on about, Nina?”
“I don’t—”
“What did you fucking do?”
“I didn’t—”
“What did you fucking do, Nina??”
“Shut up!! Shut the fuck up, Tyler! Just for once, in your miserable fucking existence, SHUT THE FUCK UP!!”
“What did you say to me?” he snarled, his fingers curling into a fist, ready to hit her.
“Tyler Barress, if you don’t put that hand down immediately, I’ll tell everyone about what your dear mommy did to you when you were still wetting the bed at age twelve,” Sherlock warned in a bored voice, taking a few more steps forward and sensing that John had followed.
Tyler sputtered, his mouth opening and closing, but did lower his fist, glancing around shamefully. “How did you know that? Who are you?”
“I’m the man who’s going to save your worthless life. The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and this is my best friend and colleague, Dr John Watson.”
He was close enough to see Nina’s facial expression change to one of curiosity. “Wait, the Sherlock Holmes?”
“No, the other man with that moronic name. Yes, the Sherlock Holmes. You read the papers, I take it?”
“Yeah. Well, Metro, since it’s free. Dr Watson’s blog, too. I know Sherlock Holmes is back, but there’s no way you’re really him because why would he bother with someone like me.”
“You’re quite wrong about that.”
“Prove it. What book did the smugglers use for their code in the case with the Chinese hairpin?”
Sherlock was thrown for a minute, not expecting that question out of nowhere. “Uh, it was London A to Z. But how—”
“What was the fortune in John’s cookie on the first night he looked at your flat?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“‘There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before,’” John piped up from behind, holding his hands out in front of him to try to reassure her. “Hi, Nina, I’m Dr Watson, and he really is Sherlock Holmes.”
“How the hell did she know that, about the fortune cookie?” Sherlock asked him, sotto voce.
“I think it was in my blog post about that night, but that’s a really obscure detail.”
“What the hell else are you putting in that blog??”
“Table that convo for now, don’t you think?”
Nina had missed their whispering, too busy gasping excitedly about John’s reply. “Oh my God, I’m a huge fan!”
“This is that detective bloke you were always nattering on about a few years back, the one who killed himself?” Tyler asked her, not taking his eyes off Sherlock.
“I told you then, and I was right, that he was innocent and he wouldn’t kill himself!” she said gleefully, her predicament momentarily forgotten.
“I thought he’d be taller… Wait, but Nina, why is there a detective here who knows both our names with half a dozen police cars behind him? What did you fucking do?”
“She hasn’t done anything, yet,” Sherlock broke in, having walked close enough to the couple that he no longer needed the bullhorn. “Nina, if you follow the news, you’ll have seen by now that two bodies washed up on the Thames foreshore this past week. Drownings. What the papers haven’t mentioned, because nobody else knows, is that both victims had trace amounts of xylazine in their blood in addition to massive levels of alcohol.”
Her face had drained of colour. “No… I didn’t… I wasn’t going to…”
“The victims had no connection to each other, but their romantic partners had both been talking to someone on Reddit named AngryHera. Ring any bells?”
She closed her eyes and sucked in a breath, looking faint. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Nina, what is this? You, detective-bloke, did you say bodies?”
“Tyler, I’m going to have to echo Nina here and ask you to please shut the fuck up.”
“That's fucking it, now you're—” Tyler yelled, starting to lurch toward Sherlock but yelping in surprise when Nina grabbed him by the neck. She’d produced a switchblade out of her jacket pocket and was holding it to his jugular.
“Nina!” Sherlock and John both said simultaneously. John recovered first and grabbed Sherlock’s arm when he started towards her, shaking his head when the detective looked up at him.
“This was not my idea! I didn’t want to have to do this,” she said, starting to cry softly with the blade pressed to Tyler’s neck. “I DIDN’T WANT TO DO THIS!” Her wail echoed off the water and Sherlock thought he could hear Donovan’s team cocking their weapons in anticipation of moving in. “He's got me trapped. If I let him go now, I’ll go to prison and he’ll just be waiting for me outside like nothing happened and the whole cycle will start all over again.”
How do I get through to her?
“Nina, you don’t have to do anything. Even now, nothing has happened tonight that you can’t come back from. We can get you help. I have connections in the government and I’ll pull strings to ensure you don't spend time in prison. You haven’t crossed the line, and you don’t want to, not for him, for Tyler Barress. I have some experience with bullies myself and I know what they’re like.”
