Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy

Part Three – Unfinished Business

Chapter Thirteen

Sherlock stood in the hospital room, over by the window, watching the nursing staff attend to Molly. She had been the centre of attention of several highly skilled health care professionals from the moment she had been placed under the tender mercies of the air ambulance crew, when it landed on the road outside the main gates to the container storage facility, after the Met Police blocked the traffic in both directions to clear a space.

The paramedics had kept her wrapped in Sherlock's coat, as it had already created a cocoon of warmth around her. They cut off the cable ties and applied temporary dressings to the wounds caused by the constant chaffing. They attached a heart monitor, to detect any sign of hypothermia-induced dysrhythmia, which could lead to cardiac arrest. They put a cannula into a vein on the back of her hand - with some difficulty, since her veins had collapsed due to the dehydration - and put up a warmed saline drip to assist rehydration.

Covered with survival blankets and zipped into an arctic sleeping bag, they laid Molly on a mountain rescue stretcher, before transferring her to the helicopter. Sherlock sat in the bucket seat and watched the paramedics secure the stretcher and then strap themselves in, as the chopper rose and sped away, tilting its nose towards the ground as it gained height and speed.

Less than ten minutes later, it landed on the helipad at the Royal London Hospital, at Whitechapel, where Molly was transferred to the care of the hospital trauma team, who whisked her away into the trauma department. Sherlock was allowed as far as the treatment room door but was then diverted into the family room, which is where John and Mycroft found him, when they arrived by car, almost an hour later.

John went off and cadged three mugs of tea from one of the nursing staff, Mycroft sat quietly in the family room, with his legs elegantly crossed and Sherlock paced restlessly up and down the corridor outside.

After what seemed an age to Sherlock, the trauma doctor came out of the treatment room and approached the three men. He greeted John warmly, recognising him from various seminars they had both attended on Trauma Medicine, shook hands with Mycroft and eyed Sherlock warily, as they all gathered round to hear what he had to say.

Sherlock's brain was whirring far too fast to take in everything the doctor said, most of which he dismissed as platitudes but, in essence, he gathered that Molly's condition was critical but stable. She had suffered extreme hypothermia and serious dehydration, both of which were potentially fatal. She was being treated with warmed, humidified oxygen and heated intravenous saline, was wrapped in warmed blankets and surrounded by heat lamps. She had not suffered cardiac or respiratory arrest but this had not been ruled out yet so she would require constant monitoring and intensive nursing, therefore she had been transferred to the ICU. In order to facilitate maximum healing potential, she had been placed in an induced coma for the time being.

John thanked his colleague for his time and efforts on Molly's behalf, then turned to his companions.

'There's nothing more to be done here tonight, guys. Can I suggest we all go home and try to get some sleep? We can all come back tomorrow.'

Mycroft nodded in agreement and prepared to leave but Sherlock said,

'No.'

'Sherlock, there's nothing to be gained by staying here. You have not slept properly for three nights, that I know of, and you won't be much use to her or William if you're suffering from sleep deprivation. Not even you can go this long without sleep and not suffer negative consequences,' John laid it on the line.

But Sherlock was not to be deterred.

'I'm not leaving, John. You should go and you, too, Mycroft. You both have work tomorrow. I'm staying here, as long as it takes.'

There was no reasoning with him so John asked one of the nursing staff to show him where Molly had been taken, then he and Mycroft left.

Sherlock sat in the easy chair, beside Molly's bed, silent and unmoving, except for his eyes, which either scanned the displays of the various pieces of machinery to which Molly was attached or focused on her face, which was mostly obscured by the oxygen mask, the dressing on her wounded brow and the thermal cap, designed to prevent heat loss through the scalp.

She looked unimaginably small and frail, lying in the bed, swaddled in thermal blankets, her hands and feet wrapped to provide extra insulation for her extremities, the infrared heat lamps giving the whole scene a rather misleading rosy hue. He had been given strict instructions not to make any loud or sudden noises as, in her fragile state even the slightest shock to her system could bring about a cardiac arrest. But he hardly needed telling. He already knew the score.

