Victims of War
Author: Lady Sam Mallory
Disclaimers: Boys not mine; I just borrow them from time to time when the muse moves me.
Special Thanks to my Beta Queen, Zoe, without whom I'd be doomed to a life of grammatical inaccuracy. For my beautiful friend, Heather, whose incredible command of the English language allows her to provide me with individually needed words at a moment's notice.
Warnings: H/C, Angst, Smarm, Some violence, and usually a bit of colorful language.
Spoilers: NONE
Author's Comments: This occurs post Reichenbach several years after our heroes have been reunited and their faith in each other has been re-established.
Also, this story contains a theoretical treatment available in the United States for pancreatic cancer called nanoembolization, the research for which was in its infantile stage in 2010. This story assumes that this procedure is now possible, although quite expensive. As near as I could tell, while this procedure is radical, the research looks extremely promising. I pray that those afflicted with such a brutal disease find a cure within their lifetime.
Lastly, this is a companion piece to "A Day's Work." Both stories can stand alone, but it may be helpful to read it before this one.
"Oh my God! Please stop…please," the sweating man cries out frantically. "Please," he begs further as the blonde man cuts him, sawing relentlessly with no regard to his feelings or words.
"Stop!" He screams once again, then launches up off the bed to strike at his attacker only to find no one else there.
He scrubs at his face angered by the tears he finds there, "Damn it! When will it stop?"
Realizing that sleep will no longer be possible, he sits up on the side of the bed and reaches for the cane that always rests there. His anger boils over, and he throws the cane against the mirrored closet doors of his room.
Glass shatters and shards fly about the room in angry retaliation for his thoughtlessness.
Looking at his reflection, he knows what he must do now.
The man who destroyed his life would pay dearly.
There would be retribution if it is the last thing he ever does in this life.
Doctor John Watson sighs heavily. This morning at the surgery has been absolutely bonkers.
A knock on his open office door catches his attention. "Hey, stranger," Elspeth says lightly as John notices her standing there.
"Hi, Elspeth. Is there any way we could find a cure for paperwork?" He asks chuckling, looking over the dozen or so files stretched out across his desk.
Elspeth laughs and gives him a smile. "I wish!" She exclaims playfully as she comes to the end of his desk. "I was going to go downstairs and get some coffee, but Mrs. Henderson arrived early today. Is there any way, any way at all, that I could talk you into going down to the café and grabbing me a cup?"
John pauses to ponder that thought with an ornery smile on his face. "Well…" he teases.
Elspeth rolls her eyes. "John, I'm absolutely serious. If I don't get some caffeine…" she allows the thought to trail off.
"I know. You won't be held responsible. Yeah, I can do that. Just give me a minute to finish this up and I'll head down there. If Mr. Wicks shows up while I'm on this emergency errand, please let him know that I'll be right back," John requests as he tosses the current file aside and steps from behind his desk.
Elspeth simply beams at him. "My hero," she exclaims in a falsely sweet damsel in distress voice as she dances down the hall toward the room where her patient waits.
John chuckles at her antics as he walks towards the stairs. He pushes through the door and startles when he runs into a man coming up the stairs.
"Sorry, didn't see you there," John rasps as he starts down the stairs.
"No worries, mate," the young man replies a bit more tersely than his words imply.
John smiles at the man's friendliness and turns to continue down the stairs when he falls forward tumbling down the stairwell. He stops suddenly upon smashing into the landing wall at the foot of the stairs.
Elspeth starts as the door swings open wildly. "Are you a doctor?" The stranger inquires and she nods in reply.
"A man has taken a tumble down the stairs, and a nurse sent me to get you," he beckons drawing her through the waiting room as she follows closely behind him.
"Show me where," she exclaims grabbing her med bag and following him closely. He points toward the stairway door, and she hurries past him, thanking him for holding the door.
Glancing down the carpet covered concrete steps, she sees John arguing with one of the nurses.
"Dr. Watson!" Beatrice demands her face drawn into a disappointed scowl. "You will cease and desist immediately until you get checked out. Now settle down or I'll sedate you!"
John gives her his most innocent look.
"I've been a nurse for 40 years, Dr. Watson. I will not be falling for any of your charm," she reminds the young doctor before patting him on the hand. "There you go...See… Dr. Elspeth is here to take a look at you. Now behave."
John gives her a military salute answering, "Yes, ma'am."
Elspeth looks down at him with concerned blue eyes. "Are you okay? Where does it hurt?" She interrogates as she pulls out a penlight to check his eyes. "Did you hit your head or lose consciousness?"
"No. Mostly took a tumble and landed on my arse," he jokes trying to divert her attention. "I really am fine. A bit sore with probably more than a few bruises."
Elspeth continues to check him out clicking her tongue when she sees a bruise forming on the lateral aspect of his right hand. "Tried to grab the rail," he tells her when he sees that she's noticed the redness that will be a bruise by day's end. "Look Elspeth, seriously, I promise you that I'm fine."
She studies him for another moment before sighing and helping him to his feet. He's a bit unsteady at first but quickly adjusts to the change in position and checks out his legs to make sure they will hold him.
"So far, so good," John declares proudly. "I might have wounded my pride a bit too."
John winces as he makes his way up the stairs with his left leg first knowing it would be the stronger of the two as his right knee hit one of the steps on the way down. He climbs the steps slowly but manages to make it all the way up and sighs heavily when he reaches the top.
Elspeth pulls open the door and leads John back to his office.
"I guess I should be grateful I wasn't holding two cups of hot coffee," John nods as he sets himself very carefully in his office chair behind his somewhat cluttered desk.
Elspeth sighs with sympathy as he leans backward in his chair tipping his head back and closing his eyes.
"John? Why don't we try to get you home?" Elspeth suggests, reaching for the phone.
John halts her progress when he gently encases her fingers within his own, "Give me a minute to rest, and I should be able to get back to my patients."
"Are you bloody kidding me?" Elspeth gasps pulling her hand from his. "You fell down the stairs, John. I can honestly say that you're done for the day. Now…let me call…"
"Not Sherlock," John interrupts causing Elspeth's eyes to wrinkle with concern.
Elspeth studies him momentarily, "And why exactly not?"
"He's in the middle of a case, and he's bound to be a bit…off," John admits lifting his eyes to meet her gaze. He raises his left hand, "I promise that I will take a cab home straightaway and rest once I get there."
Elspeth shakes her head at his comedic gesture, "Wrong hand, John."
"Not for me," he replies cleverly.
"Very well, but if Sherlock shows up here in an outrage…" she warns the stubborn doctor, her finger wagging mere inches from his face.
"Right…Well, you've met the man, so I make no promises, but…" John reminds her, his blue grey eyes twinkling with mischief.
Elspeth pats him gently on the shoulder, "Maybe you should take tomorrow off, just to be safe."
John clasps his hands together and turns to look her in the eye, "Elspeth, I promise, I'm fine. A little banged up, but after some paracetamol and a cuppa, I'll be right as rain."
"If you say so," Elspeth responds kissing him lightly on the cheek as she runs off to check on her next patient.
John exhales sharply, closing one eye as he glances at the stairs before him.
"What is it, dear?" Mrs. Hudson's voice rings out from the hallway just to the right of the stairs. "You look like you could use a kip."
