Hello dear readers, I'd like to introduce you to the second chapter.
I've taken a lot of pleasure in writing my first chapter and have already decided to continue the tale.
I know that after the first chapter you might be grumbling to yourself,
"Hey?! Where the Hell is Sherlock and John?! Who are these b*tches?!"
If that is what you're thinking, I'd be very pleased if you waited.
I promise you will see your dear Sherlock and Watson soon.
I do not own any of the characters except for the Larn family and perhaps a couple others.
I would also like to warn you that Sherlock may be going by a different name for the upcoming few chapters.
Another warning, please do not comment about why I did not explain how McCallister got out of the well with his injuries.
I will explain when I feel ready to.

The Pirate And The Cowboy [Chapter 2]

The rain dumped over his long curls as he darted swiftly through the brush, coat waving behind him as he ran. He knew he was being chased, yet he hoped that the thunder and lightning would mask his running figure as he zoomed through the trees. Every few seconds he could hear someone shout his name, he did not have enough time to focus on whom was calling him, he couldn't be caught by anyone. As he weaved between the thick brush he could feel the tree branches slicing at his cheeks and hands, occasionally a branch hitting him in the face with a hard smack, yet he continued running. He ducked into a small trench next to a tree and quickly pulled his coat over his head and body, hopeful that the dark colors would blend in with the dim night and the leaves that surrounded his thin figure. He sat in silence for a few minutes as he heard the sound of distant people rushing through the woods, searching for the man who had seemingly vanished. Don't look right.. Don't look right... He thought silently as he heard the people running through the dense forestry. As soon as they passed he quickly pulled his coat back on and took of in a dart to the other direction.
He ran for a long time, uncertain of the exact amount but could easily guess it to be around an hour. The forestry was so dense and vast that it was hard to tell exactly where he was going, all he could tell himself is that he was going. After a while, his pace had slowed into an exhausted stumble. As the night dragged on he was stuck only with his thoughts, something that he did not quite mind. He would find his way back to a main trail, he would confront the terrorists, hand them off to his older brother, for he never carried very much for where they ever ended up, it was not his job to, and then he would return to London. The only fact that bothered him about this case was the luring question that loomed in the back of his mind, why would there be terrorist activity in Westhill, Scotland? He was quite determined to find out, for the detective vainly despised being clueless, he was rarely clueless.
As the detective trudged through the darkened forest that was only lit by the stars that dimly shone above him, he reached into the inside of his coat and pulled out a thin journal that lay inside a small baggy, about the size of his hand, and took it out, abruptly flipping it open. The rain had ceased, yet he still ducked over it slightly to keep the rain from dripping off the branches and smearing the ink. Why had Mycroft always used such annoying handwriting styles? The detective pulled a small light from his coat and shone it onto the paper, skimming over the writing with a dull expression. Of course he'd be nicknamed his childhood fantasy.. He thought as he read the name that had been chosen for him, McCallister, the name he often used as a young child while playing pirate. He had been instructed to read the whole thing before even going on the case, yet he honestly didn't care much for chasing sloppy, but quite powerful, people wearing silly masks as they wreak havoc. No, his brother had been quite wrong this time, Sherlock did not expect it to take six months, it seemed more likely to be around four or five.
As he read through the writing, he noticed that at some points it would switch to a female's handwriting, likely Anthea due to the clear colored nail polish, no other woman under Mycroft's team ever seemed to due something so clear, and yet a woman whom is constantly typing away on a phone is likely to chose something that would not be noticed if it came off onto her phone as she tapped away. At least she has a less annoying hand at writi- His thought was abruptly interrupted as he paused from reading. He stopped and stood silently, listening. A helicopter. Why wouldn't these people just give up? He quickly looked up as the helicopter began to get closer. They had not seen him yet. He looked around and noticed a small pile of rubble a bit of a distance away. He broke into a run and slipped the book into the bag, quickly dumping it into his pocket, reaching the mossy well and quickly ducking down next to it, waiting for the helicopter to pass by.
They were getting close, but they still hadn't seen him. He grumbled a little, knowing fully that he would be tortured by the desperate men, and likely executed after a few days of pain, something that was not quite his cup of tea. If he didn't do something soon, they would certainly spot him. He glanced over his shoulder into the shallow well, about a foot of water lingering at the bottom and a large amount of mud, leaves, and other assorted natural things in a layer at the top. He needed to hide, and that was his best bet. Oh fucking hell. He pulled his dark coat over him once more as a slight amount of camouflage from the darkness around him, and after a couple seconds he jumped in, aiming feet first to avoid any serious damage.
He had miscalculated...
