The elusive and dangerous man that Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson had been in pursuit of that afternoon had ducked down behind the impressive sized wooden cargo containers that strung along the edge of the pier and port. Pistols drawn, the intrepid duo walked slowly down the wooden planks in search of the fleeing suspect. Crouched low while keeping an eye for any sign of movement from their man, their heavy soled boots against the dry wood of the dock echoed loudly with each cautious step.
A shot suddenly rang out from unknown locale from the numerous wooden crates from a location lost within the echo. The sound of metal dropping heavily against the wooden pier drew Watson's attention from everything before him and exclusively to his left. His eyes focused on the form of his friend, pale and in great pain, crumpling to the ground onto his knees. His hand pressed tightly against his right side as a low moan of pain escaped his lips.
"Holmes? Holmes, what's wrong?" John's revolver was still aimed forward as his free hand grabbed onto Sherlock's shoulder in an effort to give support to the downed man.
The blood spreading outward in a gruesome blossom from beneath the detectives hand was sickening sight to behold. The distinct flow and shape of the blood as it pooled forth indicated that Sherlock Holmes had been shot. Drops of seeping blood began to slowly rain down from between Sherlock's stained fingers, staining the wooden planks.
"I need to look at your wound." John insisted calmly as he lowered his gun and place it have over top the bloodied hand Sherlock held desperately against his wound. "Move your hand."
As John knelt to examine his injured comrade a sudden blow to the back of his hand rendered him instantly unconscious. Collapsing forward in a heap before his injured colleague John knew no more of the waking world around him.
Sherlock leaned heavily on his knees. The hand that had once held his pistol was now supporting his body upward from the pier and his pistol lay dormant at his side as John lay unconscious before him. Sherlock looked up to see the face of the very man he had intended to apprehend now standing above him with his own pistol aimed directly between the detective's glassy gray eyes.
Sherlock fearlessly waited for the trigger to be pulled and listened for the sound of the shot that would put an end to his life. Instead he heard the distinct 'click' of the pistol being unarmed and subsequently placed back into its holster as its master's hip.
"One shot is all I need to waste on you, 'detective'." The man sneered with venom in his voice.
The gruff, arrogant tone of the shooter mocked Sherlock's ears even as they began to ring. His weak body heaved itself against his own will face down onto the wooden planks and across John's prone back. Sherlock struggled to lift his head and focus his eyes on his assailant, through his clouding vision he saw the shooter grab John by the back of his coat collar and heave his unconscious body from underneath his own and further down the pier and over to the edge of the dock.
A large cargo vessel bobbed gently up and down in the water as it remained unguarded in port, secured to the pier by a single thick rope. Sherlock breathed out one last pitiful call toward his colleague with an outstretched hand before passing out in a puddle of his own blood. "...Watson..."
"Now doctor," The shooter spoke in rough angry tone beneath his breath as he dragged his helpless hostage along the uneven wooden planks of the dock and toward the unmanned vessel bound to the pier. "It's your turn."
John was beginning to regain consciousness, his mind slowly registered that the voice that was taunting him was of an enemy. His body remained motionless, refusing to respond despite his mind racing and fighting back against the harsh headache that threatened to steal his senses. He felt heaviness in his chest and arms and it was then he understood that he had been bound by a heavy rope or chain, and was now utterly defenseless against the craze gunman.
Feeling the cold material pressing harshly into his torso he deduced that it was an indeed a chain, the very chain of the nearby vessel's anchor that held him at bay. A large padlock clasped the chains in place and it rested against his constricted chest in a taunting manner.
"You brought this on yourself. If you and that pompous detective had just left my life well enough alone, I'd still have my family!" The gunman snapped with an unbridled anger to his helpless hostage.
John had to force the words from his traumatized voice and tight chest as he tried to reason with the enraged man. "I swear to you, we knew nothing, absolutely nothing of the perils that had been laid for your family." His eyes darted back to where Holmes was still laying motionless in the distance. Blood surrounding his body like a crimson silhouette. "It's not our fault!"
"You're the second person to tell me that this morning. And frankly, I grew tried of it the first time around. You're wrong, it is your fault! It's my fault as well." The gunman's demeanor shifting frighteningly fast from manic to depressed in the blink of an eye. "Someone has to pay for this outrage and I'm starting with the two of you..." He lifted his pistol and pressed the barrel against the his left temple with an hollow, blank stare in nearly black eyes. "and ending it with me!"
