An hour later, Sherlock stood in the lobby of the Premier London Hotel on York Road, thumbing out a text.
Which room? Don't make me get Lestrade involved - S
- Today 7:18pm
~o0o~
17
- Today 7:20pm
Room seventeen was on the ground floor, and the door was unlocked, as if John had expected him. He found him sitting on the bed. He was dressed, minus his shoes, but the bed was unmade and his hair ruffled, as if he'd just woken up.
The two men looked at each other. There was no sound except for the whirr of an underwhelming little fan heater on the wall that was doing nothing to warm the room.
"Go on," John said listlessly as Sherlock shut the door behind him. "You're dying to tell me how you found me."
"Hardly a difficult deduction," Sherlock said, taking his coat and scarf off and draping them over the back of a chair. "I went to Chelsea Harbour, and Harry told me you'd gone. You wouldn't go to Greg, Mike or Bill, all of whom would ask you to explain yourself. You don't have any other friends you're on a close enough basis with to stay overnight at their house, so you spent last night at a hotel. Your preference is for three-star accommodation, which appeals to your sense of economy without scrimping on essentials. And you'd choose one as close to the Evelina Children's Hospital as possible so you could stay near Sophie and Louise, because you left the car for Harry."
"Yeah." John passed one hand over his jaw. "I'm pretty predictable."
"Actually," Sherlock confessed, "I went to the hospital first. They said I'd just missed you, so."
"So." John got up and went into the ensuite bathroom, shutting the door gently behind him. Sherlock looked around: coffee. He was going to need coffee to oil these social hinges. There was a tiny kitchenette in one corner, consisting of not much more than a bar fridge, a kettle and a sink, and Sherlock went over and filled the kettle. He was pouring two cups of instant coffee when he heard the sound of a running tap in the bathroom, the squeak of cheap plumbing, and John opened the door again.
"Coffee?" Sherlock offered.
"Mmm." John sat back down on the mattress, staring blankly into space until Sherlock passed him a full cup and sat down on the only chair in the room with his own.
"What happened with your dad?" John asked him.
"I'm still trying to decide that myself."
"Sherlock. Come on, I'm talking to you."
Sherlock appeared to spend some time formulating a response to this. "We went in with Christabel and… and Martine to the intensive care unit to see him," he said, angry with himself that he'd fumbled over his stepmother's name. "He wasn't in a state to talk."
"Unconscious?"
"Not the second time, when the hospital called us in. They do that, you know. There are distinct signs when a person is dying—"
"Sherlock, I'm a doctor."
"Yes, well." Sherlock pulled one foot up onto the seat of his chair and started fussing with his shoe. "Mycroft and I went in. He opened his eyes, looked at me, and asked me who I was. I said, 'I'm Sherlock, I'm your son', and he said, 'Well, you're a handsome devil, aren't you?'"
"So… what did you say?"
Sherlock tweaked at his shoelaces. "Nothing. Then he shut his eyes and died."
"Oh, Sherlock," John said. "All that time, and that's what you got. Jesus. I'm sorry."
"I'm sure I'll be able to move on." Sherlock was still fiddling with his shoelace and did not look up, even as he asked, "Do you regret not… making amends with your father before he died?"
John considered this. "No," he said. "Not really. I mean, it would have been nice, but I guess I'm just sorry he wasn't a person I wanted to make amends with before he died."
"Perhaps he was. Perhaps he'd changed, and you didn't know."
"When Harry and I went to clean the place out, we found fourteen bottles of hard liquor in the house, most of them empty. So I doubt it."
Both of them fell silent, listening to the dim whir of the air conditioning vent above them. Finally, John shifted. "Listen," he said. "There's something I need to tell you—"
"I know, John."
John raised one eyebrow. "You know?" he repeated. "I very much doubt it. But go on. What do you think you know?"
"Patricia Crew."
John froze.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, glancing away. "Always I've supported you, John. But this… I'm sorry. I can't support you in this—"
"I need you to," John said.
"… Sorry, what?"
"I need you to support me, Sherlock. And I need you to listen to me for a bit."
Something jackhammered in Sherlock's throat, though he could not have explained why. "I'm listening," he said.
But John was far away in thought, gaze falling on a random spot just beyond the fan heater on the floor, and did not respond for a minute or two. "How much do you know about me and Trish?"
Sherlock cleared his throat. "I know you have an extensive sexual history with Dr. Crew. I know you've texted and called her mobile phone on a number of occasions in the last two weeks, sometimes as late as midnight; that you've claimed to have gone places that have never heard of you, and that you've been seen going to and from Crew's house in Crouch End."
