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Sherlock was impatient. He pulled out his phone and sent off a quick text.
Where are you? – SH
John should have been home twenty minutes ago.
Sherlock held his phone between his palms, hands steepled and fingertips pressed against his lips in his typical thinking pose. He allowed his eyelids to droop, his view of the ceiling from his position on the couch unfocused as his thoughts travelled inward again. The case was nearly solved. He knew the Stewarts, both father and son, were the killers, and after taking longer than usual to collect the necessary data and come to a solution, he was absolutely itching to verify his theory.
His phone vibrated in his hands and his eyes flicked instantly down to view the screen.
Almost home. Decided to walk. – JW
Sherlock scowled at this. He seriously considered going to confront the murderers without John, but ended up deciding against it. After the last time Sherlock had gotten hurt while chasing a criminal on his own, his flatmate had made him swear not to rush into dangerous situations without him. And while Sherlock hated to depend on anyone, he was willing to admit that John’s presence and gun-wielding abilities would be welcome and helpful in this situation. Besides, based on the time at which John’s shift had ended, the pace of his gait – taking into account mild fatigue after work – and probable obstacles and delays that he would encounter on the way, he should be home in the next eight to ten minutes. Still, Sherlock sent a fast reply:
Hurry. – SH
So, in an attempt to pass the time without imploding of impatience and boredom, he began construing possible reasons why John would decide to walk instead of taking a cab back after work. The doctor’s appearance would inform him which of his theories was correct. Perhaps he simply wanted to stretch his muscles after dealing with patients and paperwork for six hours, but the current weather was the typical for London – cloudy and chilly – and not ideal for a long walk. So maybe he wanted the time to think. John was always doing that, going out to “get some air”, when he was angry or pensive. If he was angry, what for? Most likely because of an incident at work… A difficult patient? An argument with a co-worker?.. Or was he still angry about the stomach in the fridge? Surely not – he understood the importance of determining what the victim had eaten right before death…
Within four minutes Sherlock had come up with twelve likely scenarios that could have led to John’s walking home instead of taking a cab. For the next three and a half minutes he imagined all of the Stewarts’ possible reactions to the impending confrontation and some likely outcomes, though there were still too many variables to determine all outcomes accurately. Sherlock could feel how tight his net around the murdering duo had become and knew that they would also sense the pressure of their imminent capture and arrest. Sherlock knew that they knew how close he was and this made him all the more impatient. If they felt trapped and desperate, they would lash out or run before Sherlock could get close.
It was for that reason that, seven minutes and thirty six seconds after texting John to ‘hurry’, Sherlock was by the door to the flat, pulling on his long coat and wrapping up his light scarf, when he heard the loud screech of tyres against pavement, followed by a muffled thump. The subsequent screams were covered by a revving engine and another screech of tyres. Sherlock was flying down the stairs and at the front door of 221b Baker Street by the time he heard the sound of the car speeding away.
When Sherlock was collecting data, he preferred to use as many of his senses as possible. Sight, hearing and smell firstly, though taste and touch could be equally vital to the process. For example, seeing the pattern of blood spatters on a wall, hearing the waver in pitch of a lying voice, smelling the trace of cigarette smoke on a couch, tasting the hint of poison in a wine glass, feeling the moisture of rain on a coat… All coming together to create one glorious image of the truth. With nothing but his ears to go by, Sherlock had deduced the following: a speeding car had hit something or someone and had quickly driven away from the scene. But this was not enough. He needed to see the scene – what had been hit, the skid marks left by the tyres – and smell the scene - the type of gas, the burning rubber – to get the full image.
This curiosity of a new puzzle and need for the truth had him yanking open the front door and rushing out onto the sidewalk before what he saw stopped him cold. Stopped him like no other crime scene, no matter how gruesome or disturbing the sight, had done before.
The small figure sprawled on the ground eight metres away was broken and unmoving, his sandy grey-blond hair matted with blood, his right arm at an impossible angle.
Sherlock’s brain shut down.
For a few long moments, as he so enjoyed accusing of others, he could see but not observe. He couldn’t – his mind wouldn’t let him. His senses were still inputting data – woman on phone approaching victim, people screaming, scent of burnt rubber and hint of metallic rust, his own heart hammering in his chest, blood pounding in his head – but his brain refused to catalogue the information. Sherlock’s face was blank, eyes dazed, as his legs slowly moved him closer to the man on the ground without his accord. The woman was speaking frantically into the phone and more people were beginning to loosely encircle the victim, who still had not moved.
