His Hospital Visiting Times
The Sherlock Series Three Special Edition DVD includes a deleted scene from His Last Vow in the extras section - it can also be seen on YouTube. This shows Magnusson visiting Sherlock in hospital after the shooting. This one shot is based around that deleted scene in all it's creepiness.
There is also a deleted scene from HLV in The Sherlock Chronicles book, where Magnusson says: 'You're Sherlock Holmes. You're famous. I'm interested….
Sherlock: In what?
Magnusson: In you. I've never had a detective before.
There is a whole plot as well as much sub text in there somewhere! So watch out for that story to come - Things We Lost In The Flames.
His Hospital Visiting Times.
"Sherlock! Are you with me? Sherlock?"
He had moved, somehow, and heard himself groan. Hadn't meant to. But consciousness arrived so slowly he wasn't sure what was internal or external. He knew he was in hospital, and the quiet stillness around him said private side ward. He could feel the cannula in the back of his hand, the nose cannula feeding oxygen to his system, the electrodes on his chest, the dressing over the wound pulling on the sensitive chest hairs, the probe clipped on his right index finger. He didn't need to see the monitors; he could tell exactly how ill he was by the volume and regularity of the clicks and bleeps from the machinery.
He was in pain, deep paralysing pain. Weak. Feeble. But he was alive. Which was progress, because somehow he knew he had died on the operating table - or was it in the ambulance? - and then been dragged back to life.
He still felt the dark whispers of befuddled death dreams; images of Molly, Mycroft, Redbeard, Moriarty - even Anderson. Anderson -of all people, dear God! And Magnusson. Someone else. Oh! The shock was of that…was immense. How could he ever speak of that? Deal with it?
There was a hand on his right arm. The hand tensed as he moved and groaned, relaxed again. John…? Here? Of course, John. Who else? John finding him bleeding on the floor - 'Who shot him? Oh Jesus…' - John phoning for an ambulance. John trying to staunch the blood. John cursing and praying under his breath….meeting the paramedics, helping load him into an ambulance - hurry, hurry - John leaning over him throughout the jolting painful ride, the sounds of blues and twos over. A cry:
"Sherlock! We're losing you…."
He remembered all that. And now….
"Sherlock? Can you hear me? Are you back with us? Jesus, I thought we'd lost you. Nearly bloody did. You died on the operating table. Sherlock. The consultant says he doesn't know how you came back, says you're a sodding miracle. Doesn't know you very well, does he?"
There was a light headed sob of relief in John Watson's voice, and Sherlock flickered open his eyes to see his friend leaning over him, looking worried and pathetically concerned.
John Watson saw something like scorn flare in the grey eyes looking up at him with sudden full consciousness and fought to adjust his own face to professional calm in response. No emotion; Sherlock hates emotion.
Damn the bloody man! Did he never stop being Sherlock?
"Sherlock! NO, don't struggle, take it easy….What is it?"
Sherlock Holmes fought his way up through fog and weakness and the total exhaustion of his fight to survive.
"….Mary…." he said.
"What?" demanded John Watson in disbelief.
"Mary!" Sherlock was shouting. It came out as a whisper.
"Shut up, you buerk!" Watson responded, laughing. " Nice of you to worry about my wife instead of yourself, but she's not here. She's home. Writing a presentation for work…"
No, she isn't - wasn't!
"…in peace and quiet on her own with us being out tonight. Speech, visuals, bullet points…"
I know all about Mary's bullet points, John, thanks very much! But how in hell can I tell you about them?
John Watson reached forward, dried the consulting detective's sweating brow with a tissue and reached forward with a water spray to put moisture into his mouth.
"Just be calm, Sherlock. Is that better?"
No, John. It's never going to be better. I knew there was something …not right….about her…but I'm sorry, John. I quelled that doubt because you were happy…because I hoped it would be OK despite ...shouldn't have ….my fault…my oversight….sentiment, was it?.. my mistake…deserved getting shot then …...
"Hmmm…." his eyelids were so heavy. He needed sleep.
"Don't worry, I'm here."
"…Mary…."
"Sshh"
o00o
All was black. He was fighting his way up a long tunnel, the sides closing in as he struggled. He was exhausted - too exhausted to even call out for help. But help was here! There was a face! A concerned face, leaning in from above him.
He could have cried, then. He knew it had been a close run thing. And this time - this
time - he had more important things to do than lie down and die, however much he
had wanted that before. This time he had a secret to share….justice to deliver….
