((Sorry for the slight delay in posting this chapter! I've been a bit sick lately. Long story short, I am lactose intolerant, I went to a restaurant notorious for its use of butter, thought I did a good job of avoiding dishes with a lot of butter, was proved wrong over the course of the next week. DERP.
Oh, and I think it's fairly obvious at times that I'm not British? If I get any slang or words wrong, please let me know so that I can go back and correct them~ That would be much appreciated!
Anyways, here's the next chapter~))
. . .
Sherlock is allowed into John's room three days later. The medical staff is strict about how patients are handled when sick, wanting to prevent the spread of illness and make sure the recovery environment is stable. Sherlock has been vaccinated already, so he doesn't feel worried about catching anything.
He quietly steps into the room, taking in the sight of the ex-army doctor. John is sleeping in bed, still a bit flushed from fever and letting out an occasional cough or two. He's over the worst of it by now, though it will take another few days to a week for all the symptoms to clear up. Sherlock pulls over the chair that a nurse left behind in the room, taking a seat by John's bedside.
He takes note that John has been partially restrained. There's a strap around his wrist, attached to the bed frame with a decent amount of slack. He has the freedom to change position on the bed if he wants to, but can't get away. Whenever doors are left open to more easily monitor the residents in times of need, the staff prefers to eliminate the possibility of them leaving the room. Otherwise, the doors are just closed and locked.
John starts to have a minor coughing fit, using his free hand to cover his mouth. It's hard enough to wake him up. He notices Sherlock sitting there as soon as the irritation in his chest dies.
"Good afternoon," Sherlock greets him as John looks at him up and down.
"How long… since…" John lets out, rubbing his eyes.
"Three days. It's been incredibly agonizing for me. All of my patients sick, absolutely nothing to do. I resort to going through old files and sitting around. Dreadful way to spend three days," Sherlock theatrically complains.
John lets out a slight chuckle. "Want to trade places, then?"
"No, but thank you for the offer. So, now for the standard question. How are you feeling?"
"Like I've been hit by a truck, then it backed up for good measure."
"Want me to leave you alone to rest, then?"
"No, not really… Feeling a bit bored at the moment." John sighs, getting a bit comfortable. He frowns at the restraint on his wrist, being reminded that it's there.
"Good, because I have things to discuss," Sherlock says enthusiastically. "You would not believe what Bethany Hale has been through. This woman is only twenty-two years old, but has been traveling all over the UK since age fifteen. She would just backpack everywhere with her German Sheppard, walking from town to town. Fooled people into believing she was doing this for different charity organizations, and made loads of money from donations."
"… Interesting."
"The dogs died, and she went on a rampage. Killed almost a whole campsite of hunters with their own guns after burying her dog."
"Wait, I think this is usually something you keep confidential…"
"But ran away and managed to live in the sewers of London for a year until she was found. Now, whenever I ask her the dog's name, she sort of starts shivering and fidgeting with anything nearby. She also won't talk about what her life was like before she started all this running around. There were no missing persons reports filed for her when she began this."
"You can't tell me information like this…"
"Technically I can, I'm actually doing it right now. So, when I look at her, I think I can guess what she's been through. Most likely a rape victim, raped numerous times, or at the very least abused, as she seems to be afraid of men. The sort of fear I see in her eyes hints to the possibility that the damage was done when she was young and very impressionable. Add the fact that she seems to be more frightened of older men, she was most likely abused by a close, male family member that's older than her. She's particularly terrified of Mr. Carter, a man with a shade of red hair that's similar to hers. This suggests that whoever did this to her was either her father, or possibly even an uncle, someone who has inherited the family genes for red hair."
John has spent the entire time trying to butt in, wanting Sherlock to stop all of this. Revealing so much about other patients could get him in trouble.
"I have asked her about her mother. Her story changes every time, though a constant seems to be that her mother was never around much."
"Stop. Just stop," John demands.
"I'm sorry, do you have something you want to add? I value the opinions of others. … Sometimes. Well, not that often at all. But perhaps you can provide some insight."
"My opinion is that you should stop talking about Miss Hale. It's rude for you to be giving away such details that she most likely told you in confidence during a session. Not to mention that you could get in serious trouble."
"They'll just slap me on the hand and send me on my way," Sherlock says with a nonchalant shrug. "Besides, there are no microphones or anything in here, they can't hear what we're talking about. So I can keep a secret if you can."
"Still… It's rude. And not right of you to be telling me all of this."
