Sherlock Holmes: The Patient
"Are you alright?!" exclaims one of the construction workers.
"Give me a hand his leg is messed up," says another trying to pull Sherlock out of the pothole.
Sirens rang from afar. Slowly but surely, they got closer and closer. Three construction workers put Sherlock into the ambulance.
After a couple of hours of waiting in the hospital bed, a doctor walks in.
"Your leg is fractured in four places," he told Sherlock. "You won't be able to walk without crutches for at least three months."
Sherlock took a deep breath. "When can I get out of here?"
"We will cast up your leg in a couple of days, but you need rest. You are here for a week, then we can talk." The doctor left.
Sherlock takes a moment to process. He scans the room. Medical equipment hangs from a hook beside his bed, a blood pressure cuff, a stethoscope, and an otoscope for easy examination of a patient's ears. The door has been left open, giving him a clear view of the hallway. Nurses rush by, constantly in a hurry. He can hear faint crying from the room next door. A large family fills the hallway as they walk by his open door.
A day passes. Televisions turns on and off, background noise to Sherlock's thoughts. The nurse checks in at 2:30. The sheets get changed and Sherlock takes his medicines.
Another stagnant day passes. The nurse returns like clockwork at 2:30.
It's his third day in bed, Sherlock can't take another minute. The boredom is deadly. He shifts his weight in bed, accidentally knocking the wall beside him with his elbow. A friendly knock replies from the other side of the wall. Cautiously, Sherlock knocks twice – another friendly reply, with a muffled, "is someone else there? Are you as bored as I am?" Sherlock chuckles to himself, and a conversation begins.
On the fourth day, Sherlock watches as a pretty young woman passes his doorway, struggling to carry a large, colorful cushion. He sees her pause at his open door, and says, "Can I help you, miss?"
"Oh hello," she says. "I'm looking for my Uncle's room. He was recently moved to this floor. I used to visit him upstairs, in the Intensive Care unit, but they tell me he is getting better and they've moved him down here with the less serious patients. We all thought he was dying so it is good news, but now I'm lost!" She laughed.
Sherlock realized she was looking for his new friend, the fellow on the other side of the wall. "You must be looking for Jeremy, we have become fast friends…. And that must be his favorite pillow! He told me all about it and you. The only let us have these hard-little foam rubber pillows in here," Sherlock pointed to the pillow behind him.
"Why yes, it is," She said. "I'm his niece, Sammi. I try to visit as often as I can, because poor uncle Jeremy doesn't have anyone else. The hospital won't let him keep favorite pillow, so I bring it in for him to rest on whenever I visit. It is a down pillow, nice and fluffy, but it is huge!" She held up the pillow with both hands.
"Jeremy is right next door, my dear," said Sherlock. The young woman waved and continued on her way.
It was day 5 for Sherlock, and even conversations with his new friend Jeremy couldn't fight off the boredom. His mood brightened when he saw pretty Sammi walk by his door again, on her way to visit Jeremy. Sherlock sat up, expecting her to stop in for a visit or a least to wave, but her head was down, and she was walking fast.
A hospital is a noisy place, but a detective like Sherlock is trained to respond to angry voices. It was much later that night when he awoke from a deep sleep, hearing muffled voices from the room next door.
It was almost 11 the next morning when Sherlock awoke. He felt fine, and wished he could go home, but it was only day 6. He was still confined to this bed. He knocked gently for his friend next door and waited for a response. Nothing. He tried again, but there was only silence behind the wall.
Suddenly, chaos erupted in the hallway outside Sherlock's door. Nurses ran by, and he heard the words, "code blue," from behind his friend's wall. Sherlock struggled to get his feet on the floor and leave his bed to help, but his legs failed him. He could be no help. Time went by, and, suddenly, the chaos in the next room subsided. Sherlock feared the worst.
It was 2:30 in the afternoon. Like clockwork, the nurse arrived at the foot of his bed to change the sheets. "Is he dead?" Sherlock asked, without any introduction.
"Yes", "I'm sorry. I know you two had become friends," said the nurse. "It was not unexpected, he has been sick a long time. We all thought he was getting better, but apparently his lungs were not as recovered as we believed."
Sherlock nodded, sadly. "What time did he die?" he asked.
"It looks like early this morning, but we cannot be sure."
The next day was Sherlock's 7th day in hospital, and, as promised, he was allowed to leave for home. He struggled to use crutches, but he was happy to be on his feet again.
Sherlock hailed a taxi outside the hospital. "Where to?" the driver asked. "Take me to New Scotland Yard on Baker Street, the police station."
When Sherlock arrived, he was greeted by Inspector Lestrade, his old friend on the police force. "Sherlock, what are you doing here?" he said. "I thought you were in hospital."
"I am here to report a murder," said Sherlock. "Jeremy Harris was murdered yesterday, by his only relative, Sammi Bouchard. I urge you to check his lungs for down feathers. I heard them arguing in the middle of the night, and, using the stethoscope beside my bed, I could hear every word. She had expected him to die last month and had borrowed money against her inheritance. When he refused to give her money, and she saw that he was recovering, she killed him for his will."
"It was elementary, my dear."