Mycroft always waited until the fourth ring to answer my calls.
"Good afternoon, Sherlock," his voice was irritating, and I could easily picture his expression. Just as bad; lips folded, teeth bared, and brows raised in waiting. His eyes would be narrow, since he was facing the window. He sounded like he was squinting. Horrible habit.
"I've a shopping list for you."
"Oh goody. How do you manage to go over your budget so often, Sherlock? That really isn't responsible."
I ended the call and slouched in my armchair. If I texted him, I could ignore his lectures:
1 crib
1 coffin
SH
He called back, within a fraction of a second:
"Those are two things you are perfectly capable of buying for yourself."
"They're for John."
"Yes, I gathered that." I felt him smiling, and squeezed the phone in my anger.
"Mycroft." His name is perfectly suited to saying through clenched teeth.
This time, he hung up the phone. I listened to the beeping for a moment, and considered the correct words to send to John:
How are you feeling?
S
He didn't answer this. I sifted through all the texts he'd sent my phone, with the notion I was dead and would never answer. I'd saved them in a special, disgustingly sentimental folder, and based my work on them:
Has Mrs Hudson been by?
She's made trifle for you.
S
I will come and see you this afternoon.
S
I promise.
S
Don't forget to eat.
You used to tell me that, and it helped.
S
Get some sleep, too, if possible.
S
I will come by as soon as I can.
S
I would go to John's flat after interviewing the doctors and nurses. I found a taxi outside, and was driven there.
The woman behind the front desk seemed to remember me. I did not use the word 'emergency'; this was substituted for one of Lestrade's cards.
She was quick in showing me to an empty suite, and promised to assemble whichever doctors were still working. I asked her to write down their names, first:
Dr Roma
Dr Ellis
Nurse Connor
Nurse Jameson
Nurse Gillian, Anesthesiologist
None were familiar to me, although I'm sure Molly or Stamford introduced me to everyone there at one point or another.
The staff assembled before me, and all took turns shaking my hand. I stopped with Nurse Connor's hand, and held it up.
She wore a wedding band. These, I find, tell the most about people.
"You wore that yesterday, in the surgery," I told her.
"I would've taken it off," her voice was troubled, "but it was an emergency."
The receptionist glanced between us, rolling her eyes at the word.
I asked the nurse to remove her ring; she refused.
"Although you did scrub-up before entering the surgery, you neglected to wear gloves."
Both doctors disapproved, but tried to defend her. I waved them off, and went to speak with the Anesthesiologist.
"How long have you worked here, Ms Gillian?"
"Twelve years in March," she said.
"How did you administer the anesthesia to Ms… Mrs Watson?"
"She was having trouble breathing, so we only used an intravenous solution. I am sure the dosage was correct."
Sufficient…
I looked at both doctors, and asked why John was not allowed to stay in the room.
They both agreed he was hysterical, and his instructions confused the nurses. Anyway, the room and all inhabitants were expected to be cleaned and dressed for surgery.
"And yet, Ms Connor was permitted to wear her wedding ring, harboring millions of antibiotic-resistant bacteria, without gloves?"
"Mr Holmes!" she began, stepping forward.
"Thank you," I said. I had gathered more than enough information, and needed to see John. I promised.
Mrs Hudson opened the door at John's flat. She patted my shoulder; we hugged.
"He's been in a bad way all afternoon," she explained, "People won't stop phoning, and Hamish – poor dear – won't stay asleep. I thought about taking him back to hospital, but John insists he's okay… and he'd know best, wouldn't he?"
"I should hope."
She led me down the hall. John's flat had always made me uncomfortable; where I expected to see my things, I would find Mary's. I would look for the skull, and find a vase of roses. In place of my violin was a scarf, partially knitted. Instead of my board full of formulas, there were framed wedding pictures, and a calendar of painted horses. The dates they circled meant nothing to me. The names, the reminders of birthdays and addresses, the cards and photographs, the fraying theatre-tickets…
"Got your texts," John offered, "Thanks."
His eyes were hollow. He did not try to stand up.
He sat facing the window, on a couch littered with newspapers, jumpers, and a dozen rejected meals.
"Tell Mycroft 'thanks', as well, would you?"
He gestured weakly at the window. Beneath it, enjoying the sun, was Hamish. He seemed safe enough in the crib.
"He said he's, um… he's got the… the funeral covered, as well."
"Mycroft came to see you?"
Typical; he spoke more to John than to me. This was not a complaint.
"Just for a minute. Left when Hamish started crying again."
I nodded, and sat on the chair across from him. Mrs Hudson padded about the kitchen, considering all the things she could do to help. Bless her.
John's phone, waiting on the coffee-table, rang sharply. He reached to silence it, looking at his wedding ring. How tragic, for it to be on the hand he depended on. He would see it too often.
"How's the baby?" I asked. Mrs Hudson stood behind my chair; I felt her breath near my shoulder. I wanted to reach for my violin, but stopped myself when I recalled the strange environment.
John's voice was still too quiet, but his usual tone resurfaced:
"Hamish is fine. He's breathing much better."
"That's… good."
"Where were you this morning?"
"Doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
I took my mobile from my coat-pocket.
"I had to speak with Mycroft."
I hated how often John demanded lies from me. He would shelter himself in them, and I would watch and shake my head. There was nothing I could do, except continue telling them.
John says thank you.
SH
Do you?
MH
I don't understand.
SH
Never mind.
See you soon.
MH
Oh goody.
SH
Author's Note: Thank you all so much for reading! Are you ready for the case? I am :D