The face leaning into him was female. Blonde short hair, blue sharp eyes. A whiff of
that abominable Clair-de-la-lune perfume.
No! His eyes exploded wide in shock.
This was not someone to save him, help him! This was…!
"Sherlock?"
The voice was light, sing-song, almost playful, the sort of voice people used when
trying to coax children into taking medicine. Or to do something they knew the child
would not want to do.
"We don't tell him," continued that light, female voice, but with more determination
now. She peered deep into his eyes to try and read them, to see if he was inside the
feeble shell that was his body, was hearing her and taking notice.
"We don't tell John."
The face came closer. The eyes hardened. The last eyes Sherlock ever wanted to see
looking into his own.
"Look at me. And tell me you're not going to tell him."
But he couldn't do that. Wouldn't. He was deathly tired. Too tired to whisper. Or
shake his head, one way or another. He blinked his shuttered eyes with an
effort and slowly the lids closed despite the orders he was shouting at them to stay
open and face her.
"We don't tell John!"
o0o0o
"You are such a bloody drama queen, Sherlock, Did you do this just to give us all
heart failure?"
It was Lestrade's voice. A little higher pitched and more rushed than normal. With an
immense effort Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes. Ah! That odd tone because he is
not alone.
Lestrade was standing by the bed, Sally Donovan behind him clutching - Sherlock
would have laughed if he had had the energy; oh the irony of it! - a bunch of
carnations. Clearly from a twenty four hour petrol station, clearly had seen better days.
A last minute purchase and an indicator of guilt. Serves her right, he thought.
"Hello Freak," she said as she saw his disillusioned eyes on her, and on her flowers.
Well - Lestrade might have grimaced at that, but - come on! What else would he have
expected her to call him? Mr Holmes? Sherlock, dear?
His eyes rolled away from her without reaction, as if he had not seen her, barely any
awareness in them at all, and she felt an odd flutter of what could have been fear in
her heart. In her line of work it was a daily dread - getting shot, even killed, on the job.
It had happened to others, and now it had happened to Sherlock, but she was no idiot.
It rattled her because it could so easily have been her - any copper - instead of him.
So she had felt relieved and guilty and had given into an impulse to buy these bloody
flowers. Not out of sympathy as such, but a sensation of relief best summed up as
'there but for the grace of God….'
Sally had seen more than her share of death and violence. She was proud to call
herself a hardened copper. But to see Sherlock Holmes at death's door like this - a
man she did not even like, for Christ's sake! - was a real shock, even though Lestrade
had warned her.
He was always the cleverest, the most mercurial, that was the trouble. It rubbed Sally
Donovan up the wrong way. Even if he never ever noticed she was black and
female, like some people. Now his very stillness disturbed her. He was defined, for
her, as a whirlwind of movement, a blur of magnetic intelligence and instinct. She had
never seen him like this; so stilled. Motionless, pathetic - he was merely mortal, then.
Even she could see he was in pain and holding onto consciousness by almost
supernatural force of will.
"We just popped in…." Lestrade said. "Make sure you're…." he was going to say :
'still breathing' but that cliché was suddenly too close to reality, so instead he forced
some levity he did not feel and said instead: "still in business."
Sally was dumb, just looking at Sherlock, mesmerised by the finely etched face she
had thought - until now - she knew perfectly well. But now his unnatural stillness gave
her this first opportunity really look at him at leisure. It jolted her.
So she saw, as if for the first time, that ascetic face with it's strangely sensuous mouth,
deep and unknowable grey eyes, long, and surprisingly caressable column of throat.
The naked torso above the discreet sheet that covered his lower half was as lean as she
had expected, but also surprisingly muscular. The dressing in the centre of his chest
drew her eyes with awful fascination, and she realised with an almost guilty, shamed
shock, that she had never seen or studied …quite as much of Sherlock as this before.
He was, she realised in revelation, always so primly and formally dressed in his
elegant suits and fitted shirts, the handsome coat and blue scarf, so deep in his mental
detachment, that she had always thought of him before as somehow asexual: she had
never even seen him so casual as simply rolling up his sleeves. But good grief, she
realised with a jolt, he was handsome! She didn't think she had ever registered that
before, so annoyed and tense and inferior he always make her feel.
Distracted by these strange thoughts, she watched in astonishment to see her boss step
forward, take Sherlock's hand nearest to him, the one that had been resting on the
coverlet. Lift the hand gently and squeeze it. Sally was even more surprised when she
saw Sherlock look up into Lestrade's eyes, return the pressure and let his long slim
hand rest without self consciousness in Lestrade's for a brief moment before letting it
drop down.