Then, finally, when Sherlock was two strides away, he saw the man’s chest rise – he’s breathing – and the relief, so intense it was nearly painful, caused him to stumble forward. He was unable to recover, for the next second his brain decided to come back online, and he felt his knees begin to give out as information suddenly bombarded his mind: trauma to back of head – likely severe concussion, possible back and neck injury, cracked ribs likely, small and ring finger on right hand fractured, right shoulder dislocated, blood on trousers: probable damage to right leg and hip – undeterminable due to baggy trousers, left wrist possibly sprained, woman still speaking to 999 operator, bystanders too close. What scared him most however, was what he couldn’t see: possible internal bleeding. All of these deductions, yet as Sherlock’s knees hit the ground and he began to reach out a hand to check for a pulse, the loudest thought – for he could think of many things at once – was a frantic mantra of JohnJohnJohnJohn. In fact, when he noticed his lips moving, he realized he was probably saying it out loud, too. Sherlock noticed his hand was shaking as he reached for John’s neck, his breathing shallow and fast, and a panic attack bubbling menacingly in his chest. Focus! He desperately clamped down on his emotions. John needed him and he couldn’t help if he couldn’t think.
John’s pulse was sluggish – 51 bpm – and weak, but there. With his free hand, Sherlock pulled out his phone and sent the same text to Lestrade and Mycroft: John attacked injured - SH. Additional information was unnecessary at this point – Mycroft likely already knew and if Sherlock didn’t specify an address, Lestrade would assume Baker Street. And the lack of punctuation would alert them instantly to the severity of the situation. As Sherlock’s eyes roamed swiftly over John’s body again, taking stock of injuries, all the data he had collected within the last three minutes created the scene of the attack – for it was definitely not an accident – in his mind. Car, following him since end of shift, speeds up as John approaches 221b on his left, walking in street. John alerted by screeching tyres – quickly turns to avoid worst impact, car hits his right side, he rolls onto hood and over car, lands hard on street, breaking fall with right arm. Head hits pavement, but not as hard as it would have had he not reacted so quickly. Driver escapes as people rush to John. Sherlock’s rage at the offender caused his eyes to glint dangerously, his blood to boil and his hand to clench into a fist. He welcomed the anger, which helped keep the panic at bay.
John suddenly shifted minutely and groaned.
“John!” Sherlock’s deep voice was anxious and still tense with fury.
John’s head attempted to turn to face Sherlock’s voice but then he moaned again and Sherlock’s hand whipped out to gently stop the reflex.
“Don’t move. You’ll aggravate your injuries.”
“Sh’lock?” John slurred weakly.
“Yes, yes, I’m here,” he reassured him, keeping his fingers pressed against John’s neck. He needed the contact, the feeling of the reassuring pulse under his fingertips.
John swore and his face scrunched up as another wave of pain hit him, his breathing turning into shallow gasps – definitely cracked ribs. Seeing his friend like this, Sherlock realized something that made his chest constrict with dread and his body suddenly go cold. The panic bubbled again and he was having a more difficult time suppressing it now.
“John. John, tell me what to do, I don’t know what to do,” he demanded desperately.
Eyes squeezed shut, John was attempting to control his breathing. “Need you to stabilise my right arm,” he ground out, voice breathless and laced with pain. He opened his eyes then and glanced at his arm. “Ugh…” he moaned, seeing the shoulder popped out of its socket. “What a mess. Normally…I’d pop my shoulder…back in myself…but...think my Ulna’s fractured, too…I’d pass out…” His speaking was broken up with heavy gasps.
Sherlock hesitated. John was the doctor, not him! This whole situation was wrong, backwards. John was meant to be the healer, tending to Sherlock’s wounds, not the other way around. He knew, of course, how to stabilise an injured arm – in theory – but he’d never had the chance to actually try before and wasn’t too keen on practicing on the doctor, who was in so much pain already. John’s eyes tried to meet Sherlock’s when the detective didn’t respond right away and Sherlock suddenly noticed that John couldn’t seem to focus.
“John, can you see properly?”
“Mmph, you’re blurry,” John mumbled.
Sherlock swore. John had no doubt hit his head on the hard pavement. His vision problems were a clear symptom of concussion, but Sherlock was unsure how severe the head trauma was and he hoped fiercely that he didn’t have a brain hemorrhage. He swore again. Where was the bloody ambulance?
Needing desperately to do something other than just wait helplessly, Sherlock decided it really would be best to try to immobilise John’s broken arm and dislocated shoulder. If that was done when the paramedics arrived, they could tend to the more concerning head trauma.
