Secondary Exposure: 2
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Donovan cleared a spot at the table. Last night Sherlock had become suddenly ravenous at 3am, and he had cooked himself a pasta alfredo, the remains of which had long congealed in the pot he had eaten out of. Donovan set this atop Sherlock's research, which she had unceremoniously swept aside. She had accepted John's offer of coffee, and he was now taking an inordinately long time procuring her a cup.
That John, of all people, should prove vital to solving two decades worth of serial murders - that anything this interesting had happened to him at all - was baffling, to say the least. And not the least of all because he had been sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes for six months, who had never suspected anything, had never observed anything to give him cause to consider. After Donovan's revelation Sherlock had done nothing but stupidly stare, mouth even slightly agape, while John had rallied his ingrained etiquette, gestured to the sitting room, and said, "Coffee, tea, anything?"
Donovan was now moving in on Sherlock's laptop, and he lunged forward and snatched it away from her. To be quite honest, the events of the last ninety seconds had left him considerably off balance. He clutched the laptop rigidly to his chest, as though the solemn weight were his last tenuous link to reality. John, of all people.
John emerged from the kitchen, brushed past his immobilised flatmate, and handed Donovan her coffee. He settled himself at the opposite end of the table, and Donovan flapped his file down before him. He skimmed absently through it, and Sherlock lowered himself onto the arm of a chair. He was vaguely aware that his grip may very well have been denting the laptop, but that was hardly significant. Not compared to this. Only because it would have been counterproductive, did Sherlock refrain from transferring that iron grip to his flatmate's shoulders in an effort to bodily shake answers from his lips.
"So," John said, after the expiration of several eternities. "What do you want to know?" Leave it to John to say something insipid in moments of monumental intrigue.
"I'm assuming you know about our recent discoveries," Donovan began. John nodded. "How much did the Freak tell you?"
John narrowed his eyes. "Just the basic facts, Sergeant."
Donovan gestured to John's file. Sherlock's fingers positively itched for that file, but this was more important. The laptop casing groaned feebly.
"You're aware, then, that you fit the victims' profile."
At this, John hesitated. "That does appear to be the case."
Donovan raised her eyebrows. "If it is, that makes you the only known survivor of a string of murders perpetrated over the course of the last twenty years." When John didn't respond, she sighed and retrieved the file. She leafed through it, her exhaustion plain. "It says here that you were abducted off of Sunny Way, North Finchley, on the 17th of May, 1990, at approximately 6:15pm. You were discovered the following morning on Coppice Row in Theydon Bois at about seven o'clock - "
"Tell me from the beginning, John," Sherlock said. John shot him a fleeting glance, but looked back to Donovan, as though for confirmation.
"Don't look at her." Sherlock's voice was laced with contempt. "I need to know what happened."
John flushed with sudden anger. "Anything either of you need to know is already in the report!"
"Not good enough. I need to hear it from you."
Infuriatingly, John looked again to Donovan. Her eyes were closed, her fingertips delicately pressed to her temple. She leaned back in her chair, drew a sweeping gesture from Sherlock to John, beckoning them to continue. The heat dropped from John's face and he stared into his coffee for a black moment. He checked his watch.
"It was a Thursday," he began. "I was coming home from practice - "
"For what?" Sherlock demanded.
"Football. I was walking to the bus stop, I always took the eastbound at 6:25. I was on Sunny Way and...I guess someone pulled up behind me. I heard the car, but I didn't look. Someone got out and grabbed me from behind - "
"How did he grab you? Be specific."
"Around, like, his hand over my face." John's voice had taken on a peculiar rasping quality.
"Right or left hand?"
"Left."
"What was he doing with his right hand?"
"I don't know, around my shoulders, I suppose."
"Was it ether, then?"
Again, John hesitated. "I can't...It wasn't...I blacked out under some sort of anesthetic, but I can't be sure what it was. There was a peculiar odor, chemical, perhaps, but I think I would recognize ether. By now, I mean. I really can't say.
"Fine. Continue." Sherlock had settled his laptop upon his knees, and he drew his fingers lightly from corner to corner. John had both hands wrapped tightly around his cup of coffee, which by then must have certainly been cold.
