A/N Here it is. The final chapter of this story. Enjoy!

Going Home

The last two days have been hell. Literally. Nurse Armitage seems to feel it is her duty to continue to persecute me. Her jabs and pokes about my person are endless and overly rough and unnecessary in my opinion. When I informed her of this fact, she just grunted and told me to stop complaining. I can't believe the hospital board has not had her replaced. Surely they don't want such an unprofessional attitude to represent their nursing staff.

Nurse Armitage is insistent that her orders be followed to the letter. I have showered, shaved, and been frog marched up and down the corridor more times than I care to recall. My bodily fluids have been collected and criticized. Apparently even my blood is defective. There is no pleasing or placating the woman.

Mycroft stopped in today to wish me well and smirk at my dilemma. I swear he is the most unfeeling of siblings. There is no sympathy from his direction, not that I expect or desire any. He did present me with a new mobile of which I am marginally grateful. It is an improvement over my old one which was stolen in the mugging. At least setting it up is mildly entertaining and I can now text John.

ɸ

"Knock, knock. Are you decent?"

I look up as Molly Hooper comes around the half drawn curtain surrounding my bed.

"Of course," I say, and I can see a tiny glimmer of disappointment on her face. I shift a little in the bed to allow my hospital gown to ride up on my legs. I smirk as Molly's eyes widen and I am tempted to roll over on my side and give her a better show. I decide that would not be wise. I am too sore for that much movement and Molly would probably melt into a puddle. I can't have my pathologist fainting on me.

"I-I brought you some coffee," she stammers. "I made it myself, just the way you like."

I perk up. Coffee sounds wonderful after the swill I have been served lately.

"Is it decaffeinated?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. But it is a special blend and I think you will like it." Molly tells me as she holds out the travel cup.

I cautiously take a sip. It's actually quite good. Not that I will admit it of course. She looks at me in expectation.

"It's tolerable," I say and she sighs with relief. I might have as well told her it was fantastic. It is a game we play.

"I hear you may go home tomorrow."

I nod and take another sip. It is excellent coffee, its rich flavor glides across my taste buds enticing me to drink more fully.

"Yes, and none too soon. I'm dying of boredom."

Molly just nods sympathetically and then launches in on a story about one of her more interesting post mortems. That's one of the things I appreciate about Molly. She understands my need for diversion.

"It was fairly clear cut, an open and shut case," Molly giggles.

"Don't make jokes Molly," I tell her. She just rolls her eyes and grins at me before continuing her story.

"Samuel Douglas, sixty-seven years old, a retired army major," she states. "He choked on large mass of some sort of green plastic. It was still lodged in his throat. It wasn't until I opened him up that I figured out what was going on." She looks at me expectantly.

"Pica," I said. "An eating disorder typically defined as the persistent ingestion of nonnutritive substances, most often occurring in children and pregnant women."

"Yes," Molly agreed. "But recently there has been an upsurge of pica among men who are body builders. They tend to starve themselves in order to reduce their body fat. This seems to have been the case for poor Mr. Douglas. His health records indicate his concern for keeping fit. What do you think I found in his stomach?"

I see her grin. What would a retired army officer eat that is green and plastic? Grenades are metallic, bullets aren't plastic. I shake my head.

Not enough information," I say.

Molly laughs. She always enjoys stumping me. Not that it happens often. Sometimes, I confess, I allow her to win.

"Green plastic toy army men! He bit off their heads first, then chewed the bodies up and swallowed them. I counted over a hundred and thirty heads plus the bodies," she says.

"An army travels on its stomach," I quote. "Or in this case, in the stomach."

Molly snickers. We both break out into laughter.

At this point we are interrupted by Nurse Armitage, who arrives carrying a large box of supplies.

"I'm afraid you will have to excuse us," she tells Molly. "I need to change his dressing."

"Oh, of course," Molly says as she stands and prepares to leave.

"You don't have to go," I tell her as I give the nurse a frown.

"It's okay. I really need to get back to the lab. Text me when you get home tomorrow," Molly says as slips from the room.

"Well, your lady friend seems to be doing you some good," Nurse Armitage observes. "This is the first time I have heard you laugh."

