{Oh wow, I definitely didn't expect to get so many reviews and favourite stories immediately! Haha, thank you guys. ;D Always a lovely surprise!}
John Watson became somewhat of a regular fixture in the neurology ward over the next week. There was something nostalgic about wandering, however slowly, through sanitised halls with buffed floors- and it gave him something to do and think about in his spare time.
He had needed it.
Dr. Stein always seemed pleasantly surprised to see him returning, but he supposed he couldn't blame her. Back at his old surgery, he would have been slightly pessimistic about volunteers too, especially if they had been asked to spend time with the comatose patients- but something kept drawing him back.
And he was fairly sure that it wasn't Ms. Monroe or Mr. Howell.
"I heard about a robbery on the news this morning- one of the older banks in Central London. The vault was locked from the inside when they got to it- two guards dead, nothing on the cameras. The inspector looked as if he'd been smacked in the jaw when he had to announce to the Daily Mail that there weren't any leads."
John spent the most time with Mr. Holmes. He kept telling himself that Holmes' room smelled the least, that he probably would have more in common with a detective than a former home-maker or a builder (he was fully aware that he was flattering himself), that he probably needed more mental stimulation, but he knew, in his heart of hearts, the real reason behind it all.
"I believe they stole the equivalent of four million pounds in jewellery and valuables, all right from under their noses in the space of eight minutes."
If he hadn't woken up after his final, active day of service, he would have wanted somebody to sit next to him.
"Ah, here it is: 'The security was present and the cameras were functioning, but it almost seems as if the bank was struck by a phantom, rather than a man.'" John rustled the newspaper in his lap and turned the page. "I'm sorry that I didn't have enough for the Guardian today, money is..."
He went silent for a moment before giving a short, soft laugh.
"I picked up the Metro. You probably guessed that."
The Metro was the free daily paper that was given out on the underground to commuters. It had been hell to limp down the stairs and then back up without even taking the train anywhere, but he liked reading the news to them. He had decided that Ms. Monroe would like the eccentric articles, that Mr. Howell would prefer hearing about architecture and most sports and Mr. Holmes... Well, what Mr. Holmes would be interested in was obvious. Break-ins, murders, strange crimes... The only time he had stopped in the middle of an article was when the violence closely related Mr. Holmes' own case- some other poor fool had been brutalised with a pipe and then left to die on the streets. It was poorly written, he had told him.
John didn't talk much about himself after his first day of volunteering. If they could hear him, they wouldn't care. If they couldn't, he was simply repeating information that he already knew to the breathing equivalent of a cadaver- and he had managed to get that out of his system after his internship.
It wasn't important, really, but he still turned up on most days at about three pm with his cane, a thermos of tea and, as time dragged on and funds continued to deplete, copies of the Metro under one arm. He still went to see Ella every Thursday morning at eleven, but it felt impossible to find any purpose elsewhere. He volunteered, he lived off of his army pension, he scrounged around for copies of the newspaper when he couldn't afford them, which was more often than not, and he did a lot of staring at the blank layout of his blog.
Three and a half weeks in, he headed to Mr. Howell's room to find it empty. Dr. Stein was there with an extra cup of tea that he didn't necessarily need, but she still took the time to sit with him and discuss the details. He'd faded quickly. It hadn't been painful. He had been eighty-seven and his daughter, who was living overseas with her children and husband, wanted to pass on her thanks to John for his faithful attendance in James' final weeks. He would receive an invitation to the funeral, if he wanted to go.
He recognised most of what Dr. Stein told him from his own time as an active doctor, but he declined to comment in depth. He had been on her side of the fence at least a hundred times and even now, even without a strong reaction on his part, he knew that there was little to gain in being the bearer of unfortunate news. He did not envy her in the slightest.
She left him in his usual chair with a lukewarm cup of tea from the doctor's lounge and he sat there for a while, letting it go cold in his hands.
He had never had a conversation with Mr. Howell. He had not known his age. He had not known his story. He hadn't even known that he still had a family. In five minutes, he had drained a half inch from his cold mug.
The paper sat there on the bedside table where it belonged, but the sheets were pressed and folded. The window was open, presumably to carry the soft scent of death away with the draft. John knew it well enough from his experience in hospitals. Partly the smell of a feeding tube, partly the scent of a decayed apple. Sickly sweet. Enough to make one's stomach twist softly.
After ten minutes, he realised that he was not feeling the loss of the man himself.
He was feeling the loss of part of his routine.
John sat there alone for his usual twenty minutes, but the Metro, crinkled and with the muddy imprint of a boot across the front page, remained untouched.
He spent twenty minutes with Ms. Monroe and thirty five with Sherlock.
Then he headed home again.
