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 19 – A Deal With the Devil

"I studied at London University, thanks to a scholarship founded by the Holmes family," Mike Stamford explained to Lestrade, after the sedative had taken effect and he felt up to returning to his consulting room and talking to the police.

He was vaguely ashamed by the fact that he'd needed a benefactor to be able to study in the first place, but what other chance did he have? His mother had refused to support him, due to their differences concerning her choices, and he had no money to his name whatsoever.

"I was… I was a promising student," he continued, "which is how I got a minor position at Bart's after graduating. A position where I have the chance to do some research aside from teaching a few classes, too."

"All this, no doubts, thanks to the generosity of the Holmeses," Anderson commented cynically. Mike shook him an unfriendly look.

"I never denied that I owe Mr. Holmes a lot," he returned angrily. "But my research into the pathology of catalepsy is my own; and I didn't win the Bruce Pinkerton prize with his help, either. It was all my doing, my sleepless nights spent in the labs, bent over the microscope. My dissertation on nervous lesions was written by me alone, and so were the articles that I've published in various medical journals since then, thank you very much."

"Don't insult the witness, Anderson; you might need his knowledge one day," Lestrade said calmly. "Please do go on, Dr. Stamford. How have you, a teacher and researcher, ended up with a resident patient? Isn't that unusual for a theoretical scientist?"

Stamford's rosy face crumpled in misery. It was a strange thing, seeing such a competent, self-confident man flatten like a prickled balloon, Lestrade found.

"I've made a deal with the devil, you could say," the doctor confessed glumly. "You see, my main problem had always been the lack of capital. I needed to practice, in order to continue research; I needed patients. And I needed at the very least a consulting room and a part-time receptionist. And I needed supplies; and a car to go to my patients if they couldn't come to me – all things I simply couldn't afford on my own. I was still living in the same bed-sit as in my student years, for God's sake!"

"And that's where the late Mr. Blessington came into the picture," Lestrade guessed.

Stamford nodded. "Yes," he said simply.

"Had you known him from earlier?" the Detective Inspector asked.

Stamford shook his head. "No; he simply marched into my office at Bart's two year ago, out of the blue. He seemed to know who I was; that I'd recently won a prize and asked if I'd like to start a practice in Brook Street, of all places."

"Just like that?" Anderson asked doubtfully. Stamford shrugged.

"Just like that, yeah. Said he had some money to invest; and that investing it in me seemed safer to him than any other speculation. I was flattered, actually."

"I can see why," Lestrade nodded. "What, exactly, were the terms of your agreement?"

"Blessington offered to find a house, pay the rent and the wages of my receptionist – if I handed over three quarters of what I'd earn on any potential patients, and he could stay with me as a resident patient. He said his heart was weak and he needed constant medical supervision."

"And you accepted the offer?" Lestrade could barely believe how naïve the doctor had been.

Stamford shrugged again. "What other chance did I have? Without a sponsor it would have taken me decades to put up my plate – if ever."

"And so the two of you lived together for the last two years," Lestrade said; it wasn't a question. "How did it work out?"

"We managed," Stamford replied with another indifferent shrug. "Blessington required the two best rooms upstairs for himself, of course, turning them into a bedroom and a living room, and I didn't see much of him, save in the evenings of my consulting days, when he'd come down into my practice, checked my books and took three quarters of whatever I had earned on that day."

"It must been humiliating like hell," Donovan said with just a touch of compassion. She, too, came from a less than wealthy family and had to work hard for every penny all her life.

"It wasn't always pleasant," Stamford admitted, "but he had supplied me with the means of starting my practice in the first place, and I did agree to the conditions."

"He was the one who came out of this partnership a wealthy man, though, wasn't he?" Donovan asked. "With a few good cases and the reputation you've won at Bart's you must have made him fairly rich."

"Not exactly rich, no," Stamford corrected, "but considerably wealthy, yes."

"Would it be correct to say that by now you'd be able to run the place on your own?" Lestrade asked. "If he hadn't kept taking three quarters of your income?"

Stamford calculated a little in his head, and then nodded.

"In all probability… yes. You see, he didn't have access to my wages at Bart's, modest as they may be, so I was able to set aside some money in the two years he was paying the rent – and my receptionist. I may not be able to keep the receptionist – unless I marry her, and I really don't think she'd be interested – but I could, most likely, keep the practice…" his speech slowed down, realising where the question might be taking him, and became defensive at once. "Hey, wait a minute! You're not thinking I had something to do with his death, do you? Cause if you do, you're mistaken!"

"Right now we still treat the case as a suicide, regardless what Sherlock might think," Lestrade said soothingly. "Now, let's get back to the victim. The more we learn about him, the closer we get to solving this case. Tell me, doctor; have Mr. Blessington's habits or general behaviour changed lately?"

Stamford furrowed his brow, trying to remember – then it visibly dawned on him.

"As a matter of fact… yes, they have," he said slowly.

"Excellent," Lestrade said. "Now we're making progress. Please, think about it very carefully – and tell me everything. Every detail, no matter how insignificant it may appear to you. In the bigger context, it could turn out to be of great importance. Donovan, take notes."

Donovan fished out her small notebook and a ball pen and looked at the doctor expectantly.

"You can speak as you always do," she said. "I'm pretty good at shorthand; no need to wait for me."

Mike Stamford thought longingly of his bed and a stiff drink or three – nothing else could have soothed his nerves in this miserable night – but realised that he wouldn't get any of those before the police were done. So he leaned back in his armchair, sighed wearily and began to speak.

~TBC~