Chapter 11

Déjà vu, Sherlock thought. Barely two months ago he had been sitting on this bench in the hospital. He had been waiting for the doctors to inform him about John's condition after the explosion in the storage hall. Now he was back again with Lestrade right next to him on the very same bench. The door to the emergency room had closed behind John on a stretcher and he had to wait again. He sat with his one hand resting in the palm of the other and elbow on his knees. Since the last time a lot has changed. He had changed. John was no longer just a flatmate helping to pay the rent. He was also more than a friend. Slowly but steadily in the recent weeks he had become the centre of his world. Not one waking minute had passed, which was not filled with John. John, John, his John. As he had seen John lying there in his blood his world had collapsed. Suddenly he couldn't breathe properly and desperation had lain upon him like a dark shadow. He cursed himself for taking John to the crime scene and to the practice. His friend could still be sitting safe and sound in Baker Street with Mrs Hudson now. It was his fault entirely that John had to be admitted here again. The jacket had been so wet with John's blood. Sherlock had been unable to make John open up his eyes, no matter how much he had shaken him and called his name. The paramedics had to separate him from John with force so they could do their job. Lestrade had talked to him all the time, but Sherlock did not understand a word he had said. He had heard only white noise in his ears and the pounding of his heart, from which he had always claimed not to posses. From afar he had heard quiet sobs, and he had wondered why Lestrade should be crying or one of the paramedics. Ridiculous! It had taken quite a while and cajoling by the Detective Inspector, before he realized that he had been the one who was crying. The tears had flown out of him and it had been impossible to stop the constant stream. It had felt like hearing through cotton wool as he had heard one of the paramedics who asked him if he was hurt. Sherlock just shook his head. No, he had not been injured. And only due to John. John, who had felt the necessity of rescuing him. He hadn't felt being worth to be rescued then and he didn't feel like it right now. Lestrade had ushered him out of the building slowly and had made sure that this time he was allowed to ride in the ambulance with John. During the entire journey he had felt as if under water. All sounds had been muted strangely and he had been unable to take his eyes off John. His army doctor, on the stretcher, oxygen mask on his face, a drip in his arm and a big bloody compress on his left side, while the mobile heart monitor beeped at regular intervals and thus signalling that John's heart was still beating. And now he sat here on this bench and cursed himself over and over. He could not stand the thought of what would happen, should John not survive his injury this time.

Next to him Lestrade cleared his throat and ripped Sherlock out of his thoughts. He looked up to see that a doctor had arrived and waited to be approached ."Mr Holmes and Detective Inspector Lestrade, I suppose?" Both men nodded. Sherlock's heart hammered in anticipation. "I am the treating physician of Dr. Watson. My name is Dr. Mosleh Al Sayed. I just wanted to inform you about the treatment and the physical condition of the patient. The stab wound in the left side of Dr. Watson is not deep and did not violate any internal organs. He has lost some blood, but we were able to replace it with a transfusion. We have stitched the wound, and Dr. Watson is on the way to one of the upper wards. You can visit him in half an hour, I guess. He is, moreover, conscious and responsive, apart from his mutism. So do not worry! Dr. Watson will be better soon. Depending on how he will improve in the next few hours, he can go back home tomorrow." With these words, he nodded his farewell to the two men on the bench in front of him, and left.

Sherlock's head felt strangely light as the diagnosis of the doctor sank in slowly. Once again, he felt a tear ran down his cheek. The whole emotional maelstrom dissolved with it. John would live! A smile appeared on his lips. He wiped his face and sighed. Lestrade patted him on the shoulder. "Well, thank God! That was close. Sherlock, haven't you heard, Dr. Watson will be back in order soon!" Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes. „Yes, everything will be all right," he whispered.

"Well, then I would like to ask you now to tell me, why the practitioner turned out to be a murderer!" Lestrade looked at him intently. Sherlock focused on the man before him, grateful for the distraction. "The solution of this case is so obvious! All four women had had problems getting pregnant. Couples who cannot conceive a child in the natural way in their desperation turning in all directions for help. I would say that all victims had tried for a long time, but none of them got pregnant. Therefore, all women had also been looking for alternative solutions for their problem, which school medicine couldn't solve." He paused for the dramatic effect and revealed his conclusions. "Mr Druitt's practice is located in the same building as the dojo of Mr Harris. The women surely would have been discussing their similar problems in the locker room. Women tend to talk to other women with similar problems. One of them got the hint about alternative medicine somewhere and told the others about the acupuncture treatment which Mr Druitt provides, not knowing that they would be consulting a rapist. Mr Druitt has misused his treatment; putting the victims out of action. I would not be surprised if you find a suitable drug in his practice."