"Don't do that to me again, mate. I'm getting too old for hospital visiting."
Sally felt a lump rise unexpectedly in her throat. She knew every nuance of her boss's
voice, and this was Lestrade sounding deeply upset but trying to hide it behind a joke.
She normally saw the two men working side by side, always annoyed by their
contrast; Sherlock all quicksilver movement, laser intelligence, rapid fire deduction,
Lestrade trailing behind, patient, placatory, often perplexed, looking the lesser man.
But this was different. A different agenda. She had always grudgingly recognised that
the two worked well together, but all was normally cool between them, cool
and professional. From both men the impression given was that the work was all.
But were they friends? Really friends? With affection as well as professional respect
for each other? Sally Donovan could hardly believe it. And yet….Lestrade took more
from Sherlock than he would take from anyone else. He endured and defended the
consulting detective, always.
And if anyone asked, his stock answer was that he had known Sherlock for five years.
But hang on - he had said that very same thing to Sally when she joined his team, and
was still saying it now. And yet Sally had been on Lestrade's team for at least seven
years. So what could that mean? Lies to cover years of friendship? A
friendship both held close to themselves, then. She could barely believe it. Sherlock
Holmes did not have friends - unless you counted John Watson - he always said
so.
"S…s...sorry …." the word stuttered and rasped it's way out, and both Donovan and
Lestrade looked astonished. "Sorry, Graham."
For a brief second, Sally Donovan thought her boss was actually going to cry simply
at the shock of hearing his Christian name spoken by Sherlock Holmes.
Dickhead, thought Sally crossly. After all those years and everything, Holmes couldn't
even remember the right name. How bloody typical! Bloody man! Selfish to the core -
as usual! It made her click her tongue angrily against her teeth and mutter, despite
herself….
"Oh for God's sake, you tosser….."
What Sally Donovan did not see was the look that passed between Sherlock Holmes
and Greg Lestrade. She did not see the grey eyes crinkle unexpectedly into a
rare smile, put the pain beyond himself for a moment and look up at Lestrade with an
expression Lestrade refused to even try to define in case it really did make him cry.
Sally Donovan did not see Lestrade smile back, and see Sherlock's eyes and face relax
in response.
The lids closed slowly as the man returned inexorably into drug induced sleep.
"Oohh, you bastard," rumbled Lestrade, taking the carnations from Sally's hand and
dumping them on the locker behind them, and bundling her out of the room. She
heard the hike in his breathing and didn't dare say a word. Because what could she
say anyway?
.
o0o0o
"'Allo, Sherlock,"
The deep East End growl could only belong to one person. Sherlock Holmes's lips
twitched a welcome even before he opened his eyes.
Angelo Grimaldi, housebreaker, blagger, restautateur, sat opposite him, his great bulk
pouring over the sides of a tiny hospital chair, looking awkward and uncomfortable,
but determined.
"Oh, you are there! Good. The nurse says you are drifting in and out, but to just talk to
you anyway. She said I have ten minutes." He paused, looked round him at the sterile,
bright white surroundings. Glared at the tubes and attachments monitoring Sherlock,
delivering pain relief and oxygen and keeping him alive. "I hate hospitals."
He put a bunch of grapes ("Vitamin C; good fer yer") a get well card ("signed by
everyone at work; oh, and a few others who popped by") and a black wreath down on
the locker beside Sherlock's head.
"The flowers are from the lads in C Block at Pentonville. They thought you'd
appreciate the joke and not take it wrong," Angelo explained, knowing the black
wreath would have been more normal at a funeral. "They thought ordinary flowers
would be a bit of an insult, a bit too normal for you. But they wanted to do something
to wish you well. Know what I mean?"
Sherlock risked a brief nod, and Angelo relaxed somewhat.
"Brother Carlo's in there right now, Did you know I have five brothers, and I'm the
only one gone legit?"
Sherlock nodded again.
"Takes a bit of living down, you know, going straight does. I always tell anyone who
asks it's Sherlock Holmes's fault. What you did for me. Can never thank you enough;
you know that. Don't normally do flowery speeches but when people are at death's
door…you never know if you'll get the chance again. So I had to come and say it. Feel
a prat, though. So don't tell anyone.
"But you've got to get out of here as soon as you can, Sherlock. We all miss you out
on the street. And when you're back bring everyone down to mine for a slap up meal.
On the house, of course."
He watched Sherlock's eyelids flicker down and struggle to rise again.
