Sherlocked (BBC Fanfiction)

Chapter 10 - Morgue

For some unsounded reason, my expectations had been set fairly damn high in the hopes (for the lack of a better word) that I wouldn’t wake this morning.  And yet, as I lie on the couch, staring at the ceiling, I am shocked.  Shocked that I am breathing.  Still alive and…semi-conscious.  Why?  I ask myself.  Why am I shocked to be alive?  With no real idea of what time it is, I can feel cold, early morning sunshine illuminate the living room.  My ears detected the faint sound of a distant bird.  The rain has cleared.  I think miserably. 

I closed my eyes again, retreating farther into my burrito blanket.  With sleep just teetering on the brink of my consciousness, I vaguely heard abrupt footsteps down the hall.  They came into the living room.  And then I felt sudden arms pick me up straight off the couch.  My eyes were whisked open, a short yelp rising from within my throat.  The living room flew passed in a blur, my hair in my eyes.  Sherlock had me in his arms bridal style, running for the door.  For a split second, I thought he was going to crash right through it, leaving a hole in the shape of us like in those old cartoons.

“Let me down!”  I managed.  Sherlock, even missing his coat, snatched the house keys off the counter with me still in his arms.  He somehow managed to open the door, sprinting out.  My socked foot caught the edge and it swung close with a harsh slam.  “What are you doing?”  I shouted, my body still cocooned tightly inside the blankets as he ran down the corridor.

“We need to get to the morgue!”  He said to me and suddenly turned the corner, literally almost skidding into the wall.  I was left still trying to comprehend what had just happened; my head spun in circles and I kept jostling in his arms, giving me whiplash.  Dashing down the hall, the stairs came into view.  My heart contracted.  Sherlock flung himself down the staircase, skipping two-sometimes even three-steps at a time.  The walls flew passed my eyes.

“Don’t you dare drop me!”  I warned him, my mind not registering the word ‘morgue’, my hand absentmindedly clenching his shirt.  We reached the bottom of the stairs and Sherlock went straight for the door.  Wrenching it open, he ran.  My foot smacked the wall.  He ran onto the sidewalk, the sky still a murky blue, tendrils of pink and orange mingling in with the clouds.  5:00 a.m. 

Seeing no taxi cabs anywhere near, he did the unthinkable.  Running out into the street, we stopped traffic.  A bus came hurdling down the road and I tried to untangle myself from the blankets.  “Sherlock!”  I screamed, almost terrified of getting hit.  But we made it with a second to spare.

We reached the opposite flank of the sidewalk, my heart in my throat.  Sherlock darted down the pavement, shoving passed the early morning commuters.  They would shout at us when my foot happened to hit them as we flew passed.  I didn’t bother apologizing.  After a while of this, Sherlock slowed down, out of breath.  Infront of us stood a huge, nine-story building with several windows on the front and sides and had a sign above the door that read “St. Bartholomew’s.”

Sherlock set me down and I stumbled a bit.  Wrapped up in my blankets and standing on the pavement in my un-matching socks, I watched Sherlock run inside, shoving the glass doors apart.  “Wait!”  I snapped and rushed through the door, my blanket flying out behind me like a cape.  I entered an oversized white lobby with overhanging lights attached to the ceiling; the same lobby of the hospital I had been admitted to just a few days ago.  Several chairs had been placed around the room against the wall and a large front desk.  A few people sat in the waiting room. 

I darted down the hall, the woman yelling.  I flew passed nurses and doctors and patients and doors and other hallways.  Inevitably, I was to trip.  Falling backwards, I felt myself in the air for a split second.  But it ended with a harsh bang, my body flying across the linoleum.  A nurse rushed over to help me up but I flung myself to my feet.  Ignoring her, I saw Sherlock climbing the stairs at the end, three at a time.   I ran and stopped at the foot of the stairs.  Groaning, I followed him up.  My legs had become sore about the time I reached the top.  I felt a bruise forming on my elbow and knee.  A large window had been built into the wall facing me, proving a view of the street down below.  Turning a corner, I found another section of stairs going the opposite direction.  Two doctors passed me on their decent, eying me in my blanket.  I paused, fatigue draining all energy from my body.  Looking up, I discerned at least three more sets of stairs until the second floor would be reached.  I sighed and leaned on the wall.  Everything was so white; the walls, the floor, the stairs, the window frame, the ceiling.  It seemed to pierce my retinas like the sun, the overwhelming brightness of it all causing me to squint.  The only color was the stair railing, which was black.  Figuring if I wanted to catch up to Sherlock, I’d have to start running.  Pulling the blanket up around my shoulders, I began running, trying to skip two at a time.  But sweatpants made that damn near impossible.  At last, after running and stopping, running and stopping, running and stopping, I reached the top.  I stood at the beginning of another long, wide, brightly lit hallway.  A couple nurses and Morgue workers passed through the hallway.