"Operator, operator! Get me the nearest hospital, quick!" Victor's hands were still full of pocket change as he leaned against the payphone, the hallways of the dining hall silent as the rest of the university studied hard in their respective classrooms. Taking exams, writing essay, discussing books. Careless, the lot of them. Careless that anyone had been lost from the mix, a man who had joined the shuffle for some thirty years now absent. Was Victor the only one to notice?
"No, no it's not an emergency. Or rather I'm not dying! I need to find a patient there, or...or worse I may need to inquire about a death," Victor heaved his words into the receiver, nearly tasting the breath of all the other callers from the past couple decades.
The line rang, and his heart beat. The line rang, and Professor Donavan collected his useless exam. The line rang, and the grave digger approached his shovel.
"Hello, Union County Medical Center, how can..."
"Do you have a list of patients?" Victor demanded, interrupting the secretary before she could even finish her sentence.
"May I ask who is calling?"
"I'm...I'm Victor Trevor, I'm at the University. I need to know if someone's in the hospital, or if he's dead."
"Sir, I'm going to need proper ID before I can disclose the whereabouts of our patients."
"Well just...just imagine it then! My ID's like everyone else's, I'm sure it's nothing special!"
"This is company policy, sir."
"Is there a Mr. Sherlock Holmes in your hospital?"
"I cannot disclose this information," the secretary repeated. "You will have to come to the hospital with valid identification before I release patient details."
"You're a witch!" Victor growled, letting the receiver fall from his hands without doing the courtesy of hanging up first. He hoped that secretary enjoyed the sound of clattering, as the plastic phone tumbled onto the carpeting and made enough noise to fill a rhythm section.
Without hesitation Victor ran for his car, thankful that he always kept his car keys in his backpack should the need ever arise. He had always imagined a more ridiculous need, such as one involving an emergency snack run, or a flee from campus because Reggie had toilet papered one of the academic buildings. He had never imagined it would be someone's life on the line, least of all someone who cared about. Least of all someone he loved. But what was he driving to? Victor could hardly know as he broke the speed limit down the hill, barreling through intersections and cross walks, figuring if he was ruining his life he better do a thorough job of it. If he was failing out of university he might as well be arrested, too. It was all for what, to identify a body? To show up as first of kin in absence of anyone else that had recognized Sherlock Holmes to be gone?
Victor parked alongside the road, feeding the meter with the coins he still had clutched in his palm from his time at the pay phone. His skin smelled of metal and his breath was sour with fear, though he ran towards the hospital in the fit of a madman, with motivation to perhaps throttle the very secretary who would not give him the honor of easing his mind. His vision was red as he pushed open the doors, though as he was hit with the severe sight of white walls, white floors, wheelchairs, and near total silence, the reality of his situation suddenly kicked in. This was indeed a hospital, a place where people went to die. This was where his care for Sherlock Holmes had led him, to a place no one else would want to go.
Victor approached the circular desk slowly, his steps in disbelief, half expecting the doors to lead back to where Sherlock Holmes always was, back to his office, back to his classroom. It felt strange that anyone would allow him to leave, as if he had to get written permission from the university to admit himself to the hospital, or even to be taken away to the morgue. He was trembling as he settled his hands on the counter, trembling in regret of what he had already done; trembling in fear of what was coming next. He passed his ID over the counter, wordlessly, to a woman who seemed to recognize him by the sheer panic in his eyes.
"Sherlock Holmes," Victor muttered again, his breath caught and his words struggling. "Is he here, or is he dead?"
The woman stared at him, her eyes remorseful, her scrubs animated with cartoon characters. Her phone ringing, and her patient log opened under manicured nails. She seemed to recognize his urgency, that must have been why she stalled. Or perhaps she told him right away, and time was just working differently for Victor. Time was working against him.
"We have him here."
"Dead, or alive?" Victor clarified urgently, his palms hot against the countertop. The woman's breath smelled of cigarettes and mint gum, her lipstick neat across her lips and her blue eye shadow unforgiving.