"No, no. Don't stay awake for me. Back to sleep. Sleep's good, even for you. Just get
better and come back. Cos you're missed. That's the message from everyone, so I'm
passing it on.
"Gotta go, time to open up for the lunchtime trade. See you soon, Sunshine!"
And he was gone. Sherlock could have almost have believed he had imagined him.
Apart from the presence of that black wreath, which had all subsequent visitors tut-
tutting at the inappropriateness or laughing at the black humour.
o0o0o
The middle of the night. Sherlock drifted in and out of sleep, listening to the machines
calling out to each other as they monitored his bodily functions, the muffled sounds of
a hospital geared down to sleep.
A nurse slid in silently to check on him; his peripheral vision noted the brisk body
language, the blue uniform, and relaxed. He was used to this boring but necessary
regular punctuation to both day and night.
He felt her lift his notes from the end of the bed, take time studying them, replace
them in their clip and move to his head.
A cool hand rested on his forehead. And Sherlock's attention jolted into gear. Nurses
did not normally carry with them an aroma of Paco Raban! And hadn't two nurses
come in for the boring essential jobs of caring for the transport less than an hour ago?
"How are you feeling now, Mr Holmes?"
He knew that voice. But his reactions were slow, so slow, and surprise made it hard to
focus.
"Sshh, don't struggle. It's only me. I wanted to see for myself how you really are."
The hand lightly stroking his temple curved slowly and sinuously down his throat,
travelled along his shoulder, slid delicate fingertips down his torso. Sherlock sucked
in a quick harsh breath despite himself. The same featherlight touch traced a line
along sensitive skin just under the edge of the sheet laid modestly across his abdomen.
And then tracked lazily back again.
"Hmmn. Allowing for a rather impressive bullet hole,,,,,you're pretty fit, I would say.
And I am an expert."
A low laugh reached his ears, a hum of appreciation.
As his eyes finally obeyed him and opened, she moved away and he could
not see her face.
"Au revoir, Junior," she trilled and was gone.
For several hours he was certain he had imagined it, that her presence was a dream.
But when he was sat up in daylight by a very different nurse, the first thing he saw on
the counter opposite him was a single red rose in a specimen vase, with a card
attached that simply carried a baroque design in black and the signature of an ornate
letter W. It had not been there last night.
o0o0o
When the door of his side ward opened quietly and unexpectedly Sherlock rolled his
half open eyes to the side to see a tall, lean, man with beard and glasses enter.
"They are not all from me," said the soft, inflexionless voice with it's light
Scandinavian accent as it's owner gestured dismissively towards all the flowers. "The
struggling carnations are from Scotland Yard. And the single rose is from….W. The
black wreath is from C Block…" for a moment Sherlock zones out the quiet
murmuring of Charles Augustus Magnusson.
Yes, yes, I already know all that. So the cream lilies are from you, then, are they? No
card, but pale strange flowers from a pale strange man…..how appropriate.
He felt rather than saw Magnusson draw a chair to the bedside and sit on it. Quiet,
measured movements.
Then, surprised and appalled, he felt Magnusson begin to gently and deliberately
stroke his right forearm between the BP cuff and the identity bracelet. Lift his right
hand, gently remove the probe from his middle finger.
Sherlock struggled to open his eyes slowly, not wrench them wide with horror, not
tear his hand free in sudden disgust.
He hated being touched at the best of times, but being touched by Magnusson -
Magnusson of the damp clinging unhealthy hands and the unhealthy mind, the man
he hated most in all the world, and of whom he made no secret of hating - was
unbearable.
Was he imagining this obscenity in that strange state between sleep and wakefulness
to torture himself for letting Mary Morstan shoot him? Punishment for not hunting
down and exposing Mary Morstan when his first instinct had been to do so? Killing
his own fear and alarmed instincts so John could be happy? Happy. Whatever that
meant.
Either way he kept his eyes and expression neutral, pretended to be worse, more
drugged, than he actually was. To take the opportunity to stay detached and just
watch….
"Oh, I covet your hands, Mr Holmes. But there, since you have survived, I guess you
get to keep them."
A joke? A subjective compliment? From Magnusson? John would say this was getting
scary, now.
Sherlockrolled his eyes to watch Magnusson and Magnusson, seeing Sherlock
watching, began to caress each finger of his right hand with sensuous and deliberate
slowness.
"A musician's hands. An artist's…"
Magnusson looks Sherlock square in the eyes and as he does so kisses the back of
Sherlock's hand with a repressed, almost possessed, sexuality.
"A woman's?"
