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Lestrade let out a sigh of frustration and rubbed a hand over his face. It just had to be one of those days, hadn’t it?
The crime scene unit was already busy collecting evidence and taking pictures of the corpse lying splayed out across the white kitchen tiles. A suburban home: patterned wallpaper, pictures of smiling faces on the mantelpiece, and flowers in large floor vases.
The blood that had oozed out from under the dead woman’s body was marked with small footprints – evidence of the seven-year-old who had found his mother’s body earlier that day. God, Lestrade hated it when kids were involved. The poor boy was still being treated for shock.
To top it all, their resident genius detective was, if possible, even more of a pain in the arse than usual.
“No, Anderson, the blood pattern and the shape of the wound clearly indicate that the knife was pulled out in a hurry by someone who didn’t know what they were doing. This couldn’t possibly have been a premeditated killing. As always, your lack of deductive skills puts even the most inept rookie to shame.”
Lestrade saw Anderson’s face darken and quickly stepped in to avoid carnage. “So you don’t think it had anything to do with the rumours of contraction at her firm?”
Sherlock shot Anderson another disdainful glare but let himself become distracted by Lestrade’s question. He took out his phone and started typing on it.
“According to their website, the fallout will be minimal. Hardly five per cent of the staff is expected to be let go.”
“It could still be a motive if one of her colleagues was afraid of losing their job over hers.”
Sherlock knelt down on the floor, taking no heed of the large bulge his stomach had become in recent months.
“Unlikely. She had a stable position with no competitors to speak of. The workplace situation doesn’t factor into this at all.” He took out his magnifying glass and examined the dead woman’s hands. “There are no defensive wounds on the body, therefore the woman must have known her killer. If I were you I’d start investigating the victim’s immediate circle.”
Lestrade sighed. If only John were here, but according to Sherlock (who had sounded rather miffed about it) he had picked up an extra shift at the surgery. Probably trying to get in as many hours as possible before the baby was born. Lestrade could relate.
Or at least imagine. It wasn’t as if he had a wife to go home to and plan a family with any longer.
It had been a mere four weeks ago when the press had gone to town on Sherlock over the discovery of his…condition. They always loved a good scandal and the news of London’s most enigmatic private detective getting knocked up was just too juicy for them to resist. It made the headlines for five days in a row and when Lestrade called Sherlock in for a case the day after the first article was published, practically everyone already knew – including his people.
Lestrade winced when he saw Sherlock and John arrive at the crime scene, their taxi being followed by a flock of reporters. He had Donovan reinforce the perimeter to keep everyone out and cursed when he saw the harassed look on Sherlock’s face. It was true then. Sherlock Holmes, of all people, had turned out to be a Carrier.
Lestrade did his best to avoid staring outright, but his officers of course had no such qualms. Sherlock had humiliated them a few times too often for them to be mindful of his sensibilities now. They gathered in a circle around him and the victim, not even pretending to work anymore.
Lestrade was just about to step in and tell them to bugger off when Sherlock noticed the crowd he had drawn. He was standing next to the body by then, coat billowing around him in the wind, which made the bump beneath his clothing all the more obvious.
“What?” Sherlock bit out, glaring at the assembled Yarders as if daring them to make a snide remark. “Haven’t you ever seen a pregnant man before?”
Then he proceeded to examine the corpse as if nothing had happened.
Lestrade saw John give a satisfied smile. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who the child’s father was.
Well, the other father, that is.
It had taken weeks for the buzz in the Yard to die down. Carriers were extremely rare. Only two per cent of the male population possessed the genetic mutation that enabled them to conceive and bear children and only half of those actually managed to get pregnant. The fact that Sherlock Holmes, of all people, turned out to be one of them was astonishing – and cause for a lot of hidden sniggers among the Yarders.
