It was the same thing every day. Patient 221 lay still in his bed and said nothing. The other doctors said he was insane.
Doctor Lestrade thought something else.
Patient 221 wasn't just a comatose figure lying in a bland, white hospital bed. He was so much more. Lestrade knew it. He'd only been Patient 221's personal caregiver for six months, but he already knew there was more to Patient 221's condition that he let on.
You see, he wasn't just lying there. He moved. And talked. But only when Lestrade was there.
"Good day, Detective Inspector," Patient 221 would say every morning. "Got any new cases?"
And every morning Lestrade would respond with no.
"What a pity," Patient 221 would say, folding his hands across his chest and peaking his fingers like a tiny, sideways mountain. "John and I are so bored."
Patient 221 had mentioned John increasingly more frequently in his conversation. Lestrade had done research on the name, and he had found something disturbing. John Watson was an army doctor in Afghanistan. He had been killed in action about four months ago.
"Maybe I'll visit Molly instead," Patient 221 continued. "Hopefully she'll have something interesting at the morgue."
Molly was Patient 221's girlfriend, back when he was called William Holmes and lived in a swanky London apartment with her and his brother. After William spiraled into insanity about a year ago and began to be called Patient 221, Molly, his brother, and his housekeeper all committed suicide. Lestrade had heard the lore. Apparently, it was rumored that William's brother began calling himself Mycroft and shot Molly and the housekeeper, as well as himself. Lestrade had no idea if that was true, but no one ever saw the brother, Molly, or Mrs. Hudson again. The swanky apartment remained empty, and legend has it that the apartment was cursed with the ghosts of the three people.
Lestrade shook his head and allowed himself to smile just a bit. That kind of thing was nonsense. He was a doctor, for Christ's sake, and he knew none of that could be true.
But why was Patient 221 calling him by name?
"It's Sherlock," Patient 221 replied, as if he'd heard Lestrade's thought. "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. John knows, Molly knows, Mycroft knows, Mrs. Hudson knows, even Moriarty knows! Get it together!"
Lestrade drew back, startled. Moriarty. The drug lord, killed in an attempt to steal the crown jewels.
A smile slowly spread across Patient 221's gaunt face. "There you have it, Detective Inspector," he said, his voice like a stick being dragged across a storm drain. "Or should I call you Greg Lestrade?"
Lestrade's eyes widened, unable to do much else. He tried to scream, but Patient 221 was already lunging forward.