Sherlock quickly pulled off his scarf and was distracted by the oppressive presence and voices of onlookers. “Back off!” he hissed at them, voice and eyes expressing such venom that most everyone took a couple nervous steps backwards.
Only one man stayed where he was, watching Sherlock’s movements disapprovingly. “Don’t touch him! Leave him for the paramedics!”
Sherlock didn’t even spare the energy to send the idiot an angry retort because at that moment John’s dazed eyes slipped closed and his breathing slowed alarmingly.
Sherlock’s heart lurched painfully. “No! John!” he yelled and tapped the doctor’s cheek, resisting the urge to shake him lest he cause more damage, to rouse him. “John, open your eyes. Don’t go to sleep on me now.”
John’s eyelids fluttered. “M’fine,” he muttered.
“No, no, wake up, John. Open your eyes.”
“Mmm, m’wake. Go ‘way.” If his voice hadn’t been so weak, the annoyance in his tone would have been comical.
“Alright, John, I’m going to stabilise your arm now. This is going to hurt,” Sherlock warned him, hoping that the additional pain would actually help keep his friend conscious a bit longer and not send him into shock. Sherlock made a fashion of a sling with his scarf and secured John’s broken arm and dislocated shoulder as best he could, forcing himself to work quickly and not hesitate when John’s eyes went dazed and wide with pain and his lungs hissed out all their air. With the task finished, John was left ghastly pale and panting, and Sherlock realized that he himself was not much better, with shaking hands and a light head. Where was all this empathy coming from, he wondered.
Once John had calmed down a bit, he managed a weak smile. “Thanks,” he murmured to Sherlock, who was glad to see that now that the arm was immobile and not shifting minutely with every breath, John appeared to be in significantly less pain.
In the next moment, Sherlock heard the sound of distant sirens of a quickly approaching ambulance. The moment after that John’s eyes slipped closed again.
“John! John, help is almost here. John, wake up!” He almost added please but decided that would sound too much like begging and refused to believe the situation merited that kind of behaviour. Even if John’s eyes still hadn’t opened. Even if John’s skin had become so pale that internal bleeding was almost a given. He just kept saying his name and ordering him to wake up.
Once the paramedics arrived, everything was a blur. Sirens and lights filled the street, bouncing off the buildings and becoming amplified, pounding on Sherlock’s senses. The onlookers that Sherlock had been tuning out were told to give them space, and someone was trying to pull Sherlock away from John, loosen his grip on the jumper, rip him away from his lifeline. It was irrational, but he couldn’t bear to let him go. If he did, John would slip away from him forever.
It wasn’t until a familiar voice begged him, “Sherlock, you need to let go! Give them space to work!” that Sherlock managed to uncurl his tense grip and allow himself to be pulled up and stumble back, out of the way for the paramedics to swoop in and envelop John’s still form. He didn’t allow his gaze to waver, however, staring at the back of a medic as if he could see through it to what it was obscuring. He was unaware of the hand on his arm until it became restraining, holding him back from following John as he was lifted into the back of the ambulance on a stretcher, neck and head supported by a neck brace.
Sherlock whipped around. “Let go,” he hissed in fury, yanking his arm away from – oh, Lestrade, he realized vaguely.
The Detective Inspector blanched a bit at Sherlock’s unexpected intensity, but grabbed him again and didn’t back down. “No. Sherlock, you can’t go with them. I’ll take you to the hospital, but John will probably be rushed straight to surgery once they get there.”
Sherlock resisted for only another few seconds as the ambulance doors closed, but then went still as it sped away. Lestrade still had a grip on his arm – his wrist actually – and he wondered briefly why the DI was shaking him. He looked down and realized that, oh, he was the one shaking, not Lestrade. Sherlock’s breaths were coming quick and shallow, he felt lightheaded and he had to swallow hard against nausea. He heard Lestrade gasp. Then:
“Sherlock, you’re in shock.” His voice held just a hint of disbelief.
Even shaking and beginning to hyperventilate, Sherlock managed to roll his eyes at the DI. Obviously. But his dizziness was getting worse and he really wasn’t feeling all that well, so he allowed the older man to lead him to his cop car and sit him down sideways in the front passenger seat. He saw alarm on Lestrade’s face when he didn’t even refuse the hideous orange shock blanket. Sherlock ignored him and turned sideways so he was sitting in the seat properly.