His leg slipped right as he fell in, catching itself on a wedge in the well, swiftly twisting as he fell, but easily snapping with a loud crack as his body's weight yanked it from the hole, sending him front-first into the well. He gasped as his head hit the side of the well, his chest and knees splashing into the water with a loud noise. He took a couple harsh breaths as he struggled to find even just the slightest amount of air. The impact had easily knocked his breath away. He could feel his head buzzing as he adjusted his position. Isn't this what happened to that one woman whom fell down the elevator shaft, hitting her head on the side. No, it wasn't, she had not faced the threat of drowning as well. As he groaned and slowly pulled himself up, he knew fully well that his body was beginning to render unconscious. He took a couple harsh breaths, the darkness slowly restricting his vision till he could no longer think nor see. Unconscious? Concussion? ... Death?He thought silently as his mind slipped away.

Marshall found himself starring blankly at the unconscious man. Leslie followed close behind, his switchblade held firmly. As soon as Leslie looked into the room he also found himself starring at the strange man as well. After a few moments, Marshall blinked it away as he heard Demetria call him.
"Daddy? What is in there?" Demetria's voice sounded a bit more childish as she spoke, slowly approaching the shed. Marshall held up a hand to tell her silently not to follow him. She did as told and stood silently, watching with curious eyes. Marshall slowly entered the shed, aiming at the odd stranger's head with a stern look. His eyes looked the man up and down, inspecting him carefully and likely attempting to analyze him. He could see a line of dried blood that ran from under the man's long dark curls, making him wonder how long the man had been here. As Marshall neared the man, he realized how rugged his breath was. Marshall turned to Leslie who lingered in the doorway, watching with wide eyes. Marshall mouthed the words "Get your mother". Leslie quickly nodded and turned, darting past Demetria and through the fields.
Marshall bent down, crouching as he carefully brushed the man's dark curls away from the wound to get a look. He was no doctor, but he could easily tell the wound did not look good. His eyes trailed down the man's long sleeve shirt and to his ankle, swallowing at the gruesome sight. The man's ankle was severely swollen and red, bits and pieces of bone sticking from the skin like plants sticking from soil. There was mud all over the wound, signalling that he had been walking with it despite the agony that it would have caused. Marshall could clearly see that wet glistening blood layered over dry crusted blood. This wound was sure to be infected.
"Daisy!" Demetria shouted, causing Marshall to sharply stand up and turn towards her, making a quick 'shush' movement with his hand in front of his lips as the child ran the cow that stood just outside the shed, grazing on the wet grass lazily. Marshall looked back to the man, still remaining asleep. Maybe he had a concussion? Marshall narrowed his eyes at the man, still listening to the raspy thin breaths that he drew. He exited the shed and picked up the coat that Leslie had set down on the porch of the small building. Marshall began checking the pockets, looking for some sort of explanation of whom this man may be. His hand eventually found themselves to what felt like a bag and a small key chain. He lifted them from the pocket and inspected them, the key chain being a small portable flashlight. He pulled the book from the bag, being reminded slightly of those detective shows and the evidence bags. He flipped the book open and read a couple lines.
"McCallister?... Sounds Irish.." Marshall mumbled to himself as he read it. The man did not look Irish. As Marshall read it, he narrowed his eyes. He didn't quite understand it. Perhaps it was coded?.. Unnamed No.1?... Marshall wondered silently. As far as Marshall could tell, it was an instruction book, very little help to finding this man's identity. Marshall looked over his shoulder to see Leslie and Delerianne rushing towards them, Delerianne holding a first aid kit and the skirt of her dress up from the soggy ground as she ran.
"He's in the shed. Leslie, go with your sister to the house."
" 'Ight," Leslie said as he walked over to Demetria, pulling her away from the cow and towards the house while sighing, completely out of breath.
As Delerianne entered the shed, Marshall slowly began to raise the gun in case the man awoke, but Delerianne quickly put a gentle hand on the gun, wordlessly telling him to put it away for the same reason he was holding it. She sat down next to the man and gently brushed the man's hair away from the wound as Marshall had done, inspecting the wound calmly and then opening the first aid kit.
"Do you know his name?" She asked calmly.
"McCallister, but I doubt it's his true name."
"It's his name until he tells us otherwise. Come here, I might need your help." She pressed her fingers to the man's wrist, checking his pulse before murmuring, "It's slightly uneven, but it's fairly good for his wounds." She pulled her hand away from his and gentle pressed her hand to the man's left side of his chest. "Collapsed lung," she mumbled quietly while taking a small pair of scissors from the medical kit and cutting McCallister's shirt off, his bruised chest being revealed.
"Do you think this has anything to do with the town being closed off?" Marshall questioned while carefully dabbing some of the blood away from the man's swollen ankle, the man's body giving a sharp twitch as the cloth touched his leg.
"Careful!" Delerianne said with a hiss to Marshall. "And maybe it does, or maybe they did this. We won't have a clue. Keep in mind, darling, we can't take him to the hospital. Honestly, you're brilliant, but you're sometimes a forgetful nimrod."
