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He felt his mobile buzz in his pocket as the lawyer wound up for another pompous demolition of his life's work and Anderson almost felt relieved at the distraction it offered from the grisly spectacle his statement was turning into. Whoever had decided trial before a jury of your peers was more humane than trial by ordeal had forgotten about the bloody lawyers.
He took a deep breath in through his nose and tried to redirect the court's attention away from the blue cashmere fibres to the red cotton that placed Dorian Faber at the murder scenes. His stomach twisted, but there wasn't anything but a cup of indifferent tea in there for it to object to.
He kept his tone colourless, professional. It might establish his competence in the jury's minds and let the actual evidence tell its evident, if tainted, tale. His real fury, frustration, fear were carefully barred behind the standard police facade and dispassionately formal language.
Philip felt like he'd barely escaped with his life when he left the witness stand and his mood didn't notably improve when he checked his phone to find a message to get halfway across London, pronto. An urgent summons like that from Lestrade could only mean one thing - anything else and Wilkins or Albinsson would have covered the forensic lead duties. He didn't know if he could deal with this right now, but the job didn't stop just because he couldn't remember the last time he didn't have chest pains.
Anderson grabbed his coat and signed out of the Crown Court as fast as he could, taking the steps down to street level two at a time and catching the bus just as the driver was closing the doors. His phone rang, the work one. His personal one had lost its charge two days ago and he hadn't managed to get it charged again since. Hopefully Candace hadn't needed him in that time.
'Anderson here.'
'Dump and run why don't you?' Kaur's naturally astringent voice was even more sharp than usual. The CPS officer growled deep in her throat. She'd wanted Faber behind bars as much as he.
'Case, Lestrade called it in while I was on the stand. Look, you think I enjoy standing up there trying to justify that shite?'
'He's a fucking menace to the judicial process. I've a good mind to make a formal complaint! We need evidence, not his bloody deductive fairy tales!'
Anderson had a flashback to the one time they'd tried having Holmes on the stand to explain his process and the myriad tiny indications the evidence gave for Heggarty being the killer. He winced just at the memory.
'I know, Sab! What the Hell do you expect me to do about it though? Somebody higher up is keeping him in on the process. I've made formal complaints already.' He swivelled slightly to slip between the standing passengers and disembarked, breath white in the cold London air.
Something in his voice must have cut through her high dudgeon, because when she next spoke it was with a kinder tone. 'I know. And for all the good it's likely to do me I'll be putting one in of my own. Just... try to keep him from ballsing the next one up for us?'
'No promises, Sab.' He felt sick as he shoved the phone in his pocket to catch his next bus.
John watched the London traffic go by as Sally competently fended off the general public and generally kept the crime scene secure. He heard her exclaim and looked up to see what had startled the hardbitten woman, it was only Anderson. Then he did a subtle double take, checking the man over, something was off as Anderson strode past Sally with a barely polite smile that was more rictus than true expression.
He looked like he was about to either scream, throw up or hit someone and since two of those situations might conceivably require a doctor to be on hand he followed the forensic up the stairs to the crime scene where Lestrade and Sherlock were already busy, or rather Lestrade was busy trying to keep Sherlock from verbally dismembering a fresh-faced constable who'd made the mistake of standing in Sherlock's light.
'Get your damn blue fibres off my crime scene, Holmes!' Anderson yelled as soon as he heard the voice and he hurried faster up the stairs at such a rate John was worried the man had gone off at the deep end and really was about to haul off and wallop Sherlock. Sherlock had been distracted from dressing down poor Petersen and stared out of the door with that remote, vaguely interest interested look that only made Anderson even more upset.
Greg winced at the inarticulate sound Anderson made as he reached the top of the stairs, saw how dead-white his face was. Something had happened and if he didn't handle this right he was going to lose a bloody good worker, either to suspension or resignation. He placed himself in the doorway and caught Anderson, lower centre of gravity keeping him balanced as the breath went out of the forensic and his knees buckled slightly.
He was a bloody good scientist, but a lousy scrapper and Greg was grateful for that as he got him back onto the landing while he was surprised. He felt the fight leave Philip like a sigh as he let Greg drag him to the next room over. John hung back as Lestrade physically bundled Anderson back out of the room and just off the landing into a cramped boxroom, somewhere between a bouncer and a concerned brother. Lestrade knew Anderson far better than he and the open concern on his face kept John close by. Something was wrong besides Anderson's usual throwing a fit because Sherlock was present.
'I can't do this, Greg! I just... I... I... I can't!' Anderson spun out of Lestrade's arms to pace and John saw the realisation dawn in Lestrade's face.
'He got off. Bastard!' Lestrade looked like he wanted to punch someone too. He exhaled a hard, tight breath through his teeth.
As John watched he knew in the back of his head that Sherlock was in the other room taking full advantage of Lestrade and Anderson's absence to poke about the crime scene to his heart's content. He stayed though, feeling he was more needed here as Anderson paced, one hand pressed against his chest in a gesture he seemed unconscious of. Alarm bells rang in the back of his head even as John scanned the taller man.