John smiles at her with fondness and leans in to kiss her on the cheek.
"A kip wouldn't begin to help me today, Mrs. Hudson. I'm completely knackered," he responds inhaling and making his way up the steps very slowly, praying that if there is a God that Sherlock is not in the flat.
John pushes open the door tiredly.
"You're home early," Sherlock intones before he has even made it through the door.
John rolls his eyes. "Right then. Well, that answers that question," he mutters under his breath.
Sherlock glances up from the glass vials that he was preparing using a 2.0 ml pipette filled with God only knows what.
Funny how some things from Uni just stick with you. John thinks to himself with a smile having so quickly recognized the pipette that Sherlock is using.
"Not using the 1.0 ml pipette today?" John asks trying to divert his exceptionally perceptive friend.
Sherlock shakes his head. "Of course not, John. That would be ridiculous for this stage in the experiment," he scoffs dismissing John as the doctor had hoped he would.
John turns away from Sherlock and as quietly as he can, his face laden with pain, works his jumper off and sits in the chair reaching for the paper.
He groans quietly realizing that may have been a mistake. Pausing to listen for Sherlock, he smiles when he hears only silence and begins to read through the articles on the front page.
"How exactly were you injured?" Sherlock questions from right beside John's chair causing the doctor to jump then moan heavily at the reaction from his somewhat battered body.
"Christ, Sherlock. Stop sneaking!" John gasps, his voice marred with pain and annoyance.
Sherlock crosses to his chair and sits down glancing at his stubborn friend with discerning eyes.
Elevated pulse
Grimace upon movement
Dilated pupils
Damp neckline
Stiff posture
Scuff mark on side of left shoe
Slight tear at left pant cuff
Conclusion: John has taken a fall down the stairs, not at the flat or he would have heard it. Indoors or there would be more dirt. The surgery, then, of course.
"First of all, I am not the one sneaking. I merely walked into the room. You on the other hand…" Sherlock trails off locking his vision on John, his fingers forming a steeple at his chin as he continues to catalogue John's behaviors.
John looks away guiltily as Sherlock carries on with his analysis waiting for John to say something about the events that precipitated his arriving at the flat in this state.
"Remember the promise, John. It was, after all, your idea. No more leaving the other out for his own good," Sherlock reminds John readily.
At John's silence, Sherlock divulges the logical conclusion, "Really, John. How did you fall down the stairs at the surgery?"
John's mouth drops in shock, and he shakes his head disbelievingly. "As if I could get anything past you. That, of course, is still amazing…" he whispers.
"So you've said," Sherlock replies, unwilling to be distracted at this point. "How did you fall down the stairs at the surgery?" He repeats sternly, expecting an answer.
John shrugs then grimaces as the pain from that simple movement washes over him.
"At least you let Elspeth check over you," Sherlock adds, exhaling slowly. "You had a full case load, so you were seeing patients separately; however, several of her hairs are on your jumper. John?"
John inhales, exhales, then inhales again in an effort to retain his composure. "I didn't fall," he starts, his eyes meeting Sherlock's tentatively.
Sherlock raises a brow at this and inclines his head slightly signaling for John to continue.
"It happened so fast that I had to think about it for a bit, but I was pushed, Sherlock, and I honestly can't think why," John admits. "I didn't call the police. I just wanted to finish the day, but Elspeth was adamant against it, so here I am."
Sherlock focuses his thoughts inward as he tries to determine possible reasons why John would be victimized. After several moments, he files the information into his memory palace and leaps up from his chair. "Tea, then?" He asks as he strolls into the kitchen and puts on the kettle.
John's face twists into muddled confusion. "That's all?" He asks the tall detective rattling around the kitchen.
Sherlock's head pops out of the kitchen, "I have stored the information, but I require more evidence as to whether you are the specific target or if anyone at the clinic would do. I will continue to process the intelligence, John, and will come to you when I have a solution."
John smiles at the detective taking comfort from the stability that Sherlock himself provides unknowingly.
John glances down at the mobile display again.
Come to my office.
Bring Sherlock.
GL
"Your phone off?" John asks the detective stretched out on the sofa.
"Why?" Sherlock inquires turning his head to look at his flatmate.
"Got a text from Greg. He wants us to come in, but he sent it to my mobile not yours," John informs Sherlock as he stands up gingerly, plucks his coat from the back of his chair and tosses the Union Jack pillow at Sherlock's head.
Sherlock tosses the pillow to the foot of the sofa, straightens and dons his coat as well, wrapping his blue scarf around his neck and tucking it in just so, as his habit dictates. "Shall we?" He gestures grandly toward the door following John through it.
"We're going out, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock yells to their beloved landlady as he pushes through the outer door, John close on his heels.
"Taxi," the tall detective calls and steps forward as one pulls to the side of the road.
John shakes his head, his lips drawn tight together. "Have you ever noticed that?" He asks his partner quietly.
Sherlock's brows draw together in consternation, "What?"
The doctor rolls his eyes. "For years and years, it doesn't matter where we bloody are. If you need a taxi, there'll be one. It's rather annoying," John enlightens him, his jaw tight.
His race to follow Sherlock has done nothing for his soreness. He rubs his right shoulder absently. Sherlock's expression darkens as he notices John's discomfort and hands the doctor the bottle of paracetamol he pinched on the way out the door.
The taxi pulls up to a stop at New Scotland Yard, and John gets out first as Sherlock pays the cabbie. John pauses for a minute at the backwardness of the moment but continues on toward the main doors.
As he makes his way to the stairwell, Sherlock continues on to the lift and presses the button to take him to Lestrade's office.
John stops as they step out of the lift and catches Sherlock's arm. "What are you doing?"
The detective's brows knit in confusion. "Are you sure you did not strike your head when you fell? We are going to Lestrade's office because he sent us a text," Sherlock reminds John as he studies the doctor further.
"Bollocks! I know where we're going, Sherlock. I was speaking to your odd behavior," John scowls at his friend shaking his head in aggravation.
"Odd behavior?" Sherlock parrots, drawing his scarf from around his neck. "Whatever are you talking about John?" He asks as he strides forward and pushes the door open to enter Lestrade's office.
John storms into the office after him. "Really? You haven't noticed? You let me out of the taxi first, then you actually paid for it, and we did not run up the stairwell at breakneck speed but took the lift. Don't tell me that you didn't notice," John complains forgetting that Lestrade sits in witness at his desk.
Sherlock tosses his scarf onto Lestrade's desk explaining, "Of course, I noticed. I was attempting to be considerate. Isn't that what you always tell me to do?"
"Well, stop it, damn it. Makes me freak out," John chides the lanky detective eyeing him uncertainly. John pauses adding for Sherlock's benefit alone, "and thank you."
Lestrade smirks as he recognizes the age-old argument. "Glad you could join me. Have a seat," he suggests gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk.
John takes his seat carefully, guarding his new injuries to the best of his ability. Sherlock, as usual, chooses to stand.
"What's this all about?" John asks, leaning forward slightly in the chair in an attempt to get comfortable.
Lestrade eyes him suspiciously but continues on nevertheless, "I received a call from the security firm that monitors The London Clinic. You know that place where you work." Lestrade looks at John to gauge his reaction.