With one strong kick the shooter pushed his boot into the center of John's chest forcing the bound doctor over the edge of the pier and into cold murky water below. John instinctively held his breath as his body hit the smothering water, he kept his breath even as the chill of the icy water relentlessly stung into his flesh like a thousand needles.
The anchor's weight pulled Watson down quickly to the bottom of the bay without any resistance. When the full weight of the heavy anchor had struck the silt a cloud of the loose sand clouded Watson's vision further amongst within the nearly opaque water. The chain shuddered violently from the sudden stop causing John's body to shudder along with it.
His lungs already burning, starving for the much needed oxygen John began to struggle fitfully and fruitlessly against his binds in a fleeting attempt to free himself. Escape seemed impossible but he refused to give in so easily to the whims of a madman with a temper and an unjustified vendetta.
The shooter watched on the dock from above as the ripples on the water and the cascade of bubbles that came flying upward from the beneath the surface started to calm as John lost the will to fight. The anchor's chain suddenly fell into silence as it stopped twitching altogether with John's failing strength ceased all movement.
The only sound now was the distant confused voices calling out from further up the pier as curious onlookers began to gather. The shooter took a deep breath and held it as he felt the cold barrel of his own gun pressed against his temple.
He squeezed the trigger…
Just as John felt he needn't fight for life any longer and that he should let free his final breath and allow the darkness of impending death take him, he felt two hands grab hold of the chain that had seemingly sealed his fate. Focusing hard through the murkiness of his watery tomb and pushing aside his own panic John saw that someone had swum down to him and was attempting to free him from his binds!
The rescuer's hands had found the padlock and were frantically trying to pick the strong lock to free the chain from around its captive. Despite the cloud of debris that encompassed the struggle for life a glint from the flawless metal shone from the pick like a glimmer of hope in a dark cave.
At the sight of the lockpick John immediately knew the identity of his rescuer and is heart leapt in his chest: Sherlock Holmes!
A red cloud of water began to encircle the heads of the two men and John knew that this red substance could only be blood. Sherlock's blood. The blood from the very gunshot wound that should've, not only killed the clever detective but should have kept him from even attempting the very rescue of which he was now performing.
The murky water made picking the lock a laborious task. The detective's hands had difficulty grasping the pick, while the chill of the freezing water made his hands numb; even more so than the blood loss had done before.
With one final forceful turn of the pick the lock opened and the chain went lax as they slipped free from the opened locks handle. His task completed at last the exhausted detective let out his shallow breath and lost consciousness with a single escaped gasp. Sherlock began to slowly to sink aimlessly and helplessly toward the bottom. His limp body brushed against the soft sandy bottom of the bay stirred up a second cloud of obstructive debris.
Adrenaline now coursing through his veins John shrugged away the chain, freeing his arms from behind himself with a renewed strength. He grasped down at Sherlock's lifeless arm as he pulled his colleague up toward himself, gripping the injured man beneath his arms with his own. Watson kicked frantically for the surface, his 'bad' leg ached at him profusely from the effort but he refused to stop.
The doctor was desperate to take in the breath that he so desired, desperate to get his friend out of the water and onto the relative safety of the dock and desperate the save the life of the man of whom had just saved his that no amount of pain would hinder his effort.
John's head broke through the calm surface of the water wit a loud gasp as he sucked in a much needed breath of air. The sounds of his gasping drew the attention of several bystanders who had both heard the initial gunshot that had stuck Holmes, as well as the second self-inflicted shot on the gunman himself.
Several deckhands had seen a body fall into the water and had promptly called for the authorities while two men had marched up and down the pier curiously seeking the source of the interest. Upon seeing the doctor suddenly break through the water with his unconscious friend under arm they acted quickly and threw John a rope and helped pull both himself and Sherlock out of the water and back onto the dry pier above.
The strong arms of the dock workers first hefted Sherlock out of the water effortlessly; one man laid him down while the other turned his attention to aiding John as he was too pulled onto the dock by strong arms. The kind man had insisted that John sit down and try to relax but John pushed him aside and focused his attention to Sherlock who was laying pale and lifeless only a few inches away.
The seemingly invincible detective lay motionless on the dock, his clothes soaking from the water and stained red from his own blood. There was no sign of life, his chest did not appear to be rising or falling and not a breath entered his cold lungs.
John put his hands on either side of Sherlock's head and began to pat at his face to provoke a response.
From the corner of his eye John caught the form of a humanoid shape tucked under a brown canvas at the end of the pier where he now sat with Sherlock. A small pool of blood was leaking out near the edge of the tarp and beneath that tarp he knew it was the shooter. Though John loathed the prospect of death, he was glad the madman was dead.