"Um. So," John rallied. "I woke up in a, um...room. Cabin. There may only have been one room. Anyway, it was dark. Not because it was dark out, but he had the windows covered and there was only one light, from the ceiling." John cleared his throat and picked up speed. "I was gagged and tied to a chair, at the ankles and my wrists around the back - look, Sherlock, can't you just read the file?"
"I fully intend to do so, but you underestimate the value of a firsthand report."
"Feel like a bloody idiot," John muttered. He sipped his coffee and grimaced. "Alright, so this man, couldn't have been more than thirty, thirty-five, was standing before me, tall, sort of medium build, with blond hair. He did start to strangle me, you'll be pleased to note, but he stopped and went for the rope, which he'd already gotten ready in a...in a hangman's noose, and he tossed it over the ceiling beam, so it's pretty, um, obvious what he intended to do, right, so I snapped the joint on my right thumb, which gave me enough leeway to pull free, and that loosened it enough to free my other hand, so when he was lowering the goddamn noose around my neck, I hit him as hard as I could and grabbed onto him and knocked him over and got my weight on top of him and just kept hitting him." John paused bitterly, then collected himself and continued more calmly. "I was still tied to the chair at this point, at the ankles, so it was a bit awkward. If I hadn't caught him off guard it wouldn't have worked. I got in a lucky shot the first time, and then kept hitting him until he didn't move. I needed the time to untie my ankles. I wasn't - I wasn't afraid, not at that point. I knew I had to knock him out, so that's what I did. Then I untied myself, ran off, it was still light out but I got lost in the woods. In the morning I flagged someone down and she took me to the police."
Donovan shifted forward, and Sherlock glanced at her. He had thoroughly forgotten her presence.
"You suffered a blow to the back of the head," she said. "Do you remember how that happened?"
"No," John said calmly. "He may have hit me earlier. I don't recall."
Donovan nodded. It was clear from her reaction that John hadn't stated anything new. "Serial killers tend to operate in familiar areas, John. That he was aware of your location, alone, at that point on your regular route suggests that he'd tailed you for awhile. We're operating on the assumption that he was living in the areas from which each of these boys was abducted, putting him in or around Battersea right now. If you were presented with a line of suspects now, do you think you would be able to identify him?
John shook his head. "I don't know.
Donovan heaved one last sigh and then stood, swiping along the bottom of her eyes. "Alright. Thank you, John, and I'm sorry to have to have dragged this up. If anything occurs to you, if you remember anything, give us a ring, yeah?"
"You'll be the first to know."
Sherlock snorted.
"Call us," Donovan repeated, and this time looked at Sherlock. "Don't do anything stupid." She thanked John for the coffee and showed herself out.
"You didn't mention this yesterday. Why?" Sherlock asked. John was clearing the table, two mugs in one hand, cautiously examining Sherlock's pasta pot. He drew a deep breath and carried everything to the kitchen.
"I didn't know it was the same person. In fact, that still isn't - "
"Oh, don't add naivete to an already appalling list of shortcomings, John." Sherlock rose suddenly and snatched up the file. "And don't tell me that's all you remember, or did you literally fail to notice anything of significance about this man?" He spared a moment to consider that if John continued to bang everything in the kitchen around in such a careless manner, he would be sure to break something. Sherlock perused the pages until he reached John's description of the killer. Clean shaven, sandy blond hair, blue eyes. Interesting.
"Athletic build?" he called out. "John?"
John came to stand in the doorway to the kitchen, drying his hands on a small towel. He was obviously quite irritable this morning. It was annoying. "You said he was of medium build. Would you consider it athletic?"
"A bit, not really."
"You were able to overpower him while drugged and bound to a chair. How did you manage that?"
"Lucky shot. And adrenaline, I suppose. The nerves at the base of the nose - "
"Yes, I know that. Though at sixteen, you probably didn't. Lucky shot then. I see he used clothes line. You weren't the first he abducted, but you are the first he tried to kill in this manner."
John crossed his arms. "How do you figure?"
"The give, John, obviously. It saved your life." At John's blank expression Sherlock sighed deeply. "Clothes line will stretch considerably when it is new. If he had used it before, he would have known that, especially had he attempted to string someone up with it. According to the missing persons profile, you appear to have been the second victim, which explains the precision with which he was able to execute the abduction until that point." Sherlock's mind delved into this track. Having an idiot around could be quite valuable, if the idiot were John. "He'd begun to strangle you manually, but stopped, suggesting an inclination to brutality at odds with his systematic approach. He wished to see you suffer, but not directly at his own hand, hence the noose, which -"
"Well then, I'll leave you to it," John said. His posture was rigid and he brushed his hands briskly down the sides of his trousers.