John does not meet his gaze.
"Apparently, there was an incident in which you were pushed down the stairs today. Whole thing was caught on recording," Lestrade informs them. "I must admit to curiosity that I was not called sooner by, say, one of you."
John lifts his blue grey eyes up to meet the Detective Inspector's gaze.
"I'm sorry, but I didn't want to bring the clinic any trouble. They saved my life when Sherlock…" John apologizes, his eyes full of remorse.
Lestrade's agitated gaze sharpens and moves to Sherlock who responds, "I don't call you, you call me, remember?"
Lestrade blows out a breath trying to control his temper. He rolls back his shoulders, closes his eyes and counts to ten very slowly.
Opening his eyes, he states, "We got the guy. Thought you might want to know. Oddly, he's got no prior record. His name is Patrick Forrestal. Do you recognize him? Know him from anywhere?"
The Detective Inspector hands Sherlock a closed folder, which Sherlock promptly hands back.
"Lestrade," Sherlock scolds. "I draw my own conclusions, thank you."
John's eyes widen in surprise as Lestrade leans forward placing a picture in front of him on the desk. He looks it over carefully before handing it over to Sherlock.
"I don't know him, but he is the man that I bumped into in the stairwell," John confirms.
Lestrade nods and starts the playback on his laptop.
The recording shows where John nearly knocks the man over as he comes out the door and then turns away only to be shoved down the stairs by him seconds later.
Sherlock studies the viewing very closely, trying to determine what would precipitate such an action. He draws closer to the screen as he realizes something.
"What did he say when you asked him why he did it?" Sherlock asks the silver haired detective casting his laser sharp gaze across the desk.
Lestrade smiles slowly and replies, "Not a bloody thing."
"Hmmm…" Sherlock responds, rewinding and watching the images yet again. "There is no anger or malice whatsoever in his expression. He just reaches out and pushes John down the stairs. And he says nothing?"
Lestrade shrugs his shoulders, "Exactly."
"Why did they call you? You're homicide," John points out curiously.
Sherlock answers instead, "The call would have been transferred here for two reasons. First of all, the video would be evidentiary of attempted murder, and they would want to find the victim for protective purposes."
"And second?" John prompts, a bit subdued by the incoming intelligence.
"Second, they recognized you and transferred the file to Lestrade to avoid dealing with me," Sherlock finishes as Lestrade nods affirmatively.
"Lucky me," Lestrade mutters beneath his breath.
"Not bloody likely," Lestrade yells waving his arms angrily in front of the interrogation room mirror.
"Five minutes and you can have all your answers," Sherlock reminds the detective.
"Five minutes with you and he might not be alive to give me any answers. I saw the bloody recording, Sherlock," Lestrade cautions the detective against pursuing this any further.
John's head pops up at the last statement, "Why would that matter?"
Lestrade looks at them both as if they've gone round the bend. "Are you kidding me? You're friends, right? Have been for a very long time, yes?" He waits until they both nod in agreement. "Well then, I'm not going to put him," he says pointing at Sherlock, "in a room with him," he finishes pointing to the suspect through the two-way glass.
Donovan steps forward. "They're confused, Detective Inspector, because you're acting like the "freak" has feelings like a normal human," she reports maliciously earning a scathing look of disapproval from John.
"That's enough out of you, Donavan. Mind your desk," Lestrade snaps, waving her away.
"Yes, do please run along," Sherlock adds ignoring Donovan's vitriol; he turns his back on her, maintaining his concentration on Lestrade.
"So, if I understand the situation correctly, you are concerned that I may lose control of my emotions when questioning the suspect?" Sherlock inquires rationally trying to clear up the misunderstanding.
Lestrade rolls his eyes at Sherlock's neutral tone. "That's precisely the problem," he returns, grateful that he doesn't have to try to explain things further.
"Don't be an idiot! I can assure you that I will be on my best behaviour, Lestrade," Sherlock promises his face a solemn mask of innocence.
Lestrade studies his face thoroughly before grumbling, "I hope I don't regret this." He opens the door and gestures for them to proceed through it.
The suspect's head jerks up as the door opens.
"Hello, Mr. Forrestal. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I'm sure you remember my colleague Dr. John Watson," he introduces quickly as he walks around the table looking over the suspect with anticipation.
Patrick Forrestal remains silent refusing to meet Sherlock's eye.
Sherlock analyzes the ordinary looking man in front of him.
Clean-shaven
Suit Tailored, Expensive
Calluses-left hand pointer and thumb
Manicured nails
Head cants slightly to left indicative of excessive mobile use
Confidence
Silence
Sherlock pulls out his mobile, checks a few particulars, and then smiles knowingly.
Conclusion: Suspect exudes confidence and presents a silent façade in the face of inquiry. No former criminal record. Most likely a solicitor with at least minimal knowledge of criminal law.
Sherlock leans forward across the table. "With which firm do you currently practice law?" He inquires knowingly, eyes carefully studying every nuance of the man's reaction.
The suspect's eyes widen in surprise as his mouth gapes ever so slightly before he gains control over his expression.
John smiles, "Astounding, isn't it?" He asks of the suspect across the table.
Forrestal unwittingly nods before catching himself. Shaking his head, he admits, "I'm employed by Clifford Chance. Industrial Law"
"One of the largest law firms in the world," John reports breathlessly. "So what do you have against me?"
The tall man's quiet response is nearly missed, when he says, "Not a thing."
"Think…why would a solicitor from a major international law firm attack John?" Sherlock asks himself, closing his eyes to concentrate further. "He makes a good income, but it's something else." He opens his eyes again to gather more information about the suspect.
Dark circles under eyes
Slight tremble in body
Smudges on wedding ring
"John, what do you see?" Sherlock asks for the doctor's input to add to his own.
John circles the table to step closer to the suspect. "Well, he's on the verge of exhaustion. Notice the dark circles under his eyes and he trembles slightly. At first, I thought he was just nervous, but it seems to be more than that. He's been under considerable stress for an extended period of time," John finishes, looking to Sherlock for confirmation.
Sherlock nods in agreement. "I believe his wife may be ill. Along with your deductions, John, the smudges on his wedding ring indicate that he touches it often throughout the day. It could be in fondness, but no…he's been married at least 20 years, so I would conclude that her illness causes him to think about her often," Sherlock finishes as John steps back from the suspect.
The tall quiet man sits still for a few more seconds before placing his head in his hands and leaning forward over the table. He looks up at John. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he apologizes as the door opens and Donovan steps into the room with a file.
"What is it, Donovan?" Lestrade requests as she hands over the file.
Donovan glances in sympathy at the suspect before answering Lestrade in hushed tones.
"We found $100,000 pounds in his house when we executed the warrant. There were suitcases packed and ready to go. His wife Alexia Forrestal is very ill. She said they were going to America for treatment. I put her in your office," Donovan informs Lestrade, her gaze moving back and forth between her boss and the suspect.
Patrick's head pops up at hearing that his wife has been brought to the Yard, "Please, she has absolutely nothing to do with this. She's very sick. Please…"
Lestrade turns to Donovan and whispers, "Make sure that she has everything she needs and we'll be in to talk to her shortly."
