Overflow Post
This post is for responding to prompts from prompt posts that are full, or continuing WIPs that have already been started but the prompt post is now full or near to full.
PLEASE POST ALL NEW FILLS TO THE NEW OVERFLOW POST!( Read more... )
PLEASE POST ALL NEW FILLS TO THE NEW OVERFLOW POST!( Read more... )
“Which of the woodwinds do you play?” Sherlock sounded the same way he had when he had spoken to Moira Aherne - warm and pleasant.
“The flute. How did you -“
“Any musician who plays a brass or woodwind instrument will have a particular lip configuration and discoloration of the teeth. That pattern is narrowed in the woodwinds, due to the fact there is less space.”
“Do you always know so much about people? Just from looking at them?” Phillip didn’t sound angry or irritated; he seemed intrigued if anything else.
“Some of the time, yes. It’s just a matter of knowing how to look.”
“Are you an artist, then?”
“No, I’m a detective. Never could match what I see on paper. I suppose you consider yourself an artist?”
“Not really, but I like to draw.”
“In the margins of your schoolwork?”
Phillip laughed. “Among other places. I mostly do my drawing at home. Sometimes I go to the park to do it, though.”
“Since you said you draw, I assume you’re using pencils or something similar to that.”
“Colored pencils. Ordinary ones occasionally. I like those best to draw because you can use your finger to make the shading look better.” There was a moment of silence. “You have calluses on this hand. Do you play the violin?”
Sherlock could be heard to chuckle warmly. “Tell me what made you think I do.”
“Well, you have calluses on your fingertips on this hand. Like from pressing down with a stringed instrument. It can’t be the guitar because your nails are short on both hands, and guitar players keep their pick hand nails long. That means it has to be one of the orchestra strings since they’re played with a bow. After that I just guessed, because the violin is what more people play than the viola or cello.”
“Very smart of you. You’d make a good detective.”
“Thank you.”
“When did you start to play the flute?”
“Year three in school. If you took an instrument you could get out of class every day. I picked the flute because it didn’t look like it would break easily.”
John glanced over at Lestrade to see he still had a surprised look on his face. He understood - even after all this time it still seemed surreal to have Sherlock be so genuinely nice.
“I had a violin tutor from when I was young. Younger than you were when you started to play.”
“I didn’t think I’d like it as much as I did. But I like how it sounds. Nice and sweet.” Another pause, this one longer than before. “You know, we’ve been talking for a while and you haven’t asked me any questions about how I broke my arm yet.”
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“That is correct. I haven’t.” Sherlock’s voice was level, calm. “Do you want me to ask you about it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must be feeling very confused right now.”
“I don’t want to get in trouble.” Phillip sounded weak.
“May I ask you some questions? If you don’t want to answer, just tell me.”
“All right.” His voice was so soft it was almost impossible to hear.
“Did your arm get broken by someone else?”
“Yes. It was an accident though.”
“What do you mean by an accident?”
“I was arguing with someone. My arm got twisted; I think it was going to be held to my back, but it snapped.”
“What were you arguing about?”
“I don’t want to tell you that.” Shame was evident in his voice.
“What happened after your arm was broken?”
“I heard something snap, so I thought I should go to the clinic at Bart’s.”
“Did the person who broke your arm agree with that?”
“Yeah. Bart’s was the nearest and - “ He abruptly cut off his sentence. There was another long pause. “You’re a detective, right?”
“Yes, I told you that. Is there something about that you want to ask me?”
“If I get arrested, would you be able to help me?”
“Possibly,” Sherlock gently reassured him. “Do you think you will be arrested for something?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you think you’ve committed some sort of crime?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you mean you don’t know if what you did was a crime, that you don’t remember if you did commit a crime, or that you’re not sure if someone else will say you committed a crime?”
There was a very long silence. “The first, and the third.”
“Did someone tell you that you had committed a crime?”
“Yeah.” His voice was low, almost inaudible again.
“Was this the same person who broke your arm?” There was another long period of silence. “Should I take that as a yes?”
“It’s not what you think,” Phillip responded slightly defensively.
Up until this point everyone had sat in silence to listen to the tape. Lestrade broke the silence by blurting out: “What does the poor boy think he did that he’ll be arrested for?” Sherlock glared at him sharply in response, and he said no more.
“If that person broke your arm, even if it was an accident, then they’ve committed a crime.”
“I don’t want to get in trouble,” he repeated.
“I know this is very hard for you. But I need to ask you some more questions. When you said on the intake form you were sexually active, was that the case?”
“Yeah,” he whispered.
“With only one person, or more than one?”
“Only one.”
“Is this person older than you, your age, or younger than you?”
“Older.”
“An adult? Someone over eighteen?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know how old.”
“You do know that this person is guilty of another crime besides breaking your arm.” He sounded gentle and warm.