When the nurses came in, which they did at frequent intervals to check her vital signs and make various recordings or to replace the saline drip, Sherlock retreated to the far side of the room and stood by the window, keeping out of their way, neither speaking to nor making eye contact with any of them, his face a frozen mask. When they left the room, he returned to the chair and continued his silent vigil.

Around the nurses' station, apart from the progress of the patients themselves, he was the sole topic of conversation. They referred to him as 'The Avenging Angel', this intense and beautiful man. He was not like the usual concerned friend or relative. He never asked them how the patient was or any questions about her treatment. He sometimes looked at the chart to see what they had written, after they had left the room. He didn't move around, or doze in the chair. He just sat still and watched her.

They speculated about his relationship with the patient. She was 'Miss' Hooper, so she wasn't his wife. They wondered what she had that could attract and hold such a man and they wondered why they didn't seem to have it.

Eight hours after admission, the heat lamps were taken away and, over the next few hours, the thermal wrapping was reduced, to be replaced by standard hospital bed linen. John looked in around noon prior to going to work at St Mary's and obtained an update from the junior registrar on duty. He passed on the information to Sherlock.

'Her core temperature is back to normal but she's still rehydrating and the toxins that built up in her system due to the dehydration are still being flushed out. Ironically, the hypothermia probably prevented more damage from the dehydration as it slowed down all her bodily functions, a bit like hibernation. They don't think she will have any lasting nerve damage in her fingers or toes, We found her in time. Another few hours and it might have been a different story. They intend to keep her comatose for at least another day.'

Sherlock received this information without giving any sign that he was even listening, but John knew him well enough to know that he had not missed a single nuance or implication of the information he had imparted.

'Sherlock, why don't you go home? Take a shower, change your clothes, at least?'

Sherlock ignored him.

'Well, her mother and sister are on their way. Mycroft rang them. They caught the train this morning and he sent a car to meet them at the station. He's booked them into a hotel nearby for the duration of their stay, which is, at the moment, open-ended.'

This did elicit a reaction. Sherlock groaned inwardly at this news. He looked at John as though he had just admitted to a crime against humanity. He had no desire to be confronted by Molly's family members under these circumstances. Molly had told him about her mother's reaction to the news of her pregnancy. He had no desire to meet that person at all.

'What time are they expected?' he asked, abruptly.

'Any time now,' John replied.

Sherlock stood up, picked up his coat, which had been returned to him the night before, and left the room. As he strode down the ward, past the nurses' station, towards the exit, several pairs of eyes followed him, with looks of awe and wonder. On the street, outside the hospital, he was about to hail a cab when a black 'Mycroft' car pulled up right outside the main hospital entrance and disgorged two women, who both bore a passing resemblance to Molly. Sherlock turned and walked briskly away, in the opposite direction.

ooOoo

Back at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock took a hot shower, shaved and put on clean, fresh clothes. He made some tea and toast and rang Mrs Hudson, at Molly's flat, to find out how William was. Mrs Hudson assured him that William had slept well, right through until lunch time, that he had eaten a good lunch and seemed none the worse for his terrifying ordeal but was really missing his mum. Sherlock advised her that he was coming to see them, before returning to the hospital.

When he arrived at Molly's flat, William was quite subdued but glad to see him. Sherlock reminded him how clever he had been, to remember where Mummy was, and praised him for the brilliant clue – Mycroft Red. He cuddled William for about an hour, while he talked to Mrs Hudson about Molly's condition and treatment and arranged with her that she bring William to the hospital, the next morning, to see his mother. Then he took his leave to return to the hospital.

He was relieved to find, when he arrived back on the ICU, that Molly's mother and sister had left, about an hour earlier. Molly looked exactly as she had before he left. He checked the readings on her instruments, read the progress chart, and settled back into 'vigil mode' in the chair, drawn right up to the bed, now that the heat lamps had been removed.

