Grounded
by
thedragonaunt
Chapter One
'Look, John! There!' Sherlock hissed in a harsh whisper.
John peered along the dark alleyway, straining his eyes to make anything out in the murky gloom. The alley was narrow, the buildings on either side tall and the thin sliver of sky directly overhead was thick with cloud, ruling out any possibility of illumination from that source.
'Where? I don't see anything,' John hissed back.
The Consulting Detective and his trusty sidekick had been standing motionless in this alley for the best part of half an hour, pressed up against the cold, damp wall that stank of mould and other, even less savoury biological substances, waiting…Waiting for what?
The recent spate of burglaries in this part of London had the police baffled – though that was nothing new, Sherlock had scoffed when DI Lestrade brought the case to him. All the break-ins had occurred while the occupants were away on holiday. The unfortunate victims returned from their travels to find their homes ransacked and their belongings pilfered. But the burglars were forensically savvy. Not a single trace of the intruder was left behind.
The police had investigated the 'holiday' connection, suspecting that someone in the leisure industry was tipping off the felon about empty premises. But they had found no common link between the various victims to support that theory.
As the number of incidents rose and the press had a field day at the expense of London's finest, Lestrade had no alternative but to ask for Sherlock's assistance.
'Leave it with me,' the Consulting Detective had stated with an enigmatic smile, having briefly reviewed the evidence, such as it was.
Lestrade hated that smile. That smile said, 'I know what's going on here but I'm not sharing. I'm just going to solve this case and hand it to you on a plate and feel very smug.' But, in the absence of any other option, the D.I. thanked Sherlock and departed.
Three days later, John got the call to meet Sherlock at Bethnal Green tube station, on the East Bound platform of the Central Line.
As he stepped from the train and joined the flow of passengers moving towards the exit, John spotted his best friend sitting on a bench, near the end of the platform, nonchalantly reading a copy of the Metro. When John approached, Sherlock studiously ignored him so he sat down on the other end of the bench and waited for the platform to clear and the train to continue on its journey, at which point the detective folded the newspaper, tossed it onto the bench and rose to his feet.
'Coming?' he asked, casually.
John frowned and stood up, giving the hem of his jacket a sharp downward tug. It was going to be one of those days, he thought irritably, when Sherlock would execute some well-thought-out plan of action and expect him to figure out – presumably by sheer osmosis – what the hell was going on.
It had been a long and busy day at St Mary's A and E and John was really not in the mood for playing catch up.
'Where?' he asked, standing his ground.
'This way,' Sherlock tossed back over his shoulder, as he strode away.
'Nope!' John declared.
Sherlock pulled up short and, after a dramatic pause, swivelled on his heels to face John.
'We're going to catch a thief,' he exclaimed, grinning gleefully, hoping to instil in John the thrill of the chase.
The doctor took a few steps towards him.
'Raffles?' he asked.
Sherlock gave an exaggerated eye roll. His blogger's penchant for giving their cases lurid titles had always been a source of irritation to him but this particular choice – presumably based on the audacious nature of the crimes - was beyond the pale!
'He's a criminal, John, not an antihero. He robs people of their hard-earned goods and chattels…'
'Rich people,' John interjected.
Sherlock frowned, disapprovingly.
'There would be little point in robbing poor people, would there? As I was saying, he's not some latter-day Robin Hood. And we are going to catch him – this very night! …if you stop wasting time with irrelevant questions,' he added, under his breath as he turned and stalked away.
Which is how they came to find themselves in this narrow alleyway between two former Victorian warehouses – now redeveloped into luxury apartments in this recently gentrified part of the East End of London – waiting for their quarry to show his – or her – face. Sherlock was adamant the suspect was male, based on some obscure theory pertaining to the thief's MO. John, however, was yet to be convinced.
'There, look!' Sherlock hissed again, stretching his arm out along the wall, indicating the penthouse floor of the building at their backs. John followed the trajectory of the detective's pointing finger, peering through the gloom…and caught a hint of movement.