Patrick Forrestal closes his green eyes and clears his throat. "I'll tell you everything I can, just please don't take the money," he begs, his eyes awash with tears.
Lestrade nods to him and, taking a deep breath, Forrestal looks John straight in the eye and begins, "Six months ago, Alexia was diagnosed with Stage 3 pancreatic cancer."
John closes his very expressive eyes and turns away causing Sherlock to pivot his direction.
John extends his right hand to his attacker who shakes it out of habit, "I'm sorry, mate. Was it operable?"
"They tried, but it was just too advanced. America has a new therapy called nanoembolization. I don't really understand it, but it's got a much higher survival rate and, of course, it's very expensive," Patrick explains his hands unable to remain still, gesturing toward them.
"I still don't understand how they knew, but I received a text stating that I would be given ₤100, 000 for pushing a man I didn't know down the stairs. They promised that he was in good shape and should not be excessively harmed. I do that one simple thing, and they will give me the money to save my Alexia. I had to try to save her. I'm sorry, Dr. Watson," he apologizes again, his sincere voice ringing through the interrogation room.
The solicitor looks up at them, his devastated countenance inundated with guilt. "What would you do to save the most important person in your life?" He asks the men in the room.
"Anything I had to," Sherlock whispers, causing John to turn towards him in silent understanding.
Outside the interrogation room, Lestrade, John and Sherlock pause when John stops Lestrade in his tracks.
"I won't bring charges, Greg. Whatever needs done," John informs him of his decision.
Sherlock inclines his head knowingly. "John," he warns his concern for the brave doctor evident in his usually unreadable expression.
Lestrade turns to John, his face a professional mask of sympathy, "John, the man pushed you down the stairs."
"Yes, well, I didn't say he was perfect, but he's been through bloody hell, Greg. You yourself said that he had no prior history of criminal activity. Sherlock?" John requests support of his point of view.
Sherlock studies his friend very carefully. "I suppose that I am not allowed to pursue his destruction?" He inquires innocently then continues when John shakes his head negatively. "Very well," he states disappointedly.
Turning towards Lestrade, Sherlock explains, "It's quite simple."
"Of course it is," Lestrade interjects.
"This would be classified as a Common Assault Without Injury, which in accordance with Section 39 of the Criminal Justice Act of 1988 would dictate that Patrick Forrestal be liable to a fine not exceeding ₤5,000 on the standard scale or imprisonment for a term not exceeding six months, or both," Sherlock informs them hastily.
"As John has no intention of cooperating further, thus eliminating the necessity for a summary judgment, I begrudgingly report that a call to the magistrate's office is necessary to make whatever arrangements will need to be made," Sherlock finishes reaching for his scarf lying on the table outside of interrogation.
"Come on, John, we have more pressing matters to which we must attend," Sherlock dismisses the Detective Inspector and heads for the lift.
It is late evening by the time they return to the flat. John stumbles exhaustedly into his chair, reaches over to deal with his shoes and decides to leave them.
"I can't believe how tired I am," John complains dropping his head back and closing his eyes as Sherlock starts the tea.
He is nearly asleep when Sherlock startles him with a firm hand on his shoulder.
"John, drink this," he says, handing John the cuppa along with two paracetamol. "You were limping a bit. This might help," Sherlock finishes uncertainly.
John smiles with some difficulty. He can barely keep his eyes open but takes the cup and swallows the pills appreciatively. After a few minutes, he falls asleep nearly upending the cup in his hands.
Sherlock rescues the cup and shakes John awake. "To bed," he orders, helping the stubborn doctor out of his chair and pushing him toward the stairs to his room.
"G'night," John slurs as he starts up the steps to his room. After what seems like forever, he drops into his bed fully clothed asleep before he even feels the pillow under his head.
Beatrice knocks quietly on the door of John's office. "Sorry to bother you, Dr. Watson, but we've got an emergency. Kid came in overdosing. There isn't time to send him to hospital. Dr. Corbett sent me to get you. She's trying to calm him, but he's turned violent. Security's on the way."
John is halfway out the door before she finishes. "What room?" He demands, running down the hall towards Elspeth's treatment rooms.
"Four!" Beatrice hollers as she tries to keep up with him.
John bursts through the door to see Elspeth up on the wall with the young man's hands around her throat. "Christ!" He exclaims crossing the room to pry him off her. "Kid's strong. What the hell's he on?"
Beatrice comes at the patient from the other side, "Calm down. We're trying to help you!"
"No! You can't take me!" He screams catching John in the face with a left cross. John shakes it off trying not to hurt him.
"Get me 5 mg of Midazolam IM stat!" John orders, bracing the kicking menace up against the wall as Elspeth slides to the floor coughing. She gets control and jumps up to help John hold him.
Beatrice returns instantly with the prepared syringe. "Watch it!" She warns coming through with the needle and going for the kid's thigh, as it is a larger muscle group and would be safer.
"It's in!" Beatrice yells, then steps back as he starts to slide down the wall. "Bloody hell," John curses as he helps to lower the patient.
The door bursts open again as two security guards race into the room. "Everyone okay?" The taller man asks taking an inventory of the room.
John nods trying to recapture his breath. "Help me get him on the table and in restraints, then call the police and an ambulance," John orders one of the security guards as he gently pulls the now more cooperative young man to his feet.
The other guard helps John get the kid on the table and into restraints.
John checks his airway and finding that it is clear turns towards Dr. Corbett. "Elspeth, let me check your neck and throat," he asks, then adds when she is reluctant, "Not a request."
John takes a quick look, "Not too bad. Probably bruised the larynx. How's your breathing?"
Elspeth shoves John's hand away, "Fine, really. Fine…"
John lifts her head up towards his to look in her eyes, "Elspeth?"
She shakes her head, adrenaline plummeting and starts to cry, her anger exploding, she curses, "Bugger me!" Turning away from John, he watches as her shoulders tremble in upset. John pats her back and draws her into his arms.
"It's alright, El," he comforts. "It's okay. Let it out."
Elspeth cries for a minute then draws her hand across her eyes and pushes him away, "God, I was stupid. I was trying to talk him down. There was a knock at the door. I turned my head, distracted for a second, and he was on me."
John smiles understandingly at her. "It could have happened to anyone, okay?" He asks her in a low voice.
She nods, her face flushed, eyes brimming with tears. "Sorry I fell apart. It's been a long week. First, you were attacked…" she whispers, then smiles at John's surprised expression. "DI Lestrade arrived after you left and questioned everyone who was here."
John shakes his head, "It's just been a tough week."
Two uniformed constables enter behind Beatrice. "Jacks are here," she informs them before asking, "Do you need me for anything else?"
"No, Beatrice. Thanks for helping out. Why don't you check on our patient load for the rest of the day, please," Elspeth asks respectfully, before turning toward the waiting constables.
"I'm Constable Bramley and this is Constable Granger. What happened here?" The stocky officer interrogates as he pulls out his notebook.
John sighs as he turns the corner from Chiltern Street onto Porter. He rubs his neck, closing his eyes momentarily, and is forced to stop when the action makes him slightly dizzy.
God, I'm tired…and I feel like crap.
His step falters as a dark form grabs him and pulls him into the alleyway.
"Bad timing. Really not in the mood for this," John warns his would be attacker. The man lunges with hands forward, one held high and one low, both glinting in the growing darkness.
