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: We are still dealing with events from the original ACD story here. And yes, there are still considerable changes.

Part 16 – The Russian Visitors

He stormed out of the house, his coattails flapping after him like the wings of an enraged crow, his long legs carrying him with twice as much speed as Mike's chubby ones could have produced. He'd crossed Oxford Street and was halfway down Harley Street already when Mike finally caught up with him.

"Sherlock, wait!" he painted. "I don't understand any of this!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, waved for a passing cab and started to analyse the situation while he was climbing into the back seat, talking a mile a minute as was his wont.

"Well, it's clear that there's at least someone who's hell-bent to get at your patient – for reasons I'm sure we'll find out eventually."

"How?" Mike asked, heaving into the cab next to him. "You've just given up the case, haven't you?"

"Yes, but I'm still curious," Sherlock gave the cabbie the address of Bart's before continuing. "For starters, I need you to tell me how many people visited your consulting hours on the day Blessington discovered the intrusion and who they were."

"That was a slow day," Mike said. "As I have lessons on Thursday afternoons, I usually don't take any cases on that evening. This one, however, had booked a consulting hour via the website, so I decided to take the case without calling my receptionist in. The patient arrived at 18:15, as arranged, escorted by his son. He introduced himself as a Russian businessman, currently living in London."

"Hmmm," Sherlock's brain kicked visibly in higher gear. "Can you describe them? What did they look like? Did they have any distinctive characteristics?"

"Well, the father was an elderly man, thin and reserved," Mike began. "He didn't look how I'd imagine a Russian businessman at all. But there was something in his eyes that gave me the impression that he was used to give orders and be obeyed."

"What was his excuse to visit you?" Sherlock pressed on. Mike shrugged.

"He apparently suffered from cataleptic attacks, heard of me – no need to look like that, I'm actually a specialist in that area! – and hoped that I could help him."

"Was he a genuine patient?" Sherlock's tone revealed that he seriously doubted it.

Mike made an uncertain gesture. "To be honest, he didn't strike me as particularly intelligent, and his answers, when I asked him about his condition, were somewhat nebulous. But again, he didn't speak English very well."

"Oh, don't be stupid, of course he did!" Sherlock said impatiently. "He just wanted to deceive you – and succeeded, it seems."

Mike ignored the causal insult with practiced ease.

"If you think so. In any case, as I sat there, taking notes, he abruptly fell silent. I turned to him to ask what was wrong and found him sitting bolt upright in his chair, staring at me with a blank, rigid face," he shuddered. "Even after all the cases I've already seen, it's not a pretty sight."

"Were the symptoms what you'd expect, based on previous experience?" Sherlock asked. Mike nodded.

"Oh, yes. I made notes of my patient's pulse and temperature, tested the rigidity of his muscles and examined his reflexes. There was nothing markedly abnormal in any of their condition."

"It was a genuine attack, then?" Sherlock pressed.

"At the very least the symptoms appeared genuine," Mike assured him. "However, I happened to get a phone call on the landline in the reception area, and when I got back, my patient was gone."

"Ah!" Sherlock leaned back with a smug grin. "He was a fake, after all; and so was his illness."

Mike shook his head. "Not necessarily. Cataleptic attacks can end as abruptly as they've begun; and the patient's mind is often confused afterwards. It's quite possible that the old man woke up in what would seem a strange room to him and made his way out into the street in a slightly dazed state while I was taking that call. His son, waiting for him, might believe that the consultation was over and simply followed him."

"Ah, yes, the son," Sherlock said. "You've mentioned him Can you describe him to me in more detail?"

"Sure," Mike shrugged. "He was a tall, ruggedly handsome bloke with dark hair, dark eyes and more muscles than any decent man is entitled to have. Actually, he could have passed as a third Klitschko brother, both in size and features."

"Did he strike you as a Russian?" Sherlock asked.

"To be honest, I couldn't tell a Russian from a Czech or any other East-European for my life," Mike admitted. "The young man did have an accent like in those bad espionage films, but whether it was genuine or not… He spoke English much better than his father, albeit with a slight lisp, but that's all I can tell. I can look up their names in my database, though, if you want me to."

"Irrelevant," Sherlock waved impatiently. "They're most certainly false. It was doubtlessly the younger one who searched Mr. Blessington's room, while his partner-in-crime kept you from interfering by his well-rehearsed performance."

"That's impossible!" Mike protested. "That was a cataleptic attack if I ever saw one, and trust me, I have seen a lot of those."

"A skilled imitation," Sherlock corrected. "He knew you were a specialist and gave you exactly what you expected from him. The symptoms are very easy to imitate, really. I've done it myself."

"When?" Mike's eyes were big like saucers. "Why?"

Sherlock waved off his question. "Irrelevant. They must have studied Blessington's habits and checked your consulting hours well in advance, in order to ensure that neither your receptionist nor other patients would be in the waiting room; and that Blessington would be out, on his habitual walk before dinner."

"But there's no sign that the rooms would indeed have been searched," Mike reminded him, climbing out of the cab as it stopped in front of Bart's.

"Which proves that they weren't merely after plunder," Sherlock followed him, paying the cabbie. "No; they were looking for something special, and Blessington knows what that is and who they are."

"How can you be so sure about that?" Mike asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "I can read in a man's eye when he's afraid for his own hide. It's only logical that somebody who's made such determined enemies as these two fake Russians would know about it."

"You really think Blessington knows who these men are?" Mike was still a little doubtful.

"Oh, yes, he knows it," Sherlock replied. "He just won't admit it, and the reason for that can only be that he, too, has a few skeletons in his cupboard. Let's hope he'll be in a more communicative mood tomorrow."

"Unlikely, as far as I've come to known him in the last two years," Mike sighed. "Can we be absolutely true that somebody was in his room in the first place? Couldn't he have imagined things?"

"He could," Sherlock allowed. "But in this case, he didn't."

Mike shook his head in bewilderment. "How can you tell? You didn't even examine his room in any detail!"

"I didn't have to," Sherlock said with a shrug. "The young man had left footprints on the stair-carpet, still visible after several days, which made it unnecessary for me to ask to see those which he might have made in the room. As you remember, it rained quite heavily in the previous few evenings, and you said yourself that the fake Russians were the only patients on that day. So the young man was the only person who could have left those footprints."

"How so?" Mike frowned. "Could it not have been Blessington himself? He was out in the afternoon, too. Or it could have been my footprints, too."

Sherlock shook his head. "No; the prints were made by a square-toed shoe, not a pointed one like Blessington's."

"My shoes are square-toed, too," Mike pointed out.

"Yes, but the footprints on the stair-carpet were an inch and a third longer than yours," Sherlock replied. "In any case, my work there is done. We'll continue when Mr. Blessington decides to stop lying and start cooperating."

"You think he will, ever?" Mike asked.

"Oh, yes," Sherlock said with a dark little smile. "He's the sort of petty criminal that loves to pour out his heart. I'm sure we'll hear of him before long."

~TBC~