The Good, The Bad and The Woman

Vatican Cameos

15. Vatican Cameos

John basically crashed through the open door like a steamroller alongside his wife and came to a skidded halt an inch past the threshold.

"We just heard the news," Mary breathed as she moved further into the small room.

At the center of the white, sterile chamber stood a lone infirmary bed. Crowded around the bed were Greg, seated in the chair closest to the bed with tears streaming down his worn face, and on the other side, Irene sat at the foot end of the bed with a satisfied grin upon her strong features. Sherlock hovered by the head of the bed like some stoic angel, while attempting to maintain some distance to the sentimental picture before him.

As John's eyes slowly made their way to gaze at the woman who'd been in that bed for over three months, he at last smiled down at Molly Hooper and felt his concerns fade into the remains of the day.

The young woman was half-seated against a pile of cushions and her ivory pale hands rested safely in her husband's grip. She looked quite disoriented, but tiredly alive nonetheless. The news that she'd awoken from her cursed slumber had come as quite the surprise less than an hour ago. John and Mary had just been about to head out for lunch when they'd received the news and hadn't even considered an alternative as they'd made a beeline for the infirmary. Working in the same hospital had it perks occasionally.

Molly smiled timidly and looked up at the blond man in the open doorway as if gazing through a thick fog. Eventually her big eyes cleared and she breathed, "John…"

Nothing more followed and the blond man smiled grimly. He hadn't expected her to still be awake due to her recent predicament, as a matter of fact, but was happy she was and that she'd recognized him, if even vaguely. It was a positive sign, though small it was. "It's good to see you, Molly. Real good."

The young brunette smiled and looked entirely exhausted. A slight frown lingered on her fair face and the man decided to write it off as mainly pain and post-traumatic stress.

When the room descended into a strong grip of silence, Sherlock exhaled and explained in a rapid, clear voice, "She'll be fine. As you know, her awareness will return gradually over time. It's too soon to tell all, but she's not suffering from an amnesia, at least. Her sight is currently down by 20 % and may never fully recover. She'll have a slight tremor in her right hand for a while. Apart from that, it's still too soon to know if there are other damages to her brain. She'll clearly reach full awareness… but it will take time. She'll stay within these walls another month or two. …Sorry, Graham. Meant to keep it short."

"Greg. Ah, well, at least you remembered it once," the grey-haired man huffed but his irritation didn't linger as he once more found his wife's imploring gaze.

"I believe we're crowding the young woman," Irene drawled suddenly. "We should give her some space to recuperate with her husband. Alone."

The brunette leaned forward and squeezed her friend's shoulder. Something dark flashed by in her pale, deep orbs, like stars in the blackest night sky. The flicker of emotion did not go unnoticed by Sherlock, who still lingered like a ghost in the periphery.

Irene smiled at the DI before she gracefully rose from the bed and glanced up at the detective. "Anyway, we ought to leave, no?"

The curly-haired man merely nodded once and his lips tightened almost unnoticeable.

John caught the exchange and glanced between the couple. "What's… what's going on?"

"There's work to be done, John," the detective explained and his eyes flickered down to the woman in the bed briefly. The blond man didn't need it spelled out in capital letters. Whatever this was, it could wait until the others couldn't overhear. Having seen his friend's realization, Sherlock breathed in a smooth voice, "The game is on…"