Okay, this just wouldn't leave me alone, and what started off as a one-shot has turned into yet another multi-chapter! I know I'm mad, but I can't ignore those lettuce munching, nose wiggling, and ear twitching inspirational Plot Bunnies!
Disclaimer: Don't own anything vaguely Sherlock – that would be ACD, SM & MG!
"Bloody hell, Sherlock! Will you get your fucking head down!" John's voice carried across the multi-storey car park, over the whine of bullets flying indiscriminately around them.
"John, he's getting away!" Suddenly the consulting detective was up and running, oblivious to the danger he was heading into, sprinting towards the lower level, his long stride closing the gap between him and the murder suspect.
John swore again, under his breath this time, and ran after his flatmate, keeping low, following the safer path, staying in the shadow, under cover as much as possible. He had just reached the ramp leading down when he heard it – and stopped, ducking back behind a car. No one who had ever been in a war zone, in a fire fight, could mistake that sound – it was the sound of a bullet penetrating flesh, accompanied by the distinct thud of a man down. John's brain was racing. Sherlock was unarmed, and there were no police here yet, let alone an armed special ops unit, that could only mean one thing.
There was no time to lose, but John was not about to make their quarry a gift of his body as a target. Moving swiftly across the roadway to the shelter of a large four wheel drive vehicle, he crouched down and looked across at where the shooter had taken shelter, behind a low wall, just yards from the entrance. He was good, John had to admit that, not once had he given them the opportunity to take him out, he knew how to keep safe.
Punching the speed dial, he gave Lestrade no time to speak, frantically whispering a sit rep and requesting an ambulance. He cut the call and turned his attention back to matters at hand. Sherlock lay on the lower level, half hidden by cars, a red stain spreading across the front of his shirt and soaking into his Belstaff.
Firing his Browning in the direction of the gunman, John made use of the seconds that the other man took to duck out of the way, and slipped quickly along to the railings and jumped down to the lower level, landing behind another vehicle just as bullets started flying again. He looked across at Sherlock, noting the rapid, shallow breaths, the grey eyes open, staring at him, and for a moment he was transported back to the pavement outside St Bart's Hospital.
Shaking the flashback from his head, John checked the Browning's magazine – ten rounds left – making a snap decision he fired off five of those rounds, running as he did from his hiding place to Sherlock's side, pulling him back until he was completely out of sight of the man they had been chasing.
"You'll never learn, will you?" he said angrily as he ripped Sherlock's shirt open to get a better look at the wound. Sherlock's mouth opened but John cut him off. "No you bloody don't, Sherlock Holmes, you bloody well keep quiet and let me deal with this!" Turning away briefly, he checked the position of the gunman, it would be foolish in the extreme to let him sneak up on them. The crack of a gunshot told him all he needed to know, and so he turned his attention to his friend lying, bleeding on the floor.
The bullet had penetrated quite high on the left side of his chest, and blood was frothing out fairly sluggishly.
"Hurts breathing, yes?"
Sherlock nodded, his eyes never leaving on the doctors face.
"Okay, don't try to move." John checked on the gunman again, just as a car drove up from the underground level of the building. Under cover of this, their quarry made his move, darting away, so that all John could see was the swing of the door as it closed behind him.
"Shit!"
"What?" it was a croaky whisper.
"Shut up, Sherlock." The doctor hit the redial on his phone and turned on the speaker, putting it down on the floor beside him to free up his hands to work on his injured friend. He had just torn a strip off Sherlock's already ruined shirt, and wadded it up to plug the wound, when Lestrades mobile was answered.
"Yeah, John, what d'you need?" his voice sounded tinny.
"You man's out and running" John replied, not pausing in his work "He left the car park via the pedestrian exit on the far side, away from the shopping centre." He paused for a moment while he rolled Sherlock onto his injured side, saying softly as that man groaned in pain "Yeah mate, I know it hurts, but at least it'll stop you drowning in your own blood." Keeping one hand over the wound, he then climbed over so that he could prop his flatmate up, supporting his back and preventing him from rolling over again. With his free hand he picked up the phone and switched off the speaker.
"Greg, where's that ambulance?"
"On its way, John, how is he?"
"He's been better," under his hand he felt a shudder as Sherlock tried to control a laugh.
"Yeah, but will he…"
"Just hurry them up, Greg, please?"
John sat and held his friend, knowing by the relaxing of his body the moment he finally lost consciousness. In the distance he heard the welcome sound of an ambulance siren.
Moments later, two green clad paramedics ran across the car park towards him. They looked down at the two bloody men on the floor. John read the concern in their eyes.
