Sorry this took such a long time to publish – ideas playing hard to get! Thank you everyone who has read, followed, favourite and reviewed so far…thank you for sticking with me! Please continue to review as it means a lot to me.
No violence in this chapter, just a warning not to read while eating (it will become obvious).
MLC – they are in here….
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, John et al – that privilege belongs to ACD, Moffat and Gatiss
Sitting in the passenger seat of Lestrades car Sherlock was quietly seething. He wasn't sure what pained him more – his face, his stomach or the fact that he was completely in the dark about this mystery.
"Are you listening to me?" Greg new better than to ask if the younger man was alright even if it was obvious he wasn't.
Sherlock frowned, and then winced as it pulled the cut on his forehead and the swollen skin around his eye.
"This isn't the way to Bart's."
"No. Maybe now you might try listening to me. They took John to Tommy's, so I'm taking you there. Once we get you sorted out we can see how John's getting on."
"No we'll see John first."
"'Fraid not Sherlock, and you can't bully your way around this one. You try to force your way in and their security will throw you out – not even I can get you back in if that happens." He glanced in the direction of his passenger and saw him shrug deeper into his coat and slide slightly lower in his seat. "I mean it, whatever you are planning – don't! I'll bloody arrest you myself if I have to."
Sherlock folded his arms over his chest and turned to squint out of the window. Greg laughed.
"It's hard to be huffy when your face is in that much of a mess isn't it!" he chuckled.
As the car pulled into the Police bay outside the Accident and Emergency department Sherlock already had the door open and was reaching to undo his seatbelt when he realised there was someone standing beside him. He looked up, straight into the smirking face of Sally Donovan.
"I've been told I can arrest you if you don't go straight into A&E!" she said gleefully.
"Try it!" he growled attempting to step round her. She grasped his arm and surprise stopped him dead. He looked pointedly at her hand.
"He's in a bad way Sherlock." Sally's voice was serious now, her eyes searching his face trying to read his reaction. "They don't know how long he's been unconscious, he's covered in bruises and there is a possibility of internal injuries. Those bruises definitely look like boot marks" her last sentence was directed at her boss.
Greg looked more weary than surprised as he escorted Sherlock inside. Thankfully when he had called ahead Sally had had the forethought to advise the duty doctor, and they were escorted straight to a cubicle. A young nurse came in to take details, and Greg's expression reminded Sherlock that the only way he would get to see how John was faring was to cooperate fully. He refused however to remove his jacket and shirt until Sergeant Donovan left. With her smirk firmly back in place she went to see if there was any news.
A harassed and overworked doctor pushed through the curtains, a clipboard in hand and more than half his concentration on the paperwork. He peered at the man lying on the examination table then looked across at Lestrade.
"This is the second patient I've seen today who's been beaten up…."
"You treated John?" Sherlock sat up suddenly, making himself dizzy in the process but determined to interrogate the doctor.
The doctor frowned. "You know Mr Watson?"
"Doctor Watson." The two detectives spoke in unison.
"Oh." The doctor glanced from one to the other. "Are these attacks linked?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but Greg held a hand up to silence him – and was as surprised as the young man himself that it had the desired effect!
"Doctor, at the moment I'm more concerned about that – " he pointed at the spreading area of bruising on Sherlocks abdomen " – although he'd never admit it this injury has been causing him pain all the way here."
Looking down, the doctor gave his full attention to his patient, his fingers gently palpating the area. Hissing with pain it was all Sherlock could do to keep himself from scooting sideways away from those intrusive digits. The doctor tutted and pushed slightly harder around the edges where purple flesh met alabaster, pausing to make notes then pushing again.
"I don't think there's internal damage, just severe bruising, but to be on the safe side I'm sending you for a scan, that should prove it one way or the other." Pulling a small pen torch from his breast pocket he shined it first in Sherlock's open eye, and then attempted the same with the swollen one, carefully holding the puffy lid out of the way. "No obvious signs of concussion, pupils reacting normally," he spoke to himself as he added to his notes. His hands moved next to push at his patients' bloodied nose.
Although it was sore Sherlock gritted his teeth, determined not to let him know how much it hurt, and tried to glare. He failed miserably – it was hard to glare effectively with only one visible eye.
The doctor looked down at him and smiled benignly. "You'll be pleased to know that your nose isn't broken – although it may feel like it at the moment. We'll get you cleaned up in a minute, I'd advise against trying to sniff or blow your nose for a couple of days, just give the blood vessels a chance to heal. Now, I'll ask again, are these beating related?"
