The first shot was a surprise, frankly, despite the fact that he chased criminals for a career. The pain in his lower back took his breath away as he felt himself fly forward, propelled by the gunshot. A second gunshot as he hit the ground. He lay prone, barely aware of the pounding feet in the distance.
"Oh my God-" John slid to a stop. "Greg- Sherlock wait-" the Consulting Detective sprinted past them.
"Take care of him John or he'll have been shot for nothing!"
"What?!"
"Get him to Barts!" Sherlock bellowed as he rounded the corner in the alley, still in pursuit of the shooter. John was already kneeling by Greg, he checked his pulse, careful not to move him.
"Greg can you hear me?"
Lestrade groaned,
"Shot twice in the back," he slurred. "Don' move me,"
"Not yet, talk to me Greg, stay with me," John's voice was strong amidst the chaos of flashing lights and sirens. "Don't go unconscious, talk to me, if I lose you Joanna'll have my head," Greg almost smiled at the thought of his daughter. "Talk to me, Greg," John urged again. Greg's tongue felt thick in his mouth, and there was a coppery tang between his teeth. He told John about how he was going to surprise Joanna with tickets to New York City that summer. She'd wanted to see some show on Broadway, Pippin, that was the show. She sang it nonstop, and it made him glad that she was singing, it meant she was happy. Her favorite song was…it was one of the big numbers…all he remembered was one verse. He'd have to ask her later.
"Don't let her see me like this," Greg's voice was weak, but almost desperate. "Please John, it'll upset her."
"She's got to know, Greg," John warned. The ambulance pulled up. "The EMT's are here, we're gonna move you, okay, just take a breath, okay, nice and easy, the stretcher is next to you-" the words all jumbled together, and Greg hoped John had heard him. If Joanna knew he'd been shot, she might hurt herself again.
St. Barts – Intensive Care
Molly received a call from Sherlock, he sounded out of breath.
"Get Joanna, Greg's been shot, they'll be operating soon." He'd hung up before she could ask any more questions. She'd clocked out and was on her way up the stairs when her phone rang again, this time it was Anthea.
"Joanna's on her way to the hospital, CCTV's saw what happened, Mycroft will fill you in when he arrives. Help John clean up, he's in the men's room upstairs just outside ICU." Again, the call disconnected before Molly could say anything. With nothing left to do, she headed to Intensive Care.
She found John furiously scrubbing his hands in the bathroom; he'd forgotten to lock the door.
"You'll take your skin off if you're not careful," she murmured. He glanced up at her, then down at his hands, the water in the sink was red. He didn't question why she was in the men's room, nor how she found him.
"Crappy hand soap," he muttered. "Doesn't clean for balls."
"Hold on," she left him, hurrying down the hall to one of the supply closets, taking a bar of soap the surgeons used. He glanced up when the door opened again, at Molly unwrapping a bar of soap. "Here, try this,"
"Thanks,"
"Joanna's on her way," Molly leaned against the open door. He glanced up, remembering briefly Greg begging him to not tell Joanna. That was bollocks though, she had to be told. She was all he had, and vice-versa.
"Good,"
"I texted Mary, too." He lifted his eyes, finally meeting her gaze. His expression softened. "She should be here soon."
"Thank you."
Molly rubbed her belly, feeling the baby within kick. She and Sherlock had not planned on a second child, but it wasn't unwelcome, even if her doctor warned her about her age. At six months now, Molly worried this child would be more difficult than the first. Seeing her expression, John shook the water from his hands, reaching for a paper towel.
"You okay?" he frowned, concerned. He couldn't help Greg right now, but he might be able to help Molly. Anything to distract him from the scene replaying in his head:
Greg shot twice, face-down in an alley.
"Yeah, just…" she shrugged, feeling tears in her eyes. "Worried, and my nerves aren't helping," she sniffled, trying to wipe her eyes. "Where's Sherlock, is he alright?"
"He's fine," he reassured her gently. "He's in pursuit of the shooter. He left Greg to me; I suppose that was best anyway. He'd never be able to sit still in a waiting room."
"No, you're right," she nodded.
"Come on, let's go find a seat, I think it's gonna be a while."
Mary arrived shortly after.