There had always been rumours, of course. Two bachelors, living together, being as close as Sherlock and John…but Lestrade had never thought much of it. As far as he was concerned, what Sherlock and John got up to in their spare time was their business. Besides, John had always shown more of an inclination towards the fairer sex, while Sherlock, as a rule, wasn’t interested in anybody.
Or so Lestrade had thought. As in so many other things concerning Sherlock, John proved to be the exception to the rule.
What completely confounded Lestrade, however, was the fact that out of the two of them, it was Sherlock who was carrying their child. Far be it from Lestrade to spend too many thoughts on the logistics of two men in bed together, but he did catch himself wondering sometimes. Who’d have thought that out of the two of them, Sherlock would be the, well…the recipient party?
But here he was, carrying on as if nothing was out of the ordinary, as if his belly hadn’t grown larger and heavier every time they had had a puzzling murder case in the last month. The sniggers had eventually abated as the news lost their freshness and even Donovan kept her smirks to herself these days when Sherlock showed up at a crime scene.
A commotion at the front door caught Lestrade’s attention. He saw Donovan talking to Mrs Marwick, the dead woman’s neighbour and apparently a good friend of hers. She had volunteered to look after her children until the husband came back from his business trip to France.
“I just put Melissa to bed,” Lestrade heard her say. “She’s been asking about Brian. I take it there aren’t any news?”
“Not that we’ve heard of,” Donovan told her in what Lestrade recognised as her soothing-a-witness voice. “We’ll let you know as soon as we do, I promise.”
“Thank you,” Mrs Marwick said, and now Lestrade was close enough to notice her tear-stained face and the way she kept wringing her hands as if desperate to hold onto something.
“Are you sure you can manage?” Donovan asked, touching the woman’s arm and rubbing it lightly. It always surprised Lestrade how easily Donovan could switch from soldier to nurse when the need arose. It was one of the reasons he had kept her on his team all these years. She was going to make a damn fine D.I. one day, with instincts like these.
Mrs Marwick nodded, pulled out a tissue, and blew her nose in it. “I only dropped by because I remembered something,” she said once she had collected herself. “Today is the day Lanielle usually comes in to clean, but I haven’t seen her. She hasn’t been around, has she?”
Lestrade’s instincts perked up. “Lanielle? She’s the Harts’ housekeeper?”
“Yes. She has a key for the patio door. I only ask because she was going to bring by some toys for the children. I thought it might take their minds off things, for a little while at least.”
Lestrade caught Donovan’s gaze and saw that she was thinking the same thing: the patio door had been wide open when they arrived at the scene.
“Do you happen to have the housekeeper’s phone number?” he asked, pulling out his notebook. “Lanielle was her name?”
“No, I don’t, I never… But Tasha, she kept all her numbers and addresses in a little book next to the telephone.”
“I’ll get it,” Donovan said at once, rushing back into the kitchen where Sherlock had just risen from the floor and was typing away at his mobile again. He looked up just long enough to give Mrs Marwick a once-over and returned his attention to the dead woman’s body.
“He wasn’t here before, was he?” Mrs Marwick asked quietly, her eyes fixed on Sherlock. “Another one of your sergeants?”
“No, he’s just…he’s kind of a –” Lestrade was saved having to explain Sherlock’s role in the investigation by Donovan’s return. She held up a small book.
“Found it. Do you know Lanielle’s last name?”
“I’m sure I can remember it. Maybe if I could just flip through –”
Donovan held out the book to her.
A snort from the kitchen caused Lestrade to turn around and walk back to Sherlock.
“Found anything?”
“Only that you are so quick to jump to conclusions it’s a wonder you haven’t caught whiplash.”
That stung. “Thanks a lot. I’ll make sure to put that in my CV.”
“You will never be able to deduce anything of importance if you cannot discriminate between facts that are incidental and facts that are vital,” Sherlock went on condescendingly. “An open patio door can mean any number of things. The victim might have opened it herself to let in some air. Or there might have been a draft. Or —” He pointed to a bowl of stale food on the floor next to the fridge “— she may have simply let out the cat.”
