The Science of Deduction's 1st Student

Chapter Three

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade had been exceptionally busy the last two weeks. There had been a rash of execution style deaths but the police had no leads at all. The only thing that the victims had in common was the method of their executions - a bullet to the back of the head - and their criminal backgrounds which meant that London had its very own vigilante. Cases like these were always difficult for the police. This particular sentinel had thus far left no forensics evidence behind, no witnesses, and no messages of warning to the criminal underground other than the nature of the deaths. This didn't feel like random acts. These deaths were connected, of that Lestrade was certain, so he had all of his people looking for the common thread between these criminal's illegal activity to find out where they intersected.

More than a few times DI Lestrade found himself wishing that he could consult with Sherlock Holmes. His insight into murders such as these would most likely have allowed them to wrap up the case by now, or at the very least figure out who or what all the victims had in common. Unlike his co-workers, Lestrade did not believe what the papers had to say about the Sherlock Holmes. He had known the man for over six years and there was no doubt in his mind that what he had seen the eccentric genius do had been genuine. He could not begin to fathom why Holmes had taken his own life. It made no sense at all. Sherlock Holmes never cared what anyone else thought of him, quite the contrary he seemed to thrive when his character came under attack. Lestrade's train of thought was interrupted when Donovan came into his office holding yet another folder from the crime lab.

"Ballistics on the latest two victims. Still no matches. So we have fifteen bodies, all killed the same way with fifteen different weapons, none of which show up in any database. How can this be the work of one guy?"

"I don't know, it doesn't seem likely, but what kind of criminal organization targets criminals?"

"Rival gang?"

"I'd agree, but these aren't gang-bangers. Three of our bodies are known international hit men. Two more show up on Interpol's hot list. No, this is something else. This feels different, like a vendetta. Have we been able to find any other connections between these people."

"Six are from abroad and had only been in the country for a short period of time anywhere from three weeks to six months. Three are from the different parts of the east end, one is from Ireland, one is from Scotland, two from Whales, oh and get this, two of them lived on Baker street just down from 221B." Donovan said, as she looked through her notes.

"You're kidding."

"Yeah, those two are Ludmilla Dyachenko and Dimitri Zemlinsky, two of our three assassins. Now what do you suppose international hit men would want taking flat shares on Baker street?"

Lestrade felt his gut tighten uncomfortably. He now knew what the connection was between these murders. These were Moriarty's people, but were he to voice that opinion he might quickly find himself on the dole. Instead he chose to focus on the aspects of the case that he could vocalize.

"This level of precision could only have been pulled off by a professional. Someone with military or special forces background."

Donovan almost had a gleam in her eye as she spoke. "Doesn't John Watson have that kind of background?"

There were times that Lestrade wanted to slap Donovan. She just wouldn't let go of the fact that she believed herself proved right about Sherlock Holmes being a psychopath. Now she had turned her sights on Dr. John Watson.

"You honestly think that John Watson could be responsible for fifteen murders of professional hit-men and other assorted criminals? Have you lost your mind, Donovan? The next thing you'll be suggesting is that Mrs. Hudson was his accomplice."

"What about two of our victims living within a stones throw of 221B Baker street?"

"Well if you applied any sort of logical reasoning, you might actually come to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe the papers were wrong. Holmes said that Jim Moriarty was the head of an intricate criminal network. If that were true and he was in fact targeting Sherlock Holmes that would explain why two international hit men took flat shares on Baker street."

Donovan scoffed at her superior. "You actually buy that Moriarty lark? There was no Jim Moriarty. When the actor outed the freak he was publicly shamed and jumped off a building. That's all there is to it. There is no Moriarty!"

"You need to go through everything we have again on every single victim. Check phone records, credit card records, internet activity, travel patterns, what restaurants did they frequent, what markets did they buy their food in? I want to know what brand of shampoo these people used. You keep digging until you come up with a plausible explanation why two big hitters moved to central London right down the street from the man you believe was a fraud, and don't even think about coming back to me until you have a solid working theory."

The indignation on Donovan's face as she was set to her task was little consolation for Lestrade. She was a decent officer when her personal prejudices didn't get in the way, but when it came to anything that had to do with Sherlock Holmes she was blinded, and became completely ineffective. The thought that she had planted about John's military background stuck in Lestrade's mind, however.

If these murder victims were people who had worked for Moriarty then who else had a better motive for killing them than John Watson? He did have a military background and he was intelligent; intelligent enough to make sure he didn't leave any evidence behind. The sticking point was the ballistics. Frustration welled up and Lestrade slammed his fist down on his desk causing many in the squad room to turn their heads.