"And then, his victims became pregnant? And he was the biological father?" Lestrade shook his head in disbelief and disgust.

"First of all, they probably were glad that they finally had conceived a child. But at some point they all got suspicious. It's basically not uncommon for parents with brown hair to produce blond haired children, but two sets of twins having been born must have sown doubt eventually. Extremely unusual, if it does not run in the family. And I think, they all showed photographs of their children to one another . The similarity of the children's features is cunning when you compare their faces. It´s easy to put two and two together and guess that not your husband is the father of your kid who looks exactly like your alternative practitioner. And not only your child alone, but all six of them ." Sherlock rose and walked up and down the aisle completely caught up in his explanations. "Of course, all women will have confronted him by and by with their suspicions. At some point Mr Druitt decided to take action. If only one of the women would go and tell the police about the whole thing he would be ruined. Not to mention that jail was not a residence he would choose willingly. The witnesses, meaning the victims, had to get out of the way. The husbands would not be a problem he quite rightly thought, because I suppose that the women had not informed their husbands about their treatment at all. Mr Druitt was just a little too proud and self-confident. Too bad that his theatrical vein has led him to want to make more of the killings. A serial killer, it should be, the police would never catch. The idea with the Mah-jongg stones must have struck him as he saw Mr Harris play the game. Had he gone into a store and bought his own Mah-jongg set he would not have been that easily discovered. But no, he had to steal the stones from Mr Harris, to put us on a false trail. I think at one of the other planned murder scenes, we would have found more evidence that would have blamed Mr Harris. And surely the jewellery Mr Druitt had taken from every break-in would have shown up miraculously in Mr Harris flat or dojo if the police had searched them. How convenient." Sherlock stopped in front of Lestrade. He was finished with his remarks obviously and Lestrade could see that Sherlock only wished to see John now.

"I must go now." Sherlock simply said. Lestrade nodded understandingly and stood up, too. "I guess you'll spend the night here? Well, I'm returning to the Yard to write the report. If I should have any questions, or if I encounter any problems with the interrogation of Mr Druitt, then I know where to find you. Tell him from me: Thank you!And that I wish him speedy recovery. He'll be all right, Sherlock. Don't worry!" The Detective Inspector turned and left the hospital. Sherlock went to find John.

A night nurse supplied him with tea and Sherlock spent the night on a visitor's chair beside the bed of John. He would have lain beside him like every night, but the hospital bed was too small. Thus, he was reduced to holding John's hand and not to let him out of sight. John slept safe and sound. No bad dreams disturbed his sleep. The doctor visited John in the morning and examined the wound. He was very pleased with the healing process and confirmed his assessment of the previous evening. John would be able to return home later that day. Sherlock signed the discharge papers and assured Dr. Al Sayed, that he would stick to his instructions, and bring John to the regular follow-up treatment to the hospital. Around noon everything was ready so that they could leave, as Lestrade suddenly entered the room. Sherlock examined him closely. Something wasn't right.

"Sherlock, good you're still here. I am not here because of Mr Druitt. Please sit down. I bring new results concerning the analysis of the explosives. You know, the bomb..." Sherlock, who was still trying to help John into his jacket, turned around in surprise. "I thought the analysis was completed. You did bring me the results some weeks ago." Lestrade drew up his shoulders apologetically. „Yes and no. Yes, our laboratory has made no further inquiries. But I mailed the results and a few samples of the explosive to a friend at Interpol. Your comment with the military was nagging at me in the back of my head." With a grave face Lestrade placed himself in front of the door before he dropped the bomb. "Sherlock, this morning I received a response from Interpol. The composition of the explosives and the construction of the bomb led them to only one conclusion. The bomb was built by British intelligence."

Sherlock's mind raced on to the only explanation , who was responsible for blowing up

the storage hall. His face was devoid of emotions, but his eyes were cold as ice. Slowly, he straightened up and coldly said just one word:

"Mycroft!"