“Now hold on a minute,” Lestrade protested, but before he could go on, Sherlock let out a hiss of pain and pressed a hand to his stomach.
“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, frowning.
Sherlock didn’t answer as he straightened up, one arm still clutched around his middle. “Your minds are like sieves,” he went on, ignoring Lestrade’s questioning glance, “never focused enough to —” He broke off as his whole body convulsed, forcing a cry out of him. Sherlock stretched out a hand to brace himself on the wall and stood doubled over, his eyes clenched shut.
“Sherlock!” Lestrade was at his side in an instant. “What’s wrong?”
Sherlock shook his head, lips pressed tightly together as if to prevent himself from making a sound.
“Maybe he should sit down,” Anderson suggested from somewhere behind Lestrade.
“He’s got a point,” Lestrade said to Sherlock. “Can you tell me what’s wrong? Sherlock?”
With visible effort, Sherlock drew in a deep breath and let it out again slowly. Then he opened his eyes.
“I’m sure even you lot will be able to solve the case on your own from here on. I’ve certainly given you all the clues one could need.”
His voice sounded tense, as if every word was causing him pain. He straightened slowly and let go of the wall, taking a few tentative steps towards the door.
He didn’t make it more than a few metres. Halfway through the room his knees buckled under him and he collapsed to the floor with an anguished cry.
“Anderson, call an ambulance!” Lestrade shouted, rushing over to Sherlock’s side. Donovan was already kneeling in front of him, her hand hovering over his shoulder as if unsure whether she was allowed to touch. Mrs Marwick was nowhere to be seen.
“All right, Sherlock, it’s all right,” Lestrade said, cupping the back of Sherlock’s head. “Try to lie down. Lie back, careful now, that’s it.”
Letting go of Sherlock for a moment Lestrade took off his jacket and folded it, placing it on the floor as a pillow. With Donovan’s help he managed to lower the still convulsing Sherlock onto his side in a semblance of the shock position.
Sherlock didn’t quite manage to keep the moans of pain to himself while they arranged him. His face looked positively grey and beads of sweat were forming on his forehead. His breath was coming in short gasps.
From a distance, Lestrade could hear Anderson finish up the emergency call.
“They’re on their way.”
Lestrade didn’t acknowledge Anderson’s words. He was focused on Sherlock’s squirming body, on the grimace of pain that marred his usually so controlled features.
“Could this be premature labour?” Lestrade asked, desperate to be able to help. “Something wrong with the child?”
“How long does he have?” Anderson asked, eyeing Sherlock with a professional glance.
“I don’t know… John said something about July? I’m not sure.”
“It’s far too early for him to go into labour. It could be abdominal cramps, or maybe appendicitis?”
Lestrade felt his patience running thin. “Isn’t there anything you can do for him?” he snapped.
Anderson’s face twitched. “The ambulance will be here shortly. They’ll know how to treat him.”
“Dammit, you’ve had medical training, why aren’t you –”
“I’m not a doctor! There’s only so much I can do. Carriers like him aren’t exactly common.”
Lestrade grind his teeth in frustration. He put a hand on Sherlock’s forehead, feeling the heat under the skin. “He’s burning up!”
“Let’s get his coat off him,” Anderson said, kneeling down next to Lestrade and Donovan. Sherlock let out a whimper when they touched him, and even though they were as careful as possible, they obviously caused him pain.
Now that he was lying there in just his suit, Lestrade got a better look at Sherlock’s protruding belly – and the tremors shaking his body.
A gasp to his left made Lestrade look up. Anderson was staring in horror at something on Sherlock’s back.
“What? What is it?”
Anderson swallowed. “He’s bleeding.”
Lestrade felt his stomach drop. The world seemed to go mute for a minute before the sounds rushed back in. Beside him, Donovan clasped a hand over her mouth.
