Despite the smothering heat of the hospital, Irene did not remove the scarf that masked her lips and chin. She wore her hear down, allowing it to flow past her cheeks and hide the sharp edges of her face. Her heels tapped against the plastic floors as she made her way down the ward to the private rooms.
A dark haired woman emerged from the room numbered '314', her hair was set in thick waves that rested neatly on her shoulders, swinging very gently with every step. She glanced into the room, a look of possession clear in her gaze. Irene knew that look because she'd given him that very same look. Him. Her eyes returned to Irene's direction though they skipped right over Irene herself. There was something the woman was exerting, a kind of power, a kind of silent superiority that only one man could ever wield, another great 'him'. Strange, Irene thought as she entered Room 314.
The body in front of her was a spectacle. His tight curls were so shockingly effervescent, given his current predicament, and wonderfully contrasted against the clean, white sheets. He was alive, despite the holes in his chest, both the physical and the mental one. He was alive, despite his partner getting married to a woman who then shot him in the chest. Sherlock was strong but he wasn't invincible.
Irene tossed the wilting flower from the vase that rested on the bedside table. From her handbag, she pulled out a single red rose. With her thumb nail she carved in her measurements 32/24/34.She slipped the rose into the water and moved it a few inches to the left. She knew he'd see, he'd understand, he'd know she was thinking of him.
As she walked away from the unconscious Sherlock Holmes, she passed the dark haired woman thought to herself, Sherlock Holmes, there are dark days ahead.