With a salute, Sherlock closed his eyes tight and leapt off the curb into traffic. The smell of diesel fuel and burnt rubber registered in Sherlock's nose, before he sprung forward with a jolt.
Ding
A pause.
Ding
"Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Edinburgh. We will soon be arriving at the Edinburgh Waverley station. Please ensure you take all your belongings with you as you disembark the train."
"Ha!" Sherlock exclaimed.
The businessman jumped at Sherlock's outburst and noticed as the strange man beside him patted down his body like he'd just survived a car accident.
"You all right there?"
Sherlock turned to him then and smirked, waiting for more. "No marks, either," he noted, looking at his forearms.
"Where are you headed?" he asked.
Sherlock shrugged. "Edinburgh it would seem, but who cares now?"
He smiled weakly and turned away from the odd man.
"If you could die and come back to life the next day, what would you do?"
The businessman found this question even more suspicious and his jovial spirit died down all together. "Uh. I'd probably donate my organs for transplants."
Sherlock deadpanned. "Boring. So boring," he drawled.
The train was coming to a stop now and the inside of the car darkened.
"How about by train?"
"Sorry?" the man asked, his eyes locked on Sherlock despite those around them standing.
"Death by train impact."
The businessman turned white and stood abruptly with briefcase in hand.
Sherlock chuckled, watching as the man stumbled out of the car, briefcase banging against the seats and other passengers around him.
A train official with bags under his eyes and long, scruffy hair, walked up behind Sherlock.
"Problem sir?"
Sherlock shook his head and walked off the train.
"You forgot your bag, sir!" the official called after him, but Sherlock was already stepping off.
With his head on a swivel, he jumped down onto the tracks of the rail on the other side of the platform and started jogging out, the sunlight soon above him. It really was a marvellous day.
Sherlock heard a few yells from behind him as an official spotted him, but he increased his pace, breathing laboured, and made it out to where grass had begun to sneak up and through the loose stones along the rails.
The sun beat steadily down on Sherlock from the east, without a cloud in site.
"Come on train!" he shouted to the expanse of farmland creeping up on him as he ran farther out.
When fifteen minutes had passed with no train, Sherlock stepped off the tracks to the side and sat down on a fence that had toppled over. A bush had already grown around the far end of it and withering grass reached halfway up Sherlock's trousers. Why am I doing this?
He stood with impatience and no interest in retracing his steps. A rumble below his feet however, told him there was a train nearby. A passenger one, speeding along the other set of tracks that Sherlock had ridden for three days in a row, was approaching fast. Sherlock pushed his suit jacket off both shoulders, leaving it the gravel below, and made a dash to towards the oncoming train nearly 15 meters away.
The conductor, halfway through communicating with the station coming up, failed to notice the tall man in black trousers and a white button up, running at full speed towards his tracks. He turned to the other official beside him to play the automated message, when Sherlock hit the train head on, going 125 mph.
"What do we have?"
"Male, late thirties," the paramedic informed Ted Stevens, an ER nurse who'd just finished off two night shifts in a row.
"Drug overdose," the paramedic continued walking alongside the gurney. "A bystander called it in when she found him passed out a few blocks north of Waverly station."
"Status?"
"Less than 40 bpm, he's-"
"He's going into respiratory arrest."
Another nurse in purple pulled the gurney up to a set of monitors as the others barked off orders.
"His CNS is failing," one said, stepping up from behind the paramedic.
"We need an airway opened," -a shout from another.
"His pumps are failing," -more desperate this time.
"No pulse. Starting CPR," Ted said, stepping up to Sherlock.
"1 milligram of epinephrine."
"Switching," the nurse in purple called out as Ted switched to ventilation.
"40 units of vasopressin."
"Two minutes till shock."
The sound of wheels against linoleum tile made Ted step back to let the code nurse takeover.
"Stay on the chest… on… and off." The AED charged before releasing a shock. "Stay on the chest… on… and off."
By ten minutes, Ted's arms were sore and the long hours from the last two days were taking its toll.
"Continue compressions… Continue compressions…. Continue compressions…"
Ding
A pause.
Ding
"Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Edinburgh. We will soon be arriving at the Edinburgh Waverly station. Please ensure you take all your belongings with you as you disembark the train."
Sherlock took in a deep breath and pulsed. Ghost pains and vibrations, residual from the day before, flooded his body. He rested his hand over his heart to find it still beating and visibly relaxed.
"Morning."
"Hospitals are rubbish," he told the businessman, right off the bat.
He laughed deeply. "Yes. I'd have to agree."
"Where is the nearest one, mind you?"
"The nearest hospital?" the man asked, his feet readjusting awkwardly underneath his seat.
"Yes, the nearest hospital."
"The Royal's not too far from here. Is that why you're here?"
"Hmm?" Sherlock had already drawn his attention away from the man to send a quick message off to Lestrade.
The train came to a stop and the passengers around them began to stand and gather their things.
