Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
Hi everyone! Hope you're all doing well. Thanks, as always, for the encouragement and I'm sorry this has been a bit longer than anticipated in coming … my muse is acting odd as of late but this morning I just had this huge desire to write so write I did. And here it is! Enjoy it =)
Sherlock was almost knocked over by the hospital staff running past him. He flattened himself against the wall and waited till they passed him before adjusting his coat and striding on. He hated hospitals; the smell, the staff running around almost knocking you over, all the sick people … it was just gross. The only good things about a hospital were the morgue and the lab.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he rounded the corner and he picked up his pace. The same doctor that had almost run into him was now busy in John's room, leaning over his friend. Sherlock ran the last dozen yards to the doorway.
"What happened?" he exclaimed.
"I'm sorry, Sir," a nurse said. "You'll have to wait outside."
She tried to block him from entering the room but Sherlock pushed through.
"What happened?" he repeated. "John!"
John was deathly pale and Sherlock did not need the annoying buzz from the monitor to tell him that John was not breathing. His chest wasn't moving and he was completely still, apart from the doctor performing CPR.
Sherlock froze.
All around him, doctors and nurses were adding medications to the IV line, someone called for the paddles, there was a charging noise followed by the surge of electricity. John's body jolted in a revolting manner.
Sherlock didn't want to watch this and yet he couldn't take his eyes off John's face, willing there to be a twitch or something.
There was nothing.
The doctor called for another charge and sent the surge through John a second time. A few beeps from the monitor before the flat line reappeared.
"Charge again," the doctor barked and the process repeated itself to no avail.
It was at this point that Sherlock left the room and started manically pacing in the hallway.
Okay, John was dead.
Dead.
John.
His blogger … the one person who actually put up with him … possibly the only person in the world Sherlock actually cared about.
Dead.
The word had a finality to it that Sherlock had never understood before now.
Okay … uh … now what?
Sherlock had seen people die before. It was part of living, wasn't it? It was a simple process, really. The heart stopped, the brain didn't have oxygen and shut down and that was it. No more life.
But … John.
Sherlock knew that the same process had happened to John – or a variation of it, at least – but it was different. Life hadn't just left John … his personality, his essence, everything that made him John was now gone, too.
It was too much for Sherlock to process. His friend had been fine, absolutely fine before this bitch had gotten hold of him. What was worse … it was all Sherlock's fault. All the other men had been this ill but Jenn had actually made them better. By showing up and dragging John to hospital, Sherlock may as well have signed the death certificate himself. There was no cure for what Jenn had done, not here. She had the only antidote and it was missing along with her.
Sherlock curled his hands into fist, evidence of a resolved drive for finding this woman and making sure she never saw the light of day again … Lestrade would probably prefer Sherlock did this in the legal manner (i.e. a jail cell) but Sherlock was tempted to ensure that she never saw anything but the inside of a casket.
"Mr. Holmes?"
Someone was talking to him and Sherlock drew himself out of his mind palace. He was still in the hospital corridor and Dr. Williams was standing in front of him.
"Mr. Holmes, are you alright?"
"What? Yes, fine. Of course I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be fine?"
Dr. Williams frowned slightly.
"Why don't you sit down?" he suggested. "Carol, can you get him some water?" he asked a passing nurse. The nurse glanced at Sherlock and nodded. Sherlock watched her walk away before turning back to Dr. Williams.
"I don't want water; I don't want to sit down. I'm fine."
"I would like to discuss Dr. Watson's treatment with you," Dr. Williams protested. "As his power of attorney, you are now the one making all medical decisions for him."
"Power of attorney?" Sherlock repeated. "What are you talking about? John is dead, he doesn't require anymore treatment."
Dr. Williams looked surprised.
"No, Mr. Holmes," he said. "We were able to revive Dr. Watson. He's now on a ventilator."
Well. That was unexpected.