John sidesteps and brings his right fist up into the man's jaw as he feels a sharp pain in his right leg. He rotates left, continuing his defense, bringing his right elbow up to sharply strike the man in the throat.
His attacker falls to the ground choking as John squats down and strikes him again in the face knocking him unconscious. His momentum carries him forward across the body, and he rolls to the side away from his attacker and props himself up on the wall. He pauses and swallows, taking shallow breaths, trying to keep the nausea at bay.
Glancing down at his right leg, he sees the knife sticking out from it. He pulls out his mobile and dials quickly.
"David Mews Alleyway off Porter. NOW! And call Lestrade," he reports into the phone, his tone allowing no argument.
Sherlock snares his coat and scarf from the hook on the back of the door at 221B Baker Street. He flies down the stairs screaming to Mrs. Hudson. "John's been attacked. We may be late," he informs her as per their agreement upon his return.
"Thank you, Sherlock. I'll get the flat ready," she replies, rushing up the stairs despite a tricky hip.
Sherlock nods once and bangs through the door. It's not far, so he tears down Baker Street before finally coming to Porter. He takes the left, quickly and sharply, crossing the street when the traffic finally allows.
It is mere minutes before he comes streaking around the corner of the alleyway. "John," he calls out, barely out of breath. He glances at the unconscious man lying on the ground a few meters from John. "When will they learn?" He asks the oft-underestimated doctor propped up on the wall before him.
John blows out a breath and continues to tighten his belt around his right thigh to staunch the bleeding. "Jesus," he gasps, pain flooding his nervous system. He has the overwhelming urge to vomit, the sensation burning through his gut.
"What do you need?" Sherlock asks, years of practice and friendship honing his attention.
John glances up at him. "Need to move about a meter that way. Got sick," John admits as Sherlock helps him to relocate closer to the street.
"Ambulance on the way?" John inquires knowingly as he settles then smiles upon Sherlock's affirmative nod. "Lestrade?"
Sherlock wraps his scarf around the blade sticking out of John's right leg. He knows better than to pull it out. John would bleed to death were he to take such a foolish action.
"Also on the way," the detective apprises the pained doctor, who is now gasping for breath.
"Fuck, this hurts," he pants, wheezing to gather enough oxygen into his starving lungs.
Sherlock lays a hand on the scarf wrapped around John's trembling right leg. "You always tell me to breathe," Sherlock reminds him fondly.
"Sod off!" John curses leaning over to spit on the ground. There's blood in the spit causing Sherlock to stiffen with worry.
"Bit my lip," John admits. "And, of course, the leg. No internal injuries. Honestly, the knife strike is the only hit he got."
Sherlock signals his knowledge of this fact with a smirk.
"Yes, of course, you deduced that already. I'm trying to put your mind at ease, you pompous git!" John forces out through clenched teeth, his breath huffing out in short gasps.
His leg cramps up and he folds his hands together behind his head leaning forward and rocking to make it through. He surges back into the wall and hits his head gently there, only to have the blow dampened by Sherlock's hand.
The ambulance stops in the mouth of the alleyway and two paramedics make their way quickly to their patient just as Lestrade pulls up.
John looks up at the paramedics, a small man and a rather large woman. "It's been wrapped, emesis times one, vitals strong, respiration fast and shallow, no known allergies and it hurts like a mother fucker," John reports when they squat down to aid him.
"Doctor?" The woman surmises as she places pressure bandages over the sodden scarf and begins to tape the conglomeration into place to resist shifting when they move the patient. Her partner rechecks the vitals as is the standard procedure.
"Ready?" the woman asks as the male paramedic shifts the stretcher into place.
John simultaneously laughs and cries as he thinks about having to move again.
The woman reads his expression and shakes her head, "We'll do the work, remember?"
"On three. One, two, three…" she announces as they all lift him up onto the stretcher with very little effort.
Lestrade steps forward. "Is he stable enough to talk for a minute so I can get a really quick statement on what's going on?" Lestrade questions the female paramedic who is obviously in charge.
"You've got two minutes," she informs Lestrade as she starts an I.V. and pulls out a vial and hypodermic. Drawing the morphine up into syringe, she reaches for his line when he stops her.
"Just a second. Statement first. No drugs," John insists waving Lestrade forward.
Lestrade steps forward and takes John's statement, asking a few pointed questions for clarification. John's head drops forward in exhaustion. He clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides on the stretcher as he talks through the events of the past half hour.
The Detective Inspector takes notes quickly and after verifying several key points allows them to load John into the ambulance with Sherlock following closely behind.
"No," John states adamantly, his head shaking from side to side. "Absolutely not."
"John," Sherlock appeals, then seeing the expression upon John's face, he turns to John's doctor who has just taken a breath to speak.
"If you are about to say anything other than 'you can take him home now', I can tell you from my vast experience that you will be wasting your breath," Sherlock notes, deflating the doctor's statement before he can even begin.
The doctor looks back and forth between Sherlock's stern yet amused face and John's irritated and most definitely not amused face. Making a decision, he turns towards the nurse at his side.
"Diana, put together his papers and send him home with the prescriptions from the chemist, please," the doctor orders, inclining his head in deference to John, who is now wearing a smile.
"Really, John. You're entirely too pleased with yourself," Sherlock scolds, his tone dryly amused. "You've had an AK-47 Cold Steel folder stuck in your leg for the better part of an hour. How, exactly, do you expect walk out of here?"
John's eyes seek out Sherlock's to get answers to a few questions. "First, how the hell did you know what type of knife it is? You're good, but…" John snaps rubbing his opposite leg to remain calm.
Sherlock has the grace to look a bit guilty. "It's what I carried…then…" he mumbles quietly unable to meet John's eyes.
"When you went after the network?" John clarifies then pats his wounded leg in annoyance.
Sherlock nods affirmatively, "Yes."
"Right, then. As for your question, how will I walk out of here? I'm going to say, very carefully, but it's going to happen. This week's been shit and I'm not waiting for a ride out of here," John affirms throwing the blankets to the side and pushing himself to the edge of the bed.
He glances down at the I.V. in the back of his hand and sighs. Taking a deep breath, he fastidiously displaces the needle, grabs a plaster from the side table, and places it. John tosses the needle over the I.V. stand and puts his left foot on the floor.
The nurse chooses this moment to enter the room. "Dr. Watson, really," she admonishes her face drawn into a disapproving scowl. "I was coming right back."
She picks up his right hand to check his work and he laughs. "I'm fine, promise," he reassures, glancing up at Sherlock to make sure he's heard.
Sherlock's "You most certainly are not fine," fights for dominance with the nurse's "You wish," causing John to laugh again, albeit guardedly.
John takes care of the paperwork while Sherlock secures the pharmaceuticals into the deep pockets of his coat.
Sherlock steals a glance at John as he pushes up off the bed stifling a muted groan.
John inhales deeply and snags his jumper and coat from the attentive consulting detective. "Coming Sherlock?" John chokes out as he limps laboriously to the door never once looking back over his shoulder.
"Of course. It is preposterous to assume that I would be going anywhere else," Sherlock retorts close on the heels of the one man he'd follow into hell.
