SH:The Insurance Executions I
by *Nero749
The hospital room had filled with the smell of flowers. Jack, her husband, was sitting on the end of the bed. Florence was sharing the room with three other people, so the only privacy she and Jack had were a curtain that had been pulled around her bed. Florence looked at her husband's face. He was very clearly bothered by the fact that every time he visited his wife in her hospital room, there were fresh flowers. And they were never send by him. Florence smiled to herself.
"The gift shop must have been out of roses today," a deep voice from behind the curtain said. Florence and Jack looked at each other, slightly shocked by the sudden interruption, as if the curtain had been a wall and had provided any real privacy, rather than simply the illusion of it.
Suddenly the curtain was pulled aside. "After all, the gift shop is the only place where someone in a hospital can buy flowers," the man said. Florence looked at the young man in bewilderment. He had dark curls and incredibly pale eyes. He was evidently a patient, because he was wearing the same thing Florence was, except she couldn't remember having seen him before. And… were that nicotine patches she could see on his arms?
"Er…" Jack tried to speak. Somehow he was convinced this man was trying to insult him, he simply couldn't see how just yet. Or maybe he was the one sending the flowers all the time, making Jack look bad and this was just one final humiliation this man had planned for him.
"I didn't buy them downstairs, if I had brought flowers I would've…"
"Of course you didn't," the man said slightly aggravated. "She did."
Jack didn't understand and in his confusion turned to Florence, she was wearing an expression of shock.
Jack turned to the man again. The man looked at Florence, then tilted his head. "You didn't think a fresh bunch of flowers every day would be seen as a bit suspicious, did you? Surely even your husband here would've eventually found out you were 'sending' them to yourself."
Jack looked at Florence who looked cornered and he realised the man was right. "You send all those flowers? But why would you…"
"That seems obvious," the man said, "before the flowers started arriving my sleep was hardly ever disturbed by visitors, since the flowers started you've woken me up almost every day. It's clear the flowers were well-fitted for their goal of getting you to visit your wife more often."
Florence, who had remained silent all this time was now starting to stumble out words at random, trying to look for something to justify what she'd done. Jack looked at the man, then at Florence again. This time he remained silent with an expression of shock on his face.
"No point in getting emotional about it. She simply drew a logical conclusion, but I thought I might save you some money. The gift shop is shamefully overprized."
Jack turned to look at the man again. He didn't understand the first thing about this situation. So he just stared at the man, as if awaiting further explanation. Only now did he notice the man wasn't putting any weight on his left leg, and the stitches on his left upper arm. "Who are you?" Jack finally managed to ask.
"Sherlock Holmes," the man said strangely upbeat. "Incidentally," the man added, "could I borrow some clothes?"
Crutches… hateful tried to concentrate on the sound the crutches made when the hit the tiles of the hallway - he was convinced it would proof to be essential to his work on day.
Leaning on one crutch he hailed a cab. "221b Baker Street," Sherlock said to the cabbie while trying to get in the cab. Struggling with the crutches in a slightly endearing way, Sherlock made his way into the cab just before the cabbie opened his door - presumably to get out and help Sherlock.
When they reached 221b Baker Street and the cab come to a stand still, the cabbie wasted no time getting out of the car and opening the car door to help Sherlock out. Reluctantly, but realising he needed the help, Sherlock let the cabbie help him out. He didn't say a word as the cabbie handed him his crutches and Sherlock paid him.
Turning to the front door now, Sherlock saw John leaning against the door post. "Got a call from the hospital, saying you were missing, so I thought I'd wait for you," he said slightly weary. "Besides, I thought you might need help getting up the stairs with those crutches." Sherlock grinned. Good old John Watson.
With one arm around John's shoulders and using the other trying to manoeuvre one of the crutches, Sherlock managed to make his way up the stairs. Once they entered the apartment, Sherlock threw the crutches on the floor next to the couch and let himself fall on the couch itself. He lied down, leaning his head back.
"Are you going to sleep on the couch?" John asked surprised and - oddly enough - slightly irritated.
"Hardly," Sherlock replied, his deep voice booming through the room. "Hand me that box will you?" He waved his hand in the direction of the box, or so John presumed.
"Er…" John turned around to see what box Sherlock had been pointing at, but he couldn't see any box. "Er… what box?" He asked, fully prepared to be yelled at.
Sherlock let out a long aggravated breath. The wooden one on the mantel piece. The one with the engravings."
John walked over to the mantel piece and saw the small box Sherlock meant. It looked intriguing and he wondered what it could be for. He handed it to Sherlock, who opened it and took out a smaller box. This one was made out of cardboard.
"Nicotine patches?" John asked surprised. "You keep your nicotine patches on the mantel piece?"
"Where else should I leave them?" Sherlock asked indifferent.
Sherlock rolled up one of his sleeves to reveal an arm that already had two patches on it. "You had nicotine patches in the hospital?" John asked outraged. What else had he been doing in the hospital.
"And…," John started to ask as he had now noticed Sherlock's clothes, "who's clothes are you wearing exactly?" And how did he get them?