"Nonsense, John. You're my greatest clue."
"No, really. I'm off." John checked his watch. "I'll see you Sunday."
Sherlock ground to a halt. John had stepped into the hall and was collecting his small weekend suitcase.
"You - what? You can't possibly -"
"Medical conference, Sherlock."
Sherlock was at an utter loss. For the second time that morning he stood in the hall, staring slack-jawed at his flatmate, though the reasons for these two occasions were so different as to be incomparable.
"You have my file. And, as you said, I don't seem to have noticed anything of significance, it's rather redundant that I should be here, isn't it?"
"Oh, if I've offended you - "
John rounded on him with a thinly veiled ferocity. He held Sherlock's gaze for a highly charged moment while he measured his words. "Do you know what I was," he said. "Before I met you? Before I became your greatest clue?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he drew back minutely.
"I was a highly skilled professional, Sherlock. A surgeon. Who actually saved peoples lives on occasion. Alright? That's what I did. As shocking as this is to you, I did exist before we met."
Sherlock experienced a curious cold tremor in the pit of his stomach. "Of course. Far be it for me to infringe upon your valuable time. I certainly wouldn't want to inconvenience the great John Watson, surgeon."
John looked away with a shake of his head. "Right," he said tersely. "I'm going."
Fuming, Sherlock watched him leave. When he heard John reach the landing, he stormed back into the sitting room and began reorganizing the data that Donovan had moved. The laptop was forcefully returned to the table, files angrily gathered and slapped into a pile; a cushion was thrown from one end of the room to the other. At the window Sherlock paused and peered out from behind the curtain. John had already crossed the street, dragging his stupid little rolling suitcase, wearing his vile brown and frumpy blazer. He didn't even once glance back at the flat. In all the times Sherlock had watched him go, he never had.
Chapter Three
Chapter Two
Donovan cleared a spot at the table. Last night Sherlock had become suddenly ravenous at 3am, and he had cooked himself a pasta alfredo, the remains of which had long congealed in the pot he had eaten out of. Donovan set this atop Sherlock's research, which she had unceremoniously swept aside. She had accepted John's offer of coffee, and he was now taking an inordinately long time procuring her a cup.
That John, of all people, should prove vital to solving two decades worth of serial murders - that anything this interesting had happened to him at all - was baffling, to say the least. And not the least of all because he had been sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes for six months, who had never suspected anything, had never observed anything to give him cause to consider. After Donovan's revelation Sherlock had done nothing but stupidly stare, mouth even slightly agape, while John had rallied his ingrained etiquette, gestured to the sitting room, and said, "Coffee, tea, anything?"
Donovan was now moving in on Sherlock's laptop, and he lunged forward and snatched it away from her. To be quite honest, the events of the last ninety seconds had left him considerably off balance. He clutched the laptop rigidly to his chest, as though the solemn weight were his last tenuous link to reality. John, of all people.
John emerged from the kitchen, brushed past his immobilised flatmate, and handed Donovan her coffee. He settled himself at the opposite end of the table, and Donovan flapped his file down before him. He skimmed absently through it, and Sherlock lowered himself onto the arm of a chair. He was vaguely aware that his grip may very well have been denting the laptop, but that was hardly significant. Not compared to this. Only because it would have been counterproductive, did Sherlock refrain from transferring that iron grip to his flatmate's shoulders in an effort to bodily shake answers from his lips.
"So," John said, after the expiration of several eternities. "What do you want to know?" Leave it to John to say something insipid in moments of monumental intrigue.
"I'm assuming you know about our recent discoveries," Donovan began. John nodded. "How much did the Freak tell you?"
John narrowed his eyes. "Just the basic facts, Sergeant."
Donovan gestured to John's file. Sherlock's fingers positively itched for that file, but this was more important. The laptop casing groaned feebly.
"You're aware, then, that you fit the victims' profile."
At this, John hesitated. "That does appear to be the case."