“I… don’t know.”
“I know that you must have a lot of feelings for that person. You might even love them. That doesn’t make it any less of a crime.” Phillip didn’t respond, but he gave a muffled half-sob. “I understand how you feel.”
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“Yes, I do. When I was your age I knew a person like that, right in my neighborhood. I didn’t always like whatever they did, but I still loved them a great deal.” Lestrade didn’t say anything to this, but his eyes widened. Sherlock wasn’t looking at him, so John felt safe enough giving a quick nod and making a gesture of silence.
“Were you having sex with them too?” John was somewhat impressed that Phillip was willing to ask something like that so bluntly.
“Yes I was. I had been doing so for a while, in fact.”
“How old were you when you met this person?”
“I was four years old.”
“Me too.”
“Where did you meet?”
“At work. I mean, where they worked.”
“This person doesn’t work there anymore?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Do you know where this person lives?”
“No. There’s a flat I’ve been to but I don’t think anyone lives there. Not a lot of furniture and it’s too clean.”
“That’s smart of you to figure that out.” Sherlock sounded proud.
“Thank you.” Phillip sounded shy.
“Do you know where this flat is?”
“No. I have to shut my eyes when I get in the car. We drive around a lot.”
“Phillip, you’ve done a lot of good work today. I would like to talk to you again if that is all right.”
“That would be nice.” He sounded like he had perked up a bit.
“Just a few more questions. Does this person have a first or last name that begins with a K?”
“Yeah. It’s their first name.”
“Do you know any more of their name?”
“One bit. Middle name.”
“What is their middle name?”
“Gene.”
“J-E-A-N or G-E-N-E?”
“G-E-N-E.”
“All right. The investigator who’s office we are currently using will want to get back to work, so you can go now.”
“One more thing.” Phillip’s voice was quick. “Do you still know that person?”
“The one I mentioned to you?”
“Yeah.”
“Not anymore. They moved and I no longer live in the same area.”
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“I felt it would be useful. He would be able to fit any interviews in on his own time. He wants to be treated like an adult.” Sherlock was back to sounding businesslike and detached.
“Good.” He gestured for them to leave his office. John was perfectly aware of both the fact Sherlock had told Phillip about his past experience and that he undoubtedly knew he had just told Lestrade as well. He figured that Sherlock wouldn’t want to talk and would go home and brood, so he said nothing as they went back to Baker St.
Any thought of Sherlock silently brooding was ruined when they walked through the door. He took his coat off and sent it flying across the room rather than hanging it up. “That monster!” he practically snarled.
“K?” John said stupidly.
“Yes, that evil, scumbag K! Do you know why Phillip was asking about being arrested? Do you know what he thinks he’s done?” John shook his head. Sherlock punched the chair in front of him before responding. “Assault! Sexual assault! K’s convinced him that he was the one to initiate the sexual contact, that he is responsible for it, and that K only doesn’t report him out of their kind heart.” His voice dripped venom.
At that point, John did something that in retrospect was a very bad idea, but he was acting on instinct. He put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting manner. It was like a switch had been turned. Sherlock froze in mid-rant. His entire body had a mannequin-like stiffness. He yanked away his hand. “Sorry.”
“It was a reasonable gesture,” said Sherlock without turning around and looking at him.
“Still, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“You may at this point understand why I am married to my work.” His voice sounded stiff, like even his vocal chords had gone rigid.
“Some,” John said awkwardly. After that, he wasn’t surprised to see Sherlock heading back to his room and slamming the door behind him. He sat down on the chair that had been punched earlier, lost in thought. Was Sherlock trying to tell him that he didn’t get involved in romantic relationships because he couldn’t tolerate physical intimacy? To a certain degree, he could express affection; he had hugged Mrs. Hudson when they first met. Of course, that could be because he knew that would always be nonsexual touch. The fit he’d thrown about Phillip Rodgers was even more unusual. John suspected that while he was indeed describing Phillip’s mindset about his “crime,” he was also talking about his own experience. The thought of convincing a four year old child that it was their fault someone was sexually abusing them was so disturbing John found himself wishing he could have a few minutes alone with this K. Even that thought was too horrible to hold for more than a minute or two, so he turned on the telly and watched a football game without knowing what either team was, anything that happened during it, or really anything other than the fact it served as effective mental static. He watched without seeing for hours, ate a quick supper, and spent most of the night staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, unable to sink into any form of useful rest.
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I love Sherlock's compassion for the kid, and how me keeps his temper until he gets home - because yelling would just freak the kid out, after all. And that he treats him like an adult.
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Most thirteen year olds want to be treated like adults. (I'm not sure many people could have kept their temper in check if they figured out that's what he meant.)
I've had a week from hell, but hopefully I'll post something this weekend.
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Another really gripping chapter! I can't wait to read more!
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