Sherlock sighed. "Unimportant," he said.
John gritted his teeth and refused to ask the question again, because he knew Sherlock would only enjoy not telling him. "I'm going to do the shopping," he said. He needed to clear his head and they really did need bread. "Do you need something?" Besides a near overdose of nicotine… "I'm fine," Sherlock said. Somehow even that annoyed John.
After the groceries John had dinner by himself in a restaurant near the apartment. John almost felt tempted himself to pick up smoking. Perhaps it would relax him in moments like these. Sherlock was the most infuriating person he had ever met. And two months ago he almost killed himself. The worst thing was that it had all been in vain. Moriarty was gone. Still, for all they knew Moriarty had been killed, because it was a bit odd that they both had been left alone all this time.
John reached 221b Baker Street when it had already gone dark. He found Sherlock sleeping on the couch, so he retired to his own room. John had been planning on doing some reading or perhaps checking his e-mails. But decided against it. He was exhausted after everything that had happened and checking his e-mails would be pointless, because he would only be looking for an e-mail from Sarah and he knew he wouldn't find one.
"Sherlock, the police are on their way!" John yelled, his voice sounded distorted, as it often did in his dreams. In shock and horror John stared at the two figures at the top of the stairs. Both struggling for control, but he knew who would win and he knew what would happen next.
It was the same dream he had been having almost every night since the events at the Reijkenberg factory. He couldn't stop them and he couldn't change them. Every night he would relive what had happened that day.
"Sherlock!" John yelled as he realised what his friend was about to do. The shorter of the two man on the stairs had realised as well. Moriarty struggled against Sherlock, who was taller and stronger than him. His eyes stared at the pale eyes of his opponent. Their was no fear in those pale eyes, but fear was all Moriarty felt.
"Sherlock!" John yelled again, now rushing towards the stairs, knowing his friend wouldn't listen to him. John ran as fast as he could, he had to get there in time.
But there was a truth he already knew before witnessing what looked to be Sherlock's final act. He was too late. He was too late every night. And every night he was forced to watch his friend haul himself over the ledge and see him fall.
You can't survive a fall from that height, John's mind told him as he stood there, frozen, reduced to a witness. Forced to do nothing but watch as the two figures fell down together, and finally crashed on the cold stone floor.
The sound it made was almost as horrible as the visual.
John hurried to the two broken figures on the floor. He kneeled down beside Sherlock, who had his eyes closed but John could hear his troubled breathing. "Sherlock. Sherlock!" John willed his friend to open his eyes. He had seen too many people died and he knew you stood a better chance if you stayed conscious. "Sherlock!"
Sherlock's eyes slowly opened and at the same time his face twisted in pain. "I know it hurts, but you have to stay awake," John said. He felt this was exactly the kind of situation where his training should kick in, but somehow it refused.
Julia was on the phone, and kept her distance. Perhaps she couldn't handle it, or maybe she simply didn't care.
John tried to asses the damage. Tried to look at it as if it was damaged property, rather than the dying body of his friend. Sherlock's left leg was obviously broken, and his right arm had a deep cut. Undoubtedly he had internal bleeding and god knew how many fractures John wouldn't be able to see. His back at least wasn't broken, that in itself was a miracle. One John was certain Sherlock would dismiss. But John would always be grateful for it."
"You have to stay awake," John said again. Mainly because what else could he say? Admit how he secretly believed Sherlock wouldn't survive the night?
Finally, John could hear ambulances approaching. He turned to look at Julia, but she was gone.
Within minutes the paramedics where arriving, led by Julia. Reluctantly John gave up his place next to Sherlock so the paramedics could reach him.
John noticed they were getting out two gurneys, the other one was for Moriarty of course, but John suddenly felt rage at that realisation. Moriarty didn't deserve the same treatment as Sherlock did. With his medical training it wouldn't be difficult for John to think up a way of killing Moriarty in a way that would make it look as if he had died from his wounds. And to be fair, there still was a good chance he would die from his wounds. Just because they were lifting him onto a gurney and not into a body bag didn't mean he would survive.
Which is just as true of Sherlock, John thought to himself.
John was walking next to Sherlock's gurney when they got outside. There were two ambulances and a police car. John glanced at Moriarty, who was already in one of the ambulances, he still hadn't woken up and John could see from the expressions on the paramedics's faces that they didn't have high-hopes for him. John watched as the ambulance drove off.
A big black car pulled up next to the remaining ambulance. The driver got out and opened the door for his client. Mycroft. John turned his head to meet Julia's gaze and judge whether she was the one who had called Sherlock's brother, but she was gone again.
"Dr. Watson," Mycroft said as John approached him. "I've come for my brother."
"I doubt he'll be able to speak to you right now," John said coldly.
Mycroft raised his chin slightly and his mouth pulled into a thin razor sharp smile. "I did what I could to protect him," Mycroft said and John knew he meant Julia. "Now I've come to do what I can to aid in his recovery."
