John's POV
The First Day Of Trial
"Are you ready to go?"
Sherlock was fiddling with his tie again, a nervous habit he'd had for as long as I'd known him. He sighed, finally letting me tie it correctly.
"242 types pf ash, and yet you still can tie your own tie," I huffed out a small laugh.
"243," He corrected, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. I reached up, kissing him once. I pulled back, watching as his eyes fluttered open, leaning forward into me. I watched as the small bit of playfulness melted into worry. We were both joking, only to mask the fear of what was to come.
"Into battle?"I asked softly.
He gave a small nod, lips set into a firm line, "Into battle."
Mycroft's trademark black car was already waiting for us outside the flat, Mrs. Hudson promising she'd be there at the trial today. Our joined hands dropped as soon as we stepped into the outside world and Scott's remark came to mind.
It was true, Sherlock and I never held hands or acted like a real couple in public anymore. In the familiar corridors of Scotland Yard and at home, we were, but not out in the city. It wasn't because we'd grown apart, or were mad, it was because we were scared. Especially with the knowledge that there were many more Skinheads than we'd thought, any person in the crowd could try to hurt us.
Muffled screaming could be heard when we neared the courthouse, growing louder with every passing block.
"What the hell is that?" I murmured, searching the streets for a sign. We rounded the corner to the Courthouse, and I saw it.
We'd known that there would likely be press and people waiting outside, but this was more that the press.
Protestors stood, holding signs and chanting for Stewart's conviction. A shaky sigh escaped Sherlock was he scooted across the seat to see over me.
Many signs held Bible quotes, the most common being, "Above all, keep loving one another earnestly, since love covers a multitude of sins. - 1 Peter 4:8."
Some signs held our phrase, 'Olivia Lives On,' more held the names of the Skinheads victims. One was bright pink, the words 'Leave my body on Parliament's door' painted in black.
They surrounded the Courthouse, police holding a pathway open into the courthouse. I recognized Donovan and Scott in them, carefully masked faces waving people behind ropes. In the middle of the chaos, the press was there, cameras and microphones at the ready.
I gave Sherlock's hand one last squeeze before letting go. We both slipped out, the reporters immediately screaming questions. I dared a glance up at Sherlock, tears welling in his light eyes. This place was safe. This place wouldn't try to hurt us. And he needed support.
Slowly, I slipped my hand into his, knotting out fingers together. His attention snapped to me, confusion melting to gratitude. I turned back, ready to face today, this trial.
Another black car rolled up, and a familar brunette stepped out.
Alice was wearing a pale yellow jumper, Olivia's favorite color. With a head held high, she walked to us at te base of the stairs. Her eyes were lined with silver, but she nodded to us as Jack caught up.
She didn't say a word as the four of us began to climb the stairs, cameras flashing around us. Alice caught sight of the bright pink sign, the one of many about Parliament. She stopped, reporters still asking questions. Her eyes turned slowly, to Sherlock, to Jack, then to the reporter.
"My soul is left at Parliament building," she called, motioning to the sign. "Her body, my soul." She turned again as the shouts grew louder in response, all taking up the phrase now.
"HER BODY, MY SOUL!"
***
It took over an hour for everyone to be seated in the court, Sherlock and I behind the prosectors box along with Olivia's parents and Alice and Jack. Maxwell gave us a grim smile as the gavel pounded, bringing the room to order.
Everyone rose as the judge entered before he motioned to sit back down. I nudged Sherlock as we sat back down, motioning to the defense table.
It was the first time I'd seen Stewart since the first week we'd caught him. The same dead brown eyes bore into us, the sandy borwn hair neatly combed. The yellow teeth showed in the eerie, knowing smile.
Next to him was a man I'd never seen before. He was short, shorter than me with white blonde hair and thick black glasses. A small nose paired with thin lips gave him a stern look.
"Jeff Adams. Defense lawyer," Sherlock murmuered, heading dipping down to me. I nodded, watching him closely as the judge opened the floor to Maxwell for his opening statement.
He walked to the middle of the room, confident stides until he turned to face the whole room, specifically, to the jury. The moment his mouth opened, I understood exactly why Afiba had called him. He spoke with so much passion and fire it was awe-inspiring.
"Prejudice. We all have it. Some of us don't like gay people, or black people or Latino people. Sometimes, we don't realize it, but we all have expectations for people. People certainly have an expectation of me." He gestured to himself.
"A large black man with a big voice. People often assume I'm angry, or violent." He paused, letting the stereotype sink into people's minds.