Sherlock turned away from the doctor and strode into John's room, where a nurse was just finishing cleaning him up. Sure enough, a tube was extending from John's mouth and was taped in place. Sherlock's eyes found John's chest moving up and down rhythmically.
"He was dead." Sherlock murmured.
"He was very close to death." Dr. Williams corrected, coming up behind Sherlock. "But he was lucky."
Sherlock snorted. How was being in hospital on a ventilator lucky? He didn't understand.
"Mr. Holmes," Dr. Williams said. "We need to discuss his treatment."
Sherlock's eyes snapped towards Dr. Williams.
"Keep him alive."
Dr. Williams sighed.
"Yes," he said. "But we are quickly running out of options to treat Dr. Watson. If he stands any chance at recovery, he needs an antidote."
"You worry about keeping him alive," Sherlock said. "And I'll worry about getting the antidote."
"But we need to discuss options if – "
"That will do, Doctor." Sherlock said, his eyes back to watching John.
Dr. Williams sighed and nodded, although Sherlock wasn't looking at him.
"Doctor, I have the water you asked for," Carol said from the doorway. Dr. Williams shook his head.
"We won't be needing it," he said, ushering her away, but whispering, "Keep an eye on him."
Carol nodded and glanced back at Sherlock and John.
Once Sherlock was sure they were gone, he sank into the visitor's chair, his eyes never once leaving John's chest.
John was alive.
For now.
Death was still imminent and unlike past cases, Sherlock cared about the possibility of death in this one.
"Where would she go?" Sherlock asked John. He still preferred to talk about his cases and John rarely provided useful commentary anyways. Sure, there were times, but they were rare.
"Expelled from her programme, told she couldn't do what she thought she was born to do."
Yes, that all made sense but it didn't tell him where she was now.
"She left the flat in a hurry but she doesn't have any other property listed in her name. Friend's flat?"
No … how many friends could she have? A woman with her history would be incredibly introverted except when she needed to fulfill her fantasy.
"Family?"
None alive … she was an only child and her parents died in an automobile accident when she was sixteen.
Jenn had left her flat suddenly and with purpose. She had somewhere specific to go otherwise she wouldn't have left.
Where, where, where?!
Sherlock glanced up at John's monitor, seeing the steady pulsing of his heart rate. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed.
John was alive.
So were the other men Jenn had drugged.
She never intended to kill them.
She wanted to keep them alive.
Her fantasies were dependent on keeping them alive, making them better. She drugged them with what was proving to be a lethal strain of influenza and yet she never let them die. She always administered an antidote before they could die.
The craving for 'the return of the day', which the sick so constantly evince, is generally nothing but the desire for light
The quote inscribed in the entryway of the nursing building at King's College London flashed to Sherlock's mind. Jenn wanted to be seen as the angel of mercy, the modern lady with the lamp, who eased suffering of her patients and scared away the prospect of death. She wanted to be the one to preserve life. When she was expelled, she lost the ability to be the light Florence Nightingale insisted every nurse was in a sickroom.
Unable to cope, Jenn had made her own way to continue what she was convinced she was born to do.
It all made sense.
Injecting the drug, the nursing process, and administering the antidote at just the right moment to save her patient.
Where?
The question was still whispering itself in Sherlock's mind.
Only this time, he had an answer.
Jenn hadn't wanted anything but to prove herself and her nursing abilities. She had no other purpose and now that was being taken away from her for a second time. She knew that once she was caught, she would face a very long jail sentence. Sherlock knew she wouldn't – couldn't – accept that.
She would go back to where it all started and there she would end it.
Just as a side note, it was pointed out to me that chemical engineering is the wrong degree to do genetic manipulation and it's true. I have no idea why I didn't check into that BEFORE but I didn't and it's completely wrong … however, the beauty of writing is that I get to correct myself in future chapters so yes, it's wrong, but an explanation will come =)
Reviews are always welcomed and appreciated! Thank you!