A/N: This chapter is written following a series of conversations with Lucy36. The shower scene is all for her since she mentioned she wanted more such watery visions of our bored sociopath. I'm sure she'll maintain she did not dare me to write this but… well, there was the underlying subtext… Many thanks to her pictures of food art too. Sherlock's masterpiece at the end is dedicated to Lucy36 as well.
Disclaimer: Nothing new.
The patient in room 221, bed B was definitely getting stronger. He would never admit it, but Ryan's gruelling physiotherapy sessions were producing positive results.
"When you go home, which will happen very soon I'm sure, you will be required to continue the exercises you've been doing," Ryan dropped off the sweaty, tired tall man at his room. "You'll still see me, just not on a daily basis. Sort of like easing out of a dead-end relationship." He winked and gave Sherlock an overly eager smile.
Sherlock gave a noncommittal shrug in return. "Don't you realise there are enough people to hate in the world already without going through so much effort to give us another?" he grumbled morosely.
Ryan only chuckled. "Now we know why some animals eat their own children."
Sherlock blinked in surprise. Strange one, that Ryan. He'd worry about analysing the insinuations in the man's last sentence later. For now, he wanted a shower.
With a weary groan, he slowly peeled off his sweat-drenched clothing, leaving it in a heap on the floor, and climbed into the hospital shower. It was a relief to be able to stand this time. His muscles ached and the stitches alternated between burning and itching; but at least he could support his erect frame with just his own two legs.
Showers were his personal sanctuary against the ruckus of hospital noises. He adjusted the knob and turned the water on.
Streams of water poured forth and he closed his eyes to enjoy the revitalising watery massage. The warmth instantly relaxed his tight muscles and the pounding of the water across his torso and waist added to the effect. His fatigue began to melt and flow away down the drain as his mind drifted into a semi-detached state from the realities of time.
The bare-arsed detective opened his eyes momentarily. What he saw made his heart suddenly flip-flop in his chest. Involuntarily he gasped as a surge of adrenaline spiked his bloodstream. Red! The water at his feet, cascading off his body and swirling down the drain was a deep crimson current.
No, this couldn't be happening! Sherlock's right hand automatically went to his wounded side. Had his sutures somehow broken, reopening his injury? That would put a damper on his imminent release from the hospital, not to mention the inconvenience of another surgical exploration, re-suturing, and God knows what else! None of the scenarios in his mind were encouraging.
Sherlock's sensitive fingertips pricked themselves on the nylon suture knots. Ouch! He looked down and to his relief noted the neat row of blue nylon sprouts still firmly implanted within his skin. His agile mind quickly took in the red jets of water streaming from the showerhead. From the outside, he figured the scene might look like a gruesome murder with blood splattered across every conceivable surface. Instead, it was just red-coloured water.
The adrenaline levels dissipated and his heart rate returned to normal. He frowned. His pale skin had taken on a ghastly pink hue. He suspected his hair was of a similar aberrant shade. Someone had tampered with the shower in his room. Who?
The suspect list was rather large. Plenty of people, both staff and visitors, could easily have snuck into his room and inserted the red-dye into the showerhead. It wouldn't have taken but a couple minutes.
Mycroft? It would be unlikely for his older brother to exert such effort but he couldn't rule out the possibility given what had happened last time they'd met.
The cleaning lady? She certainly didn't bear him any good will after that incident the other night. However, she was quite short. It would have been difficult to reach the showerhead without assistance. There were no telltale marks of a chair she'd have required to reach high enough. For now, he'd place her lower on his suspect list.
Heather, the nurse on duty today? In retrospect, it probably had not been the smartest idea to inform her that all her efforts to improve her looks with weight loss and Botox had not prevented her husband from having an affair with his secretary. She had been a bit curt with him after that, he realised. But surely, she was a professional; she wouldn't resort to such a thing as this?
The dripping wet detective with pinkish hue frowned deeper and furrowed his brows. This was annoying. Too many variables. Not enough data. He needed more information before he could identify the culprit. He didn't like not knowing. He toed the pink whirlpool at his feet noting that the water was gradually losing its red tones.
With a sigh, he pushed the mystery to the back of his mind to be toyed with when further data could be obtained. The water was clear again. Thankfully, with copious amounts of soap, the cherry hues disappeared.
It still took five attempts with the shampoo and vigorous scrubbing before his dark curls lost their red tones. The soap bubbles danced down his upper body and fell cart wheeling down the rest of him finally disappearing through the gaps in the drain. Sherlock let the mist envelope his body blocking out the past and the future. He soaked in the present and breathed in the warmth. He let himself experience the moment in all its fullness. The caressing streams of water. The warmth of the blanketing mist. The muffled sounds of the hospital. He closed his eyes and let it sink into every fibre of his sore body.