"I see the way white women hold their purses tighter when I step into the elevator, I see the white boys who make fun of my hair, I've heard them say it smells like weed." People were beginning to shift uncomfortably, eyes avoiding his dark skin and dreads. A couple murmurs raised as he continued.
"We all have our prejudices, but this man here, Paul Stewart," he motioned to the defense bench where he sat, "has taken it to another level. He has done the unthinkable. He has taken the life of a seventeen year old black girl. A black girl with a girlfriend. This demonstrates not only his prejudice but his unthinkable, un-maskable hatred"
Voice growing louder, he turned his attention to the jury, "This cannot be out definition of okay, of right. The world has turned it's eyes here, they have expectations of us. They have the expectation that we will not let hatred and oppression win." His voice calmed again as he held up a large photo.
It was a picture of Olivia, she was laughing with bright eyes as the picture was taken. Curly hair, a dress the same color as Alice's jumper. She drew in a sharp breath next to me, she'd been the photographer. Maxwell turned to the jury, talking to them mostly.
"This is Olivia Bolaji. She was the daughter of Nneoma and Afiba Bolaji, a brillant singer and teenage activist for racial and sexual orientation equality. She was bright, straight-A student with teachers talking nothing but lovely things about her." He leaned his arm against the witness booth as he handed it to the jury.
"She was choosen, less than a year ago, to perform in Carneige Hall in America. There were tens of thousands of applicants for the performance, and she was the only one from the UK choosen."
He clasped his hands together, shaking his head sadly. "She was one of a kind, with a one of a kind voice. This photo was taken in January of this year." He walked back to his table, grabbing another paper. He held it up for everyone to see and a small murmur began to ripple trhough the room.
It had been taken at the crime scene, showing in all it's horror how Olivia had been found. Her face was smashed in, bruised and bloodied skin around her arms, two words carved into her exposed torso. The only one left unaffected was Stewart himself, glimmering dark eyes surveying the room.
Maxwell handed the picture to the jury, watching closely as their mouths fell open, agast.
"This was taken 5 weeks later. She died alone with her attacker, no way to escape. Who was that man? Who could have done such a horrible thing?" His hands were clasped behind his back as he paced the room.
"The man who did this is sitting in this very room. With the awful things he carved into her while she was alive, screaming for help, there is no room for doubt in whether he is truly guilty." He stopped in front of Stewart, peering down at him. "Look into his eyes," he commanded. "You'll find no guilt. No remorse. This is a man proud of what he's done."
Stewart tipped his head upwards to look at him, smiling faintly. Maxwell stared him down for a moment longer before turning on his heal. Even from here, I could tell that even Maxwell was disturbed by him.
"You, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, must look beyond all prejudice you walked in here with, and remember what was lost. A seventeen-year-old girl lost her life, two parents lost their child. Her girlfriend lost the person closest to her," he threw a glance at Alice. She sat, lips trembling as all eyes turned to her.
"And we must remember that this is not all he has done. Many before her were killed in the same brutal way and if we are not careful, many more will die too. Paul Stewart isn't a rogue killer, he's part of an organization. The Soldiers of the Superior." Maxwell talked with his hands, passion and emphasis bleeding alongside the facts of the case.
"Last month, it was that organization that placed a bomb in a Mosque of Brixton. It was that organization that took ten lives in one night, despite the police's best efforts."
My eyes slid to Greg, sitting back one row. His jaw tightened at the memory of that night, the loss that it brought.
"The people of London were terrified. Most people that fall into one or more minority groups wouldn't remain outside longer than the sun was out. It was a dark time for London, it still is."
Sherlock's shaking hand found mine, fingers lacing together so tight our knuckles were surely white.
"And as all of this was happening, and even now, the government has sat back and watched. Simply watched as people of color, Muslims, gays and latinos died. This has been a gross display of this societies prejucide. We'd rather keep to ourselves and not challenge what we believe rather than help others. We cannot let this continue, we have to fight for justice."
He came to stand in the middle of the room, peering deep into each and every person he lied eyes on. "As Alice Truby put it this morning, Miss Bolaji's body is gone, but Miss Truby's soul is too. Ladies and gentlmen of the jury, this is our system of justice, let justice be done."
People sat silently, the words playing over and over in their minds.
Maxwell sat back down, the judge asking Adams if he'd like an opening statement. The blond stood, thanking him. Much shorter in stature, though just as confident in his speech.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, no one is refuting that Paul Stewart was the one to kill her. I do not refute that, nor does my client. Stewart has even confessed that he did kill her. However, it was merely a fit of rage, not this methodical planned event that the prosectution has painted for you. It is not as simple as black and white, there is no true evil here."