"Enough excuses. It's not enough!" the blonde man spits into the mobile he's clutching in a death grip.
"No, that's not good enough! Find him, take him down on his way to the surgery and bring him to the secondary location. That will give us hours before Sherlock Holmes notices that he's missing," he orders caustically, pausing to listen to the response.
"I need to finish this…. yes I know, but it's a chance I'm willing to take…why…because I'm paying you more money than God, now shut it and do the job!" He explodes tossing the mobile across the room. It smashes into the flocked walls of his very expensively decorated office.
Glancing down at his designer desk, he inhales deeply and closes his eyes. "Not much longer," he whispers to quell his agitation as he takes his seat, opens the top file on the stack and scrawls notes on Clifford Chance stationary for his next meeting.
"You see the difference now?" Sherlock asks John as he stands leaning on his cane outside the door of their flat, waiting for Sherlock to open it.
John's bewildered expression answers the question, but he inquires anyway, "Difference in what?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes and tries to lead John to enlightenment. "The cane?" He pauses momentarily watching John's face. "Your leg?" He tries again throwing his hands up in the air unable to believe that John has not made the connection. "Oh for God's sake, John," Sherlock huffs disconcertedly.
"Get on with it, Sherlock. It should be obvious to you that I have no idea what you're going on about. I'm tired, my leg hurts like a bitch, and I'm in no mood for your sodding deductions," John grouses before hanging his head a bit at his overreaction. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. What are youtalking about?"
Sherlock scrunches his face a bit annoyed that John has not followed his logic even with several clues. Opening the flat door, he strides into the flat, leaving his injured friend to limp into the flat behind him, cane in hand.
"I thought it would be quite easily discernible. I am speaking as to the distinctions between your limp now and when we first met. There is an actual injury that precludes the necessary use of your cane as opposed to the manifestation of the psychosomatic injury from when we first met. There should be perceptible differences to you," Sherlock discloses to John studying every nuance of his older flatmate's face.
John sighs heavily and drops into his chair. He pauses to think on it for a moment. "No, not really," he divulges to Sherlock's utter dismay.
Sherlock perches on the chair across from him, "What do you mean, not really? You have 17 stitches and a wound now; whereas, six years ago, there was no injury at all."
John smiles tightly and nods to Sherlock, "Technically, that's true…"
"Technically?" Sherlock questions, eyebrows raised, causing John's smile to widen.
"There may not have been a physical injury, Sherlock, but the pain was there, and it was excruciating. My leg hurt all the bloody time, and I couldn't make the pain stop even when I was on the painkillers for my shoulder," John explains readily, friendship dulling the sense of embarrassment he would have felt having this discussion so many years ago.
Sherlock steeples his long fingers under his chin considering all that John has told him, when his eyes alight in understanding. "The human brain never ceases to amaze me. I believe I have an explanation for the appearance of your limp six years ago. Last week, if you'll remember, after the nightmare, you told me about having to amputate a wounded soldier's leg. Which leg did you amputate?"
John looks up at Sherlock with a pained expression. "Right," he answers without a second thought then pauses as he realizes what he's said, "Ahhhh! So because I had to amputate some kid's right leg in sodding Afghanistan, my subconscious decided that my right leg would feel the pain of it. Bloody hell!"
Lestrade reaches for the phone, which has not ceased ringing for the entire morning. "Lestrade," he barks in agitation, wishing for the hundredth time today that he could be rescued from this paperwork.
Unfortunately, every call today has been a request for said paperwork to be completed, and this call was not different. "Yes sir," he replies as he picks up his buzzing mobile, his lips pursed in aggravation.
Four text alerts await him and he sighs, shaking his head. "Excellent, they're from Sherlock," he complains to the empty office. "What now?"
Glancing at the display, he accesses them, grabbing up a spare pad for notes he may need to take in reference to whatever case Sherlock may have just solved.
He reads the first one.
John missed check in
SH
Lestrade rolls his eyes at this and begins to type a response when he reads the second message.
Called the clinic
John did not show for his shift
SH
He shakes his head at Sherlock's mind reading capabilities and brings up the third message.
Put down the pen
Stop wasting time
SH
Glancing at the pen in his hand, he tosses it aside and leaps up from his chair to grab his coat. He retrieves his gun from the desk drawer, holsters it and puts on his coat as he reads the fourth and final text message while walking toward the lift.
You should be here by now
SH
"Bloody hell," he curses sending his own return message, exiting the lift and making for the main doors.
On my way
GL
He is getting into the sedan when his phone beeps, and he pulls it from his pocket to check it.
Finding John is the priority.
Meet at Clifford Chance.
SH
Sherlock pulls Lestrade past the security desk while holding up Lestrade's identification that he's just pinched from his pocket.
"Important police business," Sherlock asserts as they make their way to the lifts.
Security steps forward to intervene, requesting that Lestrade sign in to which Sherlock in his most grating voice, rolls his eyes, grabs the pen and hastily scrawls the Detective Inspector's name to the log in a perfect replica of his signature.
Sherlock then pushes past the desk with Lestrade in tow making his way quickly to the lifts.
The lift door closes them in as Lestrade reaches over and plucks his identification out of Sherlock's raised hand. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, do I even want to know why you can forge my signature so perfectly?" Lestrade interrogates, placing his identification into the pocket furthest from Sherlock.
"Most definitely not," Sherlock responds as the doors open on their floor.
Lestrade follows Sherlock to the office of Patrick Forrestal. "What are we doing here, Sherlock?" He hisses trying to be respectful of the surrounding employees.
"Gathering intelligence," Sherlock answers as if this should be obvious.
Lestrade knocks on the door of the solicitor's office, entering when invited.
"Mr. Forrestal, we have some questions," Lestrade begins, as he takes a seat in front of the man's desk.
"Please come in," Forrestal offers, asking his assistant to bring them all some tea. "What can I do for you? Name it. You saved my life, Mr. Holmes."
"Incorrect. John Watson saved your life, and it is up to you to return the favor," Sherlock advises the man clearly, his blue eyes dark and serious. "Who knew about your wife's illness?"
Mr. Forrestal pauses momentarily taken aback by the abrupt change of topic, then states, "Of course, our families, our kids…a few close family friends…" He pauses a moment to think on it before continuing, "My secretary, my boss…several other solicitors in our division. Why do you ask?"
"Think about it. It is vital that you remember everyone," Sherlock orders the older man.
"I am quite certain. We didn't want a lot of people to know," the solicitor explains. "Alexia's a strong woman. She was concerned that people would treat her differently if too many people knew about it."
"Of course," Lestrade assures him quietly.
Lestrade turns towards the world's only consulting detective when the man remains silent.
Sherlock takes in every detail of the office.
Pictures wife
Pictures children various ages
Pictures Forrestal and associates
One, two, three…no four children, one set twins
LLM King's College
Clutter free
Nine open case files on desk
Lestrade dislocates Sherlock from his thoughts pulling him gently towards the door as he has seen John do many times before.
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Forrestal," Lestrade says as they walk out the door.
Sherlock scans his surroundings automatically; his mind turned inwards to find the solution he knows is trapped there somewhere.
"We must get to the flat immediately; I need to think," Sherlock informs Lestrade with a flare of his coat as he turns to make his way to the sedan.