Lestrade could feel his composure slip. “Where is that blasted ambulance?!”
Anderson had dug out a towel from somewhere and was pressing it to Sherlock’s backside. Sherlock let out a weak moan at the touch.
“John…”
Lestrade wiped a hand across his face, willing himself to stay calm. “Has anybody called him? Watson?”
Anderson and Donovan stared at him blankly, shaking their heads. Donovan was the first to recover. She pulled out her mobile and started dialling, rising from the floor and taking a few steps away from them.
Lestrade patted Sherlock’s shoulder. “It’s going to be all right. He’s coming, John’s coming, you’re going to be fine.”
Behind him, he could hear Donovan speak urgently into the phone, trying to reassure a no doubt frantic John Watson that they were taking care of Sherlock. Underneath her murmurs was another sound, high-pitched and getting louder by the second…sirens.
Lestrade had never been so relieved to hear them.
He held Sherlock’s head through the next minutes, trying to offer some sort of comfort, even though Sherlock didn’t seem conscious enough anymore to be aware of it.
At long last, the paramedics rushed in and Lestrade stepped back to let them take over. Anderson and Donovan looked pretty shaken, watching as Sherlock was heaved onto a stretcher and carried out to the waiting ambulance.
“I’m going with him to the hospital. You two wrap up here,” Lestrade told them and headed out after the paramedics.
It was the least he could do.
*~*~*
Lestrade was overcome with a sense of déjà vu as he sat in the crowded ambulance, watching the paramedics hook Sherlock onto all sorts of machines and empty syringes into his body. He remembered it well: an ambulance just like this one, hectic movement all around, Sherlock’s body oddly still and far too pale and thin to be healthy. Arms like twigs, punctured by needle marks; Lestrade’s worst nightmare come true. Of course it had to be him who found Sherlock passed out on the bathroom floor. Who else was there?
Lestrade shook his head to bring himself back to the present. This was different. Sherlock wasn’t self-destructing anymore (at least not as excessively) and he was no longer alone, dependent solely on Lestrade to provide a link to normality (or something resembling normality; Lestrade’s job wasn’t normal, as Annie had reminded him over and over again, before she threw plates onto the floor and her clothes into a suitcase). Sherlock had John now, and the baby, and – please let them be okay.
They came to an abrupt halt outside Pond Street Royal Free Hospital. Sherlock had gone still during the ride, his body responding to the various drugs the paramedics had injected him with. He looked deathly pale as they stretchered him off towards A&E, the doors already gaping open and swallowing them in a flurry of movement.
One of the paramedics hung back to ask him if he could drop by the front desk to fill out some paperwork for Sherlock. She had sympathetic eyes and a kind face and assured him that the doctors would take good care of his “colleague”, as if there had been any doubt.
When Lestrade arrived at the front desk and asked after the forms to fill out, however, the nurse on duty informed him that the paperwork had already been taken care of. Lestrade frowned. That was odd. John couldn’t possibly have beaten him here and no one else knew where Sherlock was taken. Unless –
He glanced around and sure enough, there he was, immaculately dressed as always in a fine pressed three-piece, leaning against the wall as unobtrusively as if he was trying to merge with the paint.
Lestrade walked over. “Mr Holmes.”
“Detective Inspector.”
“I take it you already know what happened?”
“Only that Sherlock had to be brought to the hospital. I was hoping you could fill me in on the details.”
To the casual observer, Mycroft Holmes must have seemed completely unfazed by the news of his brother’s predicament. Lestrade, however, had known him long enough to recognise the signs of worry in the tightening around his mouth, the forced blankness of his expression, the way his hands gripped the ever-present umbrella a tad too tightly. The mere fact that Mycroft had shown up here, barely half an hour after the incident had occurred, spoke volumes of his concern for his younger brother.
Lestrade told him all he could about what had happened, not that he was able to offer an explanation for the sudden onset of Sherlock’s symptoms. That’s what the doctors were for. Who were hopefully doing everything in their power to make sure Sherlock and the baby got out of this alive and unscathed.