His voice didn't hold nearly the same amount of passion or fire that Maxwell's did, it was rather emotionless. He spoke quickly, an air of authority and logicalty around him.
"You see, ladies and gentlemen, this was no planned attack. This was merely coicendental, which under the law of the British government, does not consitute as 1st degree murder, the charges pressed today. To say that it does undermines this very court system."
I gritted my teeth, I knew they would be running this, but it was infuriating all the same.
"Olivia Bolaji was an unfortunate girl, her brain riddled with mental illness. She saw no way out other than suicide. She ran off with a plan to kill herself and she got what she wished."
Fury began to bubble in my chest, rising just as quickly as I was able to shove it down. I dared a glance at Sherlock, who was staring seemingly blankly at Adams. I knew him better than that, though, I saw the anger.
We sat in tense silence as Adams painted the picture of a broken girl that took to suicide, only a half truth. Eventually, Adams sat back down and the trial began.
***
The trial didn't get much further than the opening statements before being ajourned for the day. Alice didn't say a single word as she and Jack left in the same black car they'd arrived in.
Mrs. Hudson was waiting back home for us, remarking on how awful it all is. "And that defense lawyer! He's something awful, how bloody ridiculous it is to say it's suicide!" She exclaimed.
I brought her a mug of tea, handing one to Sherlock as well. "Oh thank you, dearie, what did you think?" She asked.
I sighed, sitting down in my chair. "I think it'll depend on the jury, most of them were white and didn't seem to bite much on Maxwell's case. I think the pictures helped though."
"Nine caucasian, one East-Asian, two black people. Four seriously homophobic, three more that are less so but still homophobic. Two out of the nine caucasians are seriously racist, threemore are somewhat," Sherlock spewed, face otherwise emotionless.
My gaze rested on him as he went back into into his mind palace, face going blank. Mrs. Hudson sighed, patting his knee lightly.
"Poor dear, I know this has all been hard on him, how are you holding up?"
I fiddled with the mug in my hand, glancing down at the floor. "Ah, well, I've been better. He's helped me greatly, I don't think I could do any of this without him."
She gave a faint smile, taking my hand into hers. "I've got sleeping pills if you need them" she offered. I smiled back, nodding. Of course she knew I had nightmares, the walls of the flat weren't exactly thick.
The two of us talked for a while longer before she went back down to her own apartment for the night.
I ended up ordering in for Sherlock and I, too exhausted from the day to bother cooking. I only went to break him out of his mind palace once I'd gotten everything set up.
"Love?" I leaned down over him, kissing his cheek. My hands were braced on each armrest of his chair as his eyes cleared.
"I've ordered dinner, are you ready to eat?" I helped him up as his mind floated back to reality. I began to pull away to lead him into the kitchen, yet his grip on my bicep tightened, keeping me close.
I chuckled, my hands grabbing his hips. His ocean eyes swam with a thousand different emotions, anger, sadness, remorse. Guilt.
"Oh, my love," I began, reaching a hand up to brush a stray curl away. He buried his head in my shoulder, still not speaking.
I reached my hands around him, fingers stroking lovingly. Sherlock didn't move until my lips closed around his neck, breath caressing his skin. He pulled back an inch before kissing me. I sighed into him, pulling him closer. My hands began to roam further down, his body arcing into mine.
"Dinner, remember?" he gasped, all too soon. I let him go, pinching the base of his hip.
"Where's the fun in that?" I winked, attempting to distract him. He gave a weak smile, every bit of playfulness already disappearing.
"Crap shows on the couch?" I offered. It was one of his favorite things to do when he was in a mood, and one of the best things to do to coax him into talking. He nodded, spotting the blankets already prepped for it.
"I love you," he murmured, shaking his head fondly. I lead him to the area, repeating it.
We ended up watching some marathon of a reality show, trying not to think about the trial though it consumed each of our thoughts.
Sherlock was monologuing about the inconsistences of Adams case, his back pressed into my chest, when sleep finally pulled me under.
***
The heavy sound of the gavel thudded, rattling my bones. The courtroom was strangely empty, no one outside of the case was there. Olivia's parents, the judge, Alice, Sherlock, Maxwell and his team, Adams and his. Stewart.
No press, no spectators, nothing. Sherlock was sitting beside me, watching the judge.