'Good God!' he gasped and watched, in amazement, as a figure - all in black, so barely discernible against the dark brick wall - descending the sheer cliff face of the building without the aid of ropes or climbing equipment of any kind, with a knapsack on their back, presumably crammed full of booty.
The crime-busting duo waited patiently for the thief to complete the descent. This alley was a dead end so the felon would have to come past them in order to flee the scene of crime. And that is when they would nab him…or her.
But then, the unexpected happened!
As the figure drew level with the top of the wall that closed off the end of the alley, instead of continuing down to ground level, they traversed across the side of the building, stepped onto the end wall and…disappeared from sight.
'Damn!' Sherlock rasped and charged off down the alleyway, his long legs covering the ground in huge strides, oblivious to John's warning cries. Launching himself into the air, he grasped the top of the end wall with the tips of his fingers and scrambled up and over…
'Sherlock, no!' John shouted - to no avail as his impetuous friend disappeared from view, over the wall. Then he heard a staccato crack – like the muffled sound of a gunshot – followed by a sharp cry of pain or surprise - or even both - from the other side of the wall.
'Sherlock? Sherlock!' John called out in alarm, as he stuttered to a halt at the base of the wall which was just too high for him to negotiate. He was a good few inches shorter than Sherlock and nowhere near as fit as he would've liked. He stood by the wall, leaning in and straining his ears in the pitch black for any sounds of life.
Then he heard it – a low groan followed by a slow intake of breath through gritted teeth and then a gasp.
'Sherlock? Are you OK? What's happened?' John called, through the wall.
'I…I'm alright,' Sherlock grunted, sounding anything but.
'What's going on?' John demanded, his tone sharpened by the frustration of not being able to get to or even see his obviously stricken friend. 'What did I hear, just now? Have you been shot?'
'Don't be ridiculous; of course, I haven't been shot!' Sherlock growled, cantankerously. 'I just landed badly that's all. I'm a bit winded. I'll be fine in a minute but the damn burglar got away!'
'Oh, sod the burglar,' John retorted. 'Just stay put. I'll find a way to get to you…'
'Climb the wall,' Sherlock replied but John ignored that unhelpful suggestion. He already had his phone in his hand and was opening the tracker app that he had installed, several months ago, for just such an eventuality as this.
He clicked on 'Find Sherlock's Phone' and waited for a map to appear on the screen with a flashing red marker hovering over Sherlock's position and a trail of blue dots showing how to get there, through a maze of local lanes and alleyways.
'Just stay where you are!' John reiterated. 'I'm on my way.'
The ex-Army doctor jogged along, following the electronic trail and hoping against hope that Sherlock was being honest about his condition. The consulting idiot had an annoying penchant for downplaying his own injuries and health issues. It was only a couple of months since the two friends had fallen out over just such an issue and, at that point, John had vowed not to concern himself any more with Sherlock's well-being. But some vows were more easily made than fulfilled and, right now, John was extremely bothered about his friend's situation.
He came at last to a large pair of metal gates which gave access to the yard of a derelict warehouse. The big red warning sign on the gate read 'DANGER, KEEP OUT' but some helpful soul had removed the heavy chain and padlock that had formerly reinforced that message so John was able to gain entry to the yard without having to test his climbing skills on the chain link fence that bounded the property. He skirted around to the back of the building, where the tracker app told him Sherlock was still waiting – or, at least, his phone was.
'Sherlock?' he called out, pulling his Maglite from his pocket and directing its powerful beam across the derelict site…and spotted his friend sitting on the ground at the base of the boundary wall with one leg bent and the other stretched out in front of him. Sherlock held up an arm to shield his eyes from the torch light but showed no sign of getting up.
John couldn't help but notice that the ground level on this side of the wall was a good three feet lower than on the alley side so Sherlock's drop would have been further than he was expecting. This did not bode well for a safe landing.
He lowered the beam as he jogged over and squatted in front of Sherlock, who dropped his hand to rest on the knee of his outstretched leg, his face pale and almost ghostly in the diffuse torchlight.
'You OK?' John asked.
