The Pianist

XXIX

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Slowly, consciousness returned to her like a distant echo, gradually pulling her from the depths of unconsciousness into the harsh reality of the present. Her eyelids fluttered open, heavy with grogginess, and she found herself bathed in the sterile glow of the hospital room.

The steady beep of monitors filled the air, their rhythmic cadence a constant reminder of the fragility of life. With each breath, she felt a dull ache radiating from her shoulder, a persistent throb that served as a grim testament to the events that had transpired.

As her senses gradually sharpened, she became aware of the weight of bandages wrapped tightly around her wounded shoulder, their presence a stark reminder of the bullet that had torn through flesh and bone. With a trembling hand, she reached up to gingerly touch the bandages, wincing as pain flared anew with the slightest movement.

A soft sigh escaped her lips as the memories of that fateful night flooded back, each moment etched into her mind with painful clarity. The gunshot, the searing pain, Sherlock's frantic efforts to save her– it all felt like fragments of a nightmare from which she could not escape.

A creaking sound drew her attention, and she slowly turned my head to see the door to the hospital room slowly swinging open. A familiar figure stepped through the doorway, his expression etched with concern and relief.

"Sherlock," She murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, the sound hoarse and raspy from disuse.

His gaze met hers, a flicker of emotion passing through his eyes before he stepped closer to her bedside. With gentle hands, he reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from her forehead, his touch a soothing balm against the chaos that raged within her.

"Lauraine," he whispered, his voice soft yet filled with an undercurrent of emotion, "You're awake."

She nodded weakly, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips despite the pain that still coursed through her body. In that moment, the weight of everything they had endured seemed to lift, replaced by a sense of gratitude for the simple blessing of being alive.

"Did she get away?" She murmured, referring to Irene. She could see Sherlock sigh as he sat down on the bed next to her bruised body. "She did." He sighed, his hand on her leg on top of the blanket. "What about the man that shot me?"

"Dead." Sherlock stated, a little flickering flame behind is eyes as he said it. "How's the pain?" He asked her, she sighed. "I feel like I'm being pulled apart, but they won't give me any more morphine through the IV." She answered, pointing up to the IV with her good arm though even that movement stung her shoulder too. 

Sherlock smirked and lifted from the bed, walking over to the IV pole. "Let me see." She could see him starting to turn one of the levers on the IV bag, allowing more morphine to flow through the IV into her arm. She smirked at Sherlock's miscievous behaviour. "Just don't tell the nurses." He whispered before he leaned down and placed a kiss on the crown of her head. "I'll leave you to sleep, let the morphine do it's work. I'll be back to check on you tonight."

"Alright, thanks for coming."

"Always." He answered as he slipped on his coat and closed the door behind him. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Normally, she slept deeply, especially when she was under the influence of medication such as morphine. However, she felt a presence in the room whilst she laid in the bed, trying to sleep. The pain that shot through her shoulder was so prominent that she couldn't sleep properly. 

The IV in her arm bothered her insanely, but she was happy to have it because it made her sleep and feel better. The room was dark, which was also something she didn't like. Her head was turned away from the door, and yet, in the dark depths of the room she could hear something. Someone. "So pretty." The voice said soflty into the quietness of the room, she recognised it, and it was someone she didn't want to hear. A silent pair of footsteps closed in around her. "So hateful." The voice seethed, and she felt the IV being fiddled from her arm. Although she tried to keep still, she couldn't help but wince at the sharp stinging pain. 

Finally, she had to open her eyes and found her room to be empty, nobody there. Had she dreamed all of it? She could see that there was no evidence of anyone else ever having been there. The only thing that made her realise that this hadn't been anything remotely close to a dream, was the droplet of blood on her arm and the IV dangling beside her, now replaced by what she recognized as a butterfly needle, tapping blood from her arm and dropping it onto the floor through the tube attached. 

For the first couple of seconds, she tried multiple times to call for help through the button. When after the 6th time she failed again, she just gave up and slumped down into the hospital sheets, exhausted. Sherlock would be there in soon enough, and she wouldn't exactly die from not having the morphine from the IV. As for the blood dropping from her arm, she hoped that Sherlock or Mycroft or even a nurse would get there before she lost three litres of blood. She was a fighter. 

"Nurse!" She heard someone shout and it shocked her so much that her eyes shot open. She'd either fallen asleep or unconscouis, either way she was resting. She saw Sherlock and Mycroft standing by her bedside, and she gripped onto Sherlock's forearm. "He was here." She tried to tell him, but they both just ignored her and kept shouting for a nurse and pressing the call button. 

She moved her head, looking Mycroft straight in the eyes. "Did you do this?" He demanded, holding up the IV, staring down at the blood trickling down her arm and the puddle of blood on the tile floor. She just looked at him through flutterting eyes in disbelief. "Did you?" He added harshly. 

"Mycroft, that's enough." Sherlock stated and pushed Mycroft out of my face so that he could stand before me. "Go get some help." Sherlock told him, looking behind and Mycroft just huffed before storming out of the room. 

"It was Moriarty." She stated, and Sherlock's jaw dropped. "I'm certain it was him." she added. 

Sherlock took a moment to pull himself together again and the expression on his face was thoughtful. "We need to get you out of here. This is not safe."

"Yeah, no shit Sherlock." She stated as she tried to sit up, flinching as pain shot through her body, starting from her shoulder.

She turned her head to the door as Mycroft walked into the room, leaning on his umbrella and a nurse following him. 

"We need to get her out of here." Sherlock stated immediately.

"Sir, she can't leave just yet."

"Hell to you, if we don't want her impaled with another bullet, she is coming with us."