John narrowed his eyes. "Recovery?"
Mycroft's expression changed as he gestured towards the remaining ambulance. "It's an exclusive one."
"Exclusive? How do you mean, does it bring you to some kind of private hospital?"
"In a sense," Mycroft said, the smile coming back to his face.
John wanted to respond, but before he could, he got distracted by the fact that two large paramedics where know heaving Sherlock into the ambulance. John rushed towards the ambulance. "Wait, I'm coming with him," he said. He already had one foot in the ambulance and was about to get in, when one of the paramedics put a hand on his chest and quite literally pushed him out of the vehicle.
John lost his balance and fell to the ground. When he scrambled back to his feet he was ready to punch someone, but Mycroft intervened. "He can go with him," he said to the paramedic who had pushed John out. The man moved out of John's way and John got in, giving the man a warning look.
John turned to Mycroft, "aren't you coming?" Mycroft shook his head and before John could go on to tell Mycroft he was an ass, the ambulance door shut.
John woke up and felt grateful he had woken up before they reach the next part of the dream. It was horrible enough to have all these memories of that night, but to have to relive them every time he went to sleep was unnecessarily cruel.
The ride to the hospital had been horrible, Sherlock's breathing had stopped and while that had only last minutes, it had been the worst moments of that night. Even worse than when they discovered Moriarty had escaped.
After both ambulances had left, just minutes later, two other ambulances had arrived. Those had been the ambulances Julia's call had brought. The two ambulances that had taken Sherlock and Moriarty away had been send by Mycroft and Moriarty's people - whoever they were.
Moriarty was nowhere to be found, naturally. Sherlock had seemed particularly unimpressed by the news. John had decided not to tell him until Sherlock had been through the worst of his recovery, but Sherlock had guessed it himself. John didn't know how Sherlock had guessed it, but knowing his friend it would probably be some strange little fact that put him onto it. He might have deduced it by the simple fact that John seemed awkward, or had changed his cologne, or looked paler.
John stretched his arms and forced himself to get out of bed. He was shocked when he saw that it was already past noon. These days he seemed to sleep for hours without being rested when waking up. He had stopped working at the clinic, he and Sarah both referred to it as a temporary thing, but John knew neither of them believed that. After everything she'd been through she couldn't possibly still want anything to do with him.
John found Sherlock sitting in one of the lounge chairs in the living room, he had his legs stretched in front of him, with the crutches leaning against the armrest of the chair. "Could you hand me the paper?" Sherlock said without even looking at John.
"Er…," John looked around the room. Did he mean, get a paper from the shop? "Er… this one?" he asked, with sudden indignation. John picked up the paper that was lying on the small coffee table just in front of Sherlock. "Couldn't you have gotten it yourself?"
Sherlock said nothing in response, instead he simply tapped his crutches with his left hand. John let out a long exasperated breath. Living with Sherlock was never easy, but living with a Sherlock who had a disability he could milk was going to be much, much worse.
John thrust the paper in Sherlock's hands. Sherlock seemed to ignore this passive aggressive gesture in the same way he always did. He laid the paper flat on his lap and started to straighten it out - John's actions had turned the news paper into a crumpled mess of paper.
"Got a text telling me the police have been busy with an interesting new case," Sherlock said. "Undoubtedly they'll be in need of assistance by now."
"A text? Who from?" John was certain it wasn't Lestrade because he had told Lestrade he didn't want Sherlock getting involved in any new cases until his leg had fully healed. Otherwise - with the way Sherlock led his life, there was too much risk of permanent damage.
"A source," Sherlock replied. "Now, let's see if there have been any new developments." Sherlock opened the news paper. It wasn't long before the familiar smirk had appeared on Sherlock's face. Worried about what this would mean, but also undeniably curious, John walked around Sherlock to be able to read along over his shoulder.
Sirius Insurance Murder
It wasn't on the front page, but seemed to have captured Sherlock's attention immediately. John didn't understand why, because if this was part of a bigger case, why was there no reference to any connection with any other crimes?
"Found what you're looking for?" John asked.
Sherlock grinned, he answered without his eyes ever leaving the page. "Hardly."
John waited a while, hoping Sherlock would explain further. But naturally that was a futile hope. "Then what did you find?" John asked eventually, irritated by Sherlock's silent smirking.
As if on purpose, Sherlock's grin became wider before he finally said, "something much better."
Sherlock sprung up from the chair, but kept al his weight on his right leg, he picked up one of the crutches and made his way to his laptop, that was on the kitchen table. John picked up Sherlock's other crutch and followed him.
As the computer was powering up, Sherlock turned to John. "I need you to call Lestrade for me," Sherlock said while handing John his phone.
"Sherlock, I don't think it's a good idea to get involved in another case when you…"
"He's under 1 - speed dial," Sherlock interrupted John.
John sighed and gave up. When he could hear the phone was ringing, John handed the mobile to Sherlock again.
"Lestrade," Sherlock said in a surprisingly jovial tone of voice. "The Sirius Case, I know who did it."