SHERLOCK I, II, III & IV • #wattys2016

a villian's return

John lay in the hospital bed.  The familiar pulsing beep beside him reminded him of his entrapment. He looked over at the white machine several times, giving it a glowering stare as if the device even had feelings to hurt. John looked down at the inside of his forearm where an IV had been inserted—that is, if it really was an IV. Taking a breath, John turned to see a nurse passing by his window. She disappeared for a moment and then reappeared at the door. She stepped in with a smile he couldn’t tell was plastic or genuine.

“Hello, Mr. Watson.”

“Hello.”

The nurse turned and closed the door before coming over by his beside. She held a clipboard in her hands, but one hand was hidden behind it. John was immediately suspicious.

“What do you need?”

“I was sent in here by Andrew Brooklyn. Your friend, Sherlock Holmes, has gotten himself into a bad accident and probably won’t be able to come and visit you.” Her porcelain white face smiled in annoying mischief. “So, I’ve been requested to give you one phone call. Andrew is on his way to Sherlock to give him a phone. You two will probably have a lot to talk about before he dies.”

John pushed himself up, but found that he couldn’t move his legs. Looking around in panic, as if the objects and white walls around him had the answers, he said, “I can’t move my legs.”

“Don’t be frightened. We numbed them so you won’t run away.”

“Does anyone know what you’re doing?”

“Well, a technician came in and fixed up whatever Mr. Holmes did to our system, and as far as the real practitioners know, they think you’re really coming in for cancer surgery. It’s a game using the system and,” she stopped and tapped the side of her head. “I’ll be back to check on you, Mr. Watson.”

“What about Simon and Charlie? Do you know where they are?”

The nurse stopped at the door and looked at the doctor over her shoulder. “Last time I heard they were drowned in a tunnel. By the time their bodies are recovered, Andrew and his team will disappear again. You and your friend were wrong to pick a battle with us.”

“Sherlock’s never going to give you the codes.”

Laughing through her thin lips, she purred, “I don’t know about that.” She gave him a cocky waggle of the head before leaving his room. The door clicked behind her, and echoed over and over again in John’s mind. He closed his eyes and his lips parted in desperate need for air.  His lips moved slightly, mumbling the name he feared to lose. His eyes opened and for a moment, he thought he saw Alana standing in front of him with her gentle smile and bold, brave eyes. “Alana?” but at mentioning of her name, she disappeared. Tossing his head back, John shook his head slowly. “Oh, dammit, Sherlock, where are you?” Sighing, he began remembering his favored moments with the detective. How he missed those days where everything, despite the fierceness, seemed possible.

“I’ve got a story, John,” the deep voice said as the owner’s hand slipped from his friend’s face.

Rubbing his eyes, John sat up in bed and tapped the bedside lamp. He was greeted with a grinning Sherlock, who held three transparent cards.

Nodding to the objects, John asked in a droning voice, “What are those?”

“Cellophane paper. Had Mrs. Hudson pick them up—,”

“No, no, no, I know what they are. I meant, why do you have them?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows popped up in excitement and he sprung onto the bed, landing Indian style.  He placed the three cards out in front of his partner and began rapidly, “These are the colours on the triangle string: white, blue, and gold. Now, you must listen carefully, otherwise you’ll miss a lot.” Sherlock rubbed his hands together and straightened his arms so that his sleeves flew up past his elbows.  Pointing to the white card, Sherlock began systematically –