THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD

by Soledad

Disclaimer: Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

Author's note: The case Lestrade & Co. are working on is very loosely based on the classic ACD story "The Resident Patient". Also, Donovan and Anderson are as they appeared in the original "Sherlock" pilot: Sally as a uniformed cop and Anderson with beard and glasses. What can I say? I liked his beard and glasses.

Part 12 – The Police

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was beyond frustrated. His team of dedicated professionals had been working on this bizarre case for weeks but they didn't seem to make any headway at all. Three suicides in a fortnight. Three people had hanged themselves in their respective closed rooms, and while the individual cases appeared simple enough, there was something decidedly fishy about the whole thing.

His gut told him so much; even if his mind insisted that he was imagining things.

Those three people had no apparent reason to kill themselves. They'd all been reasonably healthy and didn't seem to have any financial problems, if their living conditions were any indication… well, save this last one. Plus, neither of them had left a note, which was unusual. As clichéd as it sounded, people loved to leave a note, for some reason. Statistically, at least two of those three should have left one. And yet there had been none.

The chilly, wet October weather did nothing to lift the Detective Inspector's mood. Through the half-drawn blinds of the victim's bleak little living room he could see the rain falling slowly, steadily, making the asphalt shine with the reflected light of the street lanterns. It was a singularly unpleasant evening as only London weather could make it, discouraging the inhabitants of Baker Street to leave their houses… unless something truly exciting happened.

Well, a hanged man in a closed room seemed exciting enough to attract a small crowd of gaffers that elbowed each other out of the way in their attempt to get closer and probably catch a glimpse of… something. Not that that chance would ever come. Sergeant Donovan, on the verge of her promotion to plain-clothes detective, which would finally spare her such mundane duties, was patrolling the police tape, keeping everyone out of the crime scene.

Anyone who'd try to get by her would be taught to think again within moments. Sally Donovan wasn't a woman who let people get away with anything.

The water was flowing in rivulets down that ridiculous yellow jacket she was forced to wear for her own safety. She endured it stoically. Once her promotion had gone through the mills of bureaucracy, which was only a matter of weeks now, she'd be able to discard the unflattering uniform and wear sensible clothes again.

Lestrade smiled fondly. If anyone, Donovan had more than deserved a promotion. She was sharp, hard working and stubborn like a mule, even if a little abrasive; never took anything for face value. She'd make an excellent detective one day – with a bit more experience and diplomacy.

His thoughts were interrupted by Anderson, their forensics expert, coming from the victim's bedroom, wearing one of those paper coveralls SOCO always would at a crime scene. For a moment, Lestrade was distracted by the man's recently-grow beard that looked bizarrely fake, despite the fact that it was the genuine item, and the ugly, horn-rimmed glasses Anderson was currently wearing.

Lost one of his contact lenses again, presumably.

"Does the scene match the previous two?" Lestrade asked, and Anderson nodded.

"I suppose we can say that," he allowed reluctantly. "The door was locked from within. No marks on the body – at least none that would suggest the contribution of another person to his demise – and no identification."

"Same as the others then," Lestrade summarized sourly. "Exactly the same. Have you learned anything from the neighbours?"

Anderson shook his head. "Not much. The flat is owned by an elderly widow by the name of Mrs. Dorothea Hudson. She owns two flats in this row; and while she generally has boarders in 221B – though not at the moment – this was the first time she'd managed to rent out 221C… which is not really surprising," he added, looking around in the bleak, dank, barely furnished flat in disgust."

"And she won't be able to do so again for a while," Lestrade said. "While most people like murder mysteries, few of them would want to rent a place where somebody's killed himself."

"I think the place alone would achieve that," Anderson muttered. "Who the hell would want to live in a damp basement?"

Lestrade ignored him. "What could the old lady say about her boarder?" he asked instead.

Anderson shrugged. "Sally spoke to her. You know, the female touch and al that. She's much better with witnesses. 'Specially with old women."

Lestrade suppressed a sigh. The on/off affair of Anderson and Donovan was a well enough kept secret at the New Scotland Yard – he supposed that nobody else knew about it – but that didn't mean that he, as a family man, would condone it. He felt sorry for Anderson's wife, a small, bird-like woman, always on some cure or another due to her generally weak health; and besides, he always thought Donovan could have done better.

He went to the open window and yelled out into the rain. "Donovan! Get up here at once!"

To her credit, Donovan was up in record time. She even produced her small notebook without being asked. She was an old-fashioned one who'd still take hand-written notes.

"Mrs. Hudson says the victim has rented 221C less than three weeks ago," she began to read in a crisp, professional voice. "He said he was a Russian and needed a cheap place to stay while his elderly father was under medical treatment, which apparently ate all their money. He spoke English fluently, but with a slight lisp. Mrs. Hudson couldn't tell if his accent was a genuine Russian one or faked, but she admitted that she wasn't very good at recognising accents. Other than that, the young man was rarely at home, which he explained with the need of staying at his father's side in King's College Hospital as much as possible. He also generally avoided any contact with his landlady or the lodgers in 221B… well, as long as there were any."

"Hum," Lestrade mulled over the rather sparse amount of data. "Did she tell you the victim's name? He must have filled out a rental contract."

"That she did," Donovan said with a wry smile. "Apparently, the young man was called Illya Kuryakin."

"And that," Lestrade declared triumphantly, "Is most certainly a lie."

Anderson, who never watched the telly – hadn't done so even as a child – looked at the Detective Inspector in confusion. "How can you be so sure about that?"

"Because Illya Kuryakin doesn't exist," Lestrade explained. "You're probably too young to remember, but that was the name of one of the leads in a 1960s TV-series about two spies," he looked at Donovan. "It surprises me that you'd know, honestly."

"My aunt was a die-hard Man For UNCLE-fan," Donovan replied, grinning. "Used to have a mad crush on Illya, too. I think I've watched every single episode at least twice while she was babysitting me."

"There were worse programmes," Lestrade shrugged. "In any case, we now have the proof that something doesn't add up with these suicides," he took out his phone and hit SpeedDial #5.

Anderson gave him a reproachful look. "You're not phoning him, are you?" he demanded. "Because we can handle this. We can absolutely handle it."

Lestrade was in no mood to argue with him. "You've got your work to do, right? Then do it, and let me do mine," he only got the mailbox, of course; not that he'd expect anything else. "This is Detective Inspector Lestrade. Please call me when you get this. We're gonna need you."

"Need him?" Anderson scoffed. "What for? That bloody freak doesn't even show his face around a crime scene – just keeps sending you idiotic text messages."

"Messages that tend to supply us with the necessary clues to solve our cases," Lestrade replied. "Besides, I've got the feeling that this time he's gonna make an exception. Seal the crime scene when you're done here, and send the body to St. Bart's. He might want to see both."

Anderson didn't deign him with an answer; just turned around in demonstrative disgust and went to continue his investigation in the victim's bedroom.

~TBC~