John’s eyes flickered to him for a moment. Nina was crying and shaking her head, but still had the now-terrified Tyler in a vise-like grip.
“You’re just saying that. If you really knew what it was like…” she trailed off, tears rolling down her face.
“I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through, but I can take a few guesses,” Sherlock said, keeping his eyes looking determinedly straight ahead at her because he didn’t want to see how John’s face would change by the end of this story. “When I was sent off to boarding school at thirteen, my demeanour didn't exactly endear me to my classmates, especially the older boys. They made a sport out of tormenting me: 'Oh, it's a lovely day; let's grab Sherlock after class, my fists could use a workout.’ The ringleaders came from two of the school's wealthiest donor families, and the headmaster hated me anyway so he dismissed it with that favourite phrase of enablers everywhere, ‘Boys will be boys’. Weekly assaults became a regular feature for me, and I accepted it because I quickly learned that if I fought back, the beatings were much, much worse. And then they escalated.”
John, I'm sorry, I never wanted you to have to know about this.
“When I was sixteen, I went home one weekend for my mother's fiftieth birthday party. I came back to school that Sunday to find that, after returning from the pubs, two of them had broken into my room and urinated in my pants drawer. The staff claimed that they didn't have enough evidence to say conclusively who the perpetrators had been, but I knew.”
Sherlock cast his eyes to the ground, wishing it would swallow him whole. “And then three weeks after that, they came to my room at two a.m., held me down, and took turns ejaculating on me, which was awful, and degrading, but at least, unlike the beatings, didn't physically hurt. That went on for a few weeks. Sometimes they’d force me to touch them. ‘Help a bloke out, lend me a hand, har har har…’ Once, they took photographs, and I lived in fear of them leaking out.” He shook his head. “It was a dark time.”
He could sense without looking that John's mouth had dropped open and his eyes had turned sorrowful.
“I'm looking for neither pity nor consolation. It was nearly twenty years ago,” he snapped.
“Oh, Sherlock,” John said sadly. “What did you do? Did it stop, eventually?”
Sherlock snorted. “Mycroft. That's my brother, Nina, whose meddling in my life I generally loathe but in this case I welcomed. He was twenty-three at the time and starting a career in government. Well, I say ‘starting’, but he's even more intelligent than me and better at thinking strategically, so he’d already attained a position of considerable power.
“Mycroft came to visit me, out of the blue. I sometimes wonder if he sensed that something was wrong. He took one look at me and his face did something like what I expect John's is doing right now, just utterly crumpled, and then something cold took its place. ‘Who, Sherlock? Who was it?’ I don't know what he did, but they never touched me again. The headmaster looked green when he passed me in the halls.”
Sherlock paused before going on.
“Everyone always has a clever idea when you tell them about something like that, don’t they? ‘That’s a shame, but why didn’t you try going to the cops?’ ‘Why didn’t you call this or that person?’ ‘I would’ve fought back!’ Or my personal favourite, ‘Why didn’t you just yank it off?’ Oh, I don’t know, maybe because that would’ve earned me a broken jaw? It seemed easier at the time to just go along with it. And the accompanying shame keeps you quiet.”
Nina was nodding fiercely. “‘But he’s such a great guy! That can’t be true!’ Sure you think that, Mum, because he’s an angel in front of you, but when he gets you alone…”
“People make excuses because nobody wants to think that they could find themselves in that kind of situation, so they rationalise. It wouldn’t happen to them because they’d be braver, less passive; they would never allow themselves to become a victim. What we understand that they don’t is that the frog is boiled slowly.
“Nina, I know how it feels to be ashamed and to think that you're worthless, tainted… maybe even better off dead. But you're not. Tyler might've made you feel that way, but it is he who is degraded, not you. I will call my brother. I promise, I will do everything I can to get you the support you need and see to it that Tyler here never contacts you again. Please, you just have to trust me and put down the knife.”
Tears were streaming down Nina’s face, but her grip on Tyler's neck finally relaxed and he skittered out from under her grip as she dropped the blade and then sank to her knees on the ground. Sherlock released a deep breath that he hadn't even realised he was holding and heard the sound of footsteps crunching towards them over the gravel.
“Sally! Lestrade! She stood down, please don't use cuffs!” John said, stepping forward to intercept them, and Sherlock offered a silent thanks to any available deities for the existence of John Watson.
“I'll bring her in,” he said.