"Room 221," the woman admitted, pushing Victor's ID back across the countertop with a coldness about her, most likely unable to forget his quickest insult over the phone. Victor pocketed his ID, thanking the woman with a sincere look and a nod, suddenly immobilized by his relief yet choked with the fear of what he might find. Sherlock Holmes could have checked himself into the hospital out of precaution, or he might have been carted here by an ambulance. He could have twisted his ankle or fractured his skull...he might be conscious, he might not. Victor didn't know as he approached the elevators, though he figured he'd be the only one who cared to find out.

As Victor rode the elevator to the second floor he began to wonder what sort of lines he was crossing. When he had admitted to reading the letter he had agreed to stay silent about it, to forget about it, to let go of all memories and preoccupations that could have arisen from having this knowledge. Well of course he had broken that promise, in more ways than Sherlock Holmes could have realized, though he had to wonder if this visit had also been spurned by such preoccupation. Was his care for the Professor not spurned by his love of the material, or his ease with the teaching style? Did he flee to the man's side not to comfort him as his student, but to cherish him as a kindred soul?
The elevator dinged open, giving way to an abrupt and hideous framed photograph on the white wall. They had obviously tried to bring some light into the building, and offer guests a comforting view of a lakeside on a sunny morning. It seemed more taunting than anything, a final reminder that anywhere would be better than here. Victor stepped into the hall, smelling strongly of disinfectants and beeping with the steady but uncoordinated rhythm of life support. Some doors were closed, others ajar, some wide enough that he could peer inside to motionless shapes in the beds, shadows of illness and impeding death that were suffering in the lamplight. Victor swallowed hard, averting his eyes towards the floor as he moved through the hall, hoping that Professor Holmes's room would not be too far down this hall. He wondered what the purpose of the hall was, if this was recovery...or if this was hospice.
"Can I help you sir?" a nurse approached from behind, a small woman pushing a cart of fresh linens which gave off the familiar and almost calming scent of dryer sheets.
"I'm looking for room 221," Victor admitted, turning on his heel with a clammy, nervous expression. He knew he must look about as ghostly as anyone else in this hall, as he was already wounded with the loss of his academic career.
"Second door near the bend, on the left," the woman said sweetly, her eyes unconcerned, her voice light and airy. She had handled death before, death of men and women she knew nothing of. She pointed loved ones in the direction of their dying, and while she felt pity she forgot so quickly. She was here to change their beds, not mourn their losses. In some ways her fleeting nature was comforting, in other ways it was deeply insulting.
Following her directions and keeping a pace just quicker than the cart, Victor raced the woman to the bend in the hall and found the room as promised. There was a little placard on the wall identifying the room number with a blank slot where the name was to go. Professor Holmes must have been admitted very recently, as it would seem the nurses had yet to identify him. Victor hesitated at the door, hearing the rumbling of the laundry cart pass by and vanish down the rest of the hall. He was happy for the privacy, though he half wondered if the nurse would escort him inside. He wanted to know what he was getting into, or at least if he was allowed to be in there at all. What if Professor Holmes didn't want to see him? What if the man was angry, wondering why he was impeding on his privacy, why he had taken it upon himself to care? What if Professor Holmes was already dead, and it would be Victor's solemn task to summon the nurse and the mortician, the first to find him unmoving? The boy swallowed hard, though he had not abandoned his exam and broken multiple traffic laws just to be turned away at the door. He had to summon his courage, to rejuvenate that adrenaline; he had to remember why he had come in the first place. Why he cared in the first place.
Trembling, Victor rapped his knuckles against the wooden door. It was more of a warning rather than a request for invitation; he did not expect anyone to answer on the other side. And thus he did not wait for a word, habitually Victor reached for the knob, twisting it and allowing himself entry to the sick room of Professor Sherlock Holmes.