"I asked if you are visiting someone in the hospital, here."
"Oh." Sherlock stood, glancing down at his phone intermittently. "No, I'm not." He gave the businessman a tight-lipped smile and side stepped into the aisle behind him.
"That's odd," he heard, as if on cue from the man beside him.
He was about to reply with a sarcastic jab, when his phone screen lit up with a call from the detective inspector.
"Excuse me. Must take this." Sherlock pointed to his phone, before answering.
"Geoff… Yes, whatever. Major case breakthrough. Meet me outside the front of ERI… Forget BioTech. Bring everyone."
Sherlock stepped off the train and made his way to the main corridor of the station. Waiting outside of a small sub shop near the departures board, Sherlock withdrew his phone to locate the hospital.
"Three stories tall… two stories tall… What's that, four?" he asked, aggravated at his phone.
Somewhere between his last few attempts at death, the routine had lost all forms of novelty. Not even recreating his fake suicide from the roof of another hospital seemed amusing anymore.
An incessant automated voice called over the intercom, alerting passengers of the next departure. Sherlock looked up, to snarl at the nuisance, when a thought struck him.
Just like that, he broke off into a jog through the mass of stunned travelers, watching this man in a finely trimmed suit, deek this way and that, making his way to the travel centre.
"Are there any seats still available for the 8 o'clock train to London?"
A girl in her early twenties standing behind the counter, slipped her mobile back into the side pocket of her uniform, and looked up at Sherlock, bored.
"The 8 o'clock to London?" she repeated.
"Yes." He turned to check the board to see if it had left yet.
"We do. Just coach left though. Is that fine?"
Sherlock nodded. "Yeah. Yes, that's fine."
She printed the ticket, taking her sweet time, and looked up to see four £50 notes in the window.
"The ticket comes to 151 pounds." She slid him the ticket. "Give me a moment and I can-"
Sherlock snatched the ticket up and left.
"-get you your change."
Sherlock fell asleep again on the train ride back to London. At just past 11 o'clock in the afternoon, the clicking of the train making a stop in York woke Sherlock from his sleep. In his stupor, his left leg jerked forward and kicked the seat back in front of him. He looked around the coach car; noted the seat beside him was empty and that the train was nowhere close to Edinburgh now. He visibly relaxed. It was the first time in a while that he'd woken from sleep to the sound of something other than the Waverley station announcement.
There were three new messages, two missed calls, and a voicemail on his phone. He felt guilty for a moment, leaving his team hanging on the case. His team?
It won't even matter, he consoled himself. Nothing about today is ever permanent.
By the time he made it back to Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson was waiting on the top steps of the first floor landing.
"You're here." She didn't let him inside his flat and instead led him back downstairs with a firm grip on his sleeve.
"Mrs. Hudson!" He shook himself free.
"You're supposed to be in Scotland, with John." She opened the door to her flat and picked up a cordless phone from its docking station, inside the kitchen.
He recognized the pitches on each of the buttons dialled, collectively, as John's mobile number.
"You needn't call him," he interjected.
"And why not?" She brought the receiver away from her ear, to look up at him, displeased.
"I already did," he lied.
She hung the phone up and held her hand out. "Let's see it then; your phone."
Sherlock felt its outline within the wool fabric of his trouser pocket.
"I called him from a phone box at the station."
"Oh pish posh. Sherlock Holmes, tell me the truth."
"It's complicated," he replied, avoiding the question.
He picked up his travel bag from the hall outside her door and ascended the stairs to his flat.
Mrs. Hudson gave up, shaking her head. "He's here John… No, he won't tell me anything."
With a sigh, Sherlock relaxed back into his chair. Gone was that horrible suit he'd been wearing for the past week or so and replaced with his dark blue dressing gown. He closed his eyes briefly and retreated into his mind palace. At half past 11 at night, he resigned his position on the sofa and went to the kitchen to retrieve a bag of crisps from the cupboard above the sink.
Despite the exhaustion encasing him like a persistent stomach flu, Sherlock willed himself to stay awake. He'd played through two concertos on his violin and even watched a bit of crap telly. But as the minutes ticked by, the time getting closer and closer to midnight, Sherlock grew restless.
He stomped around the living room, munching on the partially stale crisps, and waited, and waited, until the hour drew to a close.
Wincing, with his eyes closed, and hair on end, Sherlock waited for the chime of the clock. On schedule, it struck 12 and the world around him stayed put. With the beat of his heart slowing considerably, he sank back into the couch and closed his eyes.
"Welcome home," he told himself, just a moment too soon.
Ding
A pause.
Ding
"Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Edinburgh. We will soon be arriving at the Edinburgh Waverley station. Please ensure you take all your belongings with you as you disembark the train."
Striding down Prince Street, without a thought of what he was planning to do, Sherlock stopped abruptly amidst the mass of people and looked around. He'd been here before; he'd walked this way at this exact time. He turned around and ambled backwards, taking in the buildings beyond the throng of commuters, when a voice, shrill and familiar, yelled from behind him.