'I'll be fine, John. Just need to catch my breath…'
John frowned. It had taken him nearly ten minutes to get here via the circuitous route. More than enough time for a person to recover from a winding.
'Where does it hurt?' he asked, visually scanning Sherlock's body with the aid of the torch…and noting the odd position of his friend's right foot. 'Is it here?' he asked, reaching towards that extremity.
'Don't touch it!' Sherlock gasped, shooting out a hand to ward off John's approach.
'I wasn't about to,' John assured him, holding up both hands in a placatory gesture, but unable to contain a smug grin at having tricked Sherlock into revealing the site of the damage. An ankle injury was what he would have expected, in the circumstances.
'I'll call for an ambulance,' he said, reaching for his phone.
'I don't need an ambulance!' Sherlock exclaimed. 'It's not broken. Look, I can move it.' He raised his foot off the ground and rotated his ankle for John's benefit.
'Just because you can rotate the joint doesn't mean there's no fracture, only no dislocation…which is good,' John replied, leaning forward to get a closer look at Sherlock's ankle. 'But even in this light – and through your sock – I can see that joint is already rather swollen.'
'It's fine, John, really,' Sherlock insisted, stubbornly. 'I just feel a bit…light-headed, that's all,' he admitted, frowning.
John reached into the inside pocket of his waxed jacket and pulled out the small bottle of water that he always brought along on these jaunts. Unscrewing the top, he handed it to his friend. Sherlock accepted the bottle, gratefully, and took a couple of good swigs. The cold liquid did help and his head began to clear almost immediately. He took a couple more swigs and offered the bottle back.
'No, you keep that. Put it in your pocket,' John advised. 'And when you're ready we'll see about getting you on your feet…or foot, I should say, because I think weight-bearing on that one is going to be a bit of a non-starter.'
He wasn't wrong. Having been pulled to standing, Sherlock found that even the lightest pressure on that foot sent a burning pain shooting up the outside of his calf. He was forced to lean on John's shoulder and hobble across the uneven ground of the warehouse yard, out onto the street where John suggested the detective wait while he ran to the main road and hailed a cab.
'No need for that,' Sherlock replied, taking out his phone and using an app to order a cab to come to them. The nearest one was five minutes away. He pulled a sour face. He hated waiting but, in the current circumstances, he had no choice but to put up and shut up.
It was, in fact, only three…gruelling, frustrating…minutes before the cab turned into the backstreet and pulled up beside them.
'Mr Holmes?' the cabbie asked.
'Who else would it be?' Sherlock snapped, tersely.
'Yes, it is,' John interjected. 'Thank you for being so prompt.'
On the journey back to the Holmes' family residence in East Smithfield – where Sherlock insisted on going, rather than to the nearest A and E – John chatted amicably with the cab driver about who was most likely to win the F.A. Cup final, an all-London derby between Arsenal and Chelsea. The cabbie was a West Ham fan, so he didn't really care who won, but he had put a few quid on Arsenal. John had no allegiances either – in fact, he didn't really follow football at all – but it lightened the atmosphere and distracted him from Sherlock's glowering presence, hunched up at the opposite end of the cab seat.
When the cab arrived outside Firs Lodge, Sherlock insisted that John continue on home and gave him his account details to pay for the ride. John, in turn, insisted on seeing his friend to the front door, at least, and asked the cabbie to wait while he did so then hopped back into the cab and it drove away.
Sherlock put his key in the lock and pushed open the door…to find Molly standing in the hall, arms folded, wearing a face that could curdle milk. Sherlock beetled his brow, apprehensively.
'John texted you,' he said – a statement, not a question.
Molly nodded and Sherlock noted a slight tapping of her foot to go with the folding of the arms and the pursing of the lips. The Royal Flush of disapproval!
'It's just sprained,' he ventured. 'Rest, ice, elevation and anti-inflammatories. It'll be fine.'
'If you say so, Dr Holmes,' Molly replied, acerbically.
Sherlock offered a weak, hopeful smile but, truth be told, he knew it was a lost cause.
ooOoo