Several years ago, whilst a student at Cambridge, he had mastered the techniques of power napping and micro sleeps. He could fall asleep for a few seconds, so short a time that no one would even notice, but by using this technique, he could sustain himself for prolonged periods of time without proper sleep. This technique had been employed on many an occasion since and was particularly useful in the present circumstance.

He passed the night, alternating between five minute power naps and much shorter micro sleeps, retreating to the window when the nurses came in to check on Molly's condition or administer treatments. His body and brain were tired but his mind would not let him rest. He felt so responsible for Molly's predicament. He had put her and William in danger. He could not allow himself to rest until that danger had passed and, at present, she was still listed as 'critical'. However, he was fast approaching his own limit of five consecutive sleepless nights.

Next morning, the nurses asked him to step outside the room whilst they gave Molly a blanket bath. It was whilst he was standing in the communal area that his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Mrs Hudson, texting to let him know she was just arriving at the hospital with William. He texted back for her to wait by the front entrance and he strode through the hospital corridors to meet them. William ran to him, as soon as he came into sight.

'Did they say it was alright to bring the baby into the hospital?' Mrs Hudson wondered.

'I didn't ask,' was Sherlock's terse reply.

They returned to the ICU, the tall, enigmatic man with the beautiful face, carrying the equally beautiful child, followed by the elderly lady who, despite her smaller stature, seemed to have no difficulty in keeping up with the long-striding man. As they reached the nurses' station, the ward sister was about to raise an objection to the presence of the child but immediately changed her mind, knowing that it would be a useless gesture.

Mr Hudson stopped at the station while Sherlock continued on, into Molly's room. She turned to the two nurses and the registrar, who were on duty at that time and asked,

'Has he had anything to eat or drink whilst he's been here?'

They all shook their heads.

'Typical,' she declared, 'so busy taking care of everyone else, he never thinks about himself. One of you kind ladies wouldn't mind making him a nice big mug of tea, would you?' she asked, smiling beguilingly. 'White, two sugars?'

ooOoo

When Sherlock brought William into his mother's hospital room, he was relieved to see that Molly no longer had an oxygen mask over her face. Instead, she had two tubes which delivered oxygen to just below her nostrils. This did not look nearly so scary. Sherlock stood by Molly's bed and explained to his son that his mummy was just asleep, that she needed to sleep to get better after being shut up in the container for such a long time.

He showed William the displays on the life signs monitor and explained to him that this one was Mummy's heart rate, this one her breathing rate, this one her blood pressure, pointing out the pieces of apparatus that collected the data and delivered it to the monitor machine. Then he sat on the chair, with William on his knee and let him hold Molly's hand, as it lay, inert, on the bed clothes.

When Mrs Hudson arrived with a large mug of steaming tea, she brought with her the story book that William had insisted on bringing to read to 'poorly Mummy'. It was his current favourite, 'Where the Wild Things Are', the one that had sustained him during his incarceration. Sherlock read the story, in between taking sips of tea, and William provided the sound effects, at the appropriate moments.

When it was time to leave, William said goodbye to Molly, and Sherlock held him up so that he could kiss her on the cheek and give her a gentle hug, then carried him back to the front entrance of the hospital and saw him and Mrs Hudson safely into a cab home, before returning to the ICU. As he passed the nurses' station, he paused and turned his dazzling gaze on the three ladies gathered there.

'Thank you for the tea. It was much appreciated,' he said, in his velvet baritone, then continued back to Molly's bed side. As he disappeared through the door to Molly's room, the ward sister turned to her colleagues.

'Oh, my God,' she gasped, 'I think he just reversed my menopause.'

ooOoo

Sherlock resumed his silent vigil beside Molly's bed. He watched her face, looking for some sign of returning consciousness. He had read in her notes that the medical team had started to decrease the amount of soporific she was receiving, over-night. As the level of medication in her blood stream reduced, she should begin to surface. So far, there was no evidence of this. So he sat and waited, patiently, willing her to respond to his thought waves, if only that were possible.

