For those of you who are utterly utterly confused, it's all right. A lot of
these are my own creation, so you have to wait for the plot to unfold. (
Btw, if there is something really bothering you, please let me know. God
knows I'm not the best writer/explainer (is this even a word?) in the
world. ----------A
I never knew there were so many turns and twists in the Diogene Club. It was like a maze. Mycroft walked ahead of me and never said a word. I felt dizzy. There were no windows in the corridors and the place was lighted by yellow electric lights that buzzed loudly. I did not even realize that we have gotten to our destination until Mycroft stopped in front of a closed mahogany door. He nodded to a man who was apparently a guard, and then we were permitted to go in. This room brought some unpleasant memories to me. A large empty whitewashed room with a small window that was shut off by blinds. I felt like I was brought back to the time when I was shot in the shoulder. That room. However, there was something else that reminded me of that incidence. Her. That girl. That child. That painful peacefulness.
She couldn't be more than sixteen. Her slim form hid under the colorless hospital sheets. I don't know what cause me to think that, but I turned to Mycroft, "is she- "
"No, Mary. She's not dead, but in a high fever due to infections," Mycroft sounded as if he rather had her dead than alive to be bothered with.
Her hair was short, clipped above her neck, wavy and wild. I had never seen anyone's hair so pale, an ashen blonde. She was not exceptionally pretty or beautiful, but I could not stop staring at her face. There was a grace, a sheer elegance of a Greek statue, or maybe a near-death charm that rob people's hearts. Nevertheless, years of training kicked in. I noticed the bandages visible from under the sheets, the thin layer of perspiration on her forehead, and a nurse. The nurse was a stout woman with greying hair and a chest too large. Mycroft asked about the patience's conditions. She replied, "Her fever's still high, Mr. Holmes. Poor thing's been murmuring the whole day through. There's nothing I can do to stop the pain, too much morphine already."
"What happened to her, Mycroft?" I asked. Gun wounds, knife blows, and thug beatings were the few things jumped into my head.
"A car accident, yesterday. Hit-and-run, two blocks from here. Most shameful, right before a mother with two toddlers."
"Is there a description of the vehicle?" I just hoped the mother had her eyes peeled.
"Yes, a black T-model, which narrowed it down to half of London," Mycroft slumped into the only spare chair other than the nurse's.
I knew there were things he was not telling me. Not wanting to, I suspect. But why? I had to corner him, "why is she staying here instead of a hospital?"
It was when the girl's eyes popped open and she cursed, "merde."
I never knew there were so many turns and twists in the Diogene Club. It was like a maze. Mycroft walked ahead of me and never said a word. I felt dizzy. There were no windows in the corridors and the place was lighted by yellow electric lights that buzzed loudly. I did not even realize that we have gotten to our destination until Mycroft stopped in front of a closed mahogany door. He nodded to a man who was apparently a guard, and then we were permitted to go in. This room brought some unpleasant memories to me. A large empty whitewashed room with a small window that was shut off by blinds. I felt like I was brought back to the time when I was shot in the shoulder. That room. However, there was something else that reminded me of that incidence. Her. That girl. That child. That painful peacefulness.
She couldn't be more than sixteen. Her slim form hid under the colorless hospital sheets. I don't know what cause me to think that, but I turned to Mycroft, "is she- "
"No, Mary. She's not dead, but in a high fever due to infections," Mycroft sounded as if he rather had her dead than alive to be bothered with.
Her hair was short, clipped above her neck, wavy and wild. I had never seen anyone's hair so pale, an ashen blonde. She was not exceptionally pretty or beautiful, but I could not stop staring at her face. There was a grace, a sheer elegance of a Greek statue, or maybe a near-death charm that rob people's hearts. Nevertheless, years of training kicked in. I noticed the bandages visible from under the sheets, the thin layer of perspiration on her forehead, and a nurse. The nurse was a stout woman with greying hair and a chest too large. Mycroft asked about the patience's conditions. She replied, "Her fever's still high, Mr. Holmes. Poor thing's been murmuring the whole day through. There's nothing I can do to stop the pain, too much morphine already."
"What happened to her, Mycroft?" I asked. Gun wounds, knife blows, and thug beatings were the few things jumped into my head.
"A car accident, yesterday. Hit-and-run, two blocks from here. Most shameful, right before a mother with two toddlers."
"Is there a description of the vehicle?" I just hoped the mother had her eyes peeled.
"Yes, a black T-model, which narrowed it down to half of London," Mycroft slumped into the only spare chair other than the nurse's.
I knew there were things he was not telling me. Not wanting to, I suspect. But why? I had to corner him, "why is she staying here instead of a hospital?"
It was when the girl's eyes popped open and she cursed, "merde."