Hi again. Thank you so much for the support over the last chapter. It was lovely to hear after a day of exams. This is the second part to what may become a book – as long as you guys are still interested that is- so please review and tell me what you think as it not only helps me write but it tells me if I should at all.
Disclaimer: I do not own any aspect of Sherlock, including characters, scenes and possible plot lines. I only own my imagination and the plot lines that have derived from it.
Enjoy and please review.
Sherlock Holmes hated hospitals with a vengeance. He hated the smell of disinfectant and bleach that always lingered on your clothes no matter how much you washed them. He hated the supposed advance in colour technology that left him blinded by white, mellowed by sea green or with a blinding headache due to the many different variants of sickly yellow paint. Most of all , he hated the waiting, because however long he waited-whether it be hours or days ; there would always still be too many hours or days left to wait in uncomfortable chairs with badly made coffee and too much on your mind. Sherlock knew from experience.
His mind wandered out of his wrecked mind palace- completely shattered after someone else's fall – and back into daylight. The former detective blinked slowly; before his gaze crossed to the figure in between the sheets next to his seat.
Molly Hooper hadn't hit the pavement, unlike her intentions. The doctors and nurses who had been interrupting Sherlock's thoughts every half hour to administer round after round of medicine to the pathologist had no idea how she had survived the fall, but Sherlock knew. After all, he had watched. The young woman had hit an open awning- the soul use for the charity it bore shelter to- before falling the last few feet to the floor without sustaining much injury. At least that was how it looked.
In reality, Molly Hooper was unconscious before she hit the ground, and had remained that way, with the addition or a broken ankle, fractured skull, punctured lung, cracked wrist and numerous cuts, scrapes, grazes and bruises. Sherlock had listened to the dull monotone of the triage nurse with half hearted enthusiasm and very little interest – only wanting to stay in the sanitary space for the shortest time as possible and so not caring for the full details of his pathologist's injuries. All that had changed when he reached her room.
Machines and wires fed of the still form in the bed, keeping a regular beat as they beeped and flashed to the arrival of the detective. A light, fluttering heartbeat was traced along the screen of a heart monitor, and it took Sherlock a mere minute to scoop up the clipboard at the end of the bed and read the diagnosis. His eyes flashed over the pages, recognising the medical terms as a second tongue. As realisation dawned on him, he sunk down into the stiff plastic chair, completely lost.
Coma. Molly Hooper was in a coma. His pathologist, the one who supplied him with the equipment and cadavers for his numerous experiments; the one who put up with him and his constant insults; the one who cared even if it had never been returned. Sherlock Holmes felt suddenly guilty. He had aimed only to visit quickly, to ensure that Molly was being treated properly; before moving on. He hadn't expected to feel guilt. It wasn't something Sherlock Holmes felt often- the last time being leaving John- and he wasn't sure he liked it. Sighing as all thoughts of leaving London left his mind, at least for the evening. Sherlock Holmes settled in his seat, sighed through his teeth, and began to wait.
Two days later, Sherlock was still sitting, with a considerable stiffness in his joints and half a cup of foul coffee in his stomach. The nurses who patrolled the ward had offered him the use of the staff showers, which after the first hot summer night he had gladly accepted. They had not once asked his connection to the lifeless woman. They could see it in his eyes, and they saw it too much. The simply offered him coffee if he looked specifically tired, and left him in peace.
Sherlock had calculated that it would take two days for the postal service to inform Mrs Hooper of her daughter's health , and so he had waited by her bedside while the news travelled from London to Gloucester, and then to one of many small outlying villages. Two days later, and he was getting ready to leave.
An hour or so previously, the detective had calculated that he had two hours until someone recognised his face; two hours until some moderately smart individual made the recognition; two hours until his temporary living arrangements- in this case quite literally – were disbanded. It was also two hours until Molly's mother arrived.
Back in the present, Sherlock retained the common sense to leave early , as even he, the ever sociopathic detective, could tell that meeting a dead man on the stairs would not help an emotional disposition at the best of times, let alone now. It would also be illogical to stay right up until the last minute. There was always the chance someone would notice sooner, or the trains were for once on time. Sherlock enjoyed taking risks, but a risk had got him into this mess and he was stubborn enough to rule it out of getting him out of it.
Sherlock shuffled in his seat and winced at the creaking racket that momentarily echoed around the room. If the strict instructions of the latest triage nurse to enter the room were correct, visiting time finished at 5.30pm. For the last two days he had of course ignored that, but the nurses were getting tetchy and the detective thought it best for him to respect the rules one last time- if only to appease them into staying silent about his visit. If he left by 4.30pm , all potentially revealing or difficult situations could be ignored, and he could continue with his new reformed life away from London and away from his past.
Sherlock checked his watch and sighed in defeat. The elegant hands pointed superciliously at the time, showing his time keeping clearly. Too clearly. 5. former detective adjusted his scarf and turned up the collar of his coat, preparing to leave the sanitary space and the unconscious woman in the white blanched sheets far behind him, both in mind and matter. All he had to do was to find a nice murder to solve under a false name somewhere up North, and the trials and tribulations of Miss Molly Hooper would be filed away in his thoughts, never to be looked upon again.
The young man stood up and shifted from foot to foot to jump start the circulation as he began to leave, before stopping, frowning, and taking his seat once again.
How could he leave? It had been his fault- he was sure. He couldn't just abandon her now. She looked so vulnerable against the steel bed. Peaceful and serene and yet balancing on the edge of sorrow and regret. The emotions were too much for Sherlock Holmes, but he found himself compelled to listen to them and not just sweep them away.
Sherlock scooped up a magazine from the bedside table, and leafed through the pages with mild interest. He searched for any mention of him, John or any other of his 'old contacts' as he had since nicknamed them. Apparently however, UK gossip magazines didn't report on crime, suicide of any real issues for that matter. The glossy paged manuscript was quickly abandoned in favour for an elegant silver notebook- a birthday present six months previously from 'dear Mycroft' – which was then bereaved of one of its pages as the man in the big black coat drew a pen from an inside pocket and began to write.
After perfecting his scribbled speech, Sherlock made as if to tighten his scarf, before pausing, reconsidering, and unwrapping the blue cloth form around his neck. He had never been particularly talented at folding clothes, and so the said item was placed unceremoniously in a heap beside the hospital bed- wresting quietly next to the note on the table besides it. Sherlock straightened his coat, looked over at the unmoving form of Molly Hooper, sighed and muttered a small apology under his breath; and left.
As Sherlock excited out onto the street and merged back in with the torrents of crowds and frustrated voices that made up London's streets; the nurse that had tried and failed to shoo the detective from the room numerous times the previous day, re-entered the now quiet space. After fiddling for a few minutes with her patients IV, the stout woman extracted from her inner pocket a small unlabelled vile, which she then proceeded to empty the contents of into the IV bag suspended above the bed. The unconscious woman's slumber deepened as the nurse disposed of the glass flask; took a photo of Miss Molly Hooper with her phone; before leaving the room empty once more.
So what did you think? Any thoughts are welcome as I really need to decide whether to continue this or not.