“Take me to John,” he ordered, infusing his voice with all the annoyance he felt at his body for betraying him, for causing Lestrade to dawdle and fuss over him when all he wanted was to go straight to John. He couldn’t blame Lestrade for being surprised though – the last time Sherlock had gone into shock like this had been during his druggie days. Sherlock simply didn’t go into shock, no matter how close the bullet or how near the death. But he supposed John had always managed to surprise him and affect him differently from everyone else, so he should have predicted this, really.
Lestrade eyed the shivering consulting detective critically and Sherlock tried to get himself under control. Finally, Lestrade nodded and walked around to the driver’s side, getting behind the wheel. “Put your seatbelt on,” he ordered, and turned on his lights and sirens so that they could speed through the streets to the hospital.
Sherlock was out of the car and walking briskly into the hospital before it had come to a complete stop, Lestrade rushing to catch up with him. Once inside, Sherlock walked directly to the front desk and demanded to know where John Watson, 5'6", blond hair, hit by a car, had been admitted. Lestrade had been right, he was in surgery. So, Sherlock and Lestrade were directed to a waiting room, where, as soon as he sat down in an uncomfortable plastic chair, Sherlock whipped out his phone and sent a text to his brother.
Who is responsible? – SH
Sherlock was, in fact, fairly certain he knew who was responsible, but he wanted to make sure and was unwilling to leave to verify it himself. Two minutes later his suspicions were confirmed in the form of a grainy photo, a still shot from a CCTV camera. Sherlock’s jaw clenched in fury, seeing the familiar face of the youngest Stewart, sitting behind the wheel of the car about to hit his blogger. He had let this go on for far too long. Tonight, it would be over – he would finish it with his bare hands.
Mycroft, knowing his brother well, sent him another text.
Allow us to take care of the Stewarts. – MH
Sherlock did not respond, fuming silently. Damn Mycroft for meddling in his affairs. No, the Stewarts were his; he would not allow his brother to take away the pleasure that would be hearing their bones snap under his hands.
But Mycroft knew his brother well and so sent him a third text.
Stay where you are needed. I will take the matter into my own hands. – MH
Sherlock raised his eyebrows at that. Both parts of that text were surprising. Mycroft thought Sherlock was needed at the hospital? Was he? Did John need him here? Sherlock’s presence could in no way affect the outcome of John’s surgery or recovery, not really, and he could be doing something much more productive – and satisfying – elsewhere. But… if John needed him, then he would stay. And he would be there when John woke up. And John would wake up. Sherlock refused to think that was debatable. Perhaps staying was for his own peace of mind as well. The second part of the text was surprising due to the fact that it was so out of character for Mycroft. The words were not coincidence or chance. They were carefully chosen and only thinly veiled the threat of bodily harm Mycroft promised to issue himself. But Mycroft never got his hands dirty. He made the decisions, concocted the plans, essentially was the British government, but never carried them out himself. It seemed Mycroft was more fond of the ex-army doctor than Sherlock had thought – or at least fond of the effect he had on his brother – if he was promising to take matters into his own hands.
So Sherlock ground his teeth together in displeasure and huffed out a breath in annoyance, but sent his brother a one word reply. Just this once he would allow Mycroft to do this for him and be satisfied knowing the Stewarts had been punished, if not as severely as he would have liked.
Fine. – SH
After that, Sherlock attempted to make his nervous energy look like impatience and irritation instead of worry. He bounced his leg, tapped his fingers and his eyes shifted restlessly. He had to stop himself multiple times from running nervous hands through his hair or over his face – sure signs of anxiousness. He couldn’t fool Lestrade though, and he jumped when the DI touched his shoulder lightly.
“He’ll be fine, Sherlock,” he said soothingly. “John’s one tough bastard. He lives with you after all, doesn’t he? He’ll pull through.” His attempt at levity sounded slightly strained though, and Sherlock scowled without looking at him. Lestrade could make no promises or reassurances. He knew less about John’s condition than Sherlock did.
How long had they been sitting here? Half an hour? An hour? Two? Sherlock didn’t know – his inner sense of time felt off. It felt like it had been ages. Well, if John was going to be a prat and take his precious time, then Sherlock could amuse himself by deducing the other people in the waiting room. John would disapprove, but Sherlock disapproved of him letting himself get hit by a car, so tit for tat, wasn’t it? Besides it was a distraction. Because the longer he sat there the harder it was for him to keep those abhorrent thoughts out of his mind. Those thoughts of John lying on the street, lying pale on a table, lying still under someone’s scalpel, lying prone with his pulse ceasing under Sherlock’s fingertips… Sherlock shook his head sharply and focussed on two figures sitting across from him. Young girl being held by elderly man – grandfather – grandfather stroking girl’s hair, anxious, so soothing gesture. Girl’s mother, grandfather’s daughter in ICU, likely single mother…
After another immeasurable amount of time – Sherlock had finished dissecting everyone else in the room and was becoming increasingly restless – a doctor finally walked into the room and called for Mr. Holmes. He sprang up and was intimidatingly close within seconds. The doctor faltered for a moment under the consulting detective’s piercing glare, absorbing her body language, and, before she could speak, some of the tension was released from Sherlock’s shoulders.
