.
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He was walking down a corridor, when he heard someone crying.
Back then his ears heard better.
Old age does things to a man.
He had followed the sound, and soon saw its source: a young woman was hiding in a closet, weeping softly.
A medical student.
As soon as she saw she'd been discovered, she wiped the tears away and tried to come up with an excuse. He should mind his business, really, she was in a closet for a reason...
But then, he was always meddling.
"Can I help you, dear?" He asked. "What's wrong?"
"Oh, nothing." She replied, attempting a smile. "I just...Need to get used to things."
He frowned. "What things?"
She twisted a tissue in her hands, nervously. "A little girl. They operated on her today..." Fresh tears welled up in her eyes, and no more needed to be said.
He stood still for a moment, nodded respectfully and stepped aside, encouraging her to walk out of the closet.
"Some say that, don't they? ' You'll get the hang of it. It's part of the job. Toughen up.'" He shook his head. "The kind of doctors that do 'get used to it' are impoverished: a part of their humanity is lost. They are the ones who see purses instead of patients...So I would kindly ask you to NOT get used to it.
Please, never get used to it."
He smiled, offering her a cup of water from the cooler.
She thanked him and took a sip. Holding the cup with both hands, she looked into the water as she asked: "But how do you cope?"
"Some find a hobby, some meditate, others pray..."
"What about you?"
"I used to pray." He turned to look out of the window. "But so rarely were my prayers answered, I realised I had to stop, else I would go mad."
He crossed his hands behind his back, eyes turned to the night sky to admire the stars. "I guess that I just couldn't accept a Divine Plan that involved the Death of children...And if it exists, I don't think I could ever understand it." His eyes grew distant for a moment. Then, he turned to her, smiling.
"So I decided to stick to what I know: when I am scared, in despair, or lost, I simply recite the Hippocratic oath. It reminds me of who I am, what I am, and why. Everything else seems less...Frightening."
She smiled back at him. She was calmer now, good. He laughed.
"You should ignore the ramblings of a silly doctor like myself, though. You just try to be happy, and find someone you can go to: nobody should have to cry in a closet." He stepped away from the window. "Now please forgive me, I believe I am late, yet again, for an appointment. After all these years, punctuality still eludes me." He grinned.
"Thank you..." She began.
"Doctor Paten." He extended his hand, and she took it.
"Thank you, Doctor Paten. I'm Molly Hooper."
"Nice to meet you, Molly Hooper. Welcome to Barts."
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When did she say that?" The consulting detective's voice rang sharply on the phone. "The assistant didn't even know I wanted it before a few moments ago."
"That's not possible. She's here with me now."
"Get out of there." Sherlock's voice was urgent. "Get out. Run!"
The phone call was interrupted.
Doctor Paten stood very still. his eyes focused on the woman who now held his phone in her hand.
He was an ageing man, she was, apparently, a skilled assassin.
He smiled sadly.
I'm not going to survive this, am I?
"I hope you will forgive me." He spoke, nodding respectfully. "If I do not surrender easily. I plan to fight for my life."
.
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"Doctor! Doctor Paten!" Sherlock cried into the phone. It had gone dead. "The killer is with him." He muttered as he sprang to his feet and began to run to the hospital, John and Banlieu close behind.
"No!" Molly cried, desperately trying to keep up with them.
Her high heels were left, abandoned, in the Street.
She didn't even notice.
No.
Molly couldn't formulate other thoughts.
Banlieu was barking orders into his phone.
John was holding her hand as they raced in the taxi.
No.
Sherlock was shouting something at the taxi driver.
No...
Please. No.
They ran to Hotel-Dieu, the sound of police sirens approaching loudly.
Nobody seemed to know where the doctor was.
Sherlock looked around frantically. His eyes fell on Molly for a moment, then he looked away and closed them.
He took a deep breath.
His eyes flashed open and he was running again, headed to a rarely frequented area of the Hospital: an entrance in rue de Lutèce, currently obscured as it was under maintenance.
Panting and dishevelled, they looked around.
Suddenly, from the right, they heard a noise and turned.
Doctor Paten walked towards them. He was leaning against the wall, head lowered.
He looked up, and saw Molly. He smiled and waved.
Then he collapsed.
Banlieu and Sherlock raced to try and catch the killer, Molly flew to the doctor's side. John called for help from the hospital as she inspected her mentor.
"It's all right, Doctor Paten." She whispered. "I'm here. I'm here."
She opened his shirt to inspect the wounds, her tears mingling with his blood.
"I'm here."
Doctor Paten looked into the clear, blue sky.
At least it was a beautiful day.
"No sign of the killer..." Banlieu panted, as he and the consulting detective returned to where the three doctors stayed.
Sherlock said nothing.
She was crouching beside him, her red coat now covered in blood as she tried to stop the hemorrhage. He could hear doctors and nurses approaching after John's cries. It really was quite unneccessary. He looked up to see John and Molly's face. In them he saw what he already knew.
Stab wounds.
A lot of them.
He had been bleeding copiously, and was unable to speak or breathe properly.
Punctured lungs...
Her hands moved expertly, and he couldn't help but feel a little proud, but he tried to shake his head.
No, Molly, The doctor thought You'll ruin your pretty dress.
"We have to stop the bleeding." She kept repeating frantically. "Bring me the..."
her words were interrupted.
Doctor Paten had taken her hand. Holding it tightly to his chest, he looked into her eyes.
It's too late, Molly.
Stop.
"No." Molly began to cry. "No..."
Doctor Paten looked around desperately for Sherlock. He needed him. He needed to say something important.
When his eyes met those of the consulting detective, the old doctor extended his hand. Sherlock gripped it, a flash of understanding on his face. Good.
Letting go of Molly, he used his free hand, and what little was left of his life, to make a sign on the concrete. He hoped it would help.
Suddenly he began to feel afraid, the blood was choking him and it wasn't pleasant. He couldn't see anymore. His free hand searched for Molly's.
She held it tightly with both of hers.
"I swear by Apollo the healer, Asclepius, Hygieia, and Panacea, and I take to witness all the gods, all the goddesses, to keep according to my ability and my judgment, the following Oath and Agreement..." Molly began reciting the oath.
The doctor smiled and the fear began to subside.
She remembered.
"...To consider dear to me, as my parents, him who taught me this art..."
"And I will use treatments for the benefit of the ill in accordance with my ability and my judgment..." John continued.
George Paten stopped listening.
Mainly because he couldn't hear them anymore.
Dying in Paris, murdered.
It could have been worse, he reflected.
Of all the boxes in his life, only one weighed on his heart now.
I wish I could have been with you more, been a better man for you, made you happier...
I wish I had a chance to say goodbye.
My Amélie.
Her name soared from his heart, guiding his soul as it left his body with its last breath.
Thus ended the life of Doctor George Paten.
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Author's note:
Please don't hate me.