John nodded. "You're right," he said. "I did sleep with Trish—seventeen years ago. I suppose you and Mycroft have done your homework on her, too."
"Forty-four, British born, born in Dunstable and studied at King's College with you. She's in a committed long-term relationship, though not legally married, and has a thirteen-year-old daughter named Freya. She's a neurologist, and Sadie Holland is, or was, one of her patients. I assume you got reacquainted when you consulted her during the Marie Celeste case."
John nodded. "So if you know about Freya, I'm assuming you know all about Trish's partner. Tell me about him, Sherlock. There's one thing. One big thing I think you've missed."
Sherlock shut his eyes, thinking. Most of his information on Dr. Patricia Crew, M.D., had been collected in a flurry of texts between himself and Mycroft during the taxi ride over; the emphasis had been on her shared past with John, not her family life. "Her partner is a Dr. David Horrocks, forty-six," he said. "Works at…"
He stopped.
"Go on."
"He's a gastroenterologist," Sherlock said hollowly. "At St. Thomas's Hospital."
"Right. Now I've sat here and said nothing while you've accused me of cheating on my sick wife and betraying my kids, so now shut up and let me talk for a bit," John said.
Sherlock obediently looked down at the cup in his hands and did not venture another word, but John was looking out the window at nothing in particular and took a long time to begin.
"I started having all these… symptoms just before Christmas," he finally said. "Exhausted. Nauseous. That kind of thing…"
A sudden memory crashed into Sherlock's focus. John, sitting by himself on the sea wall in Mousehole after saving Sadie Holland's life. CPR's tiring.
"At first everything was easy to ignore or explain away," John was saying. "We had a lot going on even before the twins were born, and anyway, my immune system's been crap ever since Moran shot me, so I wasn't worried. I even wrote the heartburn off as stress and middle age." He glanced at his coffee, as if contemplating taking a sip, then back at the window. "And then, when I was in Leeds after Sophie and Louise were born, it… got a lot worse."
Pieces of the puzzle that Sherlock had discounted as irrelevant suddenly became all too relevant. Not eating. Losing weight. Sleeping during the day. I saw it. I saw everything. I put it down to stress. "John, for God's sake, why didn't you—"
"Seeing a doctor and getting tested isn't like it is on telly," John went on. "It can take weeks—months—to get an appointment with a specialist. Trish isn't the only one I know from King's—David was a close mate for years, until we just sort of drifted apart after we got our placements. He offered to see me as soon as possible and get me tested early. I get the results back tomorrow."
"John," Sherlock said. "I realise I'm not a doctor. And that you are. I'm not trying to dismiss your concerns, but I do believe you may be worrying about nothing. It's very common for—"
"My mother died of cancer, Sherlock. You know that. What you mightn't know is both my grandfathers did, too. I've been waiting for this most of my life... I just thought I'd get a little more time."
Silence.
"It's gastric cancer, Sherlock. I have cancer."
"You can't know that for certain yet," Sherlock protested feverishly. "Cancer mimics a number of symptoms of more benign—"
"With a bit of luck, they'll have caught it early enough to be able to get it. Surgery and chemo."
"What does David think?"
John shrugged, as if the opinion of his doctor was somehow irrelevant. "Hedging his bets," he said. "All doctors do. You don't want to tell someone you think they've got cancer, give them a heart attack, then have to take it back when it turns out to be something else."
"So it could be something else."
"Statistically, yes, it could be something else."
"This morning," Sherlock said. "When I came to Miller's Court... I thought you were rattled after seeing the crime scene. You weren't rattled. You were ill."
"Yeah, this morning… wasn't a great morning for it."
"How much does Molly know about this?"
"Nothing," he said immediately. "Unless you and Harry have told her I'm cheating on her. She knows I'm run down and that I've been in an awful mood for weeks, but if she suspects anything else, she's not saying."
"She told me you were upset," Sherlock said. "But not that she thought you were ill. For God's sake, John. I'm your best friend, and Molly's your wife-"
"Which is why I couldn't tell either of you about the tests. You needed me. You both needed me."
"You needed us, John."
"No. I managed without you."
"As evidenced by the fact that we're having this conversation in a hotel room, because your sister went nosing around too close to the truth and you panicked and fled, leaving behind your wife and children. Shut up and tell me more about these tests."
John swallowed. "Trish and I've been keeping in touch through email since the Holland case, and Molly knows that. She and Trish have never met each other, but I've made no secrets about being married, and Trish and David know about what happened when Sophie and Louise were born. Last Saturday I had to have an upper endoscopy done at the hospital… calm down, it was a fifteen minute procedure. But I needed to be sedated for it and I wasn't allowed to drive after for a few hours. Trish took me in and got me back to their house until I could go home. Then after, she and David have been asking me how I am, keeping me sane. We've had coffee a few times. That's it. That's all."
