They stepped through the hospital gate.
The reception area was fast becoming crowded as people got their tickets and lined up for their blood tests, a waste of time for most of them as their ailments could easily be deduced if they simply looked. However, in this case their boredom, hypochondria and general lack of observation were of good use today.
Taking advantage of the distraction the crowd provided, Sherlock turned right, away from the reception area, and strode through the cloister. He ignored the wider stairs and walked to the lift, a modern feature standing in the far corner of the antique building's open space. He quickly slipped behind it to use it as cover and to access the smaller service stairwell concealed behind the lift. The narrow, spiral stairs were seldom used, and dust rose in the wake of their steps.
She was on the second floor, ninth room to the left.
The corridor was busy but fairly quiet, as drowsy nurses went about their work trying to spare the patients a few more moments of rest.
Sherlock walked confidently to the door, John close behind, smiling meekly at the bristling nurses. Had they tried to sneak in before, more subterfuge would have been necessary, but now that the day had begun and that the ambassador had already walked in, the nurses simply frowned in slight disapproval and tut-tutted under their breath before resuming their chores. One particularly trim nurse did try to challenge them.
"Can I help you?" She stepped forward, a smile on her lips but her arms crossed.
"Hello, I'm doctor Watson." John's voice lowered in an attempt to sound more impressive. "We're just here to visit a patient, Molly Hooper..."
The nurse's eyes narrowed. "Ragazze, ma voi lo conoscete 'sto dottore? Io mica l'ho mai visto, neh!" She asked the other nurses if they knew him.
Sherlock pushed past her and marched down the corridor. Ninth room to the left...
"Oh! Ma si Fermi!" the nurse protested loudly, but he did not stop. Other nurses started calling out in indignation, for as they would have overlooked the intruder's presence together, they now sprang into action when they saw someone else take the initiative. The cries from the herd of nurses fell on deaf ears as Sherlock didn't stop.
"Mr. Holmes!" a baritone voice echoed as one of Rigamonti's men, alerted by the rising commotion, came to investigate. As he walked to greet the consulting detective, the buzzing wrath of the furies subsided and the grumbling creatures dispersed in the presence of the rather imposing Italian officer.
"The ambassador has already arrived..." the young man nodded to John, assuming that was their motive for coming so early.
"Let's hope not." John murmured to himself.
Sherlock barely acknowledged the officer and quickened his pace, his eyes fixed on the ninth room at the end of the corridor.
With couple of long strides he finally stood in front of the closed door. He put his right hand on the handle and gripped it.
Then he blinked.
Knock. He should knock.
He would not have knocked before.
But...
He should knock.
He raised his fist, ready to rap gently on the wood.
"Sherlock?" John hesitated, watching his friend stand motionless in front of the door, his right hand hovering inches from the frame.
The consulting detective blinked, and his hand returned to his side.
"I..." he blinked again. "Stay here, John. I... There's something I need to do. Stay...Stay here."
Sherlock turned around and swiftly walked down the corridor, round the corner, down the stairs, through the cloister and out of the hospital.
24 ways to get to the door.
But then what?
Molly heard it first.
James had been talking, sitting beside her and holding her hand, when the background noises one usually hears in hospitals was slowly replaced with an all-too-familiar sound:
the grumbling murmur of offended individuals, the rising tones of disgruntled people as they spoke out in -probably justified-indignation were all well-known to her...And they all meant one thing.
He was here.
"What's the commotion?" James, who had been sitting on the bed, stood and started walking to the door.
Molly subconsciously tucked her hair behind her ear and pulled her ponytail tighter.
She had been lying on the bed, so she sat up because... Well...it looked more dignified.
Molly picked up a book from the bedside table and opened it on her lap. She forced a smile on her lips, tearing her eyes away from the door to look at the window. Every muscle in her body complained as she tried to make herself look relaxed, calm, composed.
The incarnation of quiet serenity...
The door handle moved and the book fell to the floor as Molly jumped to her feet and took a step forward.
"What's going on?" James asked, his brow furrowed. He had been the one to open the door.
"It is strange, Your Excellency. Mr Holmes came, but he left in a hurry. Something to do with the case, I imagine..."
Molly sat back down again.
"Thank you, Roberto." the ambassador smiled as the Italian officer nodded and respectfully closed the door behind him.
James turned to the lowered head of the young pathologist. His smiled wavered, then softened as he pulled back his shoulders and walked over to her. He rested a hand on hers, then knelt to the floor.
"Here," he said gently, picking up the book and placing it delicately on the upturned palms on her lap.
"You dropped this."
"What exactly are you playing at, Sherlock?
"I don't know what you're talking about, John."
"That little display over there." the doctor's head jerked back to the hospital behind him. "Just go and talk to her, it will be f..."
"I just thought of something important for the case and I didn't see the point in wasting time on these foolish little pleasantries of yours..." Sherlock shook his head in exasperation. "But I will go and see her if it means that much to you."