He suddenly became aware of a noise outside Molly's room and then the door was pushed open and two women entered. Sherlock jumped to his feet and the two women stopped in their tracks. They all stared at one another. Then John Watson appeared behind the women and smiled at him.

'Ah, Sherlock,' he said, genially, 'this is Molly's mum and her sister…'

'I know who they are,' replied Sherlock, abruptly, picked up his coat and, brushing past the startled women, disappeared through the door.

'How rude!' exclaimed Mrs Hooper, as she watched Sherlock's retreating back. 'Who on earth was that?'

'That,' John explained, 'was William's father.'

'Oh, so he's back on the scene, is he? Has he finally decided to take some responsibility for his actions rather than leaving it to his brother to do the decent thing?' Molly's mother scoffed.

John felt rather indignant on his friend's behalf.

'Sherlock has been back in the country for a few months and has been seeing William regularly during that time,' he declared.

'Seeing William? And what about Molly? What has he been doing about her?' Mrs Hooper persisted.

'Molly and Sherlock are friends. They are sharing William's parenting,' John replied, wondering why he felt he had to placate this woman. But then, she was William's grandmother so, he thought, she probably had a right to know the state of play and Molly clearly had not kept her up to date.

'But is his brother still paying the bills?' Mrs Hooper asked, with an affronted look.

'The financial support that Mycroft put in place for William, as well as the purchase of the flat they live in, came from family resources, so it is just as much Sherlock's money as it is Mycroft's', John explained, beginning to feel annoyed with this woman.

'Family resources?' she asked, 'What, you mean like the Mafia?'

'Close enough,' John replied and walked over to the bed to review Molly's chart.

ooOoo

Sherlock caught a cab back to Baker Street and dived straight in the shower. He was privately quite grateful for the presence of Molly's relatives at her bedside, as it gave him a legitimate excuse to take a break. He was desperate for sleep. Coming out of the shower, wrapped only in a towel, he set the alarm on his iPhone for four in the afternoon and lay down on top of his bed. He was asleep almost instantly.

The loud, persistent sound of the alarm eventually penetrated his dreams and he rolled over, groaning and rubbing his eyes. He was cold now, having managed to shed the towel in his sleep, so he was lying naked on top of the duvet. He sat up, reached out for his dressing gown and slipped it on, as he walked from the bedroom into the kitchen.

Mrs Hudson had obviously been back to Baker Street since yesterday and had left some sandwiches, wrapped in cling film, in the fridge, with a note which read 'Eat me!' He made a strong pot of coffee and ate the sandwiches, gratefully. Then he shaved, dressed and left, once more, for the hospital.

He arrived back in Molly's room to find the consultant and his entourage holding court. He walked around to the far side of Molly's bed, removing his coat and scarf, and gave the doctor an enquiring look.

'Ah, Mr…'

'Holmes.'

'Mr Holmes, we believe that Miss Hooper may be regaining consciousness. Her vital signs would certainly indicate this but she might benefit from a little verbal encouragement.'

'By that, I assume that you mean I should talk to her?' Sherlock replied.

'Quite so,' replied the consultant, clearly comfortable in the role of the stereo-typical senior doctor.

Sherlock sat in the chair, took Molly's hand in his and placed his free hand, gently, on top of her head, stroking her temple with his thumb.

'Molly,' said the doctor, before Sherlock could speak. 'Miss Hooper, open your eyes.'

Molly was in a strange place. She had no idea how she got there and she didn't know how long she had been there but she was trying to find her way out. Unfortunately, she seemed to always finish up exactly where she started. This was a weird world, made of nebulous wisps of cloud or white mist, that shifted and moved about, making it difficult to tell where you had been or where you were going. She heard a voice, calling her name. It was not a voice she recognised.

Who are you? she wondered. I don't know you. Go away.

She was looking for someone in particular. She was not sure who that person was but she thought she would recognise them when she saw them, or maybe heard them.