"I didn't forget." He replied calmly as he continued cleaning some of the blood away from the man's ankle.
Delerianne mumbled to herself under her breath. She had only dealt with a collapsed lung once, and it was a bloody cow, not a human being. She eased the man away from the wall and sat him flat on the floor. She pressed her ear to the man's mouth, checking if there was any sort of gurgling at all to signal internal bleeding, luckily, not being greeted with any.
"He's not too bad, probably just unconscious from the wound on his head." She said as she moved to inspecting the dangerous looking scrape on the man's forehead. It looked as if his skull had not cracked, but he would likely need a couple stitches. Damn you're lucky. She thought silently.
"Help me sew this up." She said, Marshall setting the bloodied towel to the side and taking a needle and thread from the medical kit. They quickly sewed McCalliser's forehead before moving to the gruesome mass of blood, torn flesh, and bone that was the man's ankle. Both Marshall and Delerianne realized that he was slowly bleeding out, and had likely been bleeding for a while. Neither of them knew his blood type though. Marshall narrowed his eyes in frustration, looking the man up and down before pausing and looking at the man's neck. Two mosquito bites.. Perhaps the best guess they had.
"I think he's O type." Marshall said abruptly, causing Delerianne to give him a slight glance.
"Let's hope he's O+.." She murmured.

It took a long time for them to be done, by which time McCallister had lost a large amount of blood and Marshall had lost a small portion of his own to give to the man manually. Marshall tiredly stepped out of the shed, leaning against the door with his eyes shut. He didn't even know the man, yet he had keenly given up his own blood for him. As his eyes remained shut, he vividly remembered the scene.
Delerianne began to ready her arm quickly. Marshall interrupted her and told him his own blood type. O-, he had said, willingly giving himself so she wouldn't. She had given him a look, a pitiful look, sorrowful. He couldn't allow her to give up her precious blood, not in her current state.
"Darling?.." Delerianne's soft voice spoke from inside the shed as her gentle footsteps neared to him. "Are you alright?.." He nodded, opening his eyes and giving her a reassuring look. She gave him a half smile. He could see the worry in her face. "Stay here and take a couple moments to rest. I'm going to go and get Leslie to help carry him in." She said as she began to walk down the couple steps, Marshall's head snapping up quickly, causing a slight bit of dizziness.
"Are you sure we should do that?.. We don't know him.."
"Marshall.. If I were him, I'd want someone to do the same for me. We can put him on the couch, we will be fine. If it bothers you so much, bring that illegal weapon to bed with you, just keep it out of my sight." She said, her word being final as she walked away from him. Marshall watched silently as she walked away before glancing back inside the shed. The man still lay on the floor, his head, chest, and ankle all bandaged. His breaths had become less rugged, thankfully, yet Marshall was still uncertain about the man.
"McCallister.." He mumbled again, the name sounding unnatural to be connected with the man's sharp face. It sounded almost.. Pirate.. Certainly not matching with this strange man. Then again, Marshall had been occasionally teased for his "Cowboy name", as the other children had called it so many years ago. After a couple seconds of being lost in thought, Marshall's memory snapped back to the book. Would it wield any sort of answer to all the questions that swirled inside his head, or would it just be as useless as the first page had been? He glanced to the shelf at which he had set the book upon and strolled to it, pulling the book off and glancing to the man as if he would awake any second and shout at him for looking at his possessions. No, this was not the proper place nor time for reading.
"Dad? So the man there is gonna be alright?" Marshall's head turned to Leslie who was walking into the shed, looking at the man with interest and being followed by both Delerianne and Demetria.
"She wanted to follow." Delerianne claimed while noticing Marshall's eyes looking to his daughter. Demetria just starred at the man with wide eyes.
"He's going to be fine." Marshall claimed as he assured his children. Leslie strolled to the man and got behind him, putting his hands under the man's shoulders, ready to lift him. As Marshall began to walk toward the man's legs to help lift him, Delerianne plainly walked in front of him "You should get some rest when we get inside, Dear." And with that, she began to lift the man up with Leslie's help. They carried McCallister into the house, Marshall calmly holding Demetria's worried hand as they walked. They carefully set him onto the couch and used some spare blankets and a pillow to prop the man up and cover him. Demetria was the one though who had spent the time and common sense to write a note, explaining that he was fine and that they were taking care of him. She claimed that if it were her, she'd be worried about where she was, even if the man had let Dexter out of the shed accidentally.
"Time for bed, both of you, lock your doors. Alright?" Delerianne had said to the children after Marshall had already left to the bedroom to change out of his now bloodied clothes. The children nodded and slept with locked doors that night. The night was quiet this time, no storms, dark clouds, or lightning to interrupt their sleep. Despite their peaceful sleeping, off in the distance, there were helicopters.