"What the hell did you knock for if you're just going to barge right in?" a groggy, grumpy voice challenged him the moment Victor opened the door, a mere shadow in the daylight who was faced with an equally unidentifiable silhouette against the light of the hall. "My god, if I have to swallow one more damn pill I'm going to..."
"Professor, I'm not a nurse!" Victor reminded him, stepping in so the light would be balanced and easing the door shut behind him. The room was dark but for the window, as if the Professor had been attempting sleep but was repeatedly interrupted. He was lying propped upon pillows, his form distinguishable against the mattress but covered by a thick woolen blanket pulled nearly to his chin, one which tried to hide just how thin he was without his tailored coats to add bulk with their fabric.
"Of course you're bloody not," Professor Holmes grumbled. "For nursing school you have to be half competent."
"Complimentary as usual," Victor muttered, his voice shaking with relief as he lingered uncomfortably by the door. He wasn't sure if he was allowed to approach the bedside, as if the chair next to the bed was reserved only for family and friends. Victor was in some sort of relationship limbo with the man, constantly unsure if they were truly friends or if he was being pitied and strung along in conversation, only now to face the consequences of his misunderstanding. The Professor already seemed upset, what were the chances he turned his anger against his student?
"What time is it, Victor?" Professor Holmes wondered, his arms pushing against the mattress so as to ease himself into more conversational of a position. He could hardly scoot himself an additional inch, his strength seeming to have left him, and after a while he settled down with a grumble, accepting his defeat and staring at the natural view of the ceiling.
"Almost nine o'clock," Victor admitted after consulting his wrist watch.
"Friday, correct?"
"Yes sir," Victor agreed. The Professor groaned, a thin arm banded with a paper identification band reaching to push the dangling dark curls from his forehead. His eyes were hallow, as if they had retreated into his head since his admission, as if the exhaustion of his life finally caught up to him. "Friday, almost nine o'clock. Tell me Victor, was it not my very syllabus that stated you had somewhere very important to be at this exact time? On this exact day?"
"The second exam," Victor agreed, stepping forward towards the bed without the initial invitation. He stepped almost in apology, as if he was approaching only to give the Professor the distance and leverage he needed to offer a slap across the face.
"Did you take it very quickly?"
"I didn't take it at all," Victor admitted. "Professor Donavan said you were sick, that the Dean had called. I couldn't..."
"Couldn't what?" Sherlock Holmes's eyes were alight now, shadowed by the overhang of his eye lids but ever fierce and intelligent, with the sort of spark found only in a brain that was habitually spurned towards knowledge.
"I couldn't take the test thinking you were dead." Victor admitted. "I'll...I'll suffer the consequences as they see fit."
"Who's they? I'm the one who decides your grade."
"Well, then I'll suffer the consequences as you see fit."
"Right. In that case, you fail."
"Professor!"
"You fail! You're an idiot, and here's the final proof! That you would abandon your classmates and come running to my bedside, it's a ridiculous lapse in judgement."
"An appreciated one, I hope?" Victor wondered, his cheeks red with humiliation and his chest tight. Were his initial fears correct, those which worried the Professor would send him away in an instant? Those which wondered where the line was drawn between a student and a Professor, and how much it would ever be appreciated when a hospital room was turned to an office.
"Well...it's not wholly unappreciated," the man admitted after a thoughtful pause, as if he had to put immense effort into scaling down his thanks. Victor smiled, now finally feeling brave enough to approach all the way to the bedside, feeling validated enough to look the old man in the eyes.

"Why are you here?" Victor wondered, only now remembering there was no firm explanation for his Professor's sudden admission into the hospital. Sherlock Holmes coughed for a moment, his voice dry and his lips visibly parched. There was a small cup of water on the table, though as Victor eyed it Professor Holmes waved his hand in dismissal, perhaps too ashamed to be fed water by his own student.
