Orphan on Baker Street

Fortieth: Park

Mrs. Hudson and I sit in front of Dr. Flannagan's desk, which is actually very neat for a doctor's. A computer screen and keyboard sit on the left side - from my point of view - turned diagonally towards the black swivel chair. My own chair is leather and pale blue; so is Mrs. Hudson's. There's a large window behind the desk with shut blinds and no curtains; bookshelves and framed degrees line the walls on either side of me, and I notice a few hand drawn pictures held up by thumbtacks.

The door opens and closes with a light click behind me, and I glance over my shoulder. Dr. Flannagan is a petite, blonde, Irish woman, probably in her 50s, with wrinkles by her eyes. She greets us with a smile.

"Mickey, it's wonderful to see you again," she says as she takes a seat behind the desk. "I assume your aunt told you I wanted to see you about the cancer. How is the chemotherapy?"

I give her a small smile. "It's going pretty well, actually. I'm not really feeling the symptoms, which is good, but..."

"But you aren't sure if it's working?" Dr. Flannagan finishes for me. I give the woman a shy nod. "Well, we'll have to run a few tests to see for sure. If the cancer has gotten worse or hasn't done anything, we could either conduct a surgery - depending - or increase the chemotherapy's intensity."

I glance over at Mrs. Hudson. She has her hands folded in her lap, and she looks down at them with concentration. Then she looks back up to Dr. Flannagan.

"When might she be able to take the tests?" Mrs. Hudson asks.

"Now, actually," Flannagan responds, looking between the two of us. "Is that inconvenient? I could change it to next week."

"Mickey?" Mrs. Hudson glances at me, and my eyes widen slightly.

"Um, sure. Now is fine," I say quickly.

"Alright, then," Dr. Flannagan says, standing and smiling at me. "This shouldn't take too long."

+

The results should be in the mail in a few days. I took an x-ray, and my doctor said that last time they saw a small hole in my bone; if it's gotten worse, it should be bigger. I personally don't think it has gotten any worse. My shoulder pains aren't as frequent. I feel like I've dodged a bullet, and I'm one of the luckier cancer victims.

Mrs. Hudson sits beside me on a park bench. We decided that fresh air would help, but I don't know what she was referring to. The bench overlooks a hill that slopes down into the Thames. I've never noticed the park before today...

The two of us sit and talk softly about doctor appointments and Rickey. I tell her about the movies next week, and she gets excited.

"I wish I could find a man like that," she says happily.

"What ever happened to your husband? I don't think I've heard the full story." I glance over at her.

"He got the death sentence," she says wryly. "Sherlock helped with that."

"Oh," I say. "I take it you didn't like him..."

"I liked him, but it wasn't really your ideal marriage," she says carefully. "He was a murderer, though, so I didn't mind that he was gone. I mean, what if he had killed me?"

I give her a frown. "That would have been terrible."

"Exactly," Mrs. Hudson exclaims, tapping my knee quickly. "I'm fine without a man, though. After all, I've got you and Sherlock and sometimes John, even though he's off doing his own things."

"Do you think Sherlock misses John?" My gaze wanders over to a man walking his dog by the river. He wears a hat, sunglasses, and long clothing despite the warm August sun.

"Of course he misses John! Who wouldn't miss John? I mean, I know Sherlock doesn't show it that often, but he cares about people..." She trails off, and I keep my eyes trained on the man and his dog. It seems very well behaved, and I notice he wears a bluetooth. His shoulders are broad, and it takes me a moment to realize I'm slowly standing. Am I deducing? Am I close to a realization? I get frustrated as I can't place it.

"Mickey," Mrs. Hudson says behind me. A hand on my elbow startles me, and I turn to her.

"We have to go," I whisper, even though the man is definitely out of earshot. She glances down at the man before taking my hand and leading me past a busy swingset and to the streets. We hail a cab.

Once safely inside of 221B, Mrs. Hudson locks the door and yells up the stairs. "Sherlock, are you home?"

Sherlock comes running from his flat and up to us, inspecting our faces closely. "You're startled, and not by me. What happened at the park?"

"There was a man," I start quickly. "He had broad shoulders and a well trained dog and a bluetooth."

"The broad shoulders set you off," he mutters. "How tall was he?"

I hesitate before answering. "I don't know... He was far away, and I just found it suspicious that he-"

"Let me get my coat," he interrupts before turning and taking the stairs by twos. "Mrs. Hudson, go make yourself some tea."

The woman rushes past me and around the corner into her own flat. Sherlock is back downstairs within moments, flipping his collar up quickly and wrapping his scarf around himself.

"If your suspicions are right, there's a man in the exact same hat nearby." He brushes past me to the door, unlocking it.

"What do you mean? How do you know? Is it the same man?"

"No, it's just the same hat." He opens the door quickly, and I follow him out onto the sidewalk. We look both ways, my eyes skimming over every person.

"Don't skim - really look," he says sternly. "What color was the hat?"

"Red- wait! It was blue," I say quickly.

"Are you sure?"

"It was blue," I yell, glancing over at him. He stares across the street, and I notice a man in a red baseball cap and sunglasses walking his dog. It is not the same man, but it's the same hat.

"Go inside," Sherlock says without looking at me. I keep my eyes on the man, who seems to stop and look up and down the street. "Go inside," Sherlock insists quickly. The man casually crosses the street, his lips pursed as if whistling. He's about 10 feet to our left, and I can feel my heartbeat in every inch of my body. My thoughts go wild, and I can't seem to pin one down. The hat has the same scratch on the brim, like the other one, but this man's shoulders aren't as broad; he seems more muscular. It has to be one of Moriarty's men.

Sherlock finally stares down at me, and almost inaudibly he says, "Go inside." He pushes me roughly to the door, and I open it, stumbling. There's a loud noise as it closes quickly behind me, and another loud noise before I hear a dog barking. Door, then gunshot; door, then gunshot. That's how it went.

Mrs. Hudson rushes from her flat, eyes wide as she looks to me. My eyes start to water; he was here for her. What have I done wrong?