The question hangs in the air. Sherlock quells his revulsion and tells himself he is
imagining it. Definitely. He shakes his head slightly to clear the image. Blinks.
Magnusson is still holding his hand and looking deep into his eyes. Lets the hand fall.
Sherlock feels it fall, and realises then he has imagined nothing….
"Apologies for the dampness of my touch. You'll get used to it."
I don't think so, Mr Magnusson. But it is useful to know you lust after me. I can use
that information, that power, against you. Because you think I am currently away with
the fairies and haven't a clue what you are doing to me…and I can see you rubbing
your hands together in anticipation of touching me again. You're not going to drool
over me, are you Mr Magnusson?
"Having shot you, the woman you know as Mary Watson left without killing me,"
Magnusson says softly and conversationally, replacing the probe he had removed
gently back onto Sherlock's index finger. "Which is odd, because that was the reason
she came."
So why have you come just to tell me this? Because you think I don't know, don't
remember? Because you feel I will owe you something in return when I know?
Something to bargain with it? To expect gratitude? To create a lever? To woo me?
Magnusson stands, and Sherlock assumes he is going to leave, closes his eyes. But
Magnusson now moves to stand at his head. Leans down and in. Sherlock opens his
eyes then, expressionless grey eyes jolt, locking with expressionless pale blue ones
that are far too close.
"I did not pass on her identity to the police."
Bravo. So what do you expect me to do? Kiss you in gratitude?
No fevered thought, that. Magnusson has brought his face so close to that of the
consulting detective their noses touch, and Sherlock can feel their breath mingle.
"Information like that is just too…." he pauses, and Sherlock stops breathing as he
feels Magnusson's lips ghost past his own. "…valuable to be shared."
There is a world of subtext in the final word, and despite himself Sherlock's eyes
shock wide. This is not the Magnusson he knows or would - could - have expected. If
he had felt well enough to be revolted he would have been repulsed.
"Wouldn't you agree?" Magnusson's eyes stay locked onto his.
Sherlock has always had the acting ability to cry to order to manipulate others, but this
time the acting is easy and unforced. Tears form softly in eye corners to indicate to
Magnusson a real weakness, a lack of proper consciousness. He forces himself to let
his eyelids flicker slowly down despite his instinct to keep looking Magnusson in the
face to know he is still safe from the older man's contact. Untouched. Not humiliated.
Magnusson has given himself away because he really, really does think Sherlock is
unaware, virtually unconscious. A breathing plaything. And Sherlock wants and needs
Magnusson to believe that. That he has not noticed the revealing sensuality of an
otherwise emotionless man..
He feels Magnusson cross the room, open the door and let himself out without another
word, without saying goodbye.
Sherlock's eyes open. There is no-one else in the room. His eyes close from the effort
and he is instantly asleep. But he does not forget the encounter. Or the single
advantage he had needed and has now found to be able to play Magnusson at his own
game. At last! As soon as he is fit again.
o0o0o
Janine bounces into the room in a cloud of Chanel Number Five, full of self righteous
indignation and rustling newsprint.
"Sherlock Holmes! You are a…" all hot Irish temper, a flurry of passionate red
dress and black cardigan whirls in front of Sherlock's face as he forces his eyes open.
He watches her stutter to a halt. As if she had not really believed he had been shot in
the chest, had died in the operating theatre, was brought back to life again, was still
the invulnerable, insufferable man she knew.
As if she had expected the news to be lies, another trick to fool her…until that second
When she sees him prone and pale and helpless. And her heart twists despite herself.
She kisses him on the forehead and tidies a lock of hair, steps back and looks at
him.
"You're OK?" he whispers, finding his voice. "No ill effects from being knocked out
by a burglar?"
She clicks her tongue at him in temper.
"More ill effects from being lied to," she complains. "Proposed to indeed! Bought a
ring! Lied to! Just to get into Magnusson's office…."
She has stoked her anger back to life. She waves the morning newspapers at him.
Headlines. He reads them, appalled, torn between horror, amusement, regret at loss
of privacy, and -mostly - at the shameless lies.
Sherlock Is As Red-Blooded As They Come, Claims Fiancee was the mildest. Seven
Times A Night In Baker Street, read one. Shag-A-Lot Holmes, said another. He Made
Me Wear The Hat topped an article showing Janine wearing his deerstalker.
Sherlock thought rapidly. This should scotch the rumours about him and John Watson
being a couple. Would this put Magnusson off - or make him feel that trying to use
him now would now be just more of a challenge? Because Sherlock was now
positively unattached to anyone? He thought the latter and tried not to
smile to himself. Janine would never understand.