"They're telling me I fell, that my blood pressure dropped and I was found unconscious in the morning by my landlord. Well of course I remember none of it," the Professor grumbled, as if this was all some great inconvenience. "It's annoying, and they won't tell me when I can leave."
"If it's really just a fall, they can't keep you forever," Victor assured, mimicking his own confidence when indeed he knew nothing about medical best practice. By the sheer look of the man Victor did not find him fit to be back into the real world, unmonitored and living alone at the whim of the world. He looked scrawny enough to be a scarecrow, and sickly enough that he was much more natural in a hospital gown and a thick blanket. The idea of the man teetering at the head of the classroom made Victor shiver.
"They better not," Professor Holmes agreed. "Damn them! Take a seat, anyway."
"Oh, right," Victor hadn't expected the offering, though he was happy for the chance to pull the guest chair towards the bedside. Settling himself as comfortably as he could manage, Victor watched as Professor Holmes grabbed feebly at the water cup on his bedside table. His fingers were trembling with the effort, though he seemed to have enough strength to lift the thing towards his lap. That, however, seemed to be the last of his capabilities. Even with the cup pressed between both palms he seemed to lack the dexterity to lift it to his lips, and as he hesitated his strength seemed ever more fleeting, the water splashing up and out of the cup now with the tremors that shot through his arms and his shrinking muscles.
"Professor, let me help," Victor urged, lunging to grab the cup before the rest of its contents spilled over the man's woolen blanket. Sherlock Holmes sneered, as if he hated to accept help from anyone, though he made no verbal protest as Victor lifted the cup to his lips, balancing it as gently as he could manage and allowing the man to drink as much as he could handle. The old man's breath fogged the glass; Victor could feel it escaping his nose along the rim, though after a moment longer finally the man pushed the cup away, nearly drowned in his efforts to drain the thing.
"The hospital is a humiliating place; I swear they put something in the food, or in the water, to make me weaker than ever before. It's as if they tranquilize us all to keep us under control."
"Certainly not," Victor debated; setting the cup and whatever drops were left back upon the bedside table. He folded his arms on his knees, feeling too shy to look the man directly in the eyes. Instead he watched outside the window, watching the leaves flutter past as the wind shook the last off the trees.
"Professor Donavan was your previous calculus professor, correct?" Professor Holmes wondered, his eyes glancing towards Victor and then away as well, as if he too couldn't quite feel comfortable with perceiving his only guest.
"Yes," Victor agreed. "She ran my grade into the ground."
"Well, it was a group effort to be sure," Professor Holmes pointed out. "Though it comes as no surprise. They made a mistake in hiring that woman. She is brilliant at calculus, but has sacrificed so much of her social skills in the effort that she appears no more than a husk of a machine, the outer shell of a calculator with all the metallic coldness."
"As opposed to yourself, sir, with your outwardly affection?"
"No wonder you ran from that room, I would too," Professor Holmes grumbled, ignoring the comment all together. "Though I worry she will take the power of failure into her own hands. If I don't live to defend you, who knows what will happen to your grade?"
"I made my own choice, Professor. You don't have to defend me."
"Oh yes I do," Professor Holmes assured. "I've been in this hospital for nearly seven hours now, and you have been the first to visit me. The first, it would seem, to care. Not the Dean, not my coworkers, not any one of your classmates. Should I really fail you, in direct response to your worry? Certainly it's a remarkable event, a good reason enough to allow some leeway."
"They will accuse you of having favorites," Victor warned, not all together sure why he was convincing the man against offering him the pardon he needed to stay in school.
"I am allowed to have favorites," Professor Holmes shrugged.
"They will wonder on what ground that is based on."
"And what ground is it, Victor?"
"Well...if we only had calculus in common I would not be here," Victor pointed out. Sherlock Holmes sniffed in disgust, though he spoke not a word of protest.
"Secret sharers are bound to silence. If they ask why you care, you will lie the same as I."
"Assuredly so," Victor agreed, his smile sad but confident.