Nina was weeping pitifully into her hands, the knife lying forgotten several feet away. Sherlock kicked it in Lestrade’s direction and went to Nina’s side, offering a hand to help her up. She looked up at him for a moment, her face disconsolate, but then took it and allowed him to pull her to her feet.
“Well, despite the circumstances, it's rather nice to meet you,” she said with a guilty laugh. “Do you often have to arrest your fans?”
Sherlock smiled slightly and shook his head. “Usually, if the subject of an arrest is familiar with my work, they are not at all fond of me. But no one's getting arrested here,” he said firmly. “You will be taken to Scotland Yard, I'm afraid, and they'll want you to answer some questions. I'll have many for you later tonight about your interactions with Hera. But please don't say anything to the police until I've gotten you set up with a solicitor. I meant what I said, I'm going to call my brother to get you help, but I can't vouch for every listening ear in the station.”
She nodded gratefully. “Okay. Okay.” Suddenly a fresh burst of tears came out and she sobbed into her hand. Without thinking, he patted her on the shoulder and was surprised when she leaned into his chest, crying softly into his lapels. “I'm so sorry for all of this, I can't even tell you. I don't know how it got this far,” she said, hiccoughing.
He awkwardly stroked her back and made what he hoped was a soothing noise. “I know. Believe me, I know.”
***
She'd eventually settled down and Lestrade managed to get her into the back of his car.
“Take good care of her, Lestrade. I'll be sending over a solicitor shortly; please don't let any of the other idiots try to have a go at her before he or she arrives.”
“I know, Sherlock, I'd figured as much. Say hello to Mycroft for me.”
Mycroft answered Sherlock’s call like he was expecting it. “And here's the trifecta. Hello, Brother Mine.”
“Do I even have to invite you to shut up?”
“No, I saw this coming. You want me to secure representation for our dear Nina Cottledge, don't you.”
“Yes. She's never done anything wrong in her life until now.”
“And she's started out with attempted murder! Ambitious.”
“You and I both know that that's not what this was.”
“I know,” his brother admitted. He sounded tired. “I'll send Tanninger, he's quite good.”
“Is he who you would hire for me, were I in her place?”
There was a pause. “Yes, he is. You really have taken this one to heart, haven't you?”
“Do shut up.”
“Sentiment. Not wise, dear Brother. Still, I hate to admit it, but I agree with you that this woman deserves a second chance. I hope she proves worthy of it.”
“She will,” Sherlock replied emphatically. “Also… who was the therapist you wanted me to see when I came back from the dead?”
“Her name is Indira Bhattacharyya, and she's excellent. Am I calling her for an appointment for you or for Miss Cottledge?”
“For Nina for now… but I might think about seeing her in the future. Possibly. I'm not promising anything.”
“All I ask is that you think about it.”
“Mycroft…”
There was silence for a long moment on the other end of the line. “Yes, Sherlock?”
“I never said thank you for what you did when I was at school. Dennis Maffrey and Hal Penton. I don't know what you did, exactly, but thank you for putting a stop to that.”
There was an even longer pause and Sherlock fancied he could hear Mycroft’s mouth opening and closing in shock. Finally, his brother cleared his throat. “I just wish I'd caught it sooner.”
“It was enough.”
“Thank you, Sherlock.”
“Do us both a favour and don't mention it ever again. And tell that solicitor to get a move on!” he finished, pressing the button to disconnect before the conversation got any more awkward. “John!” he called out, wheeling around to look around for him and almost bumping into the shorter man, who had been standing behind him. His face was a complicated swirl of emotions and Sherlock gulped.
“Hey,” John said gently, as if worried that he might spook him like a deer.
Not far off, in my current state.
Sherlock hunted for something pithy to say to alleviate the tension but couldn't think of anything.
“So it seems that the TARDIS came for Nina after all,” John said, smiling faintly.
“Who is the Doctor in this scenario: me or Mycroft?”
“Oh definitely you. Mycroft is the Master. That’s not a good thing, don’t worry.”
“Thank God, I was ready to lodge a complaint.”
John chuckled, and they both fell silent for a moment.
“It's been a heavy night. But uh, I don't think we're done yet, right? We should probably go to the Yard and meet her new solicitor, I'd imagine?”
“Yes. That is what I was intending, but… I'm sorry, John, I probably owe you yet another conversation now.”
He shook his head with a soft expression. “No no, no apology necessary. We'll have plenty of time to talk later tonight. Or tomorrow. It's all fine.”
Sherlock smiled at him and hoped that John would be proven right.