Being forced to stay that much longer than intended had put the consulting detective into a terrible mood. The hospital seemed even noisier and everyone in it more irritating than before, and Sherlock no longer held back when stating his opinions, which tended to keep the nurses at a more comfortable distance. Guns stopped by every half hour or so to make sure that Sherlock was still in his room, but otherwise left him alone.

Around sunset, Sherlock was minding his own business when something caught his attention from across the alleyway. The flat's lights were lit as the suspect in question struggled about his living room with a black garbage bag large enough to carry a corpse. Coincidentally, that's precisely what Sherlock suspected it was being used for. Realizing that the man was about to dump the body, Sherlock hardly hesitated before hurrying out of his room with his rolling heart monitor in tow and making a mad dash down the hall.

It was there that he ran into the lady from the front desk, who he was surprised to find away from her seat. "Oh, Mr. Holmes!" she exclaimed. The woman came off sounding a little frightened of Sherlock, and likely with good reason. The nurses' gossip hardly painted a positive picture of him. "W-What are you doing out of your room?"

"Shhh!" Sherlock pressed the woman up against the wall and covered her mouth with his hand, sending a shifty glance over his shoulder. They both watched Guns stomp across the hallway several doors down. Chances were she had already figured out that Sherlock was out of bed and, once located, fully intended to bring down the wrath of God upon him. Guns stopped abruptly and sniffed at the air before snapping her head around to lock eyes with Sherlock, who let out a squeak of terror.

"There you are, Holmes," Guns said slowly.

Sherlock released the front desk lady, who scurried away from the scene as quickly as possible. "Yes, how observant of you. I was just… headed to the loo," he explained.

Guns frowned. "Your brother's a better liar. You were going to try breaking out, weren't you?"

"Absolutely not!" Guns raised an eyebrow. "Okay, maybe a little bit. But I assure you that I have the best of intentions. Remember that man I mentioned before? The one in the building next to the hospital who murdered someone with a kitchen knife? Well, I have reason to suspect that he's stashed the body into a garbage bag with the intentions of-"

"I thought we already had this conversation?" Guns interrupted sternly. "I don't care if this hospital is being invaded by a medieval army, you are not to leave your room without my direct permission!"

"But this is important!"

"I'll be the judge of that. Now quit being a little dick and get your arse moving."

Sherlock considered trying to make a run for it, but the bodyguard lost patience and stomped over to drag him to bed by his elbow. Sherlock held up his hands in surrender, and slumped down the hall back toward his room, with Guns marching along right behind him. The detective opened his mouth to say-

"No," Guns interrupted. "Whatever it is, the answer is no. Goodnight!"

With that, she left Sherlock in his room. He wasn't alone, however; she pulled a chair up to the glass door and situated herself in it with her back facing him.

Sherlock threw himself face down on the bed with all the petulance of an angry toddler. He fumed with rage until he was too emotionally drained to care anymore, and then he pulled the covers up until all that could be seen were his eyes and hair.

"Why is everyone an idiot but me?" he asked his pillow. "Oh, of course, everyone agrees crimes should be investigated to their fullest until the perpetrator is apprehended... unless I'm the one doing the investigating! Then they're like, 'nah, this murder isn't that important, I'm sure it can wait a few weeks so the body can decompose beyond recognition.' And then they complain when nothing can be proven in court! Honestly!" Sherlock huffed and nuzzled into his pillow, which had now been deemed his new Only Friend. "Even John doesn't believe me," he mumbled. "Can't they see I'm dying here? My mind is rotting. I fear I'll start talking to myself soon."

After a depressing round of glaring-at-the-wall, Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to find Guns had not moved an inch. She had picked up a YA novel somewhere and was now engrossed in reading about a magical adolescent who falls in love and saves the world, judging by what Sherlock could see of the cover.

The detective looked back at the wall.

And the window.

-x-

The hardest part was gathering enough extra pillows and blankets from the cabinet a few feet away without drawing attention to himself. Once that was done, however, he arranged them in a vaguely Sherlock shape under the covers of his bed and disabled his heart monitor with a pen and a paperclip he'd found. Thankfully, the thing didn't seem to have any kind of low battery warning, and he was able to climb out onto the window ledge with a bag of his clothes without alerting Guns.

The ledge was actually much smaller than it had seemed from inside. A lot windier, too. Sherlock had to have one hand on his hospital gown at all times to keep from flashing the cars driving by below. The man felt a nervous thrill go through him at the thought of falling, but damn it, he wasn't a hardboiled detective for nothing, so he sucked it up and carefully began leaping from one ledge to the next. They were just far enough apart to make his jumps seem pretty impressive, and he wished he had his trenchcoat and a fedora and maybe a dramatic movie soundtrack. With violins.

He only slipped a couple of times, both of which made him eternally grateful that he wasn't still attached to the heart monitor, because those damn doctors would insist upon keeping him until next Christmas. Within minutes, Sherlock made it to an open window several rooms down from his own, and stepped back inside the building with relief. He straightened his gown and wiped a bit of sweat from his forehead.

"What the hell," said the teenage girl whose window he just climbed through. She put her laptop aside and pressed a pair of glasses onto her face, gaping at him.

"Don't freak out," Sherlock insisted.

The girl turned her eyes up and raised her arms toward the sky. "My prayers have been answered! Bless you! You truly are a benevolent god!"

Sherlock wondered if she didn't belong in a psychiatric ward instead. "Sorry for bothering you," he said, moving toward the door. "I'll just be leaving now."

"Wait, where are you going?" the girl demanded, suddenly alarmed. "Come back here and ravish me, handsome half-naked gentleman!"

Sherlock peeked out into the hallway. Guns was as he left her, totally oblivious to anything but her teen romance. The detective stepped back to close the door again and bumped into something. He spun around. The teenager's hand was inches from his head.

"May I touch your hair?" she whispered.

"If you do, I'll bite you," he hissed out between clenched teeth.

The girl's mouth went slack with wonder. "I don't know if I'm into that yet," she admitted.

"Go to bed," Sherlock snapped. "And if you follow me, you might die."

The detective strolled out of the girl's room and down the hallway away from Guns as casually as he could. He took the next turn, and the bodyguard didn't even look up. As soon as he was out of sight, Sherlock broke into a sprint. He stopped at the nearest restroom to change into his own clothes, and then he made up his mind to attempt to walk right out the front door as if he were a simple visitor.

Sherlock was very proud of himself, as he was leaving. None of the staff gave him a second glance, and he got away entirely unmolested. As soon as his foot hit the sidewalk, however, he felt a sharp prick in the back of his neck, and his legs immediately decided they were taking the rest of the day off. As he collapsed, Sherlock managed to turn his head far enough to spot Guns leaning out of a window, peering at him through the scope of a rifle.