"She's not my lady friend," I tell her. "She's my pathologist!" How has she come up with a crazy idea that Molly is my girlfriend?

"Oh, well excuse me," Nurse says calmly, then looks me in the eye and grins. "You don't look as if you are in need of a pathologist just yet. If you don't mind my saying, I think you have done an excellent job of recuperating so far."

I stare at her. Is she making a joke? Before I can respond her grin fades and she becomes all business.

"Right, you know of course, due to the nature of your wound, the surgeons decided it would be best to allow it to heal from the inside out, rather than closing it off completely. When we removed the drainage tube yesterday, we packed it with a sterile gauze strip to absorb fluids. Today I am installing a wound-vac. It will suck the fluids away and allow your wound to heal twice as fast as using gauze strips alone."

I watch in fascination as she removes the gauze strip and replaces it with a long strip of sponge like material. She uses a cotton swab on a long stick to poke it down into my stomach.

"That looks like weather stripping that you put around windows and doors to stop drafts."

"Yes, it's the same material, only sterile medical grade of course. It is very absorbent."

After she finishes with the packing of my wound, she attaches a patch of clear plastic material over the opening and secures the edges with strong adhesive tape, pokes a hole in the plastic sheet and inserts a tube which she secures with more adhesive tape. The tube, which now extends from my stomach, is attached to a small pump and feeds into a small receptacle which will collect the fluids as they are vacuumed from my body.

When she turns the vacuum on, I feel a slight tingle. The plastic covering flattens to my skin as the excess air is removed.

"Do you feel any pain?"

"No, I don't feel much of anything. There's a sensation of slight pressure, like someone placing a tight plaster to the skin, but nothing else."

"Good. That's the way it is supposed to feel. If you have pain or if it makes loud bubbling sounds, the seal has been compromised. Try putting more adhesive tape over the whole area. If that doesn't work, we may have to remove everything and replace it with a new bandage. It's not rocket science. I'm sure you will be able to figure it out. Of course it goes without saying Mr. Holmes, this technology is very expensive. The pump alone causes more than twenty thousand pounds. I urge you to treat the equipment gently."

"And how long do I have to walk about tied to this machine?"

"Not long at all. Maybe two or three weeks. It depends on your body's ability to heal itself."

"Two or three weeks!" I stare at her in horror. "I can't go about London with a machine strapped to my stomach for two or three weeks!"

"First, you will be too tired to go about London much. And second, the pump has a handy leather carrying case with a shoulder strap. It is very discreet. I doubt if many people will even notice it. The rechargeable battery pack lasts four to six hours. Plenty of time for any venturing out you may do. When you are resting or sleeping it can be plugged into the wall."

She gathers her materials up. "Cheer up Mr. Holmes. This will all be over before you know it." She pats my knee and bustles out of the room.

What in the world? What is the pat on the knee all about? Had she just tried to humor me? I hate being humored! I think I like her better as the nurse from Hell.

ɸ

The morning flew by. In no time I am sitting in the back of Mycroft's limo as it pulls up to 221b

"You don't have to come with me." I tell him.

"It's no bother, besides, I wouldn't miss this for the world." He says rather cryptically.

I admit, the stairs are a challenge. I am glad for Mycroft's shoulder. It is a relief to get to the top and enter the flat. John is sitting in his chair. His foot is propped up and he is enjoying a fresh cup of tea.

"You look better." I tell him.

"So do you."

Before I can say anything else, Nurse Armitage appears from the kitchen.

"Welcome home, Mr. Holmes. Would you like a cup of tea?"

My mouth drops open. "What are you doing here?"

"Your very considerate brother has hired me for special duty while you recuperate," Nurse Armitage smiles. "Now sit down and relax. I don't want you to push yourself too fast and endanger your recovery."

"Mycroft!" I yell at his disappearing back. "You get back here, now!"

"No need to thank me brother," His voice floats back as he reaches the outside door.

"Now sit down Mr. Holmes, before you fall down," my very own private nurse from Hell commands. I look over to John for support. He grins and takes a sip of tea.

It's going to be a long recovery.