Greg pulled out his warrant card and showed the doctor. "We have it in hand; if you give your report to my Sergeant we'll take it from here."
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
John knew he was speaking, he just didn't know what he was saying! His eyes cracked open slightly and he peered up at the two nurses by his bedside. They frowned at him simultaneously and for one horrible moment he was sure they were going to beat him up with their eyebrows. He closed his eyes again, he bloody hated concussion! It was going to be a while before the confusion disappeared and rational thought returned.
Licking his lips he tried again. "Water?"
A giggle somewhere off to his left caught his attention.
"Is that what you were trying to say just now?" the voice sounded very young, and John wondered if he was dreaming. Then he wondered if he should try again, but decided it was too much effort.
"Here you are Mr Watson." It was that young voice again, and this time it was accompanied by a straw being pushed into the corner of his mouth. Instinctively he sucked and was rewarded with cool refreshing water. Too soon it was taken away from him, but the voice was back again. "Not too much now, you need to pace yourself."
"It's not K" Realisation dawned and his eyes opened suddenly only to screw up against the dizziness that assailed him. The owner of the voice was standing close beside his bed now and his hand shot out to grab her arm.
"No," she said gently "I'm not Kay. Is that your wife?"
"Sick!"
"Kay is sick?" she sounded confused now.
"What? No!" his other hand scrabbled at the covers as he tried to pull himself up and out of bed. Suddenly the spinning stopped but it was too late, he could taste the bile at the back of his throat. Projectile vomit flew across the room and John felt as if he was being ripped apart as his cracked rib protested while his body went into spasm and his stomach heaved again. At the third attempt he was completely empty – there was nothing left to bring up. He flopped back heavily against the pillows, sweating and trying to catch his breath. His hand was still around the nurse's arm. Taking care not to hurt him she prised his fingers away and started to peel the soiled covers off the bed.
Lifting his hand to cover his face John just lay there mortified. "I am so sorry!" he said, trying to ignore the acid burn in his throat, "Please, I'm so sorry!"
She stopped what she was doing and moved his hand away from his face, wrapping her fingers around his and patting the back of his hand with her free one.
"Now Mr Watson, John, it's not your fault. You have concussion. Sickness is quite a common after- effect of a blow to the head such as you have had." She pushed his hair from his forehead, and as he opened his eyes she smiled down at him. "Now you just relax there, and we'll get you cleaned up, then we'll find out if anyone has contacted your wife."
"Wife?" all John's strength had left him, and he could barely concentrate.
"Your girlfriend then?"
But John no longer heard her, his eyes had closed and he had drifted, not into a peaceful sleep, more a lapse of consciousness. Working quickly the nurse with the nice voice and her silent companion carefully stripped John and the bed, changing both and dumping the soiled linen into a trolley.
A cleaner arrived to take care of the mess on the floor as they wheeled the trolley out of the room. Sherlock and Lestrade, walking slowly (in deference to Sherlocks badly bruised abdomen) towards them slowed further and stood to one side to let them through.
"We're looking for room 17." Lestrade said as the two women drew level with them.
"Oh, you are friends of Mr Watson?"
Sherlock closed his eyes and bit down a pithy comment, he was still mindful of the Detective Inspector's threat. Greg's lips twitched.
"Actually he's a doctor – Doctor Watson."
"Do you know his wife? Or is it his girlfriend? He's been asking for her."
"Er….no wife." Greg looked mystified, turning to Sherlock.
"No girlfriend either." Sherlock eyed the foul smelling linen basket with distaste. The nurse following his gaze grimaced apologetically.
"I'm afraid Mr….I mean, Doctor Watson was quite poorly. The cleaner is just making the room presentable now." She pointed over her shoulder to room 17 before looking up at the man before her. "Are you Kay?"
"Do I look like a Kay?" this time he didn't suppress the impatient edge to his tongue "John doesn't have a wife or a girlfriend at present and no, we are most decidedly not a couple!"
Greg sniggered; he was far more used to those words coming from John's mouth. Sherlock glared.
"Who exactly did he ask for?"
Sliding the trolley towards her colleague and motioning her to continue down the corridor the young nurse thought for a moment, then her eyes widened as she remembered exactly what she had heard.
"Of course. He didn't say you're not Kay, he said it's not Kay. I suppose that makes a difference."
"Of course it does!" despite his sore stomach he swept past and hurried towards the room, almost tripping over the cleaner as she left.
