Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss.

The Good Doctor
Chapter 5

Confessions

Lestrade slowly circled the interrogation room in a predatorial nature. Alan Crusoe was sitting in a cold, hard, silver chair, chained to the desk and thankfully, fully clothed in sweats they mustered up from somewhere in the building as his own clothing was confiscated as evidence. His eyes trailed the pepper-haired Detective Inspector as he slinked around the room.

"I'm telling you, I had no idea who the guy was. He just barged in," he uttered for the fifth time that night. His fingers were spread apart, hands hitting the air in emphasis. The handcuffs made clinking noises as the chains connecting them to the chair banged on the other metal. They chafed his hands, making him grimace. "Also, mind loosening these up a bit?" he asked.

Greg, now on the other side of the table, abruptly slammed his hands down on the table and stared at the greasy-haired pedophile. His head came inches from hitting the lamp, the only light source in the room.

"Bloody scum like you who prey on innocent children, children for Christ's sake, don't deserve anything," he retorted with a growl. "Now, tell me again exactly what happened, you foul piece of-"

"-Inspector," Donovan warned from the back corner of the room, arms crossed and leaning on the wall as she watched him reach for his gun. The Inspector sighed and rubbed his face, turning his back on the criminal and flipping his blazer outwards in frustration.

The man who sat in front of them placed his elbows on the stainless steel table and intertwined his fingers, boredly leaning his face on his hands. "I want a lawyer."

A social worker was sitting next to the girl the mysterious man had saved earlier that night. She was wrapped in a heavy grey blanket, hands cupped around a mug of tea to soothe her nerves. It sat there getting colder by the second, untouched by her lips. Her hair was falling out of her ponytail, but she was much too frazzled to bother. She simply sat, staring at nothing in particular in front of her.

The Inspector watched from behind the two-way mirror, preferring to let another colleague take lead with the girl. After all, she was just attacked by an adult man; a woman's presence would be much preferable rather than a male's and cooperation would be given more freely.

Sergeant Sally Donovan walked in and quietly closed the door. She went towards the side opposite the girl and pulled out the chair, promptly taking a seat. The sergeant placed her arms on the table and clasped her hands together.

"Hello, there. My name is Sally. Can you tell me what your name is?" she asked cautiously.

The girl snapped out of her trance and glanced at the social worker who nodded and looked back at the woman sitting across from her.

"My name...my name is Eliza."

Donovan nodded, her tight curls bouncing up and down. "Good." It was progress. The girl was talking now. The poor girl. Looked barely a day over thirteen. "Can you tell me how you know Mr. Crusoe, the man that attacked you?"

Eliza hesitated for a moment.

"You won't get in trouble. I promise," Donovan coaxed.

"We...we met online. On a website's forum about flowers. I-I like gardening and...he just seemed so nice. So nice..." she trailed off, staring at an unfixed point again. She bent her head down and started sniffling.

DI Lestrade pressed the button on his side of the mirror in order to turn on the mic that was connected to the earpiece of Donovan's left ear.

"You're losing her," he said. The door suddenly opened and Sherlock strode in. Greg let go of the button and turned to him. "Good. You're here. Did you get a good look at the crime scene?" he asked.

The Consulting Detective merely stared ahead, taking off his gloves. He shoved them in the pocket and stood, watching Donovan interview the victim on the other side.

"It's okay. He won't hurt you. He can't hurt you. He's going to be locked away. Now, can you tell me what happened?" her voice traveled through the speakers on their side. The social worker raised her right arm and started rubbing the girl's back. "It's okay," the lady quietly said, urging her to finish the story.

"W-we exchanged numbers, began texting, and he told me to meet him at that motel. Said he had gotten a hold of some rare flower seeds or something and wanted to meet me. My parents wouldn't've let me go if they knew, so we arranged it to be late. 'Cos you know, I could sneak out. I got there and that man, h-he just attacked me. Popped out of the loo and I just struggled to get away from him, but he was just too strong," she sniffled, "I thought I was going to die. But then someone broke down the door and saved me."

Lestrade straightened up, paying rapt attention while Sherlock continued to observe.

"Can you tell me what this man looked like?" the sergeant asked.

Eliza furrowed her brows. "Well, it was hard to tell what he looked like. Short. But other than that, I couldn't see him at all. He was covered. All in black, like that superhero character. Batman or something like that."