"I brought you crackers," she said to Molly. "Mrs. Hudson says not to worry, she's babysitting for us."
"Thanks,"
"Where is he? Where is he?!"
The hysterical voice startled them, and they looked in all directions for the source of the commotion. Mycroft and Anthea had arrived at the ICU, Joanna was already at the desk, demanding where her father was. John was on his feet immediately, hurrying over.
"He's my father, don't give me some excuse, where is he? Where-" Anthea reached for Joanna,
"Miss Lestrade, please calm down-" the PA tried to take her hand but Joanna pulled away, ignoring the PA, keeping her gaze on the receptionist.
"Please- please I need to see him, I need to –"
"Joanna," John grasped her hands, squeezing gently. Her eyes were wild, almost petrified. She turned with a start; it took her a moment to recognize him.
"I need to see him," she sobbed, hands shaking. "I need to see him, Dr. Watson, please, please-" his grip was firm, steady. The last thing they needed was a hysterical family member. Not that she was to be blamed. With her mother out of the picture, Greg was all Joanna had.
"Joanna I need you to breathe, take a deep breath for me, can you do that?" she tried to writhe out of his hands.
"You don't understand, I need to see-"
"Joanna-" Sherlock appeared behind her. She whirled on him, eyes accusatory.
"Nurse-" John motioned for assistance. Mary and Molly stepped out of the way as another nurse came in, calmly and quietly preparing a sedative.
"You promised to protect him!" Joanna sobbed, flying at Sherlock, kicking and punching. He stopped her fists, holding her by the arms.
"Joanna- stop-"
"You're a liar, you're a liar- you-" her hysterics petered out, the nurse on duty straightened, retracting the syringe from Joanna's now prone body.
"What did you give her?!" Sherlock demanded, almost furious.
"A mild sedative," the nurse replied. "She'll be out for a little while. When she comes to, someone should explain to her." John nodded. The nurse departed, leaving the group in the empty waiting room. Sherlock picked up Joanna, setting her on one of the sofas for the time being before taking a chair in the furthest corner.
Hours later…
"So what did you two fight about?" Joanna, having come to at last, looked up at Mary Watson. Hands between her knees, she shrugged, shoulders slouching.
"Stupid things," Joanna said quietly. "They don't matter."
"You were pretty shook up," Mary said gently. Joanna looked around the empty waiting room. John had a stethoscope to Molly's belly, listening to the baby inside. Sherlock stood over him, his gaze was intense, worried.
"Is Molly okay?"
"It's the baby kicking, probably the excitement of today." Mary said.
"Is there any word about my dad?" Mary's eyes softened, and she didn't' speak for a moment.
"Not yet. It's only been a little while."
"What happened?" Joanna looked at Mary, unmoving. The older woman chewed her bottom lip, thinking.
"It was to do with that bomb threat the other day, your father and Sherlock have been tracking him down. They got close, and the bomber shot your father. From what we know, the bullets missed his spine, but it will still take time to remove the shrapnel."
"Is he gonna be okay?" Joanna asked, her voice was small again. Mary didn't answer right away, hesitating again.
"We don't know yet. There's no reason why he shouldn't, but sometimes you don't know, there's things to consider, blood-loss, if the bullets pierced vital organs, we don't know anything yet. Until the doctor comes, we can't know for sure. Okay?" Joanna's eyes had slowly filled with tears as she listened to Mary's explanation. She blinked quickly, wiping her eyes.
"Okay." Nodding, she tried to keep herself from bursting into tears.
"It's okay," Mary leaned forward, tugging her close. "It's going to be okay."
The waiting room seemed too contained. No one wanted to sit still. Sherlock was fairly shaking with pent-up energy, despite his weary body. He stayed put for Molly's sake, and the baby's. The baby was fine. John promised the baby was fine. Molly rolled the empty styrofoam cup between her palms. Sherlock dug through his pockets for the long loop of twine he kept there.
"Cats cradle?" he asked and she set the cup aside, nodding tiredly. She held out her hands and together they started making patterns with the twine. It was monotonous but it kept their minds busy at least. Mary pulled out her knitting and handed it to Joanna.