The door to A&E was pushed open with enough force to startle an elderly lady into dropping her purse with a gasp. It revealed a flushed John Watson who looked like he had just sprinted halfway across London to get here. Lestrade quickly rose from his seat and held up a placatory hand.
“John –”
“Where is he?”
“They are still tending to him, we don’t know –”
“What happened? Is the baby… Sherlock –”
“We don’t know anything yet, but they are in good hands. Here, sit down.”
John wiped a shaking hand across his face and took a few deep breaths.
“What happened?” he asked again.
Lestrade told him with Mycroft still leaning against the wall, pretending to be impervious to the emotional upheaval going on around him. John listened without interrupting, his face growing grimmer by the minute.
“I should have known. I should have known there was something wrong with him. He was so tetchy this morning, more so than usual. I thought it was hormones.”
“You can’t blame yourself, John.”
John snorted and turned away.
“The Inspector is right, John. You couldn’t have known,” Mycroft said, studying the tip of his umbrella as though it held the answers to the universe.
“I’m a doctor. It’s my job to –”
“Stop it, John.”
“It’s Sherlock!” John shouted, fists clenched at his side. Lestrade flinched at the depth of feeling in the other man’s voice. “It’s Sherlock and our baby and I… I –” He broke off. Lestrade stepped behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. John took a shuddering breath, struggling to collect himself.
“I’m sorry, Greg, I didn’t mean –”
“It’s all right.”
“There’s just so much that can go wrong…we’ve both been worried.”
“I know.”
John took a step forward, shrugging off Lestrade’s hand with a grateful nod, and squared his shoulders.
“So who’s the attending physician?”
“A Dr Sandra Khan,” Mycroft provided at once. “She is an internist with special training in andrology.”
“Good. That’s…good.”
John had finally calmed down enough to take the seat next to Lestrade. He kept looking at his watch and fidgeting with his shirtsleeves until Lestrade took pity on him and got him a cup of tea out of the cafeteria. The least it did was to give John something to hold onto.
The next few hours passed in tense silence, only interrupted by Donovan calling a couple of times to fill Lestrade in on the latest developments. His team had gotten hold of the Harts’ housekeeper and was interrogating her. So far, she denied that she had been anywhere near the house at the time of the murder.
Lestrade was just about to offer to get John another cup of tea to stretch his legs when one of the doors opened and a middle-aged woman in a lab coat strode out, dark hair bound in a dishevelled pony tail and looking up from a file in her hands.
“Family of Sherlock Holmes?” she asked as she approached them.
“Yes,” John said immediately, jumping to his feet. “How is he?”
“I’m Dr Khan, hello. You must be Dr Watson. I read your blog.” She held out a hand.
“Yes,” John said distractedly, shaking her hand. “How is Sherlock?”
“The surgery went well. He’s stable for now. They both are – him and the baby.”
Lestrade watched John close his eyes in relief.
“But –”
John’s head snapped up.
Dr Khan sighed. “There was a lot of blood loss due to a rupture in the intestinal wall. We can’t risk it happening again. Next time, it might be fatal, for both of them.”
Lestrade felt John tense beside him, the relief of a few moments ago evaporating as quickly as it had come.
“What caused the rupture?”
“We can’t be sure. Could have been some sort of minor trauma, or maybe it was stress-related. There’s really no way to tell.”
John took a deep breath. “Okay. So what do you propose?”
“Bed rest, a lot of it. No more chasing after criminals. He has to stay at home and take it easy. That’s the only way I can see that will give Mr Holmes the chance to carry the baby to term.”
“That doesn’t sound very optimistic.”
Dr Khan hesitated, taking the time to choose her next words carefully. “Your partner has just been through a major crisis, Dr Watson. As you know, male pregnancies carry a high risk of intestinal rupture. Well, it has happened in this case. All we can do now is to try and prevent it from happening again. There are no guarantees.”