Donovan raised her eyebrows. "If it is, that makes you the only known survivor of a string of murders perpetrated over the course of the last twenty years." When John didn't respond, she sighed and retrieved the file. She leafed through it, her exhaustion plain. "It says here that you were abducted off of Sunny Way, North Finchley, on the 17th of May, 1990, at approximately 6:15pm. You were discovered the following morning on Coppice Row in Theydon Bois at about seven o'clock - "
"Tell me from the beginning, John," Sherlock said. John shot him a fleeting glance, but looked back to Donovan, as though for confirmation.
"Don't look at her." Sherlock's voice was laced with contempt. "I need to know what happened."
John flushed with sudden anger. "Anything either of you need to know is already in the report!"
"Not good enough. I need to hear it from you."
Infuriatingly, John looked again to Donovan. Her eyes were closed, her fingertips delicately pressed to her temple. She leaned back in her chair, drew a sweeping gesture from Sherlock to John, beckoning them to continue. The heat dropped from John's face and he stared into his coffee for a black moment. He checked his watch.
"It was a Thursday," he began. "I was coming home from practice - "
"For what?" Sherlock demanded.
"Football. I was walking to the bus stop, I always took the eastbound at 6:25. I was on Sunny Way and...I guess someone pulled up behind me. I heard the car, but I didn't look. Someone got out and grabbed me from behind - "
"How did he grab you? Be specific."
"Around, like, his hand over my face." John's voice had taken on a peculiar rasping quality.
"Right or left hand?"
"Left."
"What was he doing with his right hand?"
"I don't know, around my shoulders, I suppose."
"Was it ether, then?"
Again, John hesitated. "I can't...It wasn't...I blacked out under some sort of anesthetic, but I can't be sure what it was. There was a peculiar odor, chemical, perhaps, but I think I would recognize ether. By now, I mean. I really can't say.
"Fine. Continue." Sherlock had settled his laptop upon his knees, and he drew his fingers lightly from corner to corner. John had both hands wrapped tightly around his cup of coffee, which by then must have certainly been cold.
"Um. So," John rallied. "I woke up in a, um...room. Cabin. There may only have been one room. Anyway, it was dark. Not because it was dark out, but he had the windows covered and there was only one light, from the ceiling." John cleared his throat and picked up speed. "I was gagged and tied to a chair, at the ankles and my wrists around the back - look, Sherlock, can't you just read the file?"
"I fully intend to do so, but you underestimate the value of a firsthand report."
"Feel like a bloody idiot," John muttered. He sipped his coffee and grimaced. "Alright, so this man, couldn't have been more than thirty, thirty-five, was standing before me, tall, sort of medium build, with blond hair. He did start to strangle me, you'll be pleased to note, but he stopped and went for the rope, which he'd already gotten ready in a...in a hangman's noose, and he tossed it over the ceiling beam, so it's pretty, um, obvious what he intended to do, right, so I snapped the joint on my right thumb, which gave me enough leeway to pull free, and that loosened it enough to free my other hand, so when he was lowering the goddamn noose around my neck, I hit him as hard as I could and grabbed onto him and knocked him over and got my weight on top of him and just kept hitting him." John paused bitterly, then collected himself and continued more calmly. "I was still tied to the chair at this point, at the ankles, so it was a bit awkward. If I hadn't caught him off guard it wouldn't have worked. I got in a lucky shot the first time, and then kept hitting him until he didn't move. I needed the time to untie my ankles. I wasn't - I wasn't afraid, not at that point. I knew I had to knock him out, so that's what I did. Then I untied myself, ran off, it was still light out but I got lost in the woods. In the morning I flagged someone down and she took me to the police."
Donovan shifted forward, and Sherlock glanced at her. He had thoroughly forgotten her presence.
"You suffered a blow to the back of the head," she said. "Do you remember how that happened?"
"No," John said calmly. "He may have hit me earlier. I don't recall."
Donovan nodded. It was clear from her reaction that John hadn't stated anything new. "Serial killers tend to operate in familiar areas, John. That he was aware of your location, alone, at that point on your regular route suggests that he'd tailed you for awhile. We're operating on the assumption that he was living in the areas from which each of these boys was abducted, putting him in or around Battersea right now. If you were presented with a line of suspects now, do you think you would be able to identify him?
