trashchildren | For Joan

The cops part to let Beard and Rebecca leave before entering. Joan recognizes both of them. They've worked cases with her and Sherlock on a number of occasions, and had always had a good rapport with them.

"Mr. Lasso," the older one said. "I'm Inspector McCoy, this is Inspector Rudd. We're going to be asking you some questions." He nods toward Joan. "Miss Watson. Mr. Holmes said you'd be here."

Sherlock probably sent them, and Joan silently thanks him.

"I'm glad to see both of you," she says, then turns to Ted. "I know them. We've worked with them before."

"Yeah, okay," Ted answers with a nod when they say they're gonna ask him some questions. "Nice to meet you guys."

It obviously doesn't have the same chipper warmth he usually gives, but he means it nonetheless, knowing they're there to help. And when Joan says she knows them, that's reinforced. "Oh good, okay."

It's strange how that lack of chipper warmth hits Joan. She's seen Ted smile at people shouting obscenities in his face. Somehow this seems worse to her than his physical injuries. What did that man do to him?

"Let's start with Sunday morning," McCoy says. "Can you tell us what happened?"

Joan remembers the scene she and Beard saw on the tape, how startling it was to see it. She squeezes his hand.

"Uh, yeah," Ted answers. "I went out to get coffee, at... my usual place." He doesn't remember the name of it right now, despite the fact it's right next door. He frowns softly at himself.

"Then I went to the bakery around the corner. I don't remember when, but it was early... On my way back, this guy -- Wait, what's his name? The guy in the house, do you have his name?" he asks, interrupting himself and looking between the three of them.

Joan notices how Ted is unable to name the coffee shop. That sort of thing isn't uncommon with concussions, but she makes a mental note of it and keeps an eye out for similar things in case it indicates a bigger problem.

The cops glance at Joan.

"Turner Chapman," she answers.

Ted turns that name over in his head. "He wouldn't tell me, he just said it was Richmond..." he says, frowning gently as he looks into space. He's glad to finally have a name to the face, but in a way also almost... confused? By finally knowing it. He'd gotten so used to this nameless tormentor, and it had almost gotten easier to think of him that way, rather than a person who could choose to do this to him.

The cops frown, confused.

"He said his name was Richmond?" Rudd says.

Joan understands.

"The fans," she deduces softly, looking at Ted, her expression a mixture of sadness with a tinge of anger for him. "He was hurting you because he blamed you for the loss."

Ted nods and points at Joan, looking at the cops. "That's it."

He doesn't go more into that though. At least not yet. He sits there for a moment before realizing he should continue.

"Anyway, on my way back, this guy -- Turner. He had his arm like, in a sling?" he explains, frowning softly to concentrate as he's thinking back, trying to make sure he gets it right and says the important things. "And he was in this van, big white van. And he asked me for help carrying something. So I go into the van. And then I guess he must've knocked me out, cause everything went black."

It's terrible that the man decided to take the frustration of the loss out on Ted, but there is a silver lining for Joan. If this was all due to a crazy fan, then Moriarty had nothing to do with it.

He recounts how he was taken, and Joan's heart aches for him. He was being his kind, friendly, helpful self, and the man had taken advantage of it to hurt him.

"Beard and I found your coffee cup and the bakery bag in the alley," she says softly, hoping that maybe if she shares a little of how they found him, it will give him something to hold onto, the knowledge that what he went through was not wholly unseen. "That's how we knew you had been taken, and where. The market across the street has a surveillance camera, which showed the white Opel van entering the alley. And you, coming later. We couldn't see who you were talking to, but we saw you go in. And not come out."

Ted looks up at her as he starts to explain - he didn't know Beard had been with her, but knowing that, his heart is warmed. Of course he was helping. He may not be a detective, but Beard's got his back.

It's strange, he knows it's still only Monday. He only lost a day and a half or so. He would've guessed longer. He felt so lost to the world, knowing a bit more about what went on while he was gone actually helps. Not just to know they were looking for him, but just... that the world was still going. It's somehow encouraging rather than demotivating.

He gives her hand a squeeze, and smiles (albeit somewhat weakly) up at her.

Then he looks down and clears his throat a bit, thinking how to continue. This is the part where it gets harder.

"I, uh... When I woke up, I was already in the basement. He'd handcuffed me to a pipe," he explains, gesturing at his bandaged wrist. "He.. dumped a bucket of ice water on me, to wake me..." He frowns, pausing, his shoulders tightening a little as a chill runs down his back at the memory.

Joan knows that Ted needs her to be strong here, a rock he can cling to so he doesn't get swept away in the memory of the violence that was done to him. So she stays calm, only frowning faintly in concern as he describes what happened. Then he trails off, and she can see him tightening up. She switches his hand to her free one and uses the other to gently rub his back.