She frowned when she took in John’s anguished expression. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to frighten you. The important thing is that for now, your partner is stable, the baby is doing well, and with a few precautions, Mr Holmes should be able to carry it to term. That’s what we’re going to focus on.”
“Will he have to stay here?”
“For a few days. But he can go home once we’ve made sure there aren’t any further complications. Provided he is going to stick to the bed rest.”
“Oh, I’ll make sure of that,” John said darkly. “Can I see him?”
“Of course. If you’ll come with me.”
“You go ahead, I’ll catch up,” Lestrade said as John looked at him inquiringly. He watched as John straightened his shoulders and followed the doctor through the swinging doors.
“Well, everything seems to be under control for the moment,” Mycroft said, abandoning his spot against the wall and heading for the exit. Lestrade fell in step with him. He was gasping for a cigarette, but perhaps a few lungs full of fresh air would do the trick.
“I would very much appreciate it if you didn’t tell my brother about my involvement in all of this. He has made it clear to me that any interference on my part on behalf of his – status – will be considered a violation of his privacy.”
“He’s Sherlock. I’m sure he’ll figure out you were here without my help.”
Mycroft raised his eyebrows but didn’t answer and, with a curt nod, walked over to the black limousine that had appeared at the kerb out of nowhere.
Lestrade found himself staring at his retreating back. Sherlock might not want to hear it, but as far as dramatic exits went, he and his brother were birds of a feather.
“Can I drop you somewhere?”
The sudden question startled Lestrade out of his reverie. He frowned, not sure he had heard right, but there was Mycroft Holmes, standing by the open door of the limousine with an expectant and slightly impatient look on his face.
Oh, what the hell. If Mycroft Holmes, of all people, was in a giving mood, who was he to refuse?
“Scotland Yard,” Lestrade said, walking over to the car and climbing onto the back seat.
Sherlock was bound to be unconscious for a while longer. He might as well catch up on the case.
*~*~*
When Lestrade returned from the Yard and entered Sherlock’s room a couple of hours later, it was to find John at his bedside, one hand draped possessively over Sherlock’s stomach, the other stroking his hair.
Lestrade almost doubled back in surprise. He had never even seen John and Sherlock hold hands, much less display their affection in any other physical way. He felt like an intruder on something private.
But of course John had spotted him and waved him in.
“Greg! Sherlock’s been asking about you.”
“Has he?” Lestrade said disbelievingly, approaching the hospital bed.
Sherlock looked dreadful. His right arm was hooked up to an IV line, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his face was still as white as the sheets he lay on. But most startling was his lack of movement: post-surgery Sherlock seemed content to just lie there and didn’t even fidget when John stroked a stray curl out of his face.
“Of course,” Sherlock answered Lestrade’s question, meeting his eyes with a gaze that was still dulled from the narcotics. “You are the last person I remember being with before I lost consciousness.”
“Yeah, it was all pretty dramatic. Right up your street,” Lestrade joked.
“Please tell me that Anderson didn’t see me faint.”
“Oh, he did. He’s probably already posted the photographs online.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“So how are you feeling?”
Sherlock huffed as if the question was beneath his dignity.
“I have been assured that my body will mend in time. Until then, a certain degree of physical discomfort is to be expected.”
“In other words, he feels like shit,” John translated with a grin.
Lestrade chuckled. “Well, you are going to have plenty of opportunity to rest and recover from what I hear.”
Sherlock’s scowl was deep enough to drown a litter of kittens in.
“Oh, don’t remind him,” John said. “He’s going to be a nightmare to live with. I’ll probably kill him myself before the baby is born.”
“Sounds like you could use some distraction. Tell you what, I’ll have a talk with the guys in Archives, see if they can’t dig out a few of our cold cases. You could go through the files, tell us what we missed?”