Janine seemed disappointed when he did not rise to the bait, merely asking urgently if
she had sold her kiss and tell story to Magnusson? She denied it, claimed that her boss
was 'spitting' about it. And grinned at him with a sense of victory.
"I've made a lot of money out of you, mister," she says. And then explains she had
made enough money to buy a cottage on the Sussex Downs. Sherlock nods and
smiles, part of him impressed by the opportunism. Janine would not suffer because of
his lies and dalliance.
"You are a back stabbing, heartless, manipulative bastard!" she complains. But it
seems to him her heart was really no longer in her protestations.
He presses the switch which lifts the head of his bed to meet her eyes.
"You, as it turns out, are a grasping, opportunistic, publicity hungry tabloid whore,"
he responds.
"So we're good then?" she grins at him.
"Yes, of course."
They smile at each other in accord, and no-one else would ever know how much of
the marriage proposal and office break in had been planned between two people or by
just one. Because in the final analysis Janine had been enriched in more ways than one
by the experience. And they both know it.
He laughs, and moves, and is caught by a spasm of pain that has him groan and
gasp and catch his breath.
"Hurts, does it?" she asks with interest. "You probably want to reset your morphine.
I might have fiddled with the taps."
She smiles again.
"How much more revenge are you going to need?" he asks, turning to the morphine
pump and adjusting it.
Just the occasional top up," she says offhandedly, watching him. Makes a comment
about how the drugs were so accessible….
"Not good for working," Sherlock replies, fiddling with his medication.
"You won't be working for a while, Sherl," she says quietly, suddenly intent and
serious. "You lied to me. You lied and lied. "
"Exploited the fact of our connection," Sherlock explains levelly.
"When?" she exclaims hotly, then, as if the words came unbidden: "Just once would
have been nice."
For a moment he does not understand what she is saying. But then he does and
slides his eyes away from hers.
"Oh! I was waiting until we got married," he explains. Excusing himself.
"That was never going to happen!" She rouses, laughs at the very idea of
wanting to bed Sherlock Holmes; as if it had never been in her mind. Stands up. "Got
to go. Not supposed to keep you talking…."
I wish you weren't…whatever it is you are.
I know…..
She kisses him on the forehead .mutters something about an interview on The One
Show and not having 'made it up yet.' Sherlock pulls a wry face and she pauses half
out of the door.
"Just one thing. You shouldn't have lied to me. I know what kind of man you are. But
we could have been friends."
She hears the regret in her voice, smiles back at him. "I'll give your love to John and
Mary!" and is gone.
Sherlock is thoughtful for a moment, aware of a pang of - what? Missed opportunity?
Loneliness? A friendship failed before it started? He grimaces. The phrase he cannot
forget from all her words repeats and repeats itself in his head….
"You won't be working for a while, Sherl….."
O0o0o0o
"Hi yer, Shezza."
Billy Wiggins slides through a tiny gap in the door and a Tesco carrier bag appears
from under his filthy parka.
"Got all the stuff on yer list. Coat, suit, shirt, shoes. Easy peasy - just waited for Mrs H
to nip to the shops and in like a flash with yer keys. Now Doctor Watson don't live
there nobody will even know I've been in."
Sherlock nods.
"Got yer phone. Some cash. New cheapo phone from the supermarket.
The bunch of keys from the bottom of the wardrobe. That was the lot, wasn't it?
He watches Sherlock shift on the bed.
"Need a hand?"
O0o0o0o
Lestrade and Watson are striding up the stairs together.
"Don't know how much sense you'll get out of him," Watson explains. "He's drugged
up, so he's pretty much babbling. "
Lestrade takes his mobile phone out of his pocket and starts flicking buttons.
"Oh! They won't let you use that in here, you know."
"I'm not going to use the phone. I just want to take a video…" he gives John a
blokeish smile. Sherlock lying prone in bed, like any other mere mortal, is definitely
worth a quick recording. Now it's official that he is on the mend.
John Watson laughs and swings open the door of the side ward. But the lights are off.
The bed is empty, bedclothes tossed back anyhow. Not the way a nurse would leave
them…..the doctor is alert and looking round wildly.
Sherlock!
The blinds at the window are swinging sideways in the cool evening air. And the
window is open.
"Oh, Jesus!" breathes Watson and gives Lestrade a wild stare.
As one they turn and race down the stairs and out of the hospital in the hope he
has not got far and they will spot him…...
Sherlock!
END