Sherlock put his tea down and covered his mouth with his hands in contemplative silence. "I owe you an apology," he said. "I'm just trying to think how best to express it."
"That'll do. The last thing I need right now is an argument with you."
"No. I know sentiment embarrasses you, but I need to say this, John: If you have cancer—which you don't—please understand that there is nothing I won't do to get you well again-"
"Don't." John covered his face with his hands and took a deep breath. "Don't say things you can't make good on, Sherlock. There are some killers even you can't catch. I'm about to go into hell."
"Then I'm coming in with you and bringing you out again."
John laughed bitterly. "No you're not," he said. "Not this time."
"You could have told me. You should have told me."
"Why?"
"Because. Would you expect me to tell you if I'd been going through testing for cancer?"
"Sherlock, you just lost your father."
"No. I lost my father when I was four," Sherlock said. "Anyhow, I got news he was ill after you got news that you were, so your argument is specious. You should have come to me."
"Yeah, well," John said. "Sometimes you don't want to speak something into existence. When I get the test results, you'll be the first person I tell."
"The first…?"
"Yeah, the first. How am I supposed to tell Molly I've got cancer?" John coughed into his fist. "You'll look after her, right? The kids?"
"John, for God's sake, of course I will—"
"Because they won't remember—"
"All right, no. Shut up. You're writing your obituary and you haven't even got a diagnosis yet. I realise the wait itself feels like it's killing you, but be calm and wait. What time do you expect you'll know?"
"They want me back at the hospital at nine tomorrow morning."
Sherlock checked his watch. "Fourteen hours, give or take." He stood up and went to a little desk bolted to the wall, opening a drawer and rummaging around in it. Along with a phone book, some fliers for local services and a Gideons Bible, he found what he expected: a deck of cards. "Do you prefer cribbage or pinochle?" he asked brightly, producing them.
"Sorry, what?"
Sherlock, expertly shuffling the deck, shrugged. "Well, let's admit it," he said. "I'm not leaving, and neither of us are going to get any sleep tonight. Better this than you walking the floor worrying. Come on. Let's play."
"For fourteen hours?"
"Why not?"
"You count cards."
"I won't this time. Sit down. Drink your coffee. And for God's sake, send your wife a text and let her know you're all right."
John muttered something like I already have, but he picked up his phone from where it rested on the bedside table and thumbed out a message. Then he reached across for the coffee Sherlock had made him and took a sip, wincing. "So it was definitely Barnett?" he asked.
"Hmm? Oh. He hasn't confessed, but it was definitely Barnett," Sherlock said, dealing cards at a rate of knots, though he'd forgotten to inform John what game they were playing yet. "The fingerprint on the inside of the box sent to Lestrade matches. In Eddowes's blood. Open and shut."
"What about the hair? The one that didn't match Liz Stride?"
"Statistically insignificant," Sherlock said. "It could have come from anywhere."
"Maybe it belonged to an accomplice."
"There was no accomplice. The women were all killed by Barnett."
"People saw an accomplice, Sherlock. Israel Schwartz was chased down by him. And if Constable Barrett saw Joe Barnett waiting in front of George Yard Buildings, and he said he was waiting for a mate who'd gone with a girl, he probably was."
Sherlock stopped, a two of diamonds suspended in mid-air between two fingers.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes," he muttered, apparently to himself. "It was the friend who went with a girl…" He got up and fetched his phone, scrolling through the address book until he reached Lestrade's number. There was a tense silence as the line rang three times before he answered.
"Lestrade, I need you to find George Hutchinson's witness statement and read it out for me. He said he saw a man with Mary Kelly before she was murdered. Describe him to me."
"Hang on, gimme a second." Sherlock heard the unmistakable sound of Lestrade rummaging through his paperwork, and then there was a pause as he read. "Okay," he said. "He was standing on the corner of Commercial and Dorset when he saw them standing under a streetlight outside the Queen's Head. The man put his hand on Kelly's shoulder and said something to her Hutchinson couldn't hear. She said, 'all right', and Hutchinson then heard him say 'You will be all right for what I have told you.' Local accent, voice not particularly deep, and he'd know it again. He had a pale complexion, stubble, dark hair, dark eyes, bushy eyebrows. Soft, dark hat of some kind pulled over his eyes, a long dark coat trimmed in Astrakhan. Dark jumper over a white-collared shirt. Light-coloured boots, dark coloured gloves held in his left hand, small package in his right. Gold Seiko watch with a black face on his left wrist. Aged thirty-five or so, and 5'6'' or 5'7'' tall.'"