"I'm fine, it's his blood." He said, introducing himself and shifting aside so they could get in to look at the injury. "He has a traumatic open pneumothorax, bullet still present. He was conscious until a few moments ago." John reported with clinical precision, following this with Sherlock's blood type, and such medical history as was necessary for them to know. "You will need, if possible, to avoid administering any kind of opiate, the patient is extremely sensitive."
The older of the two paramedics nodded, he recognised the euphemism for 'ex-addict', and respected the need for patient confidentiality. With quick, efficient movements, they strapped him to the stretcher and were soon loading him into the back of the ambulance.
John had followed them out, blinking in the low winter sun, his eyes unaccustomed to the bright sunlight after the dim, artificially lit building. Greg appeared at his side.
"How is he?"
"Alright, I think. I suppose there's no chance of you finding where our shooter went?"
"No." Greg blew out a frustrated breath. "Sally and some of the team are trying to find anyone who may have seen anything, but…" he left the sentence hanging as the paramedic leaned out of the back of the ambulance.
"You travelling with?" he asked John
John nodded and turned briefly to Greg.
"I'll keep you posted, let you know where he is and how he's doing." Then he climbed up into the vehicle and they were gone, blue lights on and sirens wailing.
O*O*O
It felt like hours since the nurse had shown John into the waiting room, but in reality it had been little over fifteen minutes.
Sherlock had been rushed into theatre, and initially John had been left to his own devices. Heading straight for the nearest washroom, he scrubbed at his hands and forearms, washing his friend's blood from his skin, trying to get the metallic tang of it from his nostrils. Once he was done, he wandered around looking for somewhere to wait, and found himself in the corridor near the operating theatre.
"Can I help you, Sir?" a petite woman in theatre scrubs looked up at John expectantly. His eyes flicked quickly over her uniform, reading her name embroidered on her clothing.
"Sister Prakesh?"
She nodded.
"I'm looking for the family waiting room, sorry, I'm not familiar with the new layout of the hospital."
Sister Prakesh smiled hesitantly.
"I worked here for a while some years back" John smiled back. "A friend of mine was taken into theatre with a gunshot wound to the chest –I was told I could wait in the family room, but I seem to have lost it!"
A chuckle escaped the woman. "I'll show you."
So here he was, sitting in a large, comfortable room, looking at his watch every two minutes.
"John." Mycroft's voice dropped softly into the silence and John leapt to his feet, looking up at the embodiment of the British Government.
"Mycroft, you got my message."
"Obviously. Care to elaborate?"
John gestured to one of the comfortable armchairs, waiting until the other man was seated before retaking his seat.
Taking a deep, calming breath, John relayed the events of the day, from the murder, tracking down the man most likely to have committed it, and then the fire fight in the car park and the moment Sherlock had run headlong into the gunman's sights. Throughout his telling, Mycroft had remained silent, simply nodding occasionally, his expression carefully neutral. When he finished, John looked at the floor, chewing his bottom lip, a frown deepening on his brow. Mycroft watched him and waited.
"Mycroft, I'm sorry!" he blurted out eventually "I know you trusted me to keep him safe, and I've let you, and him, down."
"No, John, you mustn't think that…"
"But if…."
"John. Listen to me." Mycroft leaned forward, his piercing blue gaze holding the doctor in his chair. "When I learned what was happening, I was able to watch on the CCTV – you couldn't have stopped my brother, John, but your swift actions will have tipped the scales in his favour. If he lives it will be thanks to you."
John just stared unhappily at the floor, seeing failure writ large in that word – if.
A sudden movement broke into his silent self-reproach, and he looked up to see that Mycroft had risen and crossed the room to stare out of the window.
"I need to ask something of you, John," Mycroft didn't turn but continued to stare unseeing out of the window. "I would appreciate if you give it serious consideration."
"Give what serious consideration?" Nobody, John thought, could ever accuse the Holmes brothers of being boring or uncomplicated. He waited.
"The man you were chasing, a man by the name of Marc Banks, is known to us – to me." He sighed, and walked back to his chair. "He used to work for me, John, and he's a very dangerous man."
"So what do you need me to do?"
"I believe this whole incident, from the murder, to your face off in the car park, was orchestrated specifically to get at me somehow, with the added bonus for him of taking Sherlock out of the picture!"
"What?"
"Sherlock was instrumental, some years ago, in Banks going to prison for trying to sell state secrets to the highest bidder. He came out of prison, on licence, about two years ago but then promptly dropped out of sight. He is unforgiving, and holds a grudge against my brother and me, a grudge I am sure he has spent the intervening years honing a plan to destroy us both"
John look stunned.
"Okay," he said slowly, "and what do you want me to do?"
"I want you to hunt him down!"