Inspired by the song Strange and Beautiful by Aqualung. Try listening to it while reading :)

Disclaimer: I don't own the show nor the song.

Every 7 o'clock in the morning, the blinds in room 315 is pulled open by one of the two present nurse-on-call. The dextrose drip rate would be adjusted and knobs and dials of the life support system would be turned, flicked, checked and recorded. A stimuli test would be conducted afterwards. Once it's over, the nurses would delicately but swiftly maneuver the patient so that they could change the bed sheets, fluff up the pillows, clean and massage the inactive body to prevent pressure ulcers and adjust the bed to what they think is a more comfortable angle for the occupant. On Tuesdays, the red-haired intern would turn on the telly before leaving. The rest of the week, they would leave the room in silence.

Silence

That is a word that would definitely be attached with that place. It was the last room down the hall, farthest from the elevator or the stairs. The door always stays closed and the looking window always veiled. The patient never caused any ruckus, one: for obvious reasons, two: the medical charts show stability of physical condition for five months already. No disruptions from the visitors either, for they come in one by one. To the nurses working on the floor, it's as if there is an unspoken rule between those people. When one comes the other goes, as if the room can't hold more than one conscious soul.

To be honest they expected more happenings, given the identity of their patient. Even before they saw the sleeping face in their hospital bed, they sometimes see it, for the past two years, plastered in newspapers or flashed in their television screens. Some of them have seen the patient personally before the unfortunate incident, mostly along the halls of the basement. At first, they thought there would be a steady stream of people coming and going, if not to visit then to at least have a glance, sneak a picture and curb their curiosity. But then again, how can one visit a patient that doesn't exist in the first place.

When the mangled body was brought in the emergency they expected tons of interference and commotion in St. Bart's. Instead, the staff in the third floor found themselves signing a crispy white paper before preparing room 315 for a Mr. Ludlow who is apparently suffering from prostate cancer. The rest of the hospital watched as reporters camped in front of St. Thomas Hospital, hoping for a glimpse.

Months after, they've all agreed that with the amount of action they've seen so far, there wasn't much to hush about.

Except perhaps, when a particular person comes to visit.

Everyone knows this visitor. They think that word shouldn't even be used.

The night nurse didn't even bother to raise her head when she heard the approaching footsteps. She knows the drill already. She knows that if she looks up, she'd see the tired eyes, pursed lips and the single white narcissus trapped in a clenched hand. She knows that if she chooses to stare, she'll only be hit with an emotion she thought she had shed after 40 years of working in the intensive care unit. The same goes for everyone. Gazes would flick, eyes would stray for a few seconds, but no staff would look directly at the visitor.

The looming reality surrounding room 315 is too much already.

No one enters the room when the visitor is present.

'Another day...'

The door handle felt heavy and cold as ice. The room however, was flooded with sunlight, warming all corners and illuminating every spot. It hurts too much to look.

'You're still sleeping.'

The chair beside the bed looks inviting, but it won't be used this time. This, like all the other visits will be brief.

'You know, everyone's waiting.'

The only other area that will be occupied in the room is the spot right next to the bedside table.

'All this time they have been waiting for you.'

A narrow vase stood on top of the table. It was full of fresh water.

'I've been waiting for you'

A tentative hand weaved through the air, halting just a few centimeters above the one laying on top of the clean white sheet.

"You're being selfish again."

The door was closed shut seconds after.

"Here are the results..."

"Yes, yes, this fits everything. He's here. He's finally here..."

"Is there anything else I can do to help?"

"No, nothing. I already know where he is."

"Oh well, I'll call Lestrade then..."

"No! That will only aggravate the situation. And him. Besides, Lestrade would be too slow."

"Okay. Well your brother could do something."

"No! He won't either. Don't you think he hadn't anticipated that?"

"At least let John know. He cou-"

"NO! Stop it! Don't meddle with this anymore. You've done enough already!

...

"I'm sorry"

I've been watching your world from afar
I've been trying to be where you are

It is said that after 4 months, the chances of partial recovery is less than 15% and the number is even lower for full recovery. The patient in room 315 had been sleeping for 5 months and 13 days already. Whispers about plugs are starting to float through the air, but they immediately die down when one of the familiar faces enter the hall.