"And you've seen Hutchinson?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Because I haven't. Describe him to me."
"Early thirties, 5'10'' or so, white, collar-length blond hair, skin that looks like he's seen a bit of sun in his day. Don't ask me the colour of his eyes or what his teeth are like, I couldn't tell you."
"Listen to me," Sherlock said. "You need to find George Hutchinson immediately. Don't ask questions. Just call me back when you've found him."
If Lestrade had been tempted to ask questions anyway, he had no opportunity to. Sherlock hung up on him.
"What's going on?" John asked as Sherlock gathered up his coat and scarf again.
"George Hutchinson," Sherlock said. "Social worker for the Whitechapel Mission. The man he described matched Joe Barnett closely enough, but there was something wrong with his description."
"What?"
"It was too detailed. He described the man's shoes and watch. Nobody looks at another person's shoes in that sort of detail unless they have a very good reason. And how could he have noticed the plating on a man's watch from fifty yards away, at night, lit only by a streetlight and whatever light was coming out a pub window?"
"Oh, what, you're saying he was lying about being there?"
"No, he was there. And that's the other thing about his statement: he said Mary Kelly asked him for money and picked up a client at 2 a.m., but according to his own story he didn't leave her yard until an hour later."
"He was, what, watching them through the window or something?"
"He's the scout, John. That's why Annie Chapman and the other victims went with him, despite knowing there was a serial killer in their midst. He was someone they knew and trusted, a social worker from the mission. They had no idea he was luring them to a serial killer."
"Why would he—"
"Because he's a peeping tom, as you correctly observed, and a vicarious sadist. Barnett wanted to hurt women. Hutchinson wanted to watch."
"So who sent the letters, the roses…?"
"Hutchinson. Why would Barnett bother with such a thing? All he wanted to do was destroy the women he thought were responsible for a lifetime of misery."
"And play with their insides."
"Yes. That was the game between both men: fascination and contempt. Hutchinson had the fascination, and Barnett had the contempt."
"So why would Hutchinson want to send you those weird packages?"
"Lestrade will be able to tell us, once he does a bit of research into past cases. I have no memory of seeing him before, but as Mycroft was so kind to tell me, that's precisely the point. I have myself a fan, one who's very put out that I've not noticed his efforts before—efforts I think will run to assault and animal cruelty, if Melissa has it right…" He trailed off as his phone began to ring again, and whisked it up. "Where is he?" he demanded down the line.
"I just rang the Mission," Lestrade said. "You're not going to believe this."
"He hasn't run?"
"I hope not. It's his usual shift tonight, but he got a Shaun Dooley to cover him, because he's off on a date. With DC Susannah Cowley."
Sherlock sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Where?"
"Her place, from what Dooley said. He didn't know the address, but good thing I'm Cowley's boss and he doesn't need to. She lives in the basement flat at 213 Wade Street, Islington. Now will you tell me what the hell's going on?"
"Lestrade," Sherlock said. "Hutchinson is Joe Barnett's accomplice, and Cowley may be in danger. We need to apprehend him immediately. I'll meet you at the corner of Eldridge Avenue and West Street. Bring Donovan and the rest. Oh—and a tactical response unit, in case there's a hostage situation."
He hung up the phone and put it in his pocket. "Our card game may have to wait," he said over his shoulder, apologetic.
"I'll come with you," John said, getting up.
"No. You'll stay here and get some sleep. It's not—"
"Don't tell me I can't come because it's not safe. I'm about to demonstrate to you that I can defend myself," John said hotly, both hands curled.
"John, please. Be sensible—"
"I'm being sensible. I'm fine. You know I'm fine, because you're the greatest detective in the world, and even you didn't notice there was anything wrong. But I might be in surgery tomorrow night. I might spend the next six months in chemo. I might…" He coughed into his hand. "Look, this might be my last case with you. Will you let it be my last case?"
Sherlock looked him over for a few seconds, weighing this up. "Can you keep up with me?" he asked.
"What the hell do you think I've been doing for weeks?"
"Come on, then. I assume you have the gun?"
"Wait," John said, stopping dead. "No."
"What? Why not?"
"Mycroft," he explained. "Mycroft took it off me, the day you left for America. I guess… he didn't want me having it around when I was…"
"Oh my God," Sherlock said, disgusted. "My best friend was a suicide risk waiting on the results of testing for cancer, and my big brother decided that was something I didn't need to know. He'll be hearing from me once this is all over. You can watch. I know you're always keen to see Mycroft on the back foot."
"Sherlock—"
"Look, never mind about the gun. There's nothing to suggest you'll need it, and we'll have to do without it. Let's go."