Lestrade huffed, crossing his arms as he faced the ceiling and closed his eyes. "You have got to be kidding me," he muttered. "Fat lot of good that did."

Sherlock merely narrowed his eyes. "Have you listened to the recording left at the scene?" he asked.

Lestrade, now back in interrogation room number one with Alan Crusoe after listening to the recording the forensics team had retrieved, sat in a chair with his legs crossed and propped up onto the table.

"I'll get you that lawyer," he lazily began, "but in the meantime, why don't you answer this one question: did you, or did you not plan to rape and murder that innocent child like you did to Susie Saunters and those five other girls? Where are they buried?" he finished, almost yelling in Crusoe's face.

Crusoe smiled evilly. "No, I did not. Like I said. I was gonna give her some rare flower seeds. And I don't know. That wasn't one question, by the way."

At that moment, a balding lawyer briskly opened the door holding a brief case.

"This interview is over. Mr. Crusoe, you have nothing further to say," he said.

Lestrade huffed and left, briskly walking down the corridor. He passed busy policemen, shuffling about the place doing paperwork, filing, or answering the phones which were ringing continuously. He didn't stop until he reached his office and barged in, joining Sherlock by sitting down on his desk chair, letting all the air out of the cushion as he did so.

"Sherlock, give me something. Anything. We need this-this mysterious man, or whatever the hell he is, as he's the only witness, though we've gotten a full confession on tape. Jury might think he lied out of fear of being murdered or some bollocks like that. You know how lawyers are," he said rubbing his temples. A migraine was flaring up.

Sherlock sat still, silent for a moment until he answered, "I suggest using the motel employees as witnesses. As for your vigilante fellow, I daresay he's quite capable of murder, perhaps in the most extreme cases. Two bullets shot. One at the vase, hence the broken ceramic pieces scattered all over the floor. The other, on the horrendous art piece on the wall. Both were shot as a warning. The vase, then the painting which indicates he was impatient. But he thinks. Quickly, on his feet. Pausing the tape to prevent his voice from being recorded. The second shot was presumably dangerously close to the man as the midpoint of the two bullet holes tell you exactly where the man in the interrogation room was standing which indicates your mysterious man is a crackshot. Shot close, but restrained. Once again, military or police training, meaning this isn't just some average citizen walking on the street. I detect that this man is good at reconnaissance. This case is different."

Lestrade, who was lounging languidly on his desk still rubbing his temples, opened his eyes and peered at the dark-haired consulting detective.

"What are you talking about, Sherlock?" he asked tiredly.

"All the other cases have one thread in common: the victims were lured out. This one wasn't. He came to his victim. It wasn't planned; it wasn't as carefully thought out. Either he slipped, or he was trailing this man the entire time. Didn't realize what was happening until it did and the sight of what he saw made him angry enough to shoot two bullets. Two. Didn't attempt to kill, but the act of tying him up in ropes with sharp blades pointed at his genitles indicate anger on his part. Drug dealers. Pedophile. Doesn't fit the pattern. Both criminals are 'murderers' in a sense, but not quite the same, meaning he doesn't specifically target drug dealers as your men previously thought. What I wonder is, how does he know about these people? This suggests intelligence received from the inside, once again connections to either the police or the military. Oh, yes, he's good. Very good," he finished, standing up and putting his gloves back on and slightly smiling.

The Detective Inspector sighed. "I need more coffee."

John angrily threw off his hooded cape onto the floor of his messy flat and started undoing and throwing all of the straps and weapons on his person onto the wooden floor. The room was filthy as he had not cleaned his flat in weeks. There were abandoned half-eaten cartons of take-out littering every available flat surface. A bit of chow-mein noodles from that Chinese place on the corner by Rider Street were spilling out of its grease-stained white container onto the table. He didn't remember ever knocking that over, but never mind that, John was furious.

"Bastard! Should've shot him dead,," he muttered to himself as he sat on the dark green dingy couch that came with the flat. He ignored the spring that was sticking out of a worn hole on the side because John was beside himself with anger; it was days like this that made him hate the human race. How could anyone do that to an innocent child? The man had admitted it himself: he killed and molested at least six girls. WIthout thinking, John grabbed a small knife from the strap on his ankle and threw it out of anger, lodging it tightly in the wall before him.