'Blue cashmere all over the bloody place and the alpaca blend fibres, defence argued under our own evidence we might as well lock Holmes up as Faber and the jury evidently felt everything that wasn't covered in his fucking moultings was too circumstantial!' Anderson wheeled about to pace back towards the door John stood at.
'We'll be lucky if he isn't awarded damages out of this, you know what Lassiter is like!' Anderson tugged at his shirt collar, distress writ large across his face. 'He doesn't care about locking the bastards up, he won't suit up and frankly Greg...'
Whatever else Anderson was going to say in that ragged, distressed tone was interrupted by an 'oh shit' expression stealing across Anderson's face as all the remaining colour drained from it. John was over there in two strides, breaking his fall even as Lestrade caught Anderson's other arm.
Jesus, his pulse was fast enough to impress a hummingbird, John dreaded to imagine what Anderson's blood pressure was currently like. His pulse was strong though, no hypoxia visible or anything else to indicate infarction.
'Any guesses on when he last ate?' John noted the periorbital hyperpigmentation and added, 'Or slept?'
Lestrade paused in propping Anderson's feet up on a chair to get them higher than his heart. 'He hates court appearances, so probably nothing for breakfast. He left same time as me last night, probably too late to bother cooking... He had half a sandwich at lunch, I think. Yeah, lunchtime yesterday.'
'For crying out loud!' John expected it from Sherlock, but unlike the police officers, Sherlock got time off between cases. 'From the state he's in this is a simple stress-triggered syncope, but he could stand to get something sugary down him PDQ.'
Lestrade had already been dialling someone as John spoke. 'Sally. I need you to get Raj and Aisha to secure the site while you get something hot and sweet for Philip. Yeah. Yeah. I know, we're on it. He's fine, John's here. Cheers.'
Anderson began stirring a few minutes later, as John was inspecting his gums. The faint had lasted longer than he was entirely happy with but Anderson was immediately trying to scramble back to his feet, only to sway again. He looked confused, angry and upset as Lestrade caught him in an awkward half-hug.
'Easy, sit down, head between knees. You know the drill.' John wondered if Anderson had a history of it, then realised Lestrade was just reminding him of basic first aid procedure. Lestrade was calm and steady, keeping his hands on Anderson's shoulders as he inhaled slowly to manage the head-rush the sudden movement had given him.
There was an ostentatious clatter on the stairs, Sally trying to be tactful and give them as chance to shut her out if it was needed, he realised. Of course she had learnt tact when it came to dealing with shocked and distressed members of the public, she could hardly just be the angry, aggressive bitch he saw from where he stood at Sherlock's side, she'd have been out on her ear in weeks.
Sally gently punched Anderson in the shoulder as she plonked a carry-out cup in his hands, her face a study in worried anger. John wondered if this was the hard as nails Sergeant's soft side.
Anderson caught the cup as it started to slip in his lax grip and gave her an embarrassed grin. Since he looked like shit it wasn't as reassuring as he probably intended it to be and the taut lines in his neck showed it up as false, but he was back on an even enough keel to try and reassure her.
Sally managed to smile back at him before she went back to her post and John knew in his bones that whatever their relationship was, it was never just a casual shag in the stationary cupboard.
Anderson sipped, then his eyes went wide and he peeled the lid off to reveal whipped cream and marshmallows topping the drink. His eyes were wide with shock and he looked up at Lestrade with a question in his face.
'You gave us a fright, Philip.' Lestrade explained. The detective looked Anderson over shrewdly and nodded. 'I need to get back to the scene. John, would you mind checking Anderson's alright?' He looked to John, then refocused on Anderson.
'Get yourself home once John's looked at you. You can self-certificate for seven days if you don't want to risk getting signed off, but...' He stepped in closer, giving an illusion of privacy and lowered his voice. 'You know what this job does to people, no shame in that, so take some time, see someone if you need to, take care of yourself and I'll see you next Tuesday at the absolute earliest. If you need anything, call me.' His voice was deadly serious as he grasped his colleague's shoulder bracingly.
Anderson watched him leave, mouth hanging open. John couldn't tell if it was shock or he was getting ready to argue. At last he turned to look at John. 'So, am I free to go?' It wasn't quite the usual snippy tone John was used to, but the emotional defences were reassembling fast, especially in the face of someone allied with the cause of his distress.
'I'd like to check you over first, you did a proper swan-dive just now.' John closed the door to give them some privacy and bit the bullet. 'How long have you had chest pains for?'
'How?' He looked down, realised that at some point his left hand had crept back up to massage his sternum and pulled a face. 'Jeez, it's been... months? Ever since Fiona quit London. The increased Holmes-exposure really tore it. It was only twinges at first, but these past six months or so it's been daily.'
'How about your appetite?' Lestrade hadn't seemed surprised to realise Anderson had probably only eaten half a sandwich in the past 24 hours, although he didn't have the gaunt look of sudden recent weight-loss.
'What, when did I last eat because I was actually hungry, or when did I last eat, full stop?' Anderson sipped the hot chocolate as he thought. 'The loss of appetite is more recent than my chest hurting, it's always been something that happens when things get frantic, but it's only been a month or so since my appetite dropped off this time.' He shrugged. 'I'm used to it now and know to make myself eat at mealtimes, even if it's just a bowl of cereal. Today just didn't pan out as I intended.'