'Molly, open your eyes.'

That was the voice she was searching for! She moved towards that voice and tried to open her eyes but the light was so bright, she could not persuade her lids to open.

'Turn off the lights and close the blinds,' Sherlock ordered.

The nurse jumped to it. This man was not the sort that you asked to say 'please'. She drew the blinds, whilst the junior registrar turned the dimmer switch on the wall to lower the lights to a dull glow.

'Open your eyes, Molly Hooper,' said Sherlock, softly, right next to her ear. She turned her head slightly towards him and her eye lids fluttered open. He smiled at her and said,

'Awake, at last.'

She tried to speak but her voice came out as a dry croak. Sherlock reached for the glass of water that had been placed on the bedside cabinet, with a straw protruding from it. He placed the straw between her lips and she gave him a puzzled look.

'You have to suck,' he whispered.

So she did. The water which entered her mouth and slid so sweetly down her throat was the coolest, most delicious thing she had ever tasted. She sucked again and a third time then let the straw slip from her lips. Her eyes glazed over and her lids closed again. Sherlock looked at the consultant.

'That's a good start,' the man said, reassuringly. 'It may take a while but I think she is coming back to us.'

The registrar scribbled some notes on Molly's chart then the medical circus moved on to its next pitch, leaving Sherlock and Molly alone. He replaced the glass of water on the cabinet and he stroked her cheek.

'Come back to us, Molly Hooper,' he whispered. She made no response.

ooOoo

Molly opened her eyes. She was in a room that she did not recognise. There was some sort of machinery over to her right that emitted a regular beeping noise, which she found rather annoying. She could feel something next to her left hand, where it lay at her side, on top of the bed clothes. She moved her fingers. It felt like hair but it wasn't William's hair. His was soft and downy. This hair was more wiry, thicker and longer.

She ran her fingers through the hair and tried to raise her head to see what it was that she was touching. But her head felt heavy and she could not lift it up. However, her movements had disturbed whatever it was that was lying next to her hand because it moved. Sherlock opened his eyes and moved his head. It was lying, on the bed, next to Molly's hand.

He must have fallen asleep, overcome by exhaustion. That four hour nap he had taken in the afternoon had clearly only skimmed the surface of his need for sleep. He felt Molly's fingers combing through his hair and lifted his head, turning to look into her open eyes, which registered recognition and she gave a weak smile.

'Sherlock,' she croaked. He sat up and reached for the water. She moved her hand and croaked again,

'Sit me up, please.'

He looked around for the control device that adjusted the bed, studied the display for a micro-second and pressed the appropriate button. The top third of the bed began to rise slowly. He let it to come up about six inches then stopped it.

'OK?' he asked.

Molly nodded. He put down the control box and took up the water again, offering her the straw, as before. She took a few grateful sips, then asked,

'Where's William? Is he safe?' suddenly concerned.

'He's absolutely fine,' Sherlock reassured her. 'Mrs Hudson's taking care of him. He came to see you this morning.'

'I knew you'd find us,' she breathed.

'No, I didn't find you. I didn't have a clue where you were. William led us almost right to you. He was amazing,' he said, proudly.

'He did? He's so clever. Just like his dad,' she sighed, groggily. Suddenly, her face crumpled.

'I'm so sorry, Sherlock,' she sobbed.

'You are sorry?' he exclaimed. 'What on earth for?'

'I should never have let her in. I was so stupid. How could I have been so gullible? After everything Mycroft has done to keep us safe….' she shook her head, with self-condemnation.

Sherlock held her hand and brushed away the sudden tears with his thumb.

'Don't blame yourself, Molly. The only person to blame for this is that woman. You were just being your kind, caring, considerate self and I wouldn't want you to be any other way,' he soothed.

'Let me tell the staff that you're awake,' he added and reached for the call bell to summon a nurse. 'Don't you go anywhere,' he reminded her, as her eyes began to lose focus and her eyelids to close again.

ooOoo