Vague Shadows

Someone had tucked me into bed.
I was lying comfortably, cocooned by warm blankets and overly plump pillows. The smell around me screamed hospital, but the feel told me I was back at home. I hadn’t opened my eyes, letting myself adjust to being conscious. There was a horrible ache in my head, and a dull throbbing in my side.

I could feel something rested beside my arm, brushing my hand softly every now and then; curiosity forced my eyes open. Sherlock was seated next to my hospital bed, his arm resting on the mattress, his slender fingers tracing lazy designs on my bruised hand.

I smiled softly to myself just as his eyes caught mine. Seemingly surprised to actually see me staring back, Sherlock gently pulled his arm away and leaned down into his chair, clearing his throat gently and glancing away. Casual.

“You’re awake,” he observed, twitching his left nostril and glancing away from me. I let my smile grow a bit wider.

“Brilliant deduction,” I teased, and at this he glanced back and me and gave a small smirk. I heard the door open, and though I’d been expecting a strange doctor, I felt relief when John walked into the room. A huge smile came onto his face.

“I didn't expect you awake for another few hours,” he said, coming up next to Sherlock. “How’re you feeling?”

“Not the best, I’m not gonna lie,” I sighed, attempting to sit up. My left side twinged painfully and I winced. John immediately moved to my side and slid a strong arm behind me.

“Careful,” he urged, easing me up against the pillows. “That punctured lung isn’t going to heal if you bounce around too much.”

“Brilliant,” I muttered. “Punctured lung. What else?”

“Well,” John sighed, sitting down on the edge of my bed and turning to face me. Sherlock stayed in his chair, acting distant and bored, but I could see his clear eyes dart to me every now and again. Every glance he gave me sent a flutter through my stomach; I pushed the blush from my cheeks.

“Give it to me,” I said, replacing the shy blush with a smile directed at John. “I think I’ve got both my legs, I’m not paralyzed, and unless I’m missing anything vital, I can handle it.”

“You had some minor cuts for the most part, but in a couple spots you were sliced into pretty bad,” John began, pointing to my upper thigh, my right hip, and a smaller one I could see on my inner arm; it was stitched neatly and healing now.

“How long was I out?” I asked, noting that most of my bruises had now fully formed, with some already starting to fade.

“Fifty seven hours,” Sherlock interjected without missing a beat, catching both John and I by surprise. We glanced at him, but he didn’t turn to look at us; John smiled slightly.

“You can thank your concussion for that,” John informed me, his fingers brushing against my left temple. “Whether it was mild or severe, I won’t know until I observe you, but I’m pretty confident the damage isn’t too bad.”

“That explains the headache,” I sighed. “So, last but not least… I’m guessing you’re waiting to tell me more about my side. How’d I manage to get a punctured lung?”

“You were stabbed,” John said softly. My eyes widened slightly, and immediately I pushed my blankets down, pulling my gown to the side. The deep wound had been heavily stitched, and it was bruised a deep blue around the injury. I winced and covered it up again.

“Lestrade will be here soon,” John informed me, glancing at the clock. “He’s going to want to know about the attack.”

“I don’t remember all of it, but I’ll tell him what I can,” I said; at this, Sherlock looked over at me and got to his feet. I looked up at him as he paused beside John and I.

“Can you describe the man who attacked you?” he asked, his voice taking on an unusual tone.

“Men,” I corrected, and both John and Sherlock tensed at this. “And yeah, I remember them all.”

“Describe them,” Sherlock asked me; I rolled my eyes to the top of my head. I listed off their characteristics and described the region of their accents, knowing their voices would help him in his thoughts. As I spoke, I could see Sherlock’s eyes flickering back and forth, piecing together my information.

“You’ve got something,” I said, watching his expression. I’d spent enough nights working on cases with him to recognize his faces.

“A gang from East London,” Sherlock murmured, turning from my bed. I looked after him as he grabbed his jacket and slipped it on.

“Sherlock?” I called, part of me wanting him to stay here. Sherlock glanced at me.

“I’ve got business to take care of,” he said briskly, nodding at John and I as he disappeared out the door. The two of us sat in silence; I fiddled with my blanket. John got up as he heard voices coming towards the room.

“You know, that’s the first time he’s left this room in fifty seven hours,” he said off-hand, glancing over at me and shooting me a smile. I flushed and looked down at my blanket as Lestrade came into my room.

“Laicee,” he breathed, looking relieved. A grin split my face as he came up to me.

“Hi Lestrade,” I said, lifting my arms gently and giving him a hug. He squeezed softly and then pulled away as Donovan and Anderson came in as well. Donovan gave me a smile; she’d always been polite to me. Anderson did his best not to sneer.

Lestrade sat down on my bed and rested his hand on mine; he’d always done his best to take care of me.

“You know you can call me Greg,” he teased; I shook my head, smiling.

“No, you’re not Greg. You’re Lestrade.”

“Fair enough,” he laughed. “You know why I’m here, don’t you?”

