The Flatmate (SHERLOCK fanfiction/nanowrimo2013 winner)

a villian's return

John lay in the hospital bed.  The familiar pulsing beep beside him reminded him of his entrapment. He looked over at the white machine several times, giving it a glowering stare as if the device even had feelings to hurt. John looked down at the inside of his forearm where an IV had been inserted—that is, if it really was an IV. Taking a breath, John turned to see a nurse passing by his window. She disappeared for a moment and then reappeared at the door. She stepped in with a smile he couldn’t tell was plastic or genuine.

“Hello, Mr. Watson.”

“Hello.”

The nurse turned and closed the door before coming over by his beside. She held a clipboard in her hands, but one hand was hidden behind it. John was immediately suspicious.

“What do you need?”

“I was sent in here by Andrew Brooklyn. Your friend, Sherlock Holmes, has gotten himself into a bad accident and probably won’t be able to come and visit you.” Her porcelain white face smiled in annoying mischief. “So, I’ve been requested to give you one phone call. Andrew is on his way to Sherlock to give him a phone. You two will probably have a lot to talk about before he dies.”

John pushed himself up, but found that he couldn’t move his legs. Looking around in panic, as if the objects and white walls around him had the answers, he said, “I can’t move my legs.”

“Don’t be frightened. We numbed them so you won’t run away.”

“Does anyone know what you’re doing?”

“Well, a technician came in and fixed up whatever Mr. Holmes did to our system, and as far as the real practitioners know, they think you’re really coming in for cancer surgery. It’s a game using the system and,” she stopped and tapped the side of her head. “I’ll be back to check on you, Mr. Watson.”

“What about Simon and Charlie? Do you know where they are?”

The nurse stopped at the door and looked at the doctor over her shoulder. “Last time I heard they were drowned in a tunnel. By the time their bodies are recovered, Andrew and his team will disappear again. You and your friend were wrong to pick a battle with us.”

“Sherlock’s never going to give you the codes.”

Laughing through her thin lips, she purred, “I don’t know about that.” She gave him a cocky waggle of the head before leaving his room. The door clicked behind her, and echoed over and over again in John’s mind. He closed his eyes and his lips parted in desperate need for air.  His lips moved slightly, mumbling the name he feared to lose. His eyes opened and for a moment, he thought he saw Alana standing in front of him with her gentle smile and bold, brave eyes. “Alana?” but at mentioning of her name, she disappeared. Tossing his head back, John shook his head slowly. “Oh, dammit, Sherlock, where are you?” Sighing, he began remembering his favored moments with the detective. How he missed those days where everything, despite the fierceness, seemed possible.

“I’ve got a story, John,” the deep voice said as the owner’s hand slipped from his friend’s face.

Rubbing his eyes, John sat up in bed and tapped the bedside lamp. He was greeted with a grinning Sherlock, who held three transparent cards.

Nodding to the objects, John asked in a droning voice, “What are those?”

“Cellophane paper. Had Mrs. Hudson pick them up—,”

“No, no, no, I know what they are. I meant, why do you have them?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows popped up in excitement and he sprung onto the bed, landing Indian style.  He placed the three cards out in front of his partner and began rapidly, “These are the colours on the triangle string: white, blue, and gold. Now, you must listen carefully, otherwise you’ll miss a lot.” Sherlock rubbed his hands together and straightened his arms so that his sleeves flew up past his elbows.  Pointing to the white card, Sherlock began systematically –

“The white card stands for the duchess. It means purity, wholeness, and virginity. The blue card stands for you (I’m assuming), it stands for loyalty and kindness. The gold, obviously, stands for me. It means wisdom and success. Now, knowing the meaning of those three cards, you can combine the colours and get a totally different meaning. However, let me begin from a different direction.”

Sherlock shifted onto his knees and tore his jacket off. He stared down at the cards zealously and started up again. “White can also stand for loneliness and cautiousness.   Blue can also stand for nighttime or home. Gold can also represent morning.” Holding his finger in front of John, Sherlock picked up the cards and held them in his hands. “Are you listening carefully now?”

John nodded his head. “Yes, yes, I’m listening.”

Not satisfied with John’s confirmation, Sherlock sent a strong slap across his face, sending him crashing into his pillow.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock!” John cried out, his eyes stretched in surprise and anger.

Smiling happily to himself, the detective said, “Good. You’re fully awake now.”

Massaging the back of his head, John leaned forward, giving his full attention to Sherlock. He gave him a quick nod, letting him know he could continue.

“Here’s the plan—remember that this all is centered around a triangle—all right, so, the duchess,” Sherlock picked up the white card, “is alone, at night, at home.” He laid the blue card on top of the white. “White and blue combined creates the colour turquoise that means: calmness. However, the calmness was disturbed.” Sherlock gathered all the cards together, making the colour black. “Obviously, the colour black stands for something ominous.”

“This is cool and all, but it doesn’t explain who came into her room,” John pointed out.

Sherlock’s face straightened and he clutched the cards tighter between his fingers until they popped out of his hands and floated down like feathers onto the bed.  “I was getting to the part. Anyway, I believe the black also stands for the visitor. I observed her room and outside the window and found tracks left by the intruder.” 

John opened his eyes as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown into his face. He rubbed his eyes, erasing the memory he had let himself fallen into. He didn’t want to remember because it hurt too much to think that the case they were currently on wouldn’t be a successful as The Bermuda Triangle, A Study in Pink, or even the long ago case where Sherlock pretended to have killed himself. All those cases seemed possible because they had been completed, but to John, it felt like this was the end of their career. He had to face the fact that the detective was mortal and was no more special than his next door neighbor.

Sherlock opened his eyes and instead of seeing the lonely darkness, he stared into the eyes of his mortal enemy. His nose flared like an angered horse and his fingers curled in hate. “What do you want?”

“Don’t be angry now, Sherlock. I’m giving you a phone call. You can speak to John before he goes into,” Andrew stopped to make quotes with is fingers, “surgery.”

“You’re lying.”

Andrew held up a mobile device. “No limits, no rules. Say whatever you want because we both know how it’s going to end. I’ll leave it where you can get it.” Cruelly, Andrew placed the phone on the side of the car just a few inches from where Sherlock could reach.  Rolling his tongue between his cheeks, Andrew slipped his hands into his pockets and began walking out. Before leaving completely, he hollered back, “Enjoy the puzzle, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock groaned and stared at the phone perfectly balanced on the curved metal. One wrong move could cause the phone to tumble off. Moistening his cracked lips, he carefully lowered his good hand and began extending it in front of him. He had a horrible feeling he wouldn’t reach it. As his fingers came closer to the phone, a glint of hope sparked his face and he believed for a moment he could reach it. But a sharp and furious pain bolted inside of him, making him let out a cry and jerk his hand back. The tip of his longest finger flicked the phone, wobbling it closer to the edge. He froze and watched until the phone settled. He had to think. Looking around, he tried to find an extension, but there was none in arm’s reach.

He thought about bumping the car, seeing if it’d jolt the phone in his direction, but he knew physics wouldn’t agree with him. Drumming his fingers in the air, he sucked in his lips and thought. He thought and thought and thought, but all ideas came to the conclusion that if he messed up, the phone would be out of reach. All of a sudden, like a light bulb, Sherlock found a way out.