Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
Hi everyone! Thank you, thank you, thank you for such an encouraging batch of reviews/follows/favourites! You guys are the best =) Sorry it's taken so long for a new chapter … I was nervous to write it and I've been so busy it just kept getting pushed to the bottom of the docket. However, finally sat down today, determined to write the chapter. And what a nice, long chapter it is. Enjoy!
Sherlock returned to the flat where he had picked John up and didn't bother ringing the bell. This woman – Jenn, Sherlock had remembered (he always remembered when it mattered) – would have left the moment that Sherlock took John to hospital. Instead, he simply picked the locks and let himself in, closing the door behind him.
He was in the entryway. The kitchen was to his left, the sitting room straight ahead. Sherlock followed the hallway to the bedroom and stood in the doorway. Evidence of John's illness was in rich supply; the unmade bed with John's form clearly imprinted in the soft mattress, the thermometer sitting next to a fresh glass of water, the bin on the floor. The curtains were half-drawn and the room, despite being a sick room for the past three days, was clean.
Sherlock's eyes danced over the dresser and nightstands. Everything was neatly lined up, the perfume bottles ordered tallest to shortest. He walked over to the top drawer and opened it, not surprised to find the clothes colour coordinated and folded exactly the same size. A look in the closet revealed the same pattern.
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
Sherlock strode into the bathroom and found a neat stack of white wash-cloths on the counter next to the neat array of medicines … mostly various fever and pain controllers. Sherlock picked them each up, studying the labels before popping the lid off each one. Nothing looked wrong with them but he slipped them into his pocket to take to the lab later.
Sherlock went back into the bedroom and saw a diploma hanging perfectly centered above the bed. Sherlock squinted to read the small print. It was from King's College London, specifically the Florence Nightingale School of Nursing and Midwifery.
Jennifer Anne Bodswell.
Well, that saved Sherlock (or Lestrade, rather) the trouble of finding out this woman's full name. The date on the diploma was for 2009 so her credentials would still be valid.
No, this didn't make sense. This woman was a nurse, why wouldn't she take John to hospital when he was that ill?
Wait. She was the one who drugged him in the first place; of course she wouldn't take him in. That was stupid.
Okay, she was a nurse. She had a clear understanding of how the body worked, of the various systems and anatomy. That knowledge would make drugging John quite simple, Sherlock imagined. She'd also know what drugs wouldn't show up on a standard toxicology report.
Sherlock studied the diploma a moment longer before turning on his heel and leaving the flat. He caught a cab to the Waterloo campus of King's College London and strode into the nursing administration office.
"May I help you?" a pleasant looking secretary asked.
"I need to speak to someone about one of your graduates."
The secretary looked taken aback but reached for her phone.
"I can put you in touch with the Alumni - "
"No," Sherlock said impatiently. "I need to speak with professors, someone who would have had experience with this student."
The secretary put down the receiver, looking skeptically at Sherlock.
"I'm afraid I can't release personal information on any of our graduates without proper authorization."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and reached into his coat, pulling out Lestrade's badge and flashing it.
"I'm with the police," he said. "And I suggest that unless you want to be charged with impeding an investigation, you tell me who I need to be speaking with."
The secretary had paled, although she tried to pull herself together. She showed Sherlock to a conference room before finding the head advisor for the programme. A tall, beautiful woman stepped into the conference room a moment later.
"Claudia Howard," she said, extending her hand. "How may I help you? Cora told me you need information on one of our graduates?"
Sherlock stood and shook her hand – it was easier to follow the formalities than to put up with her being offended and not helping him – and sat down again as Claudia pulled out a chair.
"Yes," he said. "Jennifer Bodswell."
The smile fell from Claudia's face and was replaced with a frown.
"Is she in some sort of trouble?" Claudia asked. "I should have known it was her. Jennifer Bodswell is not one of our graduates. She was expelled from the program in her final year."
"Why?"
"Inappropriate conduct around patients," Claudia answered. "The teaching staff had noticed it in passing during her placements but when a patient filed a formal complaint, we had no choice but to expel her."
"What was she like as a student?"
Claudia stood, motioning for Sherlock to follow.
"We keep all student files that have been flagged for legal reasons," she said. "I can get you a copy of her entire student record."
They went back into the office and Claudia unlocked a filing cabinet while Cora intently avoided eye contact with Sherlock.
"Here you are," Claudia said after a moment at the photocopier. "It's all in there … her marks, teacher's comments, as well as the records from the formal academic hearing. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"No, thank you."
Sherlock left the office and in the cab on the way back to the hospital, looked through it.
Her transcript was a mix of 100's and various marks in the 70's. The 70's marks, Sherlock noticed, where all in her practical or placement courses. The 100's were all purely classroom based … Pathophysiology I and II, Anatomy I and II, Infectious Disease, Maternity, and so on. There were, however, seven classes that had F's next to them. Failed due to the fact she never finished the program.
Sherlock glanced through some of the professor comments:
Exemplary in the classroom … Needs to work on social interaction with her patients … impeccable organizational skills in charting …
Sherlock paid the fare when the cab stopped outside the hospital and he went straight to the lab, pulling the various drugs from his coat pocket. He ran analysis on them only to find that they were completely fine. They were all what they were supposed to be.
He sighed in frustration.
Think, he needed to think, and he couldn't do that here. He figured John was alright – no one had texted him to tell him otherwise – and Sherlock went back to Baker Street. He peeled a nicotine patch from the wrapper and slapped it against his arm before deciding this required at least one more patch.