A sleek black car rolled to a stop in front of 221B Baker street and sat there for a moment while the passenger looked through the tinted window fingering a well-worn key. After a moment a soft chime sounded from his pocket and he withdrew his phone to read the text message sent.

'Mrs. Hudson is out.'

The rear door opened and the passenger, wearing a hooded jacket, stepped out moving quickly to the front door keeping his head down, knowing that most people took no notice of those around them. Closing and locking the door behind him, he stopped for a moment just inside. Looking up toward 221B he ascended the stairs to find the doors to the front room and kitchen were open as per usual.

Dr. John Watson lay on the couch, his head rolled to the left, his right arm hanging down with the tourniquet hanging from limp fingers. To any third-party watching, the scene would have appeared sinister as a tall dark hooded figure approached the sleeping man. The hood was thrown off and Sherlock Holmes stood in the living area staring down at his friend. He took a moment to notice everything in the room. It was obvious that John had been living in this one room of the flat almost exclusively. Half full cups of tea and glasses of water were left untended around the room. A plate of food that Mrs. Hudson had no doubt prepared, sat untouched on the side of the table that could be accessed. On the other side of the table there stood a tower of stacked boxes; his personal belongings that neither Mrs. Hudson nor John had the heart to dispose of or give away. A pile of dailies had tipped over and were strewn across the floor at the far end of the couch. A stack of unopened mail sat on the small table next to the leather chair; a few stray envelopes having fallen to the floor. John's clothing was rumpled and his features were haggard.

"I am sorry, John, I truly am." Sherlock whispered.

He bent down taking the tourniquet from John's slack fingers and lifted the limb up gently laying it across his still form. Tender fingers checked the pulse in his neck before turning to retrieve the vial of Seconal to examine. Sherlock sat on the edge of the coffee table and placed his hand on John's chest feeling it rise and fall with regular breaths. John's breathing was shallow, but not dangerously so. His lips and finger nails were not blue, but that could change. John had administered the drug only twenty minutes previously and could still suffer a respiratory side effect. Sherlock trusted John's judgment as a doctor, but the man was clearly near the end of his rope and could have made a mistake.

"This was risky, John."

He put the tourniquet back into the first aide kit, but the now capped needle and syringe as well as the vial of Seconal were placed in the pocket of his hooded jacket. Unwilling to leave John when he could still have a dangerously adverse reaction to the anesthetic, he moved over to the leather chair on the other side of the tower of boxes and sat down turning the chair slightly so that he was facing the couch. He steepled his fingers against his lips and settled in to watch over his friend.

Less than two hours had passed when Sherlock's phone chimed with a new text message.

'Mrs. Hudson is back'

Just as he read the text the he heard the front door open. Knowing full well that he couldn't be seen by anyone, Sherlock quietly rose and retreated behind the stacks of his own personal effects. As he anticipated, Mrs. Hudson came up to the flat with bags, stopping in the doorway when she saw John sleeping on the couch. He had pulled the hood of his coat up over his head and stood absolutely still peaking between two boxes placed side by side on top of a larger box. She sighed as she looked at John then turned and tip-toed to the kitchen trying to be as quiet as possible while putting groceries away.

Sherlock had a clear view of the refrigerator when she opened it and saw that it was full, but everything remained untouched. She took the milk out and poured it down the drain before replacing the bottle with a new one. She removed at least four plates of food that had been stacked up and set them on the counter so she could scrape the contents one by one into the bin, shaking her head as she worked. After a few minutes she moved out of the kitchen and stepped closer to the couch.

As he looked on from his hiding place, Sherlock watched her lay a blanket gently over John's sleeping form and very lightly place a kiss on his forehead. She turned to leave and saw the first aide kit sitting on the coffee table and frowned down at it as though it had committed some offense. She picked it up heading for the bathroom and Sherlock realized he had a chance to slip out, only his phone chimed again. He pressed his jacket closed listening to ascertain if Mrs. Hudson had heard the sound, but she didn't seem to. He quickly removed the device and checked the screen.

'Get out! Lestrade.'

Before he could do anything the sound of the front door opening stopped him. He would have to wait it out behind the boxes.

"Mrs. Hudson?" the DI's voice called from down the stairs. Sherlock didn't realize that she could move so quickly until Mrs. Hudson came sailing out of the bathroom through the kitchen and over to the top of the stairs.