Today, it's the man with the kind eyes.

He walks through the lobby with slow steady steps and nods at the staff he meets, but even if he's not the visitor he still elicits the same feelings and they still try to avoid him as much as they can.

He always comes at the same day and at the same time. When he enters the door, the nurses automatically look at their watches. His visits lasts for one hour. Exactly one hour, not a minute more or less.

He moves like clockwork and they can't help but wonder if there's a whiteboard somewhere that has a tiny check box with the words: Go to the hospital, written beside it. However, they like his visits because when he comes, the silence in that room is broken. Words about present happenings from celebrity gossip to politics could be heard and stories about the lives of people involved with the patient seeps out of the walls and into the corridors.

No one comes near the room when he's present.

"Hi! Warm day isn't it?"

The room is the same as ever. Open blinds, beige walls, beeping machines and a peaceful face against a white pillow.

"Weather man said it's going to be unusually sunny today. I guess for once he's right."

Sounds of a chair being pulled bounced through the walls.

"Still taking a rest I see. God knows you deserve that."

Two tired eyes stared at the wilting flower perched on a blue vase.

"But don't you think you've slept enough already?"

Silence resumed for a while, until the rustling of clothes disrupted it.

"I uh...I brought this by the way. It's from my birthday."

Silence.

"Um, I decided we'd go to the pub for this year. Greg got so wasted he almost called his ex-wife. Mary gave me this hideous jumper."

Silence.

"Next year you have to come."

The drawer of the bedside table was opened and another picture was added to the growing pile stashed within it.

"Please be careful."

"I'm always careful."

"I mean...just, please come back."

"When did I ever not?"

"I'm just here. I'll...I'll wait for you."

...

...

...

"I know."

And I've been secretly falling apart...

unseen

Decisions about patients, especially unconscious ones, always comes from family members. The nurses aren't really sure which of the visitors are family members of the patient. They think it's the older ones.

Especially the man wearing the fancy suit.

He seems to be the one making the decisions. When he comes, the patient's attending doctor immediately materializes, seemingly out of nowhere. The rigid shoulders, modulated voice and formal manner in which the head doctor conducts himself, had left an impression to the nurses that they are dealing with an important person, although none of them knows his name.

However, they've only seen him five times, six if today's counted already. He comes once per month. Like all of his other visits, when the suited man strolled through the lobby today, the head doctor immediately appeared beside him. Upon reaching the nurse's station, records of the patient were immediately demanded. The nurses watched as the suited man and the doctor walked up to the door of room 315, all the while discussing the patient's current condition. They kept their eyes peeled as the two men stopped in front of the door. They stared as more words were spoken, first from the doctor's mouth and then eventually from the suited man. They watched in amazement as the head doctor grow more and more anxious even though the suited man appears to be talking calmly. However, they immediately lowered their eyes when the suited man entered the room and the head doctor started walking back with hurried steps and a shaking head.

The head doctor is always visibly shaken after talking to the man.

No one else dares talk to the suited man when he comes.

'Still in coma...'

Brown eyes skirted through every corner of the room, taking in as much as every detail could tell.

'It's been five months and three weeks already.'

Black oxfords moved across the floor to come and rest at the foot of the bed.

"Everything's being taken cared of."

The beeps from the latest medical technologies fitted within, gave the room the undertones of life.

'Not everyone's alright though.'

A clink broke the monotone, as a small key was placed beside the stacked pictures

"What do you think of my little surprise Sherlock?"

"Let her go."

"Oh why would I? I like her. I keep all the things I like."

"Not her."

"I like you too."

To me, you're strange and you're beautiful,

You'd be so perfect with me but you just can't see,

The third floor is reserved for serious cases. The nurses that work there are all used to seeing emotional family members or visitors who had just either been informed of a grave illness or certain death. They all know how to handle those who are gripped by sudden loss. The ones harder to deal with are those waiting.

Waiting for a hello or a goodbye.

The third floor is the limbo of the conscious world.