John shook his head. "I don't know.
Donovan heaved one last sigh and then stood, swiping along the bottom of her eyes. "Alright. Thank you, John, and I'm sorry to have to have dragged this up. If anything occurs to you, if you remember anything, give us a ring, yeah?"
"You'll be the first to know."
Sherlock snorted.
"Call us," Donovan repeated, and this time looked at Sherlock. "Don't do anything stupid." She thanked John for the coffee and showed herself out.
"You didn't mention this yesterday. Why?" Sherlock asked. John was clearing the table, two mugs in one hand, cautiously examining Sherlock's pasta pot. He drew a deep breath and carried everything to the kitchen.
"I didn't know it was the same person. In fact, that still isn't - "
"Oh, don't add naivete to an already appalling list of shortcomings, John." Sherlock rose suddenly and snatched up the file. "And don't tell me that's all you remember, or did you literally fail to notice anything of significance about this man?" He spared a moment to consider that if John continued to bang everything in the kitchen around in such a careless manner, he would be sure to break something. Sherlock perused the pages until he reached John's description of the killer. Clean shaven, sandy blond hair, blue eyes. Interesting.
"Athletic build?" he called out. "John?"
John came to stand in the doorway to the kitchen, drying his hands on a small towel. He was obviously quite irritable this morning. It was annoying. "You said he was of medium build. Would you consider it athletic?"
"A bit, not really."
"You were able to overpower him while drugged and bound to a chair. How did you manage that?"
"Lucky shot. And adrenaline, I suppose. The nerves at the base of the nose - "
"Yes, I know that. Though at sixteen, you probably didn't. Lucky shot then. I see he used clothes line. You weren't the first he abducted, but you are the first he tried to kill in this manner."
John crossed his arms. "How do you figure?"
"The give, John, obviously. It saved your life." At John's blank expression Sherlock sighed deeply. "Clothes line will stretch considerably when it is new. If he had used it before, he would have known that, especially had he attempted to string someone up with it. According to the missing persons profile, you appear to have been the second victim, which explains the precision with which he was able to execute the abduction until that point." Sherlock's mind delved into this track. Having an idiot around could be quite valuable, if the idiot were John. "He'd begun to strangle you manually, but stopped, suggesting an inclination to brutality at odds with his systematic approach. He wished to see you suffer, but not directly at his own hand, hence the noose, which -"
"Well then, I'll leave you to it," John said. His posture was rigid and he brushed his hands briskly down the sides of his trousers.
"Nonsense, John. You're my greatest clue."
"No, really. I'm off." John checked his watch. "I'll see you Sunday."
Sherlock ground to a halt. John had stepped into the hall and was collecting his small weekend suitcase.
"You - what? You can't possibly -"
"Medical conference, Sherlock."
Sherlock was at an utter loss. For the second time that morning he stood in the hall, staring slack-jawed at his flatmate, though the reasons for these two occasions were so different as to be incomparable.
"You have my file. And, as you said, I don't seem to have noticed anything of significance, it's rather redundant that I should be here, isn't it?"
"Oh, if I've offended you - "
John rounded on him with a thinly veiled ferocity. He held Sherlock's gaze for a highly charged moment while he measured his words. "Do you know what I was," he said. "Before I met you? Before I became your greatest clue?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he drew back minutely.
"I was a highly skilled professional, Sherlock. A surgeon. Who actually saved peoples lives on occasion. Alright? That's what I did. As shocking as this is to you, I did exist before we met."
Sherlock experienced a curious cold tremor in the pit of his stomach. "Of course. Far be it for me to infringe upon your valuable time. I certainly wouldn't want to inconvenience the great John Watson, surgeon."
John looked away with a shake of his head. "Right," he said tersely. "I'm going."
Fuming, Sherlock watched him leave. When he heard John reach the landing, he stormed back into the sitting room and began reorganizing the data that Donovan had moved. The laptop was forcefully returned to the table, files angrily gathered and slapped into a pile; a cushion was thrown from one end of the room to the other. At the window Sherlock paused and peered out from behind the curtain. John had already crossed the street, dragging his stupid little rolling suitcase, wearing his vile brown and frumpy blazer. He didn't even once glance back at the flat. In all the times Sherlock had watched him go, he never had.
Chapter Three