“I’ll tell you what I can remember,” I promised. “A bit of it is a little blurry, but I think I can recall most of it.”

“If you start to get tired or anything, just let us know,” John said, settling into the chair Sherlock had been occupying.

“Alright,” I agreed. “Well, after talking with Mycroft over Sherlock’s phone, Anthea took me to his office…”

I recounted the story, giving them as much detail as I could, skimming over the unclear details. When I got done recounting the attack, Lestrade let out a heavy sigh and shut his notebook.

“A trap meant for Sherlock, and you ended up in the middle of it,” he said, giving me a stern look. “Next time, let’s not get involved in high crime, understood?”

“No promises,” I teased, giving him an agreeing smile. He gave my hand a squeeze as he stood.

“We’ll leave you to rest. I’m off to see how many members of that gang I can track down. If you remember anything else, you have my number.”

“I’ll keep you updated,” I promised as Donovan and Anderson ducked out of the room.

“Be safe, kiddo,” he said, giving me a smile as he glanced at John. “Take care of her, yeah?”

“Always have, always will,” John promised, resting a hand on my shoulder. As Lestrade disappeared, I looked up at him.

“Are you my doctor?” I mused, and he nodded.

“Lestrade pulled a few strings for us. Sherlock and I preferred if I treated you.”

“I appreciate that,” I told him honestly. “When can I go home?”

“I’ll find out,” he told me, heading for the door. “I’ll be right back.”

John left, and I settled back onto my pillow. I’d only been alone for a couple of minutes when I heard someone knock hesitantly at my door.

“Come in,” I called, and immediately regretted my words when I saw Mycroft step cautiously into my room. My face darkened, and I glowered at him. “Get out,” I snarled.

“I’ve only come to apologize, Laicee,” he said softly, holding up his hands. I clenched my jaw and quirked a brow, waiting. “I had no idea what I was getting you in to. Had I known about Moriarty and the setup, I never-“

“You didn’t know it was Moriarty?” I asked him out of surprise, without thinking. He gave a small shake of his head, sincerely looking apologetic. I let out a heavy sigh, my hostility easing just a bit.

“I swear it to you, Laicee, I hadn’t the slightest.”

“Well,” I murmured, looking up at him. “Then I can’t be too mad. John said you helped find me, so thank you.”

“It was the least I could do,” he said as John came back in.

“The nurse said they want to keep you a couple more days-“ he broke off when he saw Mycroft, and he tensed. I could see the anger in his expression as he squared his shoulders; he glanced at me briefly to make sure I was alright. When he noticed I wasn’t too terribly upset, he relaxed a bit. Mycroft pressed his thin lips into a tense, tight line as he gave John a cool stare.

“A couple days?” I asked to break the silence, my voice holding a hint of exasperation; the thought of staying here over the weekend didn't sit well with me. Mycroft glanced between John and I, then cleared his throat.

“I think I can help with that,” he offered, disappearing out the door.

“What…?” John began, glancing between myself and the swinging door. I shrugged.

“Came to apologize.”

“A Holmes apologizing willingly?” John joked as Mycroft came back in, not even half a minute later.

“Laicee, you’re free to leave tonight, so long as Dr. Watson is alright with tending to you.”

My face brightened, and Mycroft gave me a small smile. John nodded agreeing, and Mycroft gave me a parting nod.

“As I said, the least I could do.” He headed for the door, glancing over his shoulder. “I wish you a quick recovery,” he said, and then disappeared.

***

“Why don’t I set you up on the couch?” John asked as the cab pulled up outside the flat. “It’ll be easier to take care of you, and you won’t need to manage the stairs.”

He came round to my door and opened it, sliding his arm around my back and lifting me up to my feet. Walking was not my specialty right now.

Between the pain in my lung when I moved, and the vertigo from my concussion, staying vertical was not coming as naturally as I’d have liked. John supported me as he hobbled to the door. Luckily for both of us, I was shorter than him.

As he pushed open the door, I was greeted by an explosion of Mrs. Hudson. She came bustling forward, tears in her eyes, a big smile on her face.

“Laicee, sweetheart, oh thank heavens you’re alright,” she all but cried, wrapping her arms around me. I did my best to hug her back as John kept a steadying hand on my shoulder.

“Hi, Mrs. Hudson,” I laughed as we pulled apart. She cupped my face in her hands, and then looked at John.

“Bless you and Sherlock for taking care of her,” she praised; she gave me a quick peck on the cheek and then bustled off up the stairs, saying something about a nice cup of tea.

“I’m honestly not sure if I can get up these,” I told him, sighing as I made a face at the stairs. Just hobbling into the entryway had nearly drained me of all my willpower.

“Right,” John said, dropping his bag and taking his jacket off. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

With that as my only warning, John wrapped his arm around my shoulder and then slid his other arm beneath my legs, scooping me to his chest, minding my injuries. I gave a yelp and clung tight to him, suddenly extremely thankful he was more sturdy than he looked.