John fists his hands as his unconscious mind wraps itself in the horrors of his nightmares.
"Parker, hold this now!" John yells grabbing the tourniquet and tying it tightly around the kid's thigh. "Shit! Kid's bleeding out. Must have hit the femoral. God, his leg's a mess…"
The shelling is unbearable but oddly retreats to the background as he has a kid to save. Sand kicks up in his face. "Parker, listen to me. We have to take the leg. Get on the radio. Get me Murray, now!" He demands as he continues to mop up the blood and prep the area where he'll need to cut.
John moans loudly, thrashing about in the chair where he is restrained.
"Get the Celox ready, Bill. We're gonna have to be quick. Shit, too much blood. Damnit, Bill, clean this up. I can't see what I'm doin'," John orders before his friend's knees even hit the sand.
"No…not this…Celox," John mutters. The sweating doctor struggles against his bindings not realizing precisely why he cannot move.
"Do not let go of this kid, soldiers. You let him go, he's dead," John reminds them as he ducks against the spray of sand being kicked up by the hail of bullets falling all around them.
"He's…alive," John whispers, a small smile playing about his lips. "Didn't lose another one." John continues to shift in his bindings as his nightmares change.
"C'mon sir, you have to get on the Chinook," a fresh-faced kid yells, dragging him toward the Rendezvous Zone. John won't budge. Insurgents are firing all around them, and John will not leave this kid.
"Give me a sec, damn it. I'm not losing this kid," John grinds out between clenched teeth as he sops up blood with a pressure bandage.
The kid standing next to him morphs suddenly into an insurgent dragging him away from his patient.
"No…save him," John mumbles, his breath coming out in ragged, wheezing gasps.
John looks around the darkened cave where he has been tied to a different chair in a different time. Wartime.
"I'm not telling you a sodding thing," John bites out, spitting out blood from the numerous strikes he's taken to the face.
"Can't move…" John groans, his thoughts plunging him into a different nightmare altogether. "Won't tell…won't tell…"
"He's mumbling in Farsi," one of his guards, a former soldier, says in a shocked voice.
"Bollocks, that's why he went down so hard," the second man realizes as he glances over the unconscious man in the chair covered with newly forming bruises and blood.
John's silence is deafening as they beat him with staves dipped in water for maximum effect and damage. The cracking sounds of the snapping wet wood echo off the cave walls.
The insurgents kick over his chair and proceed to kick at him viciously until he loses the ability to reason.
"Will get it," John moans, his body tense with the movements within his dream.
John crawls painfully, his body broken as he drags himself across the dirt and rocks of the cave floor. Just a few more feet and he will reach the stale bread that has been thrown there. It has been days since he has had food or water. He's been surviving by eating the insects invading his cell. Bread would be a nice change.
"Wake him up! The boss is on his way," a third man orders, coming into the darkened dank room of the warehouse.
Sherlock stalks into the flat with Lestrade on his heels and walks directly over to the skull on the mantle. He glances at John and Mary's wedding picture sitting there next to the skull.
"I'll bring him home, Mary," he promises sub vocally.
Sherlock smiles fondly, "John hides them all over the flat. I just have to find them." Reaching inside the cranium, he pulls out a nicotine patch and affixes it to his left forearm.
"The skull, really?" Lestrade mocks, his tone dripping with amusement.
"Just one?" Lestrade laughs in the face of overwhelming stress and takes a seat in the desk chair knowing better than to sit in John's chair in this situation.
Sherlock's top lip curls in disgust. "Yes, yes… I promised John that I would start with one and work my way up if the problem warranted it," Sherlock admits, his angular face drawn down into a scowl.
Sweeping his coat off his chair, he places it respectfully on the hook along with his scarf. He moves over to the sofa where he flops down onto his back and folds his hands together under his chin.
"Lestrade, your worry is putting me off. Take a deep breath and put it away," Sherlock tells the older Detective Inspector, his eyes closed as he begins to prepare to go to his memory palace. He pauses, opens his blue eyes, and looks straight at Lestrade, "You can make me some tea if you want."
Sherlock returns to his original position and begins to sift through the facts within his mind palace. He opens the door marked John and begins to sort through the pertinent information.
John
Pushed down the stairs
Patrick Forrestal
Sick wife
Associates
Picture of Forrestal with associates
Sherlock takes a breath and proceeds deeper into the file, his arms moving as if conducting a symphony as he goes through the information and regards or discards it depending on its relevance.
Five associates
Two women-discard
Three men
Man on right
Know him
"Where did I see him?" Sherlock gasps continuing to flow through the information.
Precinct-discard
Speedy's-discard
Crime Scene-discard
Tesco's- Ahhhh. The market.
"How did I meet him?" Sherlock mumbles quietly, his breath coming in wheezing puffs of air.
John
Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers
Former Soldier
Wounded
John saved him
"Study his face," Sherlock prompts as he looks over the meeting a second time.
Smile
Not eyes
Eyes-Rage
Slight draw to mouth-Hatred
Sherlock jerks out of the mind palace with violent force. The word hatred echoes in his brain. He was so disinterested and bored upon meeting the young former soldier that he missed a vital clue.
Lestrade startles when Sherlock leaps off the sofa, over the coffee table, and takes the stairs two at a time into John's room. Sherlock reaches past the framed picture of Mary on the bed stand and snatches the picture of John's med unit before running back to the sitting room.
Sherlock removes the picture from the frame, ignoring Lestrade's ranting, and turns it over to check the dates and names of the soldiers in the picture in John's precise writing.
Date: March 2009
Michael Parker, Bill Murray, Me, Danny Bennett
Sherlock flips the picture back over and, grabbing John's laptop from the table inputs John's password and begins to do some research.
Lestrade, understanding that Sherlock resides in an uncommunicative state at this time, wisely takes his seat.
"Of course," Sherlock shouts, turning the laptop to show Lestrade. "They're dead."
"What? Who's dead?" Lestrade demands coming forward out of the chair.
Sherlock places the laptop back on the table and holds up the picture of the med unit. "This is John's med unit. John told me this picture was taken the month before he was shot. See the four men?"
Sherlock gestures to the soldier on the far left. "This is Michael Parker. He was killed in a mugging last week."
He slides his finger across the picture to the man standing to John's right with his arm across the John's shoulders. "This one is Bill Murray. He's been visiting his wife's family in America for the past month according to the emails that he sent John. They aren't due to return for another six weeks."
Sherlock indicates the final soldier standing on John's left. "This one is Danny Bennett. He was killed three days ago in a car accident. They've been targeted, Lestrade, and I missed it."
Lestrade strokes his clean-shaven jaw and inquires, "How do we find out who's targeting John? How does this put us any closer to finding him?"
Sherlock closes his eyes and hisses, "Shut up, Lestrade!"
A few moments later he opens his eyes, "His name is Tom Knight. He's a solicitor at Clifford Chance and works with Patrick Forrestal. He knew about the sick wife."
Sherlock jumps up from his perch on the chair and grabs his coat from the hook on the back of the door. "Come, Lestrade. The hunter has become the hunted," he snarls, his eyes flashing dangerously.
John shudders as ice water drips down his back. "Wake up, Watson," he hears jeered at him from afar. The voice gets closer with the next dousing.