With no response given from Sherlock's limp body, John began to call his friend's name. "Holmes? Holmes!" A familiar voice might be enough to rouse his consciousness enough to awaken him and resume breathing. "Holmes? Wake up! I need you to wake up!"
Nothing, not any sign of life from the downed detective.
John placed his ear his friend's chest and listened intently but failed to hear a sound or feeling any motion from within.
Sherlock Holmes' heart had stopped beating.
"No, you're not getting out of this that easy…" John defied as his instincts as a doctor consumed his every reaction.
The devoted doctor knelt beside the detective with his blue eyes sharply focused on the impending task at hand; he laced his fingers together as he began compressing the center of Sherlock's chest in a rhythmic pattern of controlled strength and speed. John's eyes watched Holmes' face keenly hoping to see some sign of life return to his friend while he mentally counted each time he compressed downward against the still heart in his friend's cold, motionless chest.
"Twenty-nine… Thirty…"
No response. No change.
Feeling helpless and desperate John laid a single fierce blow to Sherlock's stopped heart with his fist before repeating the process of chest compressions as he again attempted to revive his colleague and friend.
"Damn it, no! Not like this. You will not die like this! Not today…"
The dockworkers who had witnessed the entire series of unfortunate events stood back in respectful silence; almost in awe of the fight Dr. Watson was putting up for the sake of his friend's life. A constable had joined the crowd and upon seeing the display of attempted resuscitation laid out before him, he too, was at a loss of words or how he should react, if at all.
Inside himself John felt pathetic and useless as a doctor compared to the heroic efforts displayed by the very man dying beneath his hands. Sherlock had been shot and yet he had still managed to find the strength to dive into the horribly dark deep and cold water in order save Watson from the cruel fate of drowning. How could he, as both a doctor and a military man, fail to save one man's life?
Mentally steeled and focused John still counted the compressions as he refused to give up on Sherlock, just as Sherlock had refused to give up on him.
"Twenty-two… Twenty-three…"
A sudden gasp for air followed by a severe cough caught John by surprise. From beneath his tired hands the doctor felt wonderful thumping against his palms. The heart of his friend had started beating once more as the warmth of the very welcome air filled his cold lungs in sharp, quick gasps.
"Holmes…" John naturally turned the detective to his side as Holmes coughed up the remaining water that had entered his lungs and prevented air from entering. "Holmes? Look at me: Look at me ol' boy…"
Through gasps for breath Sherlock managed to utter out a single word: "...Watson..."
"Thank God… I thought… I thought I lost-" A pool of red blossoming within the detective's soaked shirt stopped John midsentence.
Once Sherlock's heart resumed beating the gunshot wound to his lower abdomen had also resumed bleeding. With the shock of seeing his friend return to the land of the living wearing off John found himself in full doctor mode once more. He turned Sherlock over onto his back and unfastened the blood soak fabric of his vest and the shirt beneath to finally examine the wound.
The shot had been at a distance with a small caliber round; the damage was minimal but still severe enough to cause alarm due to its location in Sherlock's body. There was no exit wound on Sherlock's back to be found which meant the bullet was still embedded inside his abdomen.
John next turned his attention to the crowd of onlookers still gathered behind him. He spied the constable in the crowd and addressed him with the tone one would expect from a respectable military man.
"I need a carriage, now!"
"Right away, sir!" As the constable turned to find the requested carriage, he handed the doctor a clean white handkerchief from his own pocket. "I'll return shortly!"
John graciously accepted the offered handkerchief and used it to pack the wound in Sherlock's abdomen. Within moments the white fabric was forever stained an ominous crimson hue as it absorbed the abundantly flowing blood. If John could just keep Holmes from bleeding to death or succumbing to hypothermia from the cold water it would be a matter of minor surgery to retrieve the projectile and close the wound.
But it wasn't the injury itself that was unsettling John's nerves, it was the lack of time he had at his disposal.
"Hang in there ol' friend, help is coming." John soothed warmly as he placed a hand to the side of Sherlock's face. "Remain strong."
Sherlock smiled a little at John's voice though his eyes remained closed. "...Help is already here... Watson."
"You'll be at the hospital shortly." John spoke softly to his bleeding friend.
"No... No hospital."
"Holmes, you need medical attention." John refuted his friend's stubbornness calmly. "You need a doctor's care."
"...I already have a doctor's care."
"Don't be daft Holmes! I cannot take you on as my patient."
