Sherlock presses a piece of cloth to the bullet wound on John's thigh. Everyone is silent; the only sound is john's laboured breathing.
"Call his father, Watson" Sherlock intones, and the other man nobs, holding John's mobile to his ear.
"It's gone through to answer machine. I can't exactly leave a message saying his son's been shot, can I?"
Sherlock shakes his head. Try his brother then. Should be under Hal or Harry or something. Quickly Watson!"
Watson scrolls through John's contacts, finds the one he wants, and calls.
"'lo John. Wazzup? "
There's music playing in the background, and the voice is cheerful, bright. Watson hesitates before jumping in at the deep end, spilling the news about John and the attack. There's a silence, Watson wonders whether he has fainted.
"I'll be right there. Tell him to hang on. I'll be right there." The cheerful tone is gone. He's serious now, and Watson is glad to hang up, job done.
Sherlock hears the roar of a motor bike and resists the temptation to laugh. It's the most stereotypical thing he's seen in a while. The young millionaire's son, the playboy, the biker, the wastrel, the party animal… so many ways to describe Henry Lancaster Jr, so little time.
He appears around the corner of the alley, his face contorted and pale with worry. How touching, thinks Sherlock, he stopped partying to come for his brother. How kind.
"What happened?" Hal demands, his blue eyes flashing with Fury.
"Who hell thinks they can do this to him?"
"The ambulance is on its way." Sherlock calmly replies.
"Who did this? What happened? I need to know, Holmes!" Sherlock is surprised at the use of his surname. He's surprised at how Hal's voice wavers, how he's struggling to hold it together. Watson feels sorry for him. Sherlock does not. He doesn't do compassion Not anymore. Not for Hal.