"Shhh! John is sleeping, finally. I don't want you to wake him."

Lestrade climbed the stairs and joined her at the top, out in the breezeway. "I'm sorry, I actually came to speak to John."

"Can't it wait? He has hardly slept since... well you know. He's exhausted."

"I'm sorry, but I really do need to speak to him. It won't take long and he can go back to sleep after."

Sherlock smiled to himself as she moved to block the door frame into the living room. "This is the first time he has actually slept in ages, I really think you should come back later."

DI Lestrade was stubborn however, and placed his hands on her shoulders moving her to the side. "I am sorry, but I have to insist."

"Ohhh alright then, but let me. Waking up with the police standing over him would give anyone a fright." she said, in an irritated whisper.

Mrs. Hudson moved over to the couch tossing a very cross scowl back over her shoulder at Lestrade who had the decency to look properly abashed. She leaned over and gently shook John's shoulder. "John, I'm sorry you need to wake up now, dear."

John naturally didn't respond, and when his hand dropped down off his chest from under the blanket hitting the floor she stood back up startled and looked a little frightened. She shook him more vigorously. "John, dear, wake up. John, oh my, what's wrong." She turned panicked eyes up to Lestrade. "He won't wake up."

Lestrade moved Mrs. Hudson back out of the way and knelt down shaking John hard. "John!" He placed a hand on John's chest as he listened to the man's breathing. Then he lifted up each eyelid peering in at the pupils. "Shit. What have you done?"

Sherlock became alarmed by Lestrade's reaction. John still had color in his lips and fingers so he had assumed that the doctor was fine and just in a deep sedated sleep, but Lestrade was a professional inspector and if he was concerned, then Sherlock paid notice. Lestrade pulled out his phone and dialed 999.

"This is Detective Inspector Lestrade. I need an ambulance sent to 221B Baker street. I have a victim of an apparent overdose here."

Mrs. Hudson just about fainted dead away at that, and sat down on the end of the couch by John's feet wringing her hands and crying.

"Oh, my this can't be happening, it just can't. I can't go through this again."

Meanwhile Lestrade started looking around at the coffee table and on the floor by the couch. Sherlock froze praying that the man wouldn't start tearing the place apart looking for what ever John had taken.

"Do you have any idea what he took? Mrs. Hudson?"

The woman didn't seem to hear Lestrade. "I've already lost Sherlock, I can't bear to lose John too."

Lestrade placed his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eye. "Mrs. Hudson, you aren't going to lose him. Please think, do you have any idea what he could have taken?"

"I... wait there was a first aide kit sitting on the table when I came in."

Lestrade looked around as if trying to spy the kit. "Where is it now?"

"I put it away." She moved off toward the kitchen as she spoke, "Just a minute." she said, as she disappeared through the bathroom door.

Moments later she emerged with the box handing it to Lestrade who immediately opened it and began rifling through the contents. Sherlock was relieved that he had pocketed the Seconal. The last thing John needed now was a drugs charge.

"There's nothing here."

"I could have told you that!"

Lestrade set the box down and moved over to the sleeping man pulling the blanket back. He began searching John's pockets which seemed to further upset Mrs. Hudson.

"Please stop this; John's a good boy, and so was Sherlock. All those lies they wrote about him, that's what did it. That's why we lost him."

Mrs. Hudson seemed to get herself under control and stood up placing her hands on her hips. "I should never have let you up here. You'd better leave now, unless you intend to arrest him for sleeping too soundly!"

Sherlock felt a bit of pride listening to dear old Mrs. Hudson defend her boys.

"Hold on there, Mrs. Hudson. I don't want to arrest John, I'm just worried about him. I lost someone I cared about too when Sherlock died. I don't want to lose another friend."

Lestrade words caused a spike of regret through Sherlock's heart. While he considered the Detective Inspector a friend, of sorts, he never imagined that the man felt anything of the sort in return. He was so blind to matters of sentiment. Here in this room are the three people who were targeted by Moriarty as Sherlock's only friends forcing him to fake his own death to protect them. How is it that he couldn't see what was right in front of him when Moriarty had seen it so clearly?

It didn't take very long for the ambulance to arrive and the medics agreed with Lestrade that John was the victim of an overdose. As soon as they took John away Sherlock stood up feeling stunned by what he had witnessed. His phone rang, and he answered it knowing full well that Mycroft had watched the entire scene unfold.

"There will be people to look after him before he even arrives at the hospital. I'll see to it. You had best get back here."

TBC