"...Why not?" Sherlock winced at the pain in his abdomen as he sucked in a shallow breath. His words being halted as he spoke through pained, weak gasps. "What is it about me in particular... that prohibits you from performing your medical... services?"
"For one, you need surgery." John explained logically as he pressed his hand down harder against the bleeding abdominal wound. "I cannot perform this surgery myself, I've been out of practice far too long. And you're my friend. If something went wrong-"
"...I have every confidence in you, my dear Watson." Sherlock wheezed through his pained breaths. "...And your 'dormant' skills."
"No Holmes. You must-"
"No... I will not go. I have the right to refuse... any and all medical treatment, do I not?"
"Holmes, if the bullet is not removed soon you'll die from blood loss and shock." John felt a chill run up his spine as he bluntly told the truth to his dying friend. "Not to mention your 'dip' into this filthy water will no doubt cause the wound to become septic, you'll die of infection in less than three days."
"...Not if I have a proper doctor to care for my wound. You are... a proper doctor, are you not?"
"I am. But-"
"...What was the 'oath' you... and your fellow doctor's took?"
John just stared at Sherlock with a look of defeat in his eyes. It was common occurrence for Holmes to win their ethical debates in a most infuriating manner. "You're really not going to allow any other doctor to tend to your wound. Are you?"
"No..."
"Very well. It seems I have no choice. And fair warning: Your recovery will be far from pleasant." John attempted to tease to lighten the mood. "I will make sure of it!"
"...I wouldn't expect anything less."
John chuckled a little at the witty reply. "Right. Shall we then?"
Using as much as strength as his leg would allow John helped Sherlock up to his feet, making sure one hand, if not both kept constant pressure on the debilitating wound as Sherlock slung his heavy arm around Watson's shoulders for support and balance. The bleeding had slowed down considerably but it could start up once more from the physical exertion of walking down to the carriage that had just arrived at the pier.
The attending constable was in return to the scene when he met John helping Sherlock down the dock and toward the end of the pier. Unsure of what to say, unsure of what even to do, he offered his assistance in carrying Sherlock to the awaiting carriage. John of course, did not object. Together, the doctor and the constable lifted the wounded detective up and into the carriage where he sat with his head leaning back against the cushion of the seat.
John thanked the constable for his services as he too climbed into the carriage and sat next to Sherlock. Coaxing Sherlock to lay down his head rested against John's lap while John continued to apply pressure to the bloody gunshot wound. The driver was given his directions and whipped up his horses promptly.
The ride back to Baker Street was quiet and uneventful. The orange sun had begun to set basking the streets in a glow of a falsely warm atmosphere. Sherlock drifted in and out of consciousness while John successfully kept pressure on the wound. John checked Sherlock's pulse as the carriage came to a halt along Baker Street in front of their shared flat
"Alright, Holmes." John aided Sherlock into sitting in an upright position. "We're back home. Let's get you inside."
It was an awkward climb down from the carriage to the street but the two men limped together, side by side, into the safety of their flat. Sherlock was conscious enough to carry some of his own weight while John carried the rest. The front door had been left unlocked by their caretaker Mrs. Hudson which had been an unexpectedly beneficial to the two men as they stumbled through the doorway.
The kindly older woman had left the city to spend time with her sister and had trusted the two men to look after the flat during her absence.
"Right over here." John directed as he carried Sherlock to the designated area in the common room of the flat. It didn't take much effort to place the wounded man down on the sofa, but it was much more difficult in laying him down as the stubborn detective refused to remain idle for long stretches of time. "I shall return shortly, try to relax yourself."
After laying Sherlock down on the sofa of the the good doctor promptly lit up fire that quickly filled the room with appreciated warmth. Its glow was comforting even though its light would play an unintentional part in causing Holmes great pain. The pain of course was necessary in order to remove the bullet and to save his life.
As reluctant as John felt for setting himself up to perform minor surgery on his dear friend without the aid of a medical staff or even in a hospital, he was glad to be home. And he was glad that Sherlock Holmes was still there with him.
"...Well doctor." Sherlock wheezed from the sofa as he heard John's approaching footsteps. "Shall we... begin?"
John had changed out of his wet attire and brought his medical bag into the sitting room. Before he even opened the bag he handed Sherlock a freshly opened bottle of the finest whiskey, which Watson himself had been saving for a special occasion.
"You may need this." A smug smile couldn't help but crease John's lips.
"...Doctor's orders, I suppose?" Sherlock questioned as he eyed the bottle scientifically.
