Chapter 12: The thoughts of a devil
"He's just as beautiful as his friend is. A masterpiece. My masterpiece." Culverton Smith was sitting at his office table, studying another file, which he was holding in his hands. "Doctor John Hamish Watson. Born 7th of August 1977. Age 43. Was an army soldier and doctor before coming back to London. No allergies, what a shame. Has fast reflexes, need to remind me of that, too." The owner of the hospital was studying everything he could find out about the two men, he soon would meet in his favourite room. It was very hard to hold back. He wanted it so badly to happen. He needed it to happen. He had to wait long enough already. Voices screamed in his head, telling him it was time to make new trophies. "Soon, very soon dear friends. We need to be careful with these two. They are brilliant minds and they could be dangerous for us," Culverton laughed. It really sounded like the devil's voice…
Lestrade was sitting in front of his coffee, staring blankly at it. "So, you want to tell me what's bothering you?" A voice next to him asked. All of a sudden, the inspector was forced out of his thoughts. "Sorry, what did you say?" "I asked, what's bothering you," John repeated his question. "Nothing special. Just a case from last week. Never mind." Lestrade tried to make a happy smile, but he failed. "Why do I have the feeling, you are lying at me?" The doctor looked at him, his eyes searching for any note he was right with his suggestion. Lestrade just looked away. He couldn't bare it. "I am right. You are hiding something from me," Watson said satisfied. "It's complicated. Can we just please drink the coffee and then return to Sherlock's room?" Greg pleaded. "Sure. But be warned: If I find out, this has something to do with me or Sherlock, I will kill you," John promised. "Don't make promises you can't hold." The inspector stood up. John did as well. "Ask Sherlock, he had the pleasure of finding out what I am capable of." The doctor got serious, so Lestrade backed off. "You know: Threatening an inspector of Scotland Yard isn't the best idea, don't you think?" Greg tried again. "I was just joking. Life isn't easy for me at the moment, so thank god I am able to laugh from time to time," the blogger excused. Both men returned to Sherlock's room. When they entered, it was very dark. "They dimmed the room," Lestrade stated. "For patients with a high fever it's better to dim the room," Watson explained. "You want to stay a little longer?" he asked the inspector. "Why not? Have to make sure you're not too lonely," Lestrade said giving John a warm smile. The blogger positioned himself near Sherlock's bed, quietly checking the monitors. He could see that a new set of Antibiotics were running. The temperature had risen to 40,3°C now. John wasn't happy about that. Beside the rising fever, the O2 stats remained stable at 92%. Something the doctor was thankful for. "How long do you think it takes him to get rid of the pneumonia?" Greg asked. "For the infection to subside I would say at least one week. To heal completely it takes two to three weeks," Watson informed. "Damn. That's a long time." "Time is not the problem. Most bad thing is the pain. You almost always need pain release. He can be thankful to be in a coma right now." John gently stroked away the sweated curls of Sherlock's hair. "I really hope you are pulling through," he whispered in the detective's ear.
"Now, let's look how is our detective doing," Culverton whispered, looking at his favourite patient's chart on the monitor. His smile faded, when he saw the condition of the detective had worsened. "O, damn you! You ugly rat. You trying to get away from me this easy? Be sure: I won't let you!" Smith screamed in anger. He couldn't believe it. All seemed quite good and now his plans again were ruined. He really needed new trophies. Maybe he should just start with the doctor. He knew, John Watson was aware of him. Mary Watson was hunting him for nearly two years and he was sure, married people told everything to each other. The doctor must know, who he really was. And therefore, he had to die. He was Culverton Smith. One of the richest persons in London. He would never be caught. His hospital was built to make people believe, their relatives died of natural causes. They would never find out what really happened. This was his hospital and here he was safe. Soon, very soon he would fulfil his dream: Make Sherlock Holmes his trophy. It was a coincidence, that John Watson was his friend. O how he seized the day, where both men would lie on a gurney in his favourite room…