"Bloody hell," he said after realizing what he had just done. His landlord would have his head for that. He walked up to the knife which he threw with so much force, only the handle and a bit of the blade was protruding from the wall. He tried to think of the best way to pull it out without making the hole bigger or creating a giant crack, but gave up and decided just to pull. Oops. There was a giant gash where the knife was. He coughed as plaster dust floated about the room.

He really needed a shower.

Freshly cleaned, the doctor laid on his bed with his laptop and opened up his email. His hair was still dripping with water which he attempted to dry out with a towel, but he paid no attention, instead, turning his focus on writing Nathan about the job he had just completed. He had mustered a full confession from the man's neighbor and led the police to the evidence; now all he had to do was wait and let the them do their job. Or hope they'd do it. In any case, he knew the man wasn't as well endowed financially (background checks, always important), so he only charged £5,000, a significant decrease in his normal fee. Frankly, he didn't care if he got paid before or after the job, as long as he got it all at once. If someone tried to stiff him, well, he'd take care of that with a bit of his own background digging and anonymous tipping.

John Watson did not work for free cleaning up other people's messes and he certainly did not take payment in installments. Too many options for creating a trail for unfavorables to find their noses stuck in. He usually gave them options. Pay it all now, or enter a binding contract that was skewered in his favor. That's where all of his connections came from. People would not believe the different types of clients he got; normal citizens, high profile citizens, politicians, government officials; the list was impressive, but his connections were more so. John H. Watson could disappear with one visit to a certain client he worked for many years ago. Actually, he had been hired on many occasions by a man who never physically made contact with him. Clever. Intelligent. At least he assumed it was a man; he didn't mind working for him, not at all. The client had paid more than enough each time John provided his services. Neither knew each other's identity and that was fine with him.

After sending his client a short message, John logged out of his email and closed the laptop, setting it on the ground. His wet hair was soaking up the pillow so he laid the towel over it, turned off the light, and tried to go to sleep.

xxx

The next day, John stood outside the trauma centre waiting for an ambulance that had phoned ahead to inform them of a drug overdose that had happened at the local university. Andrew, the intern, was on his service today. They shivered together as a chilly blast of air swept past them.

"D-doctor W-W-Watson, w-what's the ETA?" Andrew asked as he teeth chattered.

"T-two minutes, I think," John answered, rubbing his arms. He started hopping a bit to get his blood flow going. It was horrendously cold that day, but they had no choice but to stand out there. After all, a patient's life was hanging in the balance. They needed to be ready the moment the ambulance pulled up.

At that second, they heard the wailing sirens get louder and louder until they visibly saw it pull up. The doors swung open and the paramedics helped John and Andrew transfer the male college student with streaks of dried blood trailing from his nose onto a gurney.

"Alexander Hartridge. Age 20. Found laying in a middle of a bush on campus at the university. Pulse is 120, BP 126/80. Suspected cocaine use," a female paramedic filled him in. John nodded as they rolled the gurney into trauma room one.

"We need to give him some diazepam for his tachycardia," John ordered the nurse who nodded as he checked for pupilary response the moment he was rolled into a trauma room. The machine that read his pulse flatlined.

"Shit. He's gone into arrest. Rebecca, charge to 250," he told another nurse who immediately grabbed the crash trolley and charged it, putting the gel on the paddles as Andrew administered CPR. "Clear!"

Andrew withdrew his hands. John shocked Alexander, but there was no response. "Charge to 300," he ordered, trying again.

No response. This scenario was oddly similar to another he went through a few weeks ago. The doctor tried again a few more times, but there was no use. He called time of death.

Andrew looked sadly at the dead student.

"Cheer up, Andrew. It was his choice, unless someone made him do it, but everyone always has a choice in life. He chose drugs," John said as the nurses went around cleaning up and getting ready to take the body to the morgue.

Andrew took off his gloves and ran his hands through his hair.

"I used to do drugs," he told the doctor quietly.

John, although a bit shocked at the idea of the bright, innocent boy doing drugs, said nothing.

"I, uh, got into it because I thought my life was hard. Stupid, right? I overdosed. Almost died. Woke up and decided to change my life and decided to go to medical school. I didn't really want to die; who does? But this guy, Alexander, he won't wake up. He won't get another chance. He's dead, Doctor Watson," he said.

