Chapter 9 (part 1): In a Rose Garden

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At work, and it was Wednesday, hump day.

The day was slow. I called the hospital to ask about the shooting victim brought into emergency. The receptionist got all hard-ass and wouldn't give me any information, then I heard a muffled voice in the background say "...orders state not to disturb Mr. Moran..."

I called back an hour later and said I had a delivery for Moran. They gave me his room number and extension with instructions that I get the flowers up to Sebastian Moran in the next two hours—they were discharging him.

I called Sherlock to tell him, and he admitted he'd already been to the hospital — and managed to get by the nurses station even though no visitors were allowed in Moran's room. Unfortunately, Moran wasn't in his room.

I fingered the card with the binary message in my pocket. Going over to the Lestrades' to get answers seemed my best option, and taking the card personally was the least I could do after all the Lestrades have done for me.

I told Sherlock my decision, and of course he wanted to come. But some things you've got to investigate and face for yourself. I needed answers. I felt this was what I needed to do. Some things, I just felt them. Sherlock was always saying I was overly romantic.

Mrs. Hudson watched over the top of her glasses at me as I hung up the phone and cleared her throat. She'd been listening.

"Since Anderson's still at lunch and there's nothing to do, I can take the deliveries," I told her, and she narrowed her eyes at me.

"Don't think for a moment I don't know what you're up to. I worry about you. I could just as easily hand deliver the card to Emma Lestrade."

"I need to talk to Dr. Lestrade. It's important," I said.

She knew there was no point in giving me a long lecture. "Fine, we're slow. Take your time, but be careful." Then she reached for the van keys off the peg on the back room wall.

"I'll be back in time to help out with transplanting the mums," I said. I opened the showroom cooler, and a flash of cold air blasted me as I picked out a rose bowl from the glass shelf. Mrs. H frowned as I picked up a blank get well card and envelope.

"I hope you know what you're doing," she said. I loved her, always thinking of others. So I loaded up Long Tall Sally with a couple of other deliveries and her sliding door groaned and moaned as I apprehensively slammed it shut. This was the first time I'd driven since the accident, and I wasn't exactly thrilled about that or about meeting Lestrade, but what most weighed on my mind was what had prompted me to pick up that rose and blank card. The other stop I planned to make.

At the hospital . Maybe I'll be more lucky (or unlucky) than Sherlock and find Moran in his room.

I didn't know why, but I had to face this nagging voice inside my head I'd had since I got up this morning, and that man being discharged early was the only person who could tell me what I was.

Sally's driver's door creaked open; I climbed onto her sun-bleached bucket seat. I placed the rose bowl on her floor next me, sloshing the water around. Fuck, my fingers had a hard time finding the key. When she started, the old girl was shaking as much as I was. You'd think that after all the insane chases with Sherlock that I wouldn't get this much of an adrenaline rush, but I still did.

Okay, so maybe I was being as stupid as Sherlock by confronting "my assailant" alone, especially since it was just a few days ago that the man tried to gut me like a fish. I accused Sherlock for years of being afflicted with the "I'm Superman and I'm invincible" syndrome and irony of all ironies, look at me now! Seriously though. It was safer this way. For Sherlock. I heal—he can't. Yesterday was too close. I can't let him take anymore risks. Better that I take them, especially since it looks like for me it's really not a risk anymore.

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