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"Gotta say, this is a first for me." Jon Watson irrigated the bullet wound in the patient's armpit. "Normally we just get the dealers and customers down here. I'm honored."
The white man sitting on the gurney glared at Watson but said nothing. Two uniformed police officers stood at the E.R. doorway. (Lieutenant Stroud's officers, they had not been swayed by the outraged "Do you know who I am?" from the wounded arrestee.)
Holmes stood at the other end of the room, his head bent over his phone as if distracted from everything going on; the presence of the small fedoraed man in white clearly infuriated the patient, but he said nothing. Jon Watson continued to treat the injury that had bloodied an expensive suit with the rapid expertise of someone who practiced medicine in a drug-funded war zone.
"Why didn't you arrest the thug who shot me?" the man finally snapped to the impassive cops, who were Hispanic and Asian-American respectively. "This is reverse racism!"
Holmes snorted without looking up from his phone. "Others are tracking down your business associates, Congressman."
"How dare you–"
Holmes' head shot up, and the patient quailed as brown eyes skewered blue. "How dare you make millions selling death to poor brown people you wouldn't allow in your neighborhood, you son of a bitch!"