"Are you kidding me?" The lady behind the stroller with two toddlers gaped at Sherlock.
He felt a faint twinge of pain coming from his calf and looked down to see the imprint of the stroller's front bumper on his leg.
She'd begun to wipe the spilled coffee from her blouse, fuming, when Sherlock sidestepped the woman and kept going. Past stores and restaurants and banks. Past a gym, a row of offices, and an official looking government building on the corner. He was stuck in a limitless world, constrained by time. How far would he make it if he booked a flight right now to the other side of the world? A world without permanent consequences was a world without permanent rewards. He could kill a man and live to see another day, a free man. He could rob a bank and escape to France, but see none of the rewards the following morning. He could… He could steal a police car.
Teetering between the sidewalk and the street, Sherlock kept an inconspicuous eye on a cop who'd just stepped out of his car to talk to another officer walking by. When both turned a blind eye to the partially ajar door of the car, Sherlock broke off into a sprint and jumped inside. He had less than ten seconds to get the car in drive and pull away. He did it in five.
In the rear-view mirror, one enraged bobby yelled inaudibly at Sherlock, while the other spoke into his radio urgently.
Horns blared as Sherlock drove down the middle of street -past five story buildings, side streets, and pedestrians who only glanced up briefly to watch the crazed man driving in a police car through traffic, before returning to their far more important lives.
From a major road off to the right, two police cars joined Sherlock with sirens blaring behind him.
"This has been fun," Sherlock commented, despite himself being the sole occupant.
Up ahead, the street diverged in two, and Sherlock pushed on, over the curb, and into the front display of a jewellery store. The chaos and noise around him masked the alarm system blaring in the not yet open store. Scattered glass shards sparkled brighter than the rings and necklaces adorning half collapsed shelves and shattered cases.
Sherlock sat back, feeling pains arise at various points on his body, and pushed the air bag aside to the fix the collar of his suit. His right arm flared out in pain and he gave up with his dishevelled clothes.
As he felt his world around him fading, sounds of footsteps over crunching debris drew nearer.
Sherlock woke, stiff and sore. He kept his eyes closed, waiting for the train announcement, but it never came. Instead, he heard John and Lestrade's voices bickering above him.
"I don't know. They said he had neither drugs nor alcohol in his system."
John.
"Well, can you even begin to explain this then?"
Lestrade.
"I need to run through his vitals, excuse me gentlemen."
A nurse.
Sherlock waited till the sounds of retreating footsteps left the room to open his eyes.
The nurse above him smiled, despite the obvious concern and doubt behind her congenial countenance. His eyes flickered over to the door of the hospital room where an officer stood, leaning lazily against the glass.
"You've got two hairline fractures in your arm and an oblique fracture in your leg, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock looked down to his legs where the outlines of bandages peeked through the sheet.
"Two broken ribs and a concussion as well."
Sherlock sighed, frustrated with himself. He regretted doing so immediately when his chest flared up in pain.
"It's going to hurt for a while," the nurse commented, before exiting out of the computer to his left and leaving the room.
"Or just another 12 hours," Sherlock muttered.
The officer standing outside his room came in then and spoke briefly with Sherlock. He was stuck in the hospital until deemed well enough. In the meantime, a few more officers would be in to question him, before his offenses were formally written up. With a discontented nod, Sherlock agreed to the officer's instructions, and the room, solely occupied once again, fell back into a steady hum.
Sherlock fell asleep occasionally and tried to ignore the frequent commotion from the ER in the meantime, when he heard another familiar voice speaking to the officer outside of the room.
She peaked her head in cautiously, before advancing fully into the room. The walls were a pasty white, cleaned over and over again with disinfectants. A lone chair with uneven legs sat across from Sherlock's bed, taking up the remaining space in the single room.
"Sometimes, Sherlock, I really worry."
Unaware that he was awake, she walked around his bed, not stopping to sit, and waited in the far corner by the window. He could tell she was hovering above him, obstructing the light from the sun on his face.
"A cry for attention perhaps…"
Sherlock twitched as he felt her hand ghost over his cheek. She removed it quickly.
"Do you really think I'm that daft?" she asked.
For a moment, he believed that she was referring to his pseudo-sleeping, but she continued.
"Don't play dumb with me Sherlock. Not after everything that's happened. I know you know that you're the reason my engagement is over."
Sherlock did everything in his power not to respond -to keep his face expressionless.
"Yet you act like I'm the odd one here, for being down about it. It's like you're gloating." She laughed, despite the situation, almost to spite herself.
"But there's something else." She lingered by his side and took his pale, cut up hand, in hers. "I know you won't say. I know you'll deny it. But there's something off with you." A pause.
"Maybe you're just looking for the attention. But maybe there's more."
With a final sigh and squeeze of his hand, she walked from the room and was gone.