“You weigh less than nothing,” John informed me before I could even start my protest. “Much easier than carrying Sherlock, I assure you.”

“No wonder people talk about you two,” I teased, and John gave me a look as he stepped into his flat. I looked around quickly, and saw that Sherlock, in fact, wasn’t here. I’d been hoping to see him waiting for us, but we were alone.

John sat me gently on the couch, careful not to jostle me too much. Mrs. Hudson was bustling around in the kitchen, talking more to herself than us, the tea already started. Once I was settled, John handed me the remote and said,

“Alright, what do you need from your room?”

“Uhm, my pillow, a blanket, and my pajamas. That should do for now.”

“Right,” he said, disappearing back down the stairs. He came back a few moments later and deposited my things beside me. He held out his phone, and I raised a brow.

“Why don’t you text Jeanette and have her bring your homework by? You won’t be back in school for a couple days.”

“Oh, right,” I sighed, wishing John wasn’t so mindful. He gave me a knowing smirk as I grabbed it and glowered up at him. My phone had been smashed when I was attacked, so I was all but cut off from most of my world. I sent her a quick text, and while John was in the kitchen helping Mrs. Hudson, I sent another.

To: Sherlock Holmes
Be safe. –LB

***

Some time after dinner, John put in a movie for Mrs. Hudson and I, and the three of us gathered in the flat, sipping tea and chatting idly. I’d started dozing off about halfway through, and eventually John must have turned it off and tucked me in.

I woke up several hours later, my headache severe enough to pull me from my medication-induced sleep. I slowly eased myself into a sitting position, ignoring the pain in my side as I pushed my blankets off.

I felt like an old woman, hobbling meekly into the kitchen, unable to stand up straight. I reached the counter, and realized that, thanks to my already short stature, I couldn’t reach the cabinet without stretching. For a moment, I considered waking John, but I knew he was tired.

Instead, I opted for clinging to the counter while I feebly scrabbled at the shelves. The bottles skittered away from my fingers, further back into the cabinet, and I cursed under my breath. I'd nearly snagged a few when I heard the front door open. I stopped and listened, my nerves on end. For a moment, memories of the attack flooded my mind.
What if they followed me home? What if that was why Sherlock wasn't back yet? I asked myself, beginning to panic until I picked up the sound of long, steady steps on the stairs. Sherlock's gait was easy to identify; I heard him and John walking above me all day for two years.

A moment later, he appeared around the corner. He had intended to go straight to his room when he caught sight of me; he paused in midstep and stood to stare at me.

“Would you mind getting the Tylenol?” I asked him quietly, still awkwardly clinging to the counter. He didn’t move for several moments, and I was about to tell him nevermind when he strode forward. Pausing behind me, his hands took hold of my hips gently and he eased me back down out of my way. He reached up past me, his chest against my back, and he grabbed the bottle down for me.

As he pressed the Tylenol into my hand, I caught a shimmer of crimson on his shirt sleeve, and my eyes widened.

“Are you bleeding?” I asked him, setting the bottle aside and snagging his wrist as I turned around to stare up at him. Sherlock sniffed and twitched his lips, saying casually,

“Not anymore.”

I felt concern take over, and I gently pulled his hand into the light, pushing his sleeve back. His knuckles were bruised and bloodied, and he had a few fresh cuts on his forearms; as I examined him further, I could see what looked like a sizeable injury on his shoulder.

“What happened?” I asked him, and I saw the defenses go up in his eyes. He pulled back gently from me and stepped to the side, making for his room. I turned unsteadily. “Please, tell me.”

He stopped, keeping his back to me. He didn’t say anything, and I didn’t move. I could see him breathing slowly, his fingers tapping subtly on his thigh. Finally, he cleared his throat and said in his usual dismissive tone,

“I took care of them, the men that attacked you.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I simply stood in the kitchen, surprise on my face.

“Took care of them, as in-“

“There is no possibility that they will ever be able to hurt you again,” he confirmed simply. I continued to stare at him, a question rising in my throat that I was almost afraid to ask. Sherlock continued to stand, unmoving, and finally, I had to voice my words.

“Why… Why did you do that?”

I expected a sarcastic answer, or even no answer at all. What I did not expect was for Sherlock to turn back around and lock his eyes with mine. I did not expect him to take two and a half steps closer, and I certainly didn’t expect his hand to brush my curls back from my face.

“For the same reason you consulted with Mycroft in my place.”

The expression on my face must have been priceless, because for once in a blue moon, Sherlock actually smiled. Not half a lip twitch, not a smirk, not even forced politeness. He gave me a warm, genuine smile as I stood there, piecing together what he’d just said.

“I’ll leave you to your deductions,” he said softly. “Goodnight, Laicee.”

And, just to throw my brain into more turmoil, Sherlock leaned down and pressed his lips fleetingly to my forehead. As quick as it’d happened, he pulled back and disappeared into his room.

I stood, dumbfounded, in the very center of the kitchen, all my problems forgotten and all of my pain put on hold as I tried to figure out what had just happened.