"John… I think a lot better oftentimes when speaking aloud. Especially when someone is listening. Though, it's incredibly hard to find the right person to listen to me. Telling you all of this is actually helping me think more about these cases. You're really helping me," Sherlock genuinely says. John may have protested against his disrespect of confidentiality, but he probably could have done a lot more to stop him.
John is silent, just staring at Sherlock. He's not incredibly sure what to say at this point. So much of his time here has been spent with other people trying to help him, and set him right. It's been a long time since he's helped somebody…
Sherlock gets up, placing the chair back off to the side. "I'll let you rest, now. I can tell you feel like rubbish as the moment, and are not really in the mood to talk." He goes to leave the room without another word.
"Dr. Holmes," John calls out, causing him to stop in the doorframe. "I… can keep a secret. If you need to talk again…" He's very hesitant to go along with this, but he enjoys being more involved with what's going on around here. He doesn't want to be useless.
"Much appreciated. Oh, and call me Sherlock. 'Dr. Holmes' is too… formal." He shudders a little and steps out of John's room.
-The walls we build around us to keep out the sadness also keep out the joy.-
The next three weeks' sessions go in a completely different direction. John listens to Sherlock as he rambles on and on about all these other patients. He gives out confidential details left and right as if talking about the weather. John comments occasionally, something that Sherlock tends to appreciate. He likes some of the things John says, keeping the conversations engaging. John isn't quite able to pay attention to all the details that Sherlock always picks out, but he turns out to be a valuable companion.
Sherlock can't help but notice something important with John during this time. He isn't using the cane. Well, he's still carrying it around, but barely leans on it at all.
That's when Sherlock comes up with a fairly simple plan to end this nonsense.
He catches John as he's sitting at a table in the lounge, watching the telly nearby. "John, I need you to come with me, quickly," Sherlock says, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"What is it?" he asks.
"Mrs. Ferriston had made a mess in the library while it was open. If any of the staff find it, they will most likely reprimand her for it. It will be a huge setback, this has happened before, and she wouldn't talk to me for a week. You know the library well. Please, I need your help sorting everything." Sherlock unceremoniously pulls John out of the chair and directs him down the hall to the library.
There are stacks of books all over the floor, quite a few shelves now empty.
"You know where everything generally goes. I would really be grateful for your help," Sherlock says, going to pick up a few books.
"Alright," John agrees, immediately going to pick up books and place them in the correct sections.
"Have I ever told you about her case?" Sherlock asks as he starts sorting books.
"No."
"She thinks that she was born in the future, and that she's aging backwards in time. She also keeps talking about dinosaur men…"
"You said 'Mrs.'. She's married?"
"Currently, yes. But her husband is in the middle of trying to divorce her."
"That's too bad…"
They continue to pick up the books in silence. With the two of them, the job is finished in little over ten minutes.
"John… where's your cane?" Sherlock asked, feigning confusion.
John looks down at his empty hands, now realizing that he hasn't been using it. He left it back in the lounge area, without even noticing. He looks up at Sherlock with suspicion in his gaze.
Sherlock decides that he doesn't even have to tell the truth. John figured it out, and fortunately seemed to be handling it quite well.
"Annie Ferriston hasn't been my patient for weeks, now," Sherlock says as he walks by John, giving his shoulder a pat.
John lets out a chuckle of amusement, amazed how easily Sherlock was able to pull this.
"I'll get your cane, just in case," Sherlock offers, going to walk out of the room.
"No. Get rid of it, Sherlock," John says with a smile.
-Life, at best, is bittersweet.-
"That's why I think she can be discharged," Sherlock confidently says to John, ready to wrap up the session. John has stopped reaching for his cane at the end of sessions, now. The habit is gone. Sherlock goes to stand, looking pleased with himself. "I'll fill out the paperwork for that tonight."
"Will they listen to you this time?" John asks.
"Most likely not, but I think I can make a pretty convincing case. At least open up the possibility next time an appeal is made," Sherlock honestly answers. "It's getting close to dinner. I'll let you go so that you can get something to eat."
"Wait…" John says, looking away.
Sherlock sits back down in his chair. "Something wrong?"
John licks his lips, going quiet for a bit. "I think… I would like to talk about… what happened."
Sherlock knows that he's not ready. But contradicting John right now would do more harm than good.
"Alright. So, where do you want to start?"
"The simple fact, first."
"And what would that be?"
"I killed a civilian."