With a weak hand Sherlock pressed the bottle to his lips downed a shot then braced himself for the horrible pain to which was about to endure. As he laid flat on his back, the bottle still in his hand, he noticed the label of the whiskey and was surprised to see such a fine quality in his possession. Knowing John all to well he knew that the whiskey he held was of a special interest to his friend.
"We're both alive... I suppose that's worth celebrating." Sherlock remarked coolly.
John paused while setting up his equipment from his bag and glanced at Sherlock curiously. Despite all the time they spent together John was still impressed with Sherlock's ability to deduce his every action and motive without fail. He took the bottle from Sherlock's outstretched hand and placed it on the nearby table for future use.
"I suppose so." John finally replied as he pulled opened the bloodied fabric of Sherlock's shirt fully to expose the wound. "But let's not make this a 'common occurrence', shall we?"
"Agreed..."
Pouring the whiskey over the wound, John watched as Sherlock's entire body tensed in reaction to the burning pain of the alcohol onto the bloodied sight and then relaxed again before pulling out a pair of forceps and small clamp from his medical bag.
Sherlock grew tense at the sight of the steel instruments being displayed before him: two small basins; one filled with rubbing alcohol while the other remained empty; a pair of forceps, tweezers, a clamp, several gauze bandages, a needle and with some silk thread were also on display.
"It's been sometime since I've last needed to use these particular devices." John held up the forceps and clamp to clarify his comment. "I must apologize in advance for any discomfort."
"...What an honor it is for me then." Sherlock did his best to hide his nervousness but there was no denying it. "Carry on..."
After placing the instruments on a clean cloth that was laid down on the sofa next to Sherlock's leg Watson produced a small vial of medication and a syringe from the bottom of the medical bag.
"Morphine: It should do well enough to dull the pain as I work." John explained as he loaded the syringe with the proper dosage.
"Watson."
"Yes Holmes?"
"I love you." Sherlock grinned sheepishly to try and ease his friend's worry. It was unusual for John to willingly give Sherlock any potent medications, especially something as devious as Morphine, and he took the time to remind his friend of how unusual their situation truly was.
"Be quiet now, I must concentrate." John stated with a subtle grin as he rolled up the sleeve of Sherlock's right arm.
Sherlock did not even feel the prick of the needle as the painkiller was administered into the vein in his arm. Within a few seconds he felt completely relaxed, both physically and mentally. A mild delirium set in from the combination of the initial blood loss and now the powerful medication.
John on the other hand was very tense. Despite his nervousness his hands remained steady with his eyes fixed on the painful injury that plagued his friend.
"Watson…" Sherlock whispered softly.
The good doctor had already proceeded to debris the wound of its projectile, his eyes intensely focused at the task at hand. The forceps had already entered the bullet wound and located the offended bullet lodged in the bone of Sherlock's eighth rib while miraculously missing his internal organs or arteries and damaging only blood vessels. Taking a firm grip on the offending bullet John held his breath as he pulled it free from Sherlock's body.
"Yes Holmes?"
"When you were- Underwater… Were you afraid?" Sherlock never reacted to the bullet be extracted as the whiskey and morphine adequately left him numb.
There was a small metallic clank that echoed over the room louder than the crackling fire as the bloodied bullet was dropped into the empty basin on the floor.
"Yes Holmes. I was afraid." John admitted softly.
With the bullet removed John proceeded to suture the internally severed blood vessels before stitching the external wound closed once more. Sherlock seemed completely oblivious to the actions being performs on his own person as he laid completely still with his eyes closed.
"Watson... Were you afraid of dying?"
Tying up the end of the thread John snipped it off at the remaining length expertly. The white gauze pads were packed over the repaired flesh while being secured in place by a gauze wrap that covered Sherlock's entire lower torso protectively.
"Yes Holmes. I was afraid I was going to die. Why do you ask?"
"...Just curious."
John finished his procedure and sat with a heavy sigh on the end of the sofa next to Sherlock as he removed his used medical instruments onto the floor. He was very tired yet he could not bring himself to close his eyes and rest.
"Now Holmes, you need to rest in order to begin to heal properly. Do you understand?" John instructed with a weary sigh as he looked at his pale friend with a protect manner.
Sherlock Holmes remained silent.
The exhausted detective had fallen into a peaceful slumber, residing to a state of ignorant bliss to the world around him.
John could only smirk. He laid his head back against the soft sofa cushion and closed his eyes; the warmth of the fire seemed to soothe his very soul.
"Well done. We'll talk more in the morning."
-The End
*C.P.R. dates back to 1740. The modern technique used today, was first developed and accepted by the medical community in 1960, by Dr. Peter Sofar.