The detective flopped onto the sofa and stared at the ceiling.
Impeccable organization … her flat was an example of the OCD that made her so organized and meticulous. It made sense that that carried into her schoolwork.
Exemplary in the classroom … of course, that was all material that could be memorized. Anyone could be a good nurse on paper.
Needs to work on social interaction with her patients … the social interaction would have been what caused to her grades to drop into the 70's in all her placements. They required working with people in a professional way. It was also what caused her to be expelled from the program.
Wait.
Of course, how could he have been so stupid to overlook that fact?
Sherlock got up so quickly he got dizzy but he ignored the black spots as he pulled his coat on. Another taxi ride later, Sherlock let himself into Jenn's flat again and went to the diploma above her bed. Jenn wasn't a nurse – she had been expelled – and yet she had a diploma hanging in her bedroom. Where did it come from?
Sherlock ripped it off its hook and pulled the back off the frame. It wasn't a diploma at all but rather a cheap copy she had had printed.
It all made sense.
She was a student who was brilliant in the classroom but didn't have the practical skills for the job. When she was expelled from the program, she had lost the only thing that seemed to matter to her, so much so that she had a diploma made with her name on it.
She had drugged John but refused to take him to hospital. She had made him sick so she could take care of him. So she could prove her nursing capabilities.
Sherlock, out of anger and spite for this woman, wanted to crumple the diploma but didn't – evidence and all that. Still, he dropped it onto the bed and left for the hospital again.
"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, coming into his room twenty minutes later. "John, wake up!"
John jumped at Sherlock's loud voice and he cracked his eyes open.
"What do you want?" he mumbled.
"This woman, Jenn, where did you meet her?"
"Go away, Sherlock." John's eyes slid closed again. Sherlock grabbed John's shoulders and shook him awake.
"Answer me! Where did you meet her?"
John's only response was to vomit haphazardly … which, really, should have been no surprise after Sherlock shook him.
"Okay, okay," Sherlock said quickly, grabbing the bin and sitting John up. "I'm sorry."
John coughed violently, bringing up more bile.
"Are you done?" Sherlock asked and John nodded. Sherlock laid John back down before requesting a clean gown for John at the nurses' station. He returned and filled a clean basin with water, dipping a cloth into it before wiping down John's face and neck. He gently removed the gown and put a clean one on, tying it in the back.
John was aware of this going on, although he didn't feel shame or embarrassment.
"Sorry," Sherlock said quietly after disposing of the soiled gown. "But I need you to think, John. Where did you meet Jenn?"
John swallowed.
"Online," he mumbled. Now he was embarrassed … Sherlock hadn't known about his online dating. Or so he thought. Sherlock, of course, did know about the online dating but chose not to say anything about it. He didn't really care, to be honest.
"Do you know where online?" Sherlock asked. "Chat room, dating site, Facebook, Twitter, where?"
"Dating site."
"Which one?"
"Match, I think."
Sherlock nodded.
"Okay. Go to sleep, John."
Sherlock left his sick friend and reinforced the message at the nurses' station: if anything happens, text me. He went back to Baker Street, not bothering to take his coat off. He logged onto John's laptop and opened up an internet browser. Match was saved as a favourite and was permanently logged in, saving Sherlock the trouble of deducing a ridiculously easy password. He scrolled through the messages in John's inbox and found Jenn's profile. He clicked on it and read through her page … nothing he didn't already know.
Sherlock, not caring about the legality of his actions, logged out of John's account and hacked Jenn's – again, ridiculously easy password that only took three tries – and he paged through her messages.
She had been on four other dates in the past three months … at least dates set up by Match. Sherlock took down the names and phone numbers before calling each one of them.
Their stories were exactly what Sherlock expected. Went out with Jenn, went to her flat, and spent the night only to wake up ill the next morning. The only difference was that no one came and dragged them off to A&E.
"How long were you ill for?" Sherlock asked the last man – Brent was his name.
"She told me it was five days. I don't really remember much, though."
"Did she give you any sort of medication that you remember?"
"Just paracetamol, I think. I don't know, sorry."
"Thanks for your time."
Sherlock hung up the phone and sighed.
It didn't make sense … she must've given them an antidote to whatever drug she gave them after a certain amount of time. Sherlock cocked his head … the drug. What was it anyways? She had to get it from somewhere which meant there was a known antidote.
Stupid, a voice whispered in Sherlock's mind. The file.
Sherlock sighed. Of course … she had a science background, chemical engineering to be precise. She could have easily made a new strain of flu that was drug resistant. That's why the paracetamol never seemed to be helping. It didn't help. It was just for show, to help whatever unfortunate man she had conned believe she was trying to help him.
Sherlock got up from the sofa and walked back onto the street, passing a fifty quid note to the woman sitting a few feet away before getting a cab to New Scotland Yard.
"So you're telling me this … maniac … drugs people she brings home so she can nurse them back to health but nothing works until she gives them an antidote to her super bug?"
"Yes," Sherlock said impatiently.
"Okay, no need to be defensive," Lestrade said. "It's just not something I hear every day is all. I'll put a notice out to be on the lookout for her and I'll let you know if we find her."
Sherlock nodded and wordlessly left the office.
"Give my best to John." Lestrade's voice trailed after him. Somehow, Lestrade knew that's where Sherlock was headed. There was nothing he could be doing while they waited so he figured he may as well go make sure John didn't asphyxiate due to incompetent nurses.
Wow. I know there's a lot in this chapter but it provides the bulk of the explaining for the crime … I hope it makes sense!
Reviews are always lovely, thank you!