"Yes, Sherlock." John turned away from his friend with a sigh, his hands resting on his back as he looked up and closed his eyes. "It means a lot to me."
Sherlock blinked and looked at his phone.
Any minute now, he would...
No.
He wouldn't help him.
Not him.
He turned his phone off.
Sherlock took a step closer to the hospital, then turned away again. He cleared his throat.
"Oh look, Sherlock, the florist has opened." John murmured casually. His friend turned to see an elderly gentleman walk out from a small stall next to the hospital, a bunch of orchids in his hand.
For his wife.
Broken hip.
Happily married for 50 years.
3 children.
She cheated on him once years ago, but never told him.
He had a mistress for 2 years after their first child was born, but she didn't find out. He broke it off when asked to leave his wife and hasn't strayed since.
They both think the other has always been devoutly faithful.
If he told them...They wouldn't care.
They actually wouldn't care.
"Those orchids look nice." John shrugged, jolting Sherlock out of his reverie. "But I like roses more..."
"Horrible choice," he shook his head. "Pathetic."
"What would you choose?" his friend stole a sidelong glance at the consulting detective.
"When offering flowers to someone in hospital, you are supposed to choose blossoms that have no scent. You also have to be careful of the meaning of each plant given. Chrysanthemums, for example, are inappropriate in Italy as they are traditionally used at funerals and to honour the dead. Roses are customary, it's true, so are carnations, iris, and even sunflowers..." Sherlock shook his head in disgust at the floral compositions in the shop. Too busy, too pompous, just...Wrong.
"...All of that is unimportant, really. Etiquette gives you guidelines, but one should never forget the person to whom one is giving the flowers." He muttered as he pulled out stems and assembled them. "Otherwise it means nothing."
"All right." John nodded. "So why those, then?"
Sherlock blinked, standing perfectly still in the middle of the shop. Petals, ribbons and stem cuttings littered the floor on which the shopkeeper was tapping a foot impatiently. the consulting detective looked at what he was holding:
a small, simple bouquet of orange Gerbera daisies.
His hands tightened around them.
Sherlock quickly strode out of the shop. John hastily paid the frowning shopkeeper before following his friend into the hospital.
Shit.
The car was running low on petrol.
He was driving aimlessly, feeling like a rodent in a maze, his wandering only prolonging his sentence.
All his documents were useless now.
Roadblocks were all over the city, with cameras every few metres...
And wolves.
Wolves everywhere.
He had nobody to turn to, no one to trust. Anybody could be one of them!
No.
Not everybody.
His hands searched the bloodstained rucksack of that old kinky bastard and found what he was looking for.
The nurses didn't spare them a second glance this time.
Ninth room.
Voices.
The ambassador was still inside.
Sherlock and John stood side by side in front of the white door.
The consulting detective's knuckles turned white as he raised his fist.
He knocked.
Footsteps approached.
"Hold this a moment." Sherlock shoved the bouquet into Johns hands.
The door opened and he marched in.
"Good morning, Mr. Holmes. Hello, John." James greeted the two gentlemen.
Molly looked up in surprise as Sherlock strode into the room, his friend close behind.
"Hello, James. Hi Molly, how are you feeling today? You're looking much better." John smiled as he came closer.
"Oh I'm feeling great, John. I am sorry to have caused so much trouble..." Her eyes fell on the bouquet and John followed her gaze.
"Oh." he started, "These are fro..."
"The gift of flowers is such a foolish, antiquated tradition, John. I really don't see why sensible people like you cling to it."
"I think it was very sweet of you, thank you." Molly smiled warmly at the doctor, who glared at the consulting detective before handing her the colourful blossoms.
"Orange daisies." She whispered softly, delicately stroking one of the bright florets."My favourite."
Sherlock's back straightened slightly, but she didn't notice. James did.
Her phone began to hum as it vibrated on her bedside table.
"Please excuse me a moment." She nodded at the three men before picking it up.
Unknown caller.
"Hello?" She asked.
"Help me."
"Excuse me?" Her eyes darted up to Sherlock, who was instantly by her side.
"Help me."
"Who...Who is this?"
"Michael Carthy. You've got to help me. Please."
.
.
.
Author's note:
Hi all.
I am sorry for the long wait, I really am.
Hopefully you'll forgive me.
This chapter is dedicated to Sara Bahama for acting as a Beta (although she only got to correct the first part. I couldn't wait to post the finished chapter, I'm sorry! I will make any corrections later if necessary.) I will try to be better next time.
In case you were curious: orange daisies were chosen as her favorite because of the bright flower on Molly's blog,
My most sincere thanks to: NiceNipps, a guest, Renaissancebooklover108, lovebirds413, SammyKatz, mrspencil, Rocking the Redhead, 16magnolias and Bucky5 for their kind reviews!