"It's okay," she murmurs. "Take your time."

She glances at McCoy and Rudd, and sees them standing patiently. One reason they've worked so well with Joan in the past is that they never pressure victims.

Ted draws a steadying breath, thankful for Joan grounding him. He tries to shut out how it felt, tries just to remember the words, the actions, not how he was feeling himself. Which doesn't come naturally to him, being a very emotionally driven person, but ends up being easier than he expects, detaching himself from it.

"Um. He said he wanted-- I asked him what he wanted, and he said, 'I want a world without'.. Um. 'Without fucking Ted Lasso," he explains. Ted is exposed to swearing all the time, he doesn't necessarily mind it that much, but he still automatically wants to censor it, and has to remind himself not to.

"Then he kicked me. In the knee," he says, pointing to his right knee. "He was mocking me, then he kicked me again, other knee. Then he stomped on my ankle. I think that's when he broke it," he continues, voice flat and detached at this point. "I tried talking to him, but he just deflected. Then he found my found."

He intentionally doesn't say why he found the phone. "He started reading my texts, mocking me, then he smashed it. Stepped on it. He was really angry. Like... Aggressive, violent, about everything he was doing," he says, frowning like he's almost confused about it, or maybe even concerned about him. "He told me this story, about..."

He has to stop suddenly, swallowing. Takes another breath to steady himself. "About his friend's dog, who.."

He stops again, his face screwing up. Thinking back on it, it's worse now, with everything that happened later. He tries to take another breath, try to calm himself, squeezing Joan's hand, trying to lean on her, but it feels like something is trying to choke him.

"I'm sorry, can we take a break?" he asks, looking up at the cops.

It's horrible to listen to, and Joan knows listening to it can't be one millionth as horrible as experiencing it. And the physical violence is bad enough, but the emotional violence is worse. Joan knows Ted connects to people emotionally, that he sees even the fans in the pub that scream at him as human beings worthy of respect, even care. The first thing he wanted to know from them was the suspect's name for goodness sake. To have that man, to whom Ted would have given the shirt off his back, say things like wanting a world "without fucking Ted Lasso"...it hits her in the gut, and must have been a million times worse for him.

As he talks, Joan notices him tensing up. Then notices him having trouble breathing. When he asks for a break, Joan looks up at the cops. "I'll let you know when we're ready to continue," she says to them. They nod and head out.

Once they're gone Joan turns to Ted. "Hey," she says softly, squeezing his hand and rubbing his back. "You okay?"

Edited 2021-07-05 05:42 (UTC)

He shakes his head a little bit at the question. No point in lying about it or pretending this is all fine. He does know he can be not okay in front of Joan.

His face is still screwed up, and he looks like he's on the verge of tears. He's holding her hand tightly, not saying anything, like he's scared of opening his mouth.

"Hey," she says gently, squeezing his hand and touching his face. "It's okay. Anything that happened, you don't have to keep it inside. You can let it out. Cry if you need to. If you need to fall apart, I'm here to hold the pieces. You are safe. Okay?"

He nods weakly, so grateful for her kindness and support and understanding. It's when she says he's safe that the first tear falls, but he doesn't let himself fall apart just yet.

Instead he lets go of her hand and carefully moves himself a bit to the side of the hospital bed, giving her space to sit down next to him. He just needs to hold her a while, and be held by her.

Joan had the same thought, wanting to hold him and let him hold her. When he moves over she carefully climbs into the hospital bed with him and wraps her arms around him. She kisses him tenderly, careful with his split lip, then just holds him close.

"Do you want to lie down?" she murmurs.

He shakes his head a little. "No, it's alright.." he answers, voice hoarse. He just leans against her, holding onto her arm, and closing his eyes. Taking a deep breath.

He's safe. He knows it, and he feels it while in her arms. He's out of that place, they've got the guy, Joan is here, and he's all patched up. He's going to get better, and he's going to be alright.

It's like the barricades on the doors have been lifted, or maybe more accurately the floodgates. All that fear and pain and loneliness and hurt that he's been trying to keep under control, trying to make sure he would either find a way out or survive until someone else found him, suddenly it's not important anymore.

It's just a small silent sob at first, a hitching of his shoulders. And then another one, followed by another deep breath. Soon enough he's fully crying, shaking in her arms. He doesn't wail, barely making a sound beyond the occasional whimper, and the irregular breathing and small gasps and sobs. He just sits there, clinging to her arm, letting it go on for as long as it will, until he runs out of tears.

