Sherlocked (BBC Fanfiction)

Chapter 8 - Ditching the Hospital

I was facing a wall.  Inhaling, I felt two small tubes up my nostrils.  At first there was only numbness but that subsided rather quickly.  And then the onslaught of pain spread throughout my chest, immobilizing me.  The sound of my heart rate monitor reverberated in my ear drums and the slight smell of chemicals bothered my senses. 

I turned my head and the first thing my half-open eyes caught was Sherlock.  He lied sideways in a chair, one arm behind his head and the other over his eyes, his legs hanging off the side.  His overcoat and scarf had been removed and now sat in the other chair.  Above him was the window; rain assaulted the glass quite violently and I was thankful for it.

Twitching my shoulder, I felt sore and stiff.  I uncurled my fingers and attempted to roll my shoulders, but a strident piercing agony erupted from my chest.  Letting out a sudden whimper of pain, I could hear my heart rate monitor speed up.  “Jordyn!”  Sherlock was suddenly on his feet, looking apprehensive and exhausted. 

“H-how’d I…how’d I get here?”  I mumbled, my voice thick, my lips dry and cracked.  Sherlock sighed and sat back down, rubbing his eyes furiously.

“Are you alright?”  He seemed almost angry, agitated.                          

“Fine,” I said and challenged myself to sit up, but only resulting in horrific pain. 

“How the hell are you alive?”  Sherlock suddenly asked.

“What?”  I asked, my voice quiet.  I couldn’t think; my mind was reeling and I still felt at a loss and disoriented.

“The surgeon said you were dead for fifteen minutes!”  In the very brief period of time that I’ve known Sherlock, I’d never seen him like this.  He was nervous, jumpy, and panicky. 

“Sherlock, hey…calm down.  I’m alive and…okay,” I stammered, unable to communicate properly, swallowing twice.  I looked over at him, hunched over in the chair, and the sudden memory of my time with Brendon hit me upside the head. 

“Sherlock’s terrified of losing you.”

“So what happened with Augustus Warren?”  I asked, the anesthesia still assaulting my nerve, my speech thick.  I sounded as if I was recovering from a bad hang-over.  “I…blacked out after he shot me.”

“He blew the house up.  He told me to get you outside and he detonated the house,” Sherlock explained, a bit calmer now.

“In other words…he-he…escaped?”  Sherlock nodded.  “And Amelia…he…consumed her?”  He nodded once more.  “She was his step-sister?”  Again, he nodded.  I inhaled and exhaled deeply.  Looking down, I found an I.V. in my wrist, the needle held in place by a piece of surgical tape.

“I’ll be back,” Sherlock abruptly said and stood up.  He quickly strode out of the room, leaving me slightly startled and alone.  I sighed and pulled the blankets down a bit.  Unbuttoning the hospital gown, I found my bra had been extracted from my body.  In the middle of my chest, a large incision had been made and now stitches had been laced to close the wound.

My mind replayed Sherlock’s apprehension and began churning out reasons why he would have been acting that way.  Buttoning the gown back up, I heard footsteps approaching the door.  Thinking it was Sherlock I inclined my head a bit, but instead found Mycroft striding down the corridor and through the door.  He smiled at me and I sat up a bit.  “What-what are you doing here?”  I asked, my voice quiet.

He strode over to the side of my bed and I felt slightly apprehensive.  “I came to return this to you,” he said to me, his voice tranquil and quiet.  He held out my iPhone, the screen slightly cracked.  Why does he…?

“Oh,” I whispered and gently took the phone from his hand, confused about why he had possession of my cell phone.  “Thanks.”

“I figured you might need it,” he said.

I exhaled and murmured, “Yeah.”  Mycroft met my eyes for a split second then turned around.  “Uh, Mycroft?”

“Hm?”  He looked back me.

“Would you might know how long I’ve been asleep?”  I asked.

“Two days.”  He left the room.  Sighing and leaning back into the pillows, I suddenly remembered I was supposed to meet Eva at Starbucks yesterday. 

“Shit,” I hissed quietly and immediately turned my phone on.  Once it was on, I went to messages and found three unread text messages and two missed calls, all from Eva.  The first one read; “Hey, I’m here.  I’ll grab us some drinks.”  The second one read; “Hey, lazy-ass, where are you?”  Third one; “Jordyn, you’re an hour late!”

I groaned quietly and let my head fall back into the pillows.  I’ll call her later.  Hearing footsteps against the linoleum, I saw Sherlock stride in. 

“Come on, let’s get you out of here,” he said.

“I…I can go now?”  I asked, slightly surprised.

“Not necessarily,” he said, already taking the tape off that held the IV in my arm.  He then went to pull the syringe out.

“Wait…Sherlock,” I said, worried.  He looked down at me, his eyes sending signals saying ‘It’s okay.’ “Never mind.”

He gently slid the needle out of my arm, the tiny wound beginning to bleed.  “Your clothes and shoes are on that table.  Bathroom is across the hall,” he explained.  Sherlock then lightly took the two small tubes out of my nose, his finger brushing my upper lip.  Inhaling, I could smell his scent.  It disrupted my senses and sent my mind onto the periphery of cognizance.  His eyes seized mine and our irises locked together like a key and lock.  We stayed like that, frozen in this ephemeral instant in time, his eyes holding mine.  But he looked away first.  When his eyes left, I felt a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach; an icy, raw shudder.  Almost as if when you’re walking up the stairs in the dark and you take one more step when there isn’t one.  And your foot flies down, through the air, and you’re left trying to catch your breath in the shadows.  Or that feeling you get when you suddenly find yourself on the ground after tripping; your head spinning momentarily, a slight numbness to your fingers.  There are those brief, fleeting few moments where you have no clue what happened or how it happened, you just know it did.

I was suddenly on my feet.  Swallowing what little saliva I had in my mouth, I ambled over to the table where my clothing was, thanking the heavens this hospital gown had a closed back.  Taking my apparel in my arms, I slowly strode out of the room.  Finding the sign for “Restrooms,” I sauntered, barefoot, down the hall.  Reaching the door, I pushed the door open with shaking hands.  Striding inside, the small bathroom consisted of a single stall toilet, a white sink, and a tiny mirror positioned crookedly on the tiled wall.  I sighed, my stomach feeling empty.  I set my clothes down on the counter and turned on the sink.  Leaning down, I positioned my mouth under the running water and began drinking. 

Finishing, I wiped my mouth and undressed from the nightgown.  Changing back into my clothes, I found they had been washed of blood.  Slipping my long sleeve shirt over my head, I pulled on my jeans, socks, and shoes and finger combed my hair.  Standing infront of the mirror, I found a small hole through my jacket where the bullet had perforated my body.  Taking my eyes away, I turned the sink on once more.  Wetting my hands, I ran my fingers through my hair and wished I knew where my rubber band had gone.  Splashing water on my face, I dried it with paper towels and exited the bathroom. 

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Hey, long time no chapter, eh?  Sorry (for those of you who read this).  Speaking of which, I know you guys are out there.  This story had 92 reads (ha-ha, how pathetic) but I know you're out there.  You're just hiding.

Anyhow, here's the next chapter and yes, I really couldn't think of a better title.