John fought back the urge to roll his eyes and shout, 'No shit!' It was a cavalier attitude to leveles of stress John considered outright health-endangering. John wanted to sign him off for six weeks on the spot.
'Have you been to your Doctor about these symptoms?' He knew the answer, but had to ask anyway.
'Of course not! Chest pains, loss of appetite, sleeplessness and losing time? That's classic 'six weeks off for stress please, Doctor' and I can't afford the time off.'
'Someone's got a high opinion of himself.' John tried to make it a joke, interested in whether it was the standard illusion of indispensability, a need not to face his home life or something else.
'I'm damn' good at my job, yeah, but more importantly for Greg, I'm the only senior forensic who'll let Sherlock onto my crime scenes.' Anderson looked towards the closed door, some complicated emotion crossing his face as he thought about the older man.
'I had wondered why Lestrade didn't just bring someone who doesn't hate Sherlock in.'
'Greg's got pressure from somewhere higher up to keep Holmes in the loop. I can see that and ...' He huffed and drank, the sugars in the sickly drink restoring some colour to his countenance.
'I don't hate Holmes. I dislike him yeah, but what I hate is his complete lack of respect for procedure, procedure that exists for good reason. Fiona was on the verge of a breakdown because of it, too many trials like today where half the evidence was inadmissable because of his high and mightiness. It was killing her, seeing murderers walk, knowing the death toll would have to increase before we could nail the bastards.'
Anderson appeared to realise he was rambling and abruptly stopped speaking. 'I should get home before Greg sics Sally on me. Thanks for checking on me, but I'm fine.' He stuck his hand out to shake. The palm was cold and clammy, with a tremor that wasn't going to subside in a week.
'Alright then, but I do think you should see your doctor. Seriously. Take care of yourself.' He looked up into Anderson's eyes, reading the bemusement there. 'I know your job is important and you're good at it - Lestrade wouldn't have you if you weren't - but you need a break before you keel over. I'll do my best with Sherlock.'
'Uh, thanks. See you.' He was thoroughly unnerved and forgot his drink as he walked out with the aimless gait of someone in a combination of emotional shock and exhaustion. John hoped he made it home in one piece.
John stayed in the doorway of the crime scene, watching the action with fresh eyes, how Lestrade stood back, hands in pockets taking up as little space as possible while the suited forensic team slowly, painstakingly gathered samples of it seemed like everything in the whole room. They moved slowly, with a hawklike focus on tiny signs John couldn't even begin to guess at. It reminded him of archeologists, the proper ones, not the Indiana Jones Hollywood kind. They gathered information and evidence so small it was microscopic, methodically quartering the whole scene with a thoroughness that made John feel slovenly in comparison.
Inappropriately his mind wandered to the thought of having that level of intensity, determination and thoroughness focused on him. His cock twitched at the thought of Anderson applying himself to sex with the intensity he brought to crime scenes.
John batted the wildly inappropriate thought away and blinked. That level of detail-oriented focus and slow, methodical data collection, contrasted with Sherlock sweeping onto the crime scene, fast moving, talking, wandering about... He imagined it would be like trying to consult with his patients in the middle of a rock concert. Then to find all of your work was for nothing because the evidence was inadmissable in court...
John had always thought Anderson was pointlessly confrontational with Sherlock, probably posturing to try and cover his own feelings of inadequacy in the face of Sherlock's vast intellect. He squirmed a little with shame at the thought now. What if Anderson's whole attitude at crime scenes was the desperate attempt of an overworked professional to preserve the evidence needed to enact justice?
The police had a duty to the public, protect and serve. Everything they did was ostensibly in service of defending the people of London against criminals acting outside if the law. Donovan and Anderson's hostility to an outsider, who honestly had little interest in the concept of justice and from Anderson's ranting had actually effectively caused a miscarriage of justice suddenly became the most reasonable reaction they could possibly have to the situation.
Maybe they didn't handle it very well, but suddenly John got it. It was pretty fucking obvious in retrospect, the only wonder was that Anderson hadn't actually punched Sherlock yet in defence of justice. If John's professional competence had been slandered as badly, or his professional judgement ignored as thoroughly as Anderson's had been he wasn't sure what he'd have done with himself.
The question was, what now? Today's realisations had turned John's view of Anderson and Donovan upside down, but what could he do about it? Mycroft would keep getting Sherlock access to crime scenes, to his scale of thinking what were a few miscarriages of justice in the pursuit of keeping his little brother happy and sane? To a mind thinking in scales of nations, whole continents even, the lives of a few strangers were nothing in the service of his beloved brother.
Frankly even if Mycroft could be persuaded to stop bullying the Met into letting Sherlock play with their brutal murders (which was about as likely as John becoming a professional dancer in the next series of Strictly), Sherlock would just break in of his own accord as he had done years ago. John frowned. He had no idea what he was going to do, but he'd work something out. Preferably before Anderson did actually snap and attempt to murder Sherlock.