Suddenly, the slender man felt his world begin to spin. A wave of dizzying nausea overcame him.
Spinning.
Falling.
Tumbling.
Stumbling.
He tripped and reached out his arms to steady himself as the ground under his feet waffled. For the briefest moment his vision dimmed.
Sherlock squeezed his eyes open and shut several times and shook his head. He turned off the water. "Interesting", he made a mental note of the incident to file away for future reference. "Extended hot showers predispose to a vaso-vagal reflex." He would need to adjust accordingly in subsequent watery escapes.
He stepped out carefully and towelled off. Restoring his damp hair to its orderly state of disorder with practised fingers; he gave himself an approving nod in the mirror, grateful that all traces of red were gone. He dressed for his next excursion.
~221b~
A good disguise isn't about hiding; it's about being invisible in plain sight. He was a natural actor. He was in his element where drama was concerned.
The tall detective strode confidently through the congested corridor of the hospital. No one gave him a second glance as he typed in the key code and entered the staff break room. Keeping his face shadowed, he gave a friendly nod of acknowledgement to the employee having his break. With a few deft movements, he exchanged and rearranged a few things.
"Coffee?" He spoke to the employee still seated at the nearby table.
"Nah, I'll pass on the coffee for the moment, thanks though," the man mumbled from behind the paper.
"I'll just brew a pot. If you change your mind, they'll be plenty left over," Sherlock said good-naturedly. He busied himself with the preparations.
Smiling, he poured a cup of the black brew into a to-go cup and headed toward the door. At the last moment, he grabbed a handful of toothpicks. For some unknown reason, hospital meals for patients never seemed to provide them.
"Later," he called out as he closed the door behind him. He strode on down the hall alert keen eyes always observing, always deducing. Chronic lung disease and long standing heart disease. Still smokes even though he tries to hide the fact. Widower and lives in a house with children, most likely his grandchildren, but doesn't like that fact. Sherlock passed the grey haired gentleman with stained, rounded fingertips in the wheelchair without comment. He could discover the facts but not change them.
He came to another keypad-coded door. The doctor's lounge. Without hesitation, he pressed in the code and entered. It was amazing what a simple stethoscope and name badge nicked from a couple passing nurses could do. He slipped into one of the white coats hanging on the rack and finished his errand. Again, just some minor readjustments. It took less than five minutes. Afterward, he sipped his coffee and read through the latest tabloid with a story by some man, Ford Prefect, predicting the end of the world due to an intergalactic highway. What utter nonsense!
He tossed his paper cup away and hung up the white coat. On his way back to his room, he placed the stethoscope and name badge in the lost-and-found box by the nursing station. His morning duties were complete. He smiled, a satisfied sociopath-with-a-plan smile. If Dr Hoffman did not write his discharge orders for today, by tomorrow, he'd be under a lot of pressure to get him home - ASAP.
"Lunch?" Nurse Heather appeared at his door with his food tray. "I'll just set it here on the table." She placed the tray next to him. Sherlock noted that her fingernails were clear of any red tints. Unlikely to be the guilty suspect then.
Sherlock wrinkled his nose at his vegetables. Cooked carrots and salad! What were the dieticians in the food preparation department thinking? He didn't want healthy. He wanted tasty. Carrots, salad, and shrivelled beef were not appealing. Appetite-suppressants, rather.
He ate the dessert. Cheesecake. While he chewed on his contraband toothpick he thoughtfully created his next food masterpiece. Carrot pieces served as the joints. The beef slab worked well as a solid base. The extra toothpicks were the metal struts.
"Very artistic, Mr Holmes," Heather commented with curious raised eyebrow at the enigmatic patient under her charge today. "You sure you never had any leanings toward being an architect? Mind if I snap a picture?"
Sherlock nodded assent without comment. It was surprising how easily ordinary people were impressed.
"First time someone's managed an Eiffel toward with vegetables, toothpicks, and beef." Heather tucked her mobile back into her pocket. "Want another slice of cheesecake? I might be able to manage that for such a talented artist who apparently doesn't like his vegetables." She winked.
"Sure, cheesecake would be fine. Thank you." Sherlock's sombre expression slowly evaporated and he gave a brief smile.
He wondered how long it would be until Dr Hoffman came to visit.
A/N: Any guesses on when the doctor will discharge Sherlock home?