It's a relief when he lets go and begins to cry, because she knows that he's hurting so badly, and keeping it all inside will cause him so much more pain that just letting go, allowing himself to truly feel. She holds onto him tightly, rocking a little, gently rubbing his back. "It's okay," she whispers, turning her head to press a kiss into his hair. "I've got you. You're safe."

Joan has her own pain, of course, but she can't show it now. Perhaps later, when Ted is feeling better. Or perhaps she'll cry at 221B, with Sherlock awkwardly standing guard and stiffly patting her back. Whatever she does later, she needs to be strong now.

Eventually he calms down, slowly, not because he isn't still upset, but because the exhaustion starts to win out. He's so tired. He hasn't really slept, and his body's been through a lot. He doesn't feel better, exactly, but he doesn't feel like there's something fighting to get out of him anymore.

He sniffs and wipes at his face, taking deep breaths, slowly but surely steadying himself, with her whispering little reassurances.

"I think I'm ready to go on," he says finally, looking over at her.

She rubs his back as he calms, whispering "that's it...just breathe...you're okay..." When he looks at her and says he's ready, she nods, and leans forward to press a gentle, chaste, protective kiss to his forehead. Then she lets him go and gets up, first finding a box of tissues and setting it down next to him to use or not as he pleases, then going out to the hall. McCoy and Rudd are there, waiting patiently.

"We're ready," she says.

They follow her back into the room, and she sits next to the bed, taking his hand again.

"Would you like to continue, Mr. Lasso?" McCoy says.

Ted blows his nose while she fetches the detectives. It's probably pretty obvious from his face why he wanted to stop, but he doesn't mind that. These guys seem like decent fellas, they obviously understand.

He nods at the question but doesn't go on immediately, instead taking a deep steadying breath.

"So, uh, as I was saying... He told me this story, about his friend's dog," he continues, his voice hoarse from all the crying, but calmer now.

He could skip this part, it's not a vital part of events, but to him it was the first real clear sign of how things were going to go, what the guy-- what Turner's mindset was like. And he thinks that's important to get across.

"And he - Turner - it was like he was telling a friendly story, except he was very obviously trying to make a point with it. Being real evocative, you know?" he explains. "So this dog, he tells me, bit his friend. So he took it outside, chained it up."

At this point he glances over at Joan, giving her a warning look. Letting her know this is about to take a turn for the worse.

"He said his friend kicked the dog around. And then left it there, chained up. No food, no water, and badly hurt. The dog died after three days." Ted clears his throat a bit. His voice is a little shaky, but not weak. It's still upsetting to him, and he doesn't try to hide that, but at least now he doesn't have the weight of everything hanging over him as much anymore.

"It was... pretty obvious that I was supposed to be the dog in the story."

Ted gives her that look, and she understands. She also appreciates it greatly, once again amazed at how he can be going through all sorts of hell, and his first instinct is to protect those around him. She gives him a small nod and squeezes his hand, reassuring him that she'll be fine.

And it's bad. It's really bad. Joan has encountered a lot of psychopaths in her time as a detective. She's tracked down hitmen, been in the same room as serial killers, stood toe to toe with criminal masterminds. But this...this disturbs her deeply. The casual cruelty to animals, the clear parallel being drawn between the dog's fate and Ted's, and the clear glimpse it gives into the mind of the man who kidnapped, tortured, and clearly intended to murder Ted. The man she loves.

"Jesus," she swears under her breath.

"Yeah..." he answers, nodding in agreement, giving Joan's hand a squeeze. And as horrible as that experience was, as scary as it was, he can't help but feel bad for the guy. To be that broken.

"I, uh... At this point I started to realize I wasn't gonna talk my out way out of it. I'd been trying to reason with him, trying to.. trick him into calling Joan or something, trying to get him to relate to me, anything like that," he explains with a frown, rambling a little and letting himself do so. Not completely emotionless, but still trying to keep himself slightly detached, just enough to not get overwhelmed by reliving it.

"He said, uh, he wasn't going to kill me, because all he had to do was leave me there. And he... he didn't seem to have a problem with that, you know?"

It's still so baffling to him. He just can't wrap his mind around it.

"Then he left, and I tried to find a way to get loose, but I couldn't, so I just tried to dry myself and stay warm, you know? At least make it hard for the guy, so you guys could find me."

Joan squeezes his hand again, a little non-verbal sign that she's so glad they were able to find him.

"Scotland Yard was able to trace your phone to about a mile radius of your last location. Sherlock had gotten a list of owners of that particular white van. Only one of them lived in that mile radius. That's how we found you."

McCoy looks at his notes. "So...the suspect left you alone at that point?"

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