John's room smelled quite strongly of disinfectant. By the time Greg had caught up with him Sherlock was standing by John's bedside looking down at the pale figure lying so still on the freshly made bed.
"John?" Sherlock made absolutely no concessions to the fact that John was apparently lying unconscious, he gave no indications of the concern he felt. "John!"
"Leave him Sherlock."
"No." it was faint, but unmistakably John's voice. "Is okay."
"Who did it John?" Sherlock leaned closer to hear the reply, but instead John's eyes flickered open and they stared up into the younger man's face.
"Jesus Sherlock, you look rough! You alright?"
"Ever the doctor eh John?"
"Didn't answer my question though, did you?" His voice was still rough, his throat dry and burned from vomiting. "Drink?"
Greg, coming to stand on the other side of the bed found the glass with the straw. He picked it up and offered it to the man in the bed.
"Here" he said, putting the straw to John's lips.
Drinking more slowly this time he let his eyes wander around the room, and when he was finished he tried to push himself more upright in the bed. Seeing him struggle Greg quickly replaced the glass on the bedside table and eased him forwards, motioning to Sherlock to prop the pillows behind him. As he did so he noticed the multitude of bruises on his back displayed through the open back of the hospital gown.
With a grateful smile the patient settled back and eyed his flatmate's bruised and swollen face. "So what happened?"
"Disagreement with your friend the boxer – you?"
"Some of his friends I think, four of them."
Sherlock picked up the clipboard that hung on the end of John's bed and stared at it. "How on earth are you supposed to understand what's written here, it's barely legible."
"You're not!" John replied, holding his hand out to take the board and sheets from him. Scanning the sheets he whistled through his teeth. "Bloody hell" I've just cost the NHS a small fortune – MRI scans, blood tests, liver and renal function tests – and all fast tracked." He looked up at his friends "someone was worried…." His attention returned to the charts. "Says here I was out cold when they brought me in and I remained unconscious for more than an hour – not good then. They'll probably want to keep me in overnight."
"At the very least." Sally Donovan stood in the doorway and looked at John "At least they left your face alone."
"Yeah but they tried to kick my head in and stomped all over my back by the feel of it – not sure I actually came off better here." He flicked a glance back at Sherlock. "Also not sure I've been told the whole story with our resident genius….?"
"Bruised abdomen – also required a very expensive MRI scan…" Greg filled in the gaps.
"Figures."
Sally cleared her throat and looked at Lestrade. "Do you need me here ?"
"Got a date?" Sherlock sneered
"No, actually I've got better things to do than look after you children!"
"No, you can go" Greg stepped in before the insults got out of hand.
Sherlock had already turned his back on her and was looking at with interest at the wall above the head of Johns' bed. He stayed like that until he heard the door close then flopped into the uncomfortable chair beside the bed.
"What did you remember?"
Blue eyes met grey.
"Who says I remembered anything?"
"The nurse, that's who." Greg leaned against the bed. "She thought you were asking for your wife or girlfriend." He chuckled. "then she thought lanky here was Kay!"
"Kay? Who's Kay?"
"Shut up Lestrade!" ignoring the detectives guffaws Sherlock added "apparently you said 'it's not Kay'…"
"Oh…"
"Well?"
"Well what? So I said it's not Kay – who's Kay?"
"Had hoped you'd tell me that." Sherlock huffed. "Thought maybe you'd remembered who the K was that our rather persistent burglars are looking for."
"Ah, that K. No I…. actually….um…..look, this probably sounds silly, but maybe the name just sounds like it begins with a K?"
"You mean it could…"
"I don't really know what I mean at the moment." John sighed tiredly. "Just, well, I woke up thinking it might not be that straightforward."
"But that still doesn't explain why I can't remember a criminal we've presumably helped put away, or chased out of the country, whose name sounds like it begins with K!" Frustration coloured Sherlocks words.
"Maybe you forgot?" Lestrade offered.
"What, me? Forget? I don't forget anything, I simply delete unimportant….." he stopped suddenly and looked at John. "That's what I've done, I've deleted it! It must have been a case of little importance."
"But you won't take unimportant cases." Lestrade frowned.
"He will if he gets really bored."
"John you're brilliant. Lestrade I need you to get me home now! John I need you out of here tomorrow morning!"
"Yes, but…."
"I don't know if they'll….."
"John, they must let you out! You know how lost I am without my blogger!"
A/N: St Thomas's Hospital is generally known as Tommy's to most people that work in or have contact with it on a day to day basis, which Scotland Yard would do.