TITLE: Help Me
CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter One/Rescue
RATING: T (language, content)
A/N: this sequence just made me so upset for Lestrade! I had a few ideas for alternative scenes and wanted to write some Papa Lestrade. So..this happened. You can take this as an AU for the beginning of 3x02, or as something that happened earlier that prompted him to be so worried in 3x02. You decide.
Please read and review. Many thanks.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.
Chapter One: Rescue
Greg leapt up the stairs to 221B without hesitation. He hadn't the slightest clue of what could be behind that door, but he didn't care. He had lost Sherlock once before. He wasn't about to let it happen again. Not after they all just got him back.
The man burst through the door to the familiar flat, his hammering heart nearly plummeting to a permanent stop right then and there.
There, on his knees on the ground, arms bound behind him by a stranger, was Sherlock. Well, a beaten, bloody man that resembled Sherlock. His dark curls were matted with crimson. Even his cold eyes showed sparks of true agony and flickers of fear.
"Took you long enough," the baritone breathed brokenly, but still with his usual bite.
Definitely Sherlock.
Greg wasn't granted much time to examine his friend though, as the large man who had disfigured the detective was now turning his attention to him.
Lestrade has his gun out and aimed before the criminal could fully turn around.
"On the ground," Greg ordered in his most dangerous and commanding voice, "now."
"Shoot me," the bloody knuckled man threatened throatily, "and he'll break your friend's arms."
The bulky criminal that was holding Sherlock tightened his grip, eliciting a low growl and then groan from the stoic sociopath.
"Then I'll shot him first," Greg pointed his weapon at the other's head. "And then you."
No sooner had he uttered the warning words did an eruption of sweet sounds fill the streets below. Sirens echoed from outside the flat as the curtains flailed in what was definitely not wind.
"Did I mention that I'm not alone?" Lestrade smiled.
Greg didn't see the look that the taller of the two men flashed at the one binding Sherlock. The burly man sunk a fist in the detective's side, sending Sherlock forward. He would've fallen to the floor had the man not been holding him upright with his other arm.
Lestrade glanced at his moaning friend and in that second of a distraction, the criminal lunged forward. Greg didn't have a chance to fire as the man tackled him to the ground, seizing the gun before bringing it against the inspector's skull. Lestrade went limp and Sherlock watched through a red lens, both from blood and rage, as a matching scarlet line traced its way across the side of Greg's head.
The criminal heaved Greg's only semi-conscious body off the floor, dragging him out into the hall and down the steps.
"Don't come any closer!" The man shouted through the front door. "I'll kill him!"
Nudging the door open, the man peaked outside, using the floppy form of Greg as a shield.
"We have two hostages!" He warned, peering out over his victim's shoulder at the convening vehicles and police officers that suddenly all drew to a stop. "Come any closer, and we'll kill 'em both!"
And with that, the man slammed the door. He pulled Lestrade back up the stairs to 221B and, once inside, tossed him carelessly in front of Sherlock.
"This your rescue?" The criminal laughed a gritty laugh.
Sherlock stared down at his friend. The detective inspector's eyes were drawn shut, but his lids fluttered from time to time. Greg was fighting the unconscious blanket that was trying to envelope him, Sherlock could see it. He could also see more blood breaking through the crack that now decorated Lestrade's skull. The logical part of his brain knew that head wounds bled more profusely than others and always appeared worse than they really were. But that was the same intelligent piece of his mind that was informing him of various side effects of severe head trauma.
It was the same room in his mind palace that was also cataloging his own injuries and measuring their level of severity. It was the part of his brain that was telling him, that some of his wounds, in fact, were quite possibly, quite likely, fatal.