The doctor clasped a hand on the intern's shoulder and said nothing as they stood by the window, watching the patient's dead body getting wheeled out of the room.

xxx

"Ah, Mary, excellent to see you again. Have you been sleeping well?" John asked the patient in his office at the clinic. She sat across from him, smiling brightly and looking rather cheerful. Maybe she had gotten a good night's sleep? Today, her beautiful hair was let loose, cascading down her shoulders like a golden waterfall. He cringed. What was he thinking? This woman was his patient, not a prospective date.

The woman shook her head. "No, I've been having terrible nightmares on top of the insomnia, but I've brought my schedule with me," she said as she pulled out a journal from her purse which was situated in the other chair next to her.

John raised his eyebrow. Why was she smiling then? He would be exhausted if he were her, he thought as he flipped through her daily habits. Wow. She was a workaholic.

"Mary," he mentioned as he read through the schedule, "am I seeing this correctly? You literally spend almost waking hour at work?"

She started stroking a strand hair with both hands. "Well, I'm not really a people-person. I don't have many friends and I haven't dated because, well, either my father scares every man off or we never really click."

She was exactly like John. Excluding that part about her father scaring men off. He hadn't spoken to his family in a while...well, Harry drunk dialed sometimes or actually called when she's sober, but he wanted to be apart from his parents. Away from everyone he knew. After seeing the things he saw in the military, well, he wasn't quite ready for that society yet. His post-traumatic stress disorder was repressed by his nightly duties which was probably unhealthy, but it was fine with him.

"Well, Mary, I want to go over changes we can make to your habits. Are you able to do it today?"

The journalist checked her watch. Oh no! She was late for a meeting.

"Uh, not today, doctor, but I really am desperate to get this fixed. How about we correspond by email?" she asked. John nodded and she hurried out the door after snatching one of his business cards off of his desk.

The doctor turned his attention towards his computer and logged onto his personal email, hoping that the other prospective clients he had contacted wouldn't want him to work today. He felt kind of lazy.

The first email in his inbox was a confirmation of an order he had placed for some new night-time goggles. His technology was slightly out of date and he needed to upgrade them. Even though he was a bit technologically challenged, he wanted to make sure his gear wouldn't die on him when he was out on a job. It only took one moment to screw everything up.

The second email was a meeting place for a certain...underground vendor of military-grade armor and weaponry.

Ah. There. The third email was from his client, Nathan.

Doctor, I cannot express the magnitude of how much I thank you. Money will be wired within two weeks, if that's alright, short notice and all; you understand, yes? I await the news of his fate in the news. I have been contacted by the police already. Once again, I sincerely thank you so much, Doctor.

John smiled. He didn't really care about the money. He only charged to have control over certain aspects; he was no puppet. This was what he lived to do. This was why he did what he did.

This is why he was The Doctor.

Lestrade hovered behind the technology team again.

"Sir, it's very hard to do our work when you hover," a brave man piped up. He was taking it apart for the third time that morning as his colleagues went over the tape with high-tech equipment to analyze it.

"Well, I wouldn't hover if you got it done quicker," he said. The team had found no trace of tampering, but Lestrade had told them to go over the tape again to see if they could get anything at all regarding to the mystery hero. "If you hear anything at all, just a snippet of his voice or something, immediately call me," he said as he watched Peter go over the recording again. The technician had explained to Lestrade what he was doing earlier that morning, but it went through one ear and out the other..

Sherlock was waiting outside, sitting on a rather uncomfortable wooden chair with his hands raised in a type of meditation pose. He didn't turn his head when the detective stepped outside.

"Have you checked the particulates?" Sherlock asked.

Greg rubbed his temples. He knew he had forgotten something.

"No, but I'll get on that right away." He called over a random worker and ordered them to tell the tech team to send the recorder and its contents over for particulate processing. The young man saluted Lestrade and opened to the door, telling the team what their boss just told him.

The consulting detective stood up and walked away, a bit annoyed at the slow police work. If he worked this case alone, he would have already processed the particulates and figured out where the locations he visited.