"Have you reached a unanomous verdict?" He asked. One member of the jury stood, the white woman with fire bright hair. Her face was fuzzy as she handed the envelope to the clerk. Alice stood in the corner, looking the way she had when I'd first met her. A busy waitress, a stained apron tied around her waist.
"We find the defendent 'not guilty' on all charges." My stomach dropped, falling through the floor and dirt into wood.
Wood.
I was surrounded by it, the small space confining me. A coffin, I was in a coffin. The weight of the dirt made the wood creak, cracks beginning to form. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. I was going to die, I was going to die in here. Trapped alone in a coffin.
A snap sounded and the wood gave in. Dirt and grass flooded into my mouth, choking me. My bones snapped under the weight, crushing me in full. I was dying, I would be dead within seconds.
***
"John!"
I gasped, eyes snapping open. Sherlock was leaning over me, concern and panic painted clear on his features. I sat up, a coughing fit racking my body until I couldn't breathe.
Sherlock's slender arms draped over my shoulders, his lips by my ear.
"Breathe. You're okay, John. You're okay. It was just a dream, none of it was real. I'm here, you're going to be okay. Just breathe." I leaned into him as the coughing subsided.
Tears began to spill over, the panic I'd felt surging again. Sherlock's chin rested on my shoulder, repeating the word 'breathe,' over and over again. I eventually calmed, listening to his words as he helped me lay back down.
"Was it the coffin again?" He asked gently. I'd had the same nightmare for a week now, the same dream of being in a wooden coffin, unable to move as it broke open and choked me.
"It didn't start out as it," I breathed. I pulled him so that he was flush against me. I breathed in deeply, letting his smell ground me back in reality. "It started in the courtroom, they found him not guilty. And then it was there, that same. Damn. Dream."
He nodded,long fingers flitting over my skin. A reminder. I was here, I was safe. "It'll be okay. It won't be an easy fight, but we're going to get through this." He repeated the words as we both began to slowly drift off again.
Sherlock's POV
Jack could only afford to leave the shop a couple days a week, needing to stay in business to live. On the days that he needed to stay, John and I would go to pick up Alice. She'd had a rough day yesterday, listening to Adams go on and on about how it was really Olivia's fault.
I climbed the rickety stairs to her room, leaving John to talk with Jack in the shop. I knocked on her door, the wood covered in photographs she'd taken over the years.
"Come in," she called. I found her sitting on her bed, leather jacket only half on as she scribbled in a notebook.
"Are you about ready to go?" I asked. She barely glanced up, painted red lips set into a firm line. Glancing around her room, it was a mess. Clothes were hapazardly strewn across the floor, the crumpled sheets mostly off the bed.
"One second," she murmured. She wrote for a couple more seconds before closing the notebook and pulling her jacket on all the way. My eyes went immediately to her wrists, but they were clean.
"Did you sleep alright?" She shrugged, eyes not meeting mine. Her thighs, they were covered. I eyed her jeans suspicoudly, her wrists were clean but that didn't mean that her thighs were.
"I'm clean."
"I didn't say that you weren't."
She glared at me, pulling on her combat boots. "I didn't cut myself last night. Or the night before, or the night before," she sighed, lacing the boots up.
"But something did happen," I pushed. Normally, I wouldn't push it out of her, but I was still worried, worried that something would happen, even if it wasn't self harm.
She stopped, gaze following mine. "It was just a stupid dream, okay? I've had it every night for two weeks." She finished lacing her boots and straightened on the bed, voice breaking.
"It's her, everytime. She's screaming for help, for me. I'm running through the woods, trying to find her but when I do, it's too late. And he turns around, all yellow teeth and dark eyes. Then I wake up."
I sat gingerly on the bed next to her, grimacing at the dejected look she wore. I put an arm around her, bringing her close to me. We both sat there for a moment, neither speaking or moving until the creaking of the stairs could be heard.
"Alice? It's time to go, the trial starts soon." Jack didn't open the door, just a light knock.
Alice stood, letting go of me to grab her purse from the desk. "Are you going to be okay?" I asked softly as the creaking faded again.
"Yeah, let's just go." I didn't believe her but there was nothing I could do except give a small nod. I had to trust her, no matter how much I didn't want to.
We went back down to the shop where John waited and left for the second day of trial.
AN: I am so so sorry I published this late! I've been swamped with filming and college visits this week and had zero time to write! I had the ACT this morning, otherwise this wouldn't have happened! So sorry again and it shouldn't happen again! Thank you guys for being patient!