Disclaimer: Only the neighbor is mine.
A/N: It's very rare that I write sequel chapters, but this just sort of flowed out!
221B
The ER was crowded when I passed on my way to the vending machine. My best friend's money in my pocket, all I could think about was that Snickers bar that had been calling to me all day. A familiar, feminine voice called out my name over the din and my shoulders slumped. The cane doesn't do much for quick escapes. She called me in, telling me in that annoying, pleading voice I've rarely been able to deny that she could really use some help. There was a five-car pile-up on the highway and every gurney was packed.
I shook my head, ready to vehemently deny her, create a distraction and scoot away, when a face I swore I knew pushed into my line of vision. I sucked my breath in and hobbled over to her gurney. Dirt was smeared across her face, but you could tell she had pretty features hidden behind it. Blood seeped from a gash in her forehead and her lips were swollen and bleeding. I stared intently at her. I'm not one to forget a face or a name but I just couldn't put my finger on her.
I sat in her room for nearly two hours, trying in vain to figure out who she was. The name on the chart wasn't at all familiar and, even cleaned up, her face gave me no clues. In frustration, I gave up, the weight of defeat pressing heavily on my shoulders. I slept on the couch in my office that night, too tired to go home. By morning, I had far from forgotten about the pretty accident victim, but with a new patient and avoiding clinic duty, she wasn't my top priority. It was almost 4:00 when I finally slipped down to her room, only to discover that she was long gone. I sighed, knowing I had missed my chance.
I left straight from her room and went home. I poured myself a glass of Scotch, set it on a paper napkin on my piano, leaned my cane against the leg and sat down to play. I almost never know what I'm going to play until the music is already floating out the window to my neighbors, but I was especially surprised this time. Instead of Beethoven or Schumann, as I was expecting, I found myself playing a piece I had composed years before. It was before my infarction, back when I had a happy-go-lucky streak. I was young, wild, free and madly in love when I'd written it. I hadn't played it in years.
The next morning, as I started up my bike, heading for work, I happened to glance up. Two sets of address numbers glared down at me, guiding me, though I didn't know where. I shook my head to clear it and sped off. It was hours later when the importance of those numbers finally hit me. I left the ducklings in the middle of a conference and made my way down to the clinic. The head nurse sent me an evil glare, likely because of my lack of clinic hours, but obligingly pulled up the records for my mysterious stranger. Her address told me all I needed to know. 221A.
I drove straight home instead of taking one of my numerous detour routes. I knocked abruptly on her door, praying to a God I don't believe in that she'd be home. I was just about to give up when I heard the lock turn. I sighed briefly in relief. She pulled open the door and I grinned. My mysterious woman wasn't so mysterious after all.
"I saved your life yesterday," I announced to her, without any form of introduction.
A slow, easy smile spread across her face. "You've saved my life more times than I can count," she informed me quietly, "I wondered if we'd ever meet."
She invited me in for a glass of wine, apologizing for the lack of music. Now I knew why I recognized her. She had been the only audience to my piano playing for the last three years. It wasn't her face that had seemed familiar. It was something we shared. A little piece of heart and a little piece of soul. And I'm very glad we met.
I live in 221B and this is my story.
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