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 dealing with events from the original ACD story here. And yes, there are still considerable changes.
Part 18 – Quartet
Detective Inspector Lestrade was about to finish for the night and leave for home when the call came in. He could see Donovan take it; he saw her face fell and reached for his phone resignedly to text his wife. He knew there would be no going home tonight.
"We've got another one?" he asked in defeat; not that there could have been any doubt.
Donovan nodded. "We've got another one," she agreed grimly.
Lestrade closed his eyes. "Where?"
Donovan studied her notebook. "At 403 Brook Street," she frowned. "A rather posh neighbourhood for a change."
"Brook Street?" Lestrade repeated with a frown. "Isn't that where Dr. Stamford has his private practice?"
Donovan gave him a blank look. "Doctor who?"
"Mike Stamford," Anderson told her, collecting his gear needed for the examination of the crime scene. "The fat bloke with the glasses who sometimes works with Miss Hooper at Bart's. Also known as the lapdog of the Freak."
"Oh, him!" Donovan waved dismissively, but Lestrade had had enough.
"All right, that's it, both of you," he said. "Stop it or I'll stop it for you. Dr. Stamford is a respected teacher at the medical school as well as a name-worthy scientist, and I won't have you two let out your dislike for Holmes on him, just because they're friends."
"Friends!" Donovan snorted. "The Freak doesn't have friends. He's just using Stamford; like he's using Hooper at Bart's."
"Which is none of your business, as long as they're okay with it," Lestrade interrupted. "They do their jobs, you do yours and Sherlock does his – and together, we solve our cases better than any other department at New Scotland Yard. Now, shut up and let's go take a look at the fourth member in our suicidal quartet."
When they reached 403 Brook Street, they found Sherlock Holmes already at the crime scene and Dr. Stamford in a state of complete nervous breakdown. The paramedics were also there, wrapping him in a ridiculously orange shock blanket and giving him something to calm him down.
"Another mysterious suicide," Holmes greeted them cheerfully. "Mr Blessington hanged himself in a closed room – isn't it exciting?"
"Try not to enjoy it too much," Lestrade muttered angrily.
The only answer he got was an indifferent shrug from their resident menace.
"What's the Freak doing here anyway?" Anderson demanded.
Sherlock looked him up and down arrogantly. "Really, Anderson, what use do you have for that miserable little brain of yours anyway? Aside from figuring out sorry excuses for your wife whenever you sneak away into the broom closet with Sally here, that is."
Anderson's face became beet red with anger. For a moment, it seemed as if he'd hit Sherlock, but Lestrade intervened just in time.
"Actually, I'd like to know that myself, Sherlock."
Holmes rolled his eyes with his customary why-are-all-people-such-idiots expression.
"Isn't that obvious? Mike called me."
"And why would he call you instead of the police?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock sighed.
"Because I've met the victim just a few days ago at his request, that's why. Besides, he did call the police, obviously, or you still wouldn't have a clue."
Lestrade's eyes widened in surprise. "Have you now? Well, if this isn't our lucky day! What can you tell us about the victim? Who was he anyway? Was he Dr. Stamford's flatmate?"
"Not quite," Sherlock replied. "He was Mike's resident patient. Has been for the last two years, actually."
"Oh, for God's sake!" Anderson rolled his eyes. "Is there still such thing as resident patients? I thought they became extinct in the early twentieth century."
"Try not to think so much, Anderson," Sherlock returned. "It might put too much strain on your brain."
"Stop it, both of you!" Lestrade ordered. "Clearly, we need to learn more about Dr. Stamford's relationship with his… patient. Also, we need to find out if he – or the victim – could, in any way, be connected to the other suicides."
"I'm sure Mike will be more than happy to tell you everything," Sherlock said. "This is the most exciting thing that's ever happened to him in his whole life. I, on the other hand, need to see the crime scene."
"No way!" Anderson protested. "I don't want my crime scene contaminated."
"Then stay out of it!" Sherlock snapped.
Lestrade ignored them both. Unfortunately, he couldn't ignore the increasing pressure behind his ears that promised the mother of all headaches coming within the hour.
"I can give you five minutes," he told Sherlock. "Anderson, find something else to do in the meantime. Let's go."
They climbed the stairs and entered Blessington's bedroom. The sight that greeted them wasn't appealing. If Blessington had appeared flabby the last time Sherlock saw him, now he was bloated to almost grotesque proportions, dangling from the hook in his long nightshirt.
"What a bizarre sight," Sherlock commented, looking up at the dead man with his head tilted to the side, bird-like. "Don't you find that he looks like a plucked chicken, with his neck drawn out like that?"
"No more bizarre than your obvious enjoyment of the whole thing," Lestrade muttered, eyeing the swollen ankles and ungainly feet hanging out from beneath the nightshirt unenthusiastically. "Take a look around and tell me what can you make of what you see. Your five minutes are ticking."
Sherlock launched into action without bothering to answer. Knowing how little time he had, he tried to get the overall picture as well as picking up as many details as possible, talking to himself – and to Lestrade – as he was doing so.
"Hmmm… last time I saw him, the man was already scared out of his mind. Nonetheless, the bed has been slept in; as you can see, the impression is still deep enough, which means he must have been lying there at least four or five hours. It's about 5 a.m. – a popular time for suicides, a logical choice if they wanted to make us believe that he'd hung himself."
"You mean he hasn't?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Of course not, and neither have the other three, try to pay attention to the bigger picture, would you? This is a meticulously planned, well-executed murder, just like the other cases."
"Okay," Lestrade said. "Let's say you're right…"
"Of course I am!" Sherlock scoffed.
"… but you'll have to provide me with some hard proof and at least one suspect before I can go out and start arresting people," Lestrade continued, ignoring the interruption.
Sherlock mulled over that for a moment; then he nodded abruptly.
"Very well; but I'll need more than five minutes to give you what you need. Go and talk to Mike about his patient while I examine this room in more detail. And keep Anderson out of my hair, for God's sake!"
After a moment of hesitation Lestrade reluctantly agreed and went to interview Mike Stamford. Finally left alone, Sherlock went to the door first and examined the lock thoroughly, even taking out a magnifying lens. He hummed contentedly when he found the small, barely visible scratches both on the key and around the keyhole. He took photos of them with his smartphone for further evidence.
Then he examined the bed, the carpet – which had some faint footprints on it, two pairs of them he also took photos of – the chairs, the mantelpiece, the dead body and the rope on which it hung. More photos were taken, as well as tiny samples from the rope. He found three cigarette stubs in the fireplace and carefully put them into an evidence bag to examine them later at Bart's himself.
"Yes," he murmured. "Yes, the actual facts are horribly dull, and I'd be surprised if I didn't have the reason for them within a day or two. That photo from the mantelpiece and the victim's fingertips should prove very useful."
~TBC~