Title: Taking Care of Their Own
A/N: prequel to my story/series "One of Their Own"
It had been a long, tiring day for Inspector Bradstreet but it was, praise be, finally over. A short walk through the deepening dusk and then he would finally be home. The very thought lent a bit of much –needed energy to his weary feet.
Bradstreet would never know what it was that set every nerve ending to tingling, whether it was a sound or a glimpse or something else entirely. But he had been a policeman far too long to disregard such hunches, whether he understood them or no. Immediately he flattened himself against the dirty brick wall and peered into the alley.
Nothing but shadows met him.
He squinted a moment more and was about to proceed when he heard an unmistakable groan. It was followed by a faint shuffling noise. Bradstreet bid a wistful good-bye to his quiet, restful evening by his own fireplace. Then he entered cautiously.
He found the body of a man face-down on the ground, not far from the alley-way entrance. Another drunkard, no doubt. And then Bradstreet realized the fabric of the coat was a high quality wool and its cut was tailored. The man had no hat and there was blood on the back of the head. Not a drunkard, but a foolish gentleman who had been out where he oughtn't to be and had been attacked – and robbed, no doubt. Bradstreet sighed and made to turn the man over. The body moved obligingly, limply, and revealed the face.
It was Dr. Watson.
Bradstreet caught his breath. Questions circled through his mind but only one was of utmost importance now: was the doctor still alive? He bent close. Yes, he could feel a faint huff of breath against his skin. Bradstreet's heart resumed its normal rhythm.
He started to pull Dr. Watson into a sitting position, getting him off the filthy ground. The movement only caused more problems. Apparently still unconscious, the doctor suddenly heaved and vomited. Bradstreet supported him as best he could through the bout. He considered lowering Watson back to the ground but something caught his attention and froze his heart again.
Watson had vomited blood. Lots of it.
Bradstreet fumbled for his whistle and blasted it. He was still close enough to the prison; even now he could hear the thump of running feet headed his way. They could load up the doctor into the Maria and drive hell-bent for the hospital. From there, Watson's fate was in the hands of the surgeons, Deus vult. That left only one more problem for Bradstreet to tackle –
- telling the news to Sherlock Holmes.