“He’ll be fine.” Sherlock said, in obvious relief, to Lestrade who had come to stand behind his shoulder. The doctor’s mouth opened in shock, but Sherlock didn’t feel like explaining his deductions. Not without John there to tell him it was ‘fantastic’. “He’s in recovery?” he asked to get the doctor talking.
She blinked and recovered quickly. “Um, yes. It was mostly his right side that was injured. He had a dislocated shoulder, has a hairline fracture on his Ulna, a couple broken fingers, a badly bruised hip –”
“What about his head?” Sherlock demanded, not caring to hear about injuries he already knew about.
The doctor took the interruption calmly. “He has a severe concussion. He’ll have a bad headache for at least a week and will likely suffer some small memory loss, but there should be no permanent damage.”
“Any internal bleeding?” Sherlock said before she could continue, observing her reaction. Her eyes flicked away from his, her arms pulled slightly tighter to her body and her shoulders hunched almost imperceptibly. Sherlock went cold.
“Yes, there was internal hemorrhaging from the spleen – ”
Sherlock paled (Of course. The blurry vision, the drowsiness, the pallor – all symptoms of a ruptured spleen) but realized that that was better than what he had originally suspected. He’d thought it was a possible brain bleed. His relief that he had been wrong for once - a very rare occurrence - was cut short as the doctor continued.
“– managed to stabilise, though I should inform you that his heart did stop once on the operating table.”
Lestrade sucked in a sharp breath.
“What room is he in?” Sherlock asked sharply.
The doctor flinched slightly at his icy tone. “247. But you really can’t –” she began, but Sherlock was already passed her and stalking down the hall, leaving Lestrade to deal with her.
He found the room and stood outside the door for a moment, trying to calm his thrumming energy. He did not wish to disturb, only reassure himself. Slowly, he pushed open the door and let himself in, a painful tightness in his chest and gut. John's face was slack in unconsciousness and he was hooked up to numerous liquids and machines, pumping him full of blood, antibiotics, painkillers and saline solution, and keeping track of his heart rate, breathing and homeostatic levels. His right arm was encased in a cast and held close to his body in a sling – Sherlock was relieved to see that his shoulder was no longer deformed – and his broken fingers were held in a splint. He was covered in abrasions and bruises and, though Sherlock couldn’t see his legs under the blanket over him, he fortunately didn’t see the outline of any casts.
Slowly, Sherlock made his way over to the chair on John’s less injured left side – he only had a light brace on his slightly sprained left wrist – and just sat there, realizing how close he had come to losing his closest and only real friend while simultaneously revelling at how lucky he had been. No, not lucky, he corrected himself. Quick. For it was John’s swift reflexes, that had allowed him to turn and roll over the car, controlling as much of the outcome as possible, that Sherlock had to thank. And still John’s heart had had the nerve to briefly stop, to threaten Sherlock with solitude and loss, unfamiliar, boring human emotions he had not known he could feel. The fury he felt at the father and son that had done this roiled just under the surface, even worse than the ire he had felt at the American for hurting Mrs. Hudson. This was a fury he could almost taste, that left a red haze in the corners of his vision, and he deemed them fortunate that it was only the British government dealing with them and not Sherlock Holmes.
With one arm wrapped around the knees folded up to his chest, Sherlock reached out with his free hand and lightly pressed his fingertips to the inside of John’s left forearm. He couldn’t feel it as strongly as he would in his wrist or inside of his elbow (which had a transfusion dripping blood into his vein), both of which were unavailable for his touch, but the pulse was still there, beating strongly under his light pressure.
“Sh’lock,” came a soft sigh, and Sherlock’s eyes darted up in time to see John’s eyelids flutter closed.
Sherlock placed his whole hand on John’s forearm in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. “Yes, I’m here, John. You’re alright now.”
“Mmm…” John breathed, smiling slightly, before falling back into unconsciousness. If he had really even been conscious in the first place. Probably not, Sherlock figured, but he was glad all the same. Glad that he could be there to give his friend some small comfort at least. That was infinitely more important than any sort of revenge he could exact on the Stewarts, he decided.