Lestrade saw Sherlock’s face brighten at the prospect, though he did his best to hide his delight. John, on the other hand, smiled outright. “That’s a brilliant idea, thanks, Greg.”
Sherlock cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow at Lestrade.
“So have you arrested her yet?”
“Who?”
“Mrs Marwick. The nice lady from next door who offered to look after the children and oh so conveniently suggested the housekeeper as a suspect.”
Lestrade stared at him. “Why would we want to arrest her?”
Sherlock let out a long-suffering sigh and made an attempt to sit up. He abandoned it quickly though, sinking back into the cushions with a wince.
“It’s amazing what you can learn from a person’s reaction to someone being pregnant,” he began once he was able to take a full breath again. “The way she looked at my stomach told me that she was envious, implying that for some reason she can’t have children of her own. Then there’s her best friend, living next door with a boy and a girl, daily evidence of what Mrs Marwick herself is never going to have. Her tears at the crime scene were genuine though. She didn’t plan on killing her friend, so it had to have happened in the heat of the moment. Something must have set her off. ”
“But how can you –”
“Her hands. They were red, almost chafed; she scrubbed them clean after the murder.”
Lestrade gaped at him. “You’re sure about this?”
Sherlock gave him a look that could only be described as patronising. Lestrade decided to be the better man and concede the point.
“I guess I should be going then. Looks like I have an arrest to make.”
“Yes, you do,” Sherlock said with a self-satisfied smirk.
“Thanks for stopping by, Greg,” John said, rising from his seat. “I’ll walk you out.” He squeezed Sherlock’s hand that wasn’t encumbered by the IV line. “I’ll be right back.”
“He’s really grateful for all your help today,” John said once the door to Sherlock’s room was firmly shut behind them. “He’ll never mention it, of course, but it means a lot to him that you were there. To both of us, in fact.”
“Well, what are friends for,” Lestrade said, shifting uncomfortably under John’s praise.
“He’s a lucky man,” John said with feeling.
“Yeah, well. I have to get back to the Yard. Wrap up the case.”
“Sure. Good luck with that.”
“You, too. I have a feeling you’re gonna need it more than I do.”
John’s face took on a pained expression, the worry and anxiousness from earlier catching up with him. Lestrade watched him as he deliberately shrugged it off before he went back into Sherlock’s room.
*~*~*
Sherlock had been right, of course: the dead woman’s neighbour had indeed been the killer. During her interrogation, Mrs Marwick confessed that she had lost it when her friend had told her that she was pregnant again. Always jealous of her for having a family while she herself couldn’t conceive and none of the treatments took hold, she had grabbed the knife from the kitchen worktop and stabbed Mrs Hart in the chest, killing both her and the unborn child.
Two days later, Lestrade closed the file and put it away with relish. This was one case he wasn’t keen on revisiting any time soon.
There was a knock on the door, followed by Donovan stepping into his office with a stack of folders in her arms. Lestrade cleared a spot on his desk to make room.
“Any news on His Nibs?” Donovan asked as she set down her load.
It was the second time she had shown an interest in how Sherlock was doing. Apparently, witnessing him collapse and almost die had improved her opinion of him. Or at least shown her that he wasn’t quite the unassailable bastard she believed him to be.
“He’ll be allowed to go home tomorrow. We will have to make do without him for a while though.”
Donovan made a non-committal noise. “I’m sure we’ll manage.” She turned to go. “The suspect has just been brought in. He’s in Interrogation Room Three.”
“Tell the guys I’ll be right there.”
“Will do.”
Lestrade was left wondering if they would indeed be as okay without Sherlock as Donovan seemed to think. He guessed it was he who was to blame for allowing them to become too dependent on the detective, always relying on his genius when they found themselves at an impasse.
Well, it couldn’t be helped now. Like it or not, they would have to muddle through without him for a while.
Lestrade picked up the phone to call Archives. He had a promise to keep.