Chapter 11
Lestrade marched down the dull corridors and entered room 14C. The red-headed nurse that was waiting for him sighed and left the room. The Detective Inspector turned to face the bed closest to him and frowned. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the bed, fully clothed and looking better than when Greg had seen him last.
It had been nearly three months since the pair were hospitalised, and the doctors were extremely surprised with how well Sherlock was healing, much faster than what was considered average. John was still in a very bad way. Some of his bruises had gone down, and the charred flesh in his face was completely healed. All of the minor cuts and gashes had healed well. That was the extent of his curing though. Over the last two months, he had been newly diagnosed with serious bleach poisoning, and had required multiple blood transfusions to try and treat the illness. Sherlock was in a terrible way during those weeks. He wouldn't eat or sleep or talk to anybody that wasn't Karen Archer or John himself.
Greg tutted loudly and approached the sulking detective. "You have to go home Sherlock. You're well enough. John will be fine, you can come up and visit him," he lectured.
Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. "I don't have to go anywhere!" he spat, curling himself up tighter. The wound in his hip pinched a little, but Sherlock was so very used to it. In reality, he knew he needed to go home and give up his bed for somebody who was much sicker than he was.
Greg huffed and sat down on the end of the bed. "Sherlock," he began is his almost fatherly stop-being-so-immature voice that he used so often when talking to Sherlock. He was cut off but a quick burst of baritone.
"Phone," Sherlock demanded. He held out his hand and Greg handed over his phone with a raised eyebrow. "I want John in his own room if I must be discharged," the detective stated bluntly. Greg rolled his eyes.
Sherlock stopped typing for a second and raised his own eyebrow at Greg, who responded with a confused "what?"
"You have Mycroft in your recently used contacts. Why?" The tall man questioned.
"I've had all calls for you redirected to my phone, and he's been trying to ring you every few weeks," Lestrade explained. Sherlock raised his eyebrow a little further, and then looked back at the phone, typing away.
"He's probably trying to get me to talk to Mummy. There's no doubt she's heard," Sherlock deduced absentmindedly. Handing back the phone, he stood from the bed and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. Somehow, he still looked just as elegant as always. Both of them looked at John, and Lestrade cleared his throat.
"I'll fill out the paperwork, if you want to, err, say goodbye?" he offered, and walked out of the room. Sherlock walked over and rested his hand on John's. He whispered goodbye and promised to visit as often as he possibly could. Leaning in, he gave the sleeping man a quick and gentle kiss on the forehead. He turned and walked out of the room to sign his remaining paperwork. Lestrade and Sherlock walked out to the front of the hospital where a car was waiting.
The ride to Baker Street was done in silence. Neither of the men had much to say, if anything at all. Greg took the opportunity to pull out his phone and send a few messages. Curiosity got the better of him and he opened up the message that Sherlock had sent to Mycroft.
'Have John moved to his own room. Put him in full care of Nurse Archer. Have her properly paid. Tell Mummy I am fine. Please stop bothering my friend. –SH'
Greg read through the message twice. He didn't know whether or not the last part of the message was sarcastic or not.
"I meant it," Sherlock broke the silence. Greg blinked a few times.
Sherlock sighed. "Thank you," he confidently said. Greg was a bit speechless, but did his best not to show it.
"Ah, you're welcome," he said, confused. Sherlock knew he would read the message. The car stopped and the two men got out. Lestrade had parked his own car in front of the Café, and gave Sherlock a curt nod goodbye before getting in and driving off. The Consulting Detective turned to face the driver of the private car.
"What has Mycroft got you doing for the rest of today?" he questioned in his deep, authorative voice.
"Anything you ask of me, sir," the man replied with absolute courtesy. Sherlock smiled.
"Come back in an hour, I don't care what you do before then," Sherlock turned and walked up to the flat.
Nothing had changed since he bolted out of the door nearly three months ago. He didn't bother being sentimental about it. There was a slightly foul stench coming from the kitchen, but Sherlock couldn't care less for it. The laptop had long since died, and there was still a syringe sitting on the table beside a stack of letters. Sherlock picked up the stack and flicked through the letters. With a heavy sigh, he threw them in the dustbin. Swiftly, he strode into his bedroom and started packing a suitcase with three days' worth of clothing and toiletries.
As a last minute decision, he walked up to John's bedroom and opened his drawer. A number of neatly folded jumpers sat untouched in the wooden case, and Sherlock picked out one that he thought John wouldn't miss too much. It was a navy blue and black striped piece, which was obviously much too big for John. Sherlock wondered why he'd kept it, but figured it was probably sentiment. He folded it back up and walked downstairs, placing the soft article into his suitcase. He reached to grab his coat from the sofa, but realised it had most likely not been washed, and he would have to cope without it, just like he would have to cope without John for a while. After grabbing the last of his essentials, he made his way down to the front door, where he saw the car waiting for him. The driver placed the suitcase in the boot and returned to the driver's seat.
"I hope you don't mind, but we have a long drive ahead of us," Sherlock informed, handing a small card over to the young man, who took one look at the card and nodded.
Sherlock suddenly felt a wash of fatigue fall over him, and figured that it wouldn't do that much harm to close his eyes and drift off to sleep for a while.
"Mister Holmes, we're here," the driver said loudly, waking the detective from his slumber. Sherlock stepped out of the car and retrieved his suitcase. He thanked the driver, and walked through the large gates. A man and a woman stood waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Sherlock walked right up, let go of his suitcase and took the woman's hand.
"Hello, Mummy".