Everyday they see people bearing gifts or flowers and wearing masks of bravery. Through time, they see the cracks. It's very hard to keep a cheery demeanor when hope is slipping away. However, there are times, rare times, when a sunny soul comes in. The kind of people who are either truly optimistic or simply delusional.

They hope that the elder lady in violet falls on the former.

She always greets them when she comes and always shows them the gifts she have: a lovely arrangement of flowers brought from the florist across the street, knitted socks for the patient's cold feet and sometimes, baked goodies she shares with the staff.

She's always smiling and talks about what she'll cook once the patient wakes up.

No one engages her in a long conversation when she visits.

"Hello dear!"

A bulky bag was immediately plopped down the floor as a tired body slumped down the chair beside the bed.

"Oh, my hip's feeling kind of sore now with all the walking and carrying that I did today."

A crinkled hand reached out to the one lying motionless.

"But don't worry about it dear, a small price to pay to see you."

Another hand shot through the air to completely clasp the cold immobile hand.

"Everything is going well dear. Mycroft made all the arrangement for your flat. You'll find it intact when you wake up."

Brittle fingers squeezed reassuringly as if they could be felt by the sleeper.

"I have just finished my gift for your birthday."

The limp hand was soon returned to the bed as the other pair of hands became busy going through the bulky bag.

"When you wake up, I hope you could wear this for me."

A knitted scarf was placed underneath a fresh narcissus flower.

"This does not concern her."

"But this concerns you, therefore it concerns her too"

"But she's just the pathologist."

"She's Jim's pathologist."

"Then what's the point of this?"

"Yours too apparently."

"No."

You turn every head but you don't see me.

The roof of St. Bart's is now heavily locked and regularly patrolled. Staffs and patients alike now have to find another hiding place to pull a fag because if one isn't enough, two incidents should do the trick. The first incident had brought multitude of curious eyes in the restricted area but when the second incident occurred, it felt as if the whole of London wanted to see it. Who wouldn't, when the area is the main location of a very bloody saga. The embellishments of the media didn't do any good either. They only made the story soar into the ranks of near mythology. After all, it has the makings of a Hollywood plot: a god-like hero, an unfortunate woman and a deranged villain. Or rather, villains for there was a sequel. Even the ending of the story is Hollywood-esque: two people dead both from gunshot wounds and another in a coma.

However, for the medical personnel in the third floor, the story doesn't end there. The reality of room 315 can't be compared to some high funded movie anthology. They were the ones who had to deal with the gushing blood, the fractured skull, the gunshot wound, the barely beating heart and the non-responsive body. They are the ones who had to deal with the people and the heaviness that envelopes the room after every visit.

They are the ones who had to deal with the one person who safely walked away.

"Let her go."

"Now you're just being repetitive. I'm not even touching her."

"Don't be daft, you know what I mean."

"Oh yeah I do. She's not tied, she can walk away if she wants to. Right, darling?."

"Then what's with the dancing red dots."

"I did say she could walk away if she wants to. But that didn't mean I would want her to."

"What do you want?"

"Jump, like were you're supposed to or if you want, I can just shoot you."

"Even if I jump you'll still shoot her."

"Who said she'll walk away from here?"

"Who said those red dots are still yours."

"I know..."

BANG

I'll put a spell on you

You'll fall asleep when I put a spell on you

"Sherlock, I-"

"Don't. You wouldn't want to say that."

"But-"

"Sentiment is for the losing side Molly."

"That's not true."

"It is and I've always seen it that way. I never lose Molly."

"That's what you think. But maybe you just don't see it. You are on the losing side already."

"I've never lost and I don't plan to do so in the future."

"Sometimes losing something isn't that bad."

And when I wake you

I'll be the first thing you see

'It's six months already...'

A hand reached out to replace the wilted narcissus.

'You have to wake up now.'

Silence.

'Prove me wrong. Wake up now...'

And you'll realise that you love me.

"...Molly"

Sometimes, the last thing you want comes in first,

Sometimes, the first thing you want never comes,

And I know, that waiting is all you can do,
Sometimes...