John sputters awake, coughing on the frigid water, causing him to choke. "Wh…what?" He groans loudly willing his eyes to push open.
"Good, you're awake. Boss should be here any minute," the former soldier informs him pleasantly.
"Bloody marvelous. Can't wait," John sighs, rolling his head to stretch out the tight muscles in his neck.
The door creaks open and in walks a man in an expensive designer suit.
John tries to focus on the man's face, but the image blurs and he drops his head back before lifting it up to try again.
"Why did you damage him?" the man demands angrily.
The leader of the trio steps forward. "We didn't realize he was a former soldier. That piece of information could have come in handy," he complains the pompous arse.
"Perhaps, but it didn't really matter," he explains then takes out a weapon and shoots each of them in the head, but not before the former soldier shoots him in the left shoulder.
John jerks back as their combined blood splatters all over him. "Bloody hell," he curses, turning his head away as he wipes his bloodied face on his right shoulder.
The man puts the gun away in his coat pocket. "Don't worry. I told them it was a weapons free zone. Anyone who brought in a weapon would not get paid and would be killed. Mission accomplished."
John studies the insane man in front of him, "What the hell do you want from me, Tom?"
"Ah, you remembered. Too bad you didn't recognize exactly who I was last week at the market. I could see that you had no idea who I was," Tom replies snidely.
John shakes his head regretfully. "Tom, I spent three tours in Afghanistan. Roughly 22 months before I was invalided back to London. I worked on about a dozen or more kids every other day. I'm sorry I didn't recognize you, but I wasn't looking at your faces. I was looking at your wounds, trying to save your lives."
Tom scoffs at that, "You ruined my life, Doctor Watson!" He spits out vengefully, "I'm not going to kill you. I'm going to destroy you the way you destroyed me. My wife left me because I wasn't whole anymore."
John bows his head forward closing his eyes when he recognizes the statement. In 22 months of war, he performed only one amputation. It still haunts him to this day. "Your name is Tom Knight. I…was forced to…amputate your right leg…just above the knee because your leg was blown to hell, kid. There was nothing left of it."
Tom hefts a cricket paddle over his right shoulder; his left shoulder bleeding profusely from the earlier shot. "Well, the gunshot wound was unexpected, but I should still be able to do some damage."
John's eyes widen as he realizes what's about to happen. "Let me help you, Tom. I can get the bullet out and clean it up before you lose too much blood. Please," John requests quietly, trying to remain calm, thinking about how ironic it is that Tom was shot in the same shoulder as he was.
Tom swings the paddle back and lets fly a powerful swing to John's lower right leg causing the doctor to yell out. The crack of paddle against bone is deafening and reminds John of the Taliban torture he endured in Afghanistan.
John sighs sublingually in relief as he realizes that Tom didn't break the bones. His swing isn't as powerful as it would be if he didn't have that shoulder wound. Tears from the incredible pain run down John's face as he bides his time and blows out air to bring his heart rate back under control.
Tachycardia would be dangerous given his bindings. He inhales deeply again and forces down the nausea threatening his sense of control.
"Tom, let me help you," John attempts again before the next strike of the cricket paddle. John grunts as he feels the tibia crack under the onslaught.
He curls forward as much as he is able to protect himself.
"How does it feel, Doctor? How does it feel to be a victim of war?" Tom sneers, his anger growing like the bloodstain on John's right thigh.
John closes his eyes, realizing that there will be no redemption here. No forgiveness for his brutal but necessary choice. He bows his heads sadly for all that the man before him has lost. John had done his very best work that day, and the world still went to fucking hell.
Tom raises the cricket paddle again to deal a devastating blow to John's broken lower right leg. He pauses when the door bangs open and a blurry figure streaks across the warehouse like a vicious wraith.
John sighs in exhausted relief as he sees Sherlock tackle Tom Knight knocking him to the floor. Tom had no time to make it to the gun he'd shoved into the pocket of his dress coat.
Sherlock sits upon his chest pummeling his face repeatedly as the haze in John's head begins to clear.
"Sherlock…. Sherlock…. stop…you'll kill him…." John shouts with quiet authority.
Lestrade tears through the doors and witnessing the situation tackles Sherlock, only to come face to face with a demon rather than a man.
"John's hurt," Lestrade whispers, perhaps the soundest strategy yet, then rolls over, stands up and taking his Total Control handcuffs, he cuffs the suspect eliciting a howl when he pulls on the injured man's shoulder. Lestrade nearly smiles.
Sherlock's fury begins to dissipate in the face of John's pain. He rushes to the bound doctor, and grabbing a knife from one of the dead accomplices, he cuts John free.
John crumbles forward without the rope to hold him in the chair.
Sherlock lowers him to the floor gently as John looks up at him. "You could have killed him, Sherlock," he grounds out, his jaw locked against the excruciating pain in his body.
"That was the idea," Sherlock replies tersely, his hands roaming over John's face to check his wounds as the paramedics race into the room with a stretcher.
They sprint towards John and kneel down at his side.
John attempts to smile up at them, waving them off. "Broken leg. Gun shot takes priority," he redirects as the lead paramedic opens his mouth to speak.
"Like bloody hell, John," Sherlock and Lestrade growl at the exact same moment.
The other paramedic redirects to the gunshot victim. "He's alive, but he was beaten pretty badly," the tall thin man reports to his partner.
Lestrade steps forward. "He's a kidnapper and a murderer. He's under arrest so you'll have to work around the handcuffs," Lestrade explains to the junior member of the paramedic team.
The antiseptic smell brings John around slowly. He scrunches his faces up in disgust as he realizes where he now finds himself.
John scrutinizes the bland hospital room around him. Beige walls and uncomfortable chairs, one of which has a sleeping Sherlock perched on it. John smiles a pained smile.
He shifts in the bed releasing a biting groan with the movement and closes his eyes against the nausea that rises up suddenly.
The form in the chair transforms into a hyper ball of energy bounding off the walls of the tomblike room.
"John?" Sherlock questions the pallid man in the hospital bed.
John moans a bit, before opening his pain-glazed eyes, which flutter and squint with the advent of the room's light.
Sherlock uses his hand to shade John's eyes and beckons him to open them again.
John's eyes blink rapidly and finally open to the concerned visage of Sherlock's somewhat slanted face.
Pushing himself up in the uncomfortable bed, he looks up at Sherlock and his face screws up in annoyance.
John folds his arms angrily across his chest. "Bloody hell, Sherlock! Get me the hell out of here," he grumbles, his eyebrows drawn together in anger looking at the bleak hospital room around him.
Sherlock leans close looking John in the eye to make sure that the stubborn doctor comprehends his next few sentences.
"John. You've been unconscious for half a day. You ripped out 13 of your 17 stitches. You have an infection in your right leg, which also has a fractured tibia. You will stay here and cooperate for as long as your doctor feels necessary," Sherlock informs his beloved friend.
"But," John stops and really looks at Sherlock's expression. He realizes that this situation has terrified Sherlock.
A terrified Sherlock is bad whereas an annoying Sherlock is good.
John painfully rolls to his right side, mindful of the cast on his lower right leg and lets out a strangled groan. He closes his weary blue eyes slowly safe in the knowledge that Sherlock will always be there to watch over him.
The End