"Contact me when you get the results," he said behind his shoulder to the exhausted detective.

xxx

Sherlock suppressed a yawn as he sat in his taxi which was waiting to take him home. He forgot he had a few clients lined up to come see him, but now, he didn't really feel like in the mood to talk to anyone. He needed time to think and new clients would only distract him from the bigger picture (besides, they were probably all boring cases). The cabbie pulled up outside his flat, took the money he offered, and left him in front of his door.

The detective immediately went to get a pen and some paper and scribbled a note, sticking it on the outside of his door, warning people not to come in and disturb him under any circumstances, especially his older brother, Mycroft..

The younger Holmes accidentally kicked over a stack of books near his coffee table but made no move to clean it up. Details. He walked over to a drawer filled with junk and threw out the contents until he found the box of nicotine patches he had tossed there the last time he used one. He jiggled it and heard the contents shuffle around the box. Ah. Good. He had a few left. Sherlock opened the flaps and poured the remnants into his open palm. One, two. He put one on and was about to put away the second one back into the container when he decided against it and put it on as well. It was a two patch problem.

xxx

The curly-haired consulting detective laid on his couch for hours on end in his pajamas, ruminating about any possible pieces of evidence that they might have missed. His hands were absently strumming the strings on his violin. He went through all the facts and everything both he and Lestrade's men collectively knew about the man. Police or military connected. Morals: strong. Short. Wears black. Operates only at night, mainly past 8 o'clock. Victims attacked all have the same description of the man, so one. A loner, perhaps. Most likely due to the fact that he works during the day and during the night, indicating a lack of a so called 'social life'. Hops around, but always works around London which indicates he must live in London or somewhere near it. Cameras never capture him. Recordings: none. Knowing his degree of professionality, making the mistake of driving around his own car would not be made. Transportation: most likely public. Cab or the tube. He changes clothes, otherwise he would never be able to ride in public.

Sherlock wasn't about to admit it, but he was a bit at a loss. There wasn't enough evidence. His stomach grumbled, but he ignored it. He kind of felt like pizza though.

Pizza. That was it.

The detective scrambled out of his lying position and trashed his room, looking for every single newspaper he had ever kept recently, an action contrary to Mycoft's suggestion which proved to be a beneficial thing to do indeed. He tossed books, papers, magazines, mugs, empty cigarette boxes, case files, everything onto the floor.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock sat back down on his couch with an armful of old newspapers, all ranging from about four months ago to the current date. He through flipped to the classified ads.

"Oh. OH," he said aloud as he checked the D's. He hadn't realized at the time, but the odd advertisement that caught his attention may have something to do with the strange man in black.

He checked the paper from four months ago. Nothing. Three. Nothing. Two months...ah there. The first mention of a person in need for 'a doctor' began from about two months ago in The Times. The presence of the ads were sporadic. All different people as evident by the various methods of wording and email addresses, but all generic and asking for just 'a' doctor. Singular. Objective and non-specific. Nothing but an address. This time frame correlated with the time the strings of acts began.

The detective scanned the floor for a pen and paper. He picked up an old magazine and a marker, opening the cap and biting down on the black plastic to hold it in his mouth. He wrote down the email addresses, including the one from today's paper, and tossed the papers on the ground. He ran to his room to retrieve his laptop and created a temporary email account. He opened a new message and typed an email, sending it to all of the addresses listed.

Immediately, about ten addresses came back with an automated message informing that the delivery was not completed due to a nonexistent address.

Except for one.

"Interesting," he said with a hint of a smile.

A/N:

I think this chapter isn't that great. I apologize for its abrupt nature. It's stranger than normal. Lol

For some reason, I write very short. Concise. To the point. Unless I do a streaming of subconscious first person type of deal. Then I go on and on and on, tangents upon tangents, rambling to myself.
You should see me when I'm alone. You'd probably think I'm crazy because I constantly talk to myself or just sit and daydream while doing something else Hahaha!

Also, I have no idea what I'm writing when I do the medical stuff. I mean, I look it up, but there's just so many different combinations of illnesses, medications, conditions...it's really hard to make stuff up. When someone overdoses, there are a lot of things that can happen and a lot of things you can try to counteract the conditions.

I hope it sounded like I knew what I was talking about. LOL I do get the general idea.
I would become a doctor if I weren't so terrible at math.
And you need math in science (chemistry, physics), etc, but if I were decent, I actually would be a doctor.

Thank you for reading!