Sonata and Fugue Ch. 2

Sherlock was still silent, and John continued, “Where did they find her?”

“Here in the morgue. She was lying face down on the table, completely nude,” Mycroft’s phone beeped, signaling he had a text message. “Excuse me, I’ve got to make a quick call,” he began to dial a number and exited the room.

John looked at his friend and wondered what Sherlock had discovered in the mere ten minutes he had been in the room. Sherlock walked towards the window and looked outside and continued to remain silent. John had grown accustomed to random silences of Sherlock Holmes and learned to not take it personally, even though he did at times. His focus returned the young woman on the bed. John studied the slow breathing and noticed her eyes moving underneath her eyelids – she was dreaming. That’s when she uttered a loud and painful scream.

Sherlock was instantly by Fiona’s side, pressing the code button to call a nurse. Within moments, a disgruntled nurse came in.

“Stand aside,” she shove Sherlock out of her way and patted Fiona’s hand and whispered reassuring words. Fiona grabbed the nurse’s hand and squeezed, while the nurse looked at the morphine drip. A moment later, Fiona’s hand let go of the nurse and her breathing returned to normal.

John was confused. Most patients in a coma rarely had normal functions such as screaming or grabbing a hand. “Miss, I thought her chart said she was comatose?”

The nurse looked at John and gave him a look. “First, you are certainly not authorized to read her chart,” she paused to adjust Fiona’s pillow and began to take her pulse, “and secondly, she is not comatose. The chart only says that so that we don’t state the obvious that we’re sedating her for her safety and ours.” Satisfied with the reading, the nurse picked up the chart and jotted down some notes.

Sherlock moved in the direction of the nurse. “You mean to tell me that as health care professionals, you’re purposely sedating a woman? You have not right to do that. Is it because your daughter’s children keep you up all night? Or is it because you’re just tired of taking care of everyone else?” The harsh tone did not startle the nurse. She closed the chart and placed it back in its proper spot, then approached Sherlock, making their personal distance from one another incredibly uncomfortable.

“Sir, if you had seen the state she was in when we first got her you’d understand. And I can assure you, we have every cause. It’s that or we’ll keep her in a constant state of pain and distress,” the nurse turned and left the room in a hurry, brushing past Mycroft, who was re-entering the room.

“Sherlock, do you always have to make everyone uncomfortable?” Mycroft chastised.

Sherlock paid no mind and focused again on Fiona. “What did the nurse mean by that? You said she was found unconscious.”

“She woke up and had a fit. It was before I arrived and she apparent broke the nose of an intern as they tried to move her. The doctors tell me that whenever she is a little coherent, she screams at the sight of most men, either trying to claw their eyes out or push them away. They have the tape if you’d like to observe.”

“Sherlock,” John said as he moved to an empty chair, “I don’t think you need to see that tape. You can figure out everything you need from here and the case file.” John’s calm voice brought Sherlock back to reality; whose eyes flickered back to the face of Fiona. Something was there, some kind of history John was most curious about. Sherlock sat in the chair to the left of Fiona’s hospital bed. He crossed his legs and put his hands together, as if he was going to pray.

“I need to see all of her markings,” his voice was quiet. John looked at him; there was no way a doctor would allow such a thing.

Mycroft scoffed, “there is no way I’m touching her, or moving her.”

“No matter, I can get someone to do it for me.” He pulled out his phone and sent a text.

“You cannot mean that girl from the morgue?”

John’s eyes widened. “SHERLOCK! You can’t do that to Fiona. I don’t care how badly you want to view those markings; all I’ll allow you to do is look at whatever pictures they’ve taken. Don’t you dare move that poor girl.” The agitated tone startled Sherlock and Mycroft. There was another awkward silence. These men clearly were not the kind of brothers who comforted one another, John thought. His pulse was racing from yelling at Sherlock. Mycroft cleared his throat.

“I’ll have someone e-mail you the case file and photographs. I do not doubt you can handle this. But I didn’t ask you to solve a case.” His gaze met Sherlock’s.

“Then why did you drag me here?” Anger was slowly rising; there was no need to call upon him if there was no case.

“Why Sherlock,” Mycroft said, “I called you here to be nothing but a comforting friend to Fiona. After all, we’re all the family she has.” Mycroft nodded to John and left the room.

More silence filled the room; the only noises were the machine’s Fiona was hooked up too. John noticed Sherlock had a faraway look upon his face; probably trying to figure out Mycroft’s true reasoning behind his presence at the hospital. Why couldn’t he just be normal for once and understand not every situation was a chance to be right?

Sherlock wished for his violin. The comfort he felt when playing an intricate piece of music was like no other; there was comfort in the way his bow moved effortlessly over the string, producing the most soothing melodies. Fiona always like his music, he thought briefly. For a moment, he grabbed her bow arm and turned her palm over. There were calluses on her hand from playing, he noticed. Sherlock pulled out his mobile phone from his pocket and began searching for solo performances in the past few weeks. After a few minutes of clicking and scrolling he found what he was looking for.

“John, I need you to go to the Southbank Centre and track down a Frederick Pierce. He was probably the last person to see Fiona,” Sherlock said.

John looked up at him. “Why wouldn’t you go?”

“You heard Mycroft, I’m here to comfort Fiona,” he replied while nodding towards Fiona’s bed. John sighed, stood up, and put on his coat. “Oh,” Sherlock said as John was walking out the door, “she won’t be going by Fiona. When you see Frederick, tell him you’re inquiring about Alice Lewis.”