"You've got the time, you may as well learn now," she said. Joanna really could have cared less. Crumbs, who needed to knit when her father was probably dying on the table?! She knew, however, that Mary was trying to distract her from thinking, so she took the wool and needles. Through blurry eyes, she listened as Mary's soft voice guided her through the steps. John Watson flipped through magazine after magazine until they sat in a stack by the sofa. A figure at the end of the hall made him pause, and he got to his feet.
"Lestrade's family?" Joanna tossed the needles at the couch, hurrying over to the man in scrubs.
"I'm his daughter," she said, then glanced at the others who were on their feet as well, coming to stand beside her. "And this is the rest of our family."
"He's going to be fine," the doctor assured her.
Joanna's knees went weak, John Watson caught her, and Mary stood beside her, holding her upright. Wiping her nose, Joanna looked to the doctor again.
"Can I see him?"
"Very shortly," he promised. "He's in post-op right now, and then we'll bring him to his room. He'll be in intensive care for the next few days, he lost a good deal of blood, but he was very fortunate. We managed to remove both bullets, he has a fever, but we are monitoring him and are confident he'll pull through. He's quite the fighter." Joanna was a crying mess again.
"He certainly is," Sherlock spoke up.
4:00 AM, Greg's Room, St. Barts Intensive Care Unit
Everyone took a place in the room, Molly was sure Mycroft had a hand in their being allowed to stay well past visiting hours. Joanna was curled up on the chair pulled as close to Greg as it could, her fingers clutched the sleeve of his hospital gown. Sherlock sat in the window sill, feet propped up on the wall. Molly and Mary were on the couch, and John hauled in another chair on the other side of Greg's bed. The steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor was like music to their ears, lulling them all to sleep, too exhausted to keep vigil. Only Joanna remained awake, studying her father's breathing patterns. His eyes moved behind closed eyelids.
"Joanna?" she lifted her head to see John standing. "You still awake?"
"Yeah."
"I'm gonna find a vending machine, are you hungry? You haven't eaten all day." She dug through her pockets for some money but he waved her off. "I'll see if there's one with sandwiches, it may be a while. I know for sure there's one downstairs by Molly's office."
The room was quiet again, save for the heart-monitor, the machines around the bed quietly whirring. Sherlock was speaking quietly to Molly, who sleepily responded. Mary was sound asleep, and Joanna sighed, turning back to her father.
"I'm sorry I yelled at you," Joanna whispered. "And…um…I promise…I promise when you get out of here…I won't- I won't hurt myself again, I promise."
"Good," she stared, seeing her father looking at her with bleary eyes, the morphine still effecting him. "You okay?" he asked, his voice soft, almost strained.
"Yeah," she smiled, her eyes shining in the dimly lit room. "Yeah I'm okay. You're okay too, right?"
"I'm okay, you're okay," he answered and smiled weakly.
"Yeah," she laughed through her tears. Hearing her father speak, she finally felt relieved. Seeing him with his eyes open, she took his hand, careful of the tubes and wires attached to his arm and fingers. "Listen, you- you're not supposed to be awake. You need to sleep, so you can get better."
"You're the boss applesauce," he muttered, already closing his eyes. "For now…" he was quiet for a while. "Talk awhile more, like hearing you talk, even if I'm 'sleep." He slurred.
"Um…Mary's teaching me to knit, and uh, the baby was kicking Molly a lot, she's worried because she's still got a few months to go. Sherlock's here too. John threw magazines all over the waiting room. Everyone's here waiting for you to get better dad, we're all here waiting…so- so you better not let us down."
"Yes ma'am." He smiled, eyes shutting once more, drifting back asleep listening to Joanna tell him about what else had went on while he'd been in surgery. Every now and again he stirred, opening his eyes for a few moments and took in the familiar faces around his bed. Greg was touched, knowing they were all there for him, keeping vigil. Through his morphine-induced haze, he could hear them whispering above him, giggling softly as they talked. He was glad they were laughing. He wouldn't want a somber hospital room. When he woke up properly, he'd find them all waiting to greet him. The dark circles under their eyes told him they'd been there a long time, and that they were losing sleep because of him. He was touched deeply by how much they all cared, especially Sherlock, but then he always knew the buggar had a heart. For the first time in a long while, Greg Lestrade slept peacefully, knowing for once, someone was watching over him.