These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.
BAKER STREET DEVIATIONS
Ch. 2
COLD
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This series is not part of the THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON trilogy and should be read as an entirely separate entity, so no worries there.
PROMISES: This is for those many Readers who specifically PM'd me to ask if I had other stories in the works, particularly, and I quote here, Angst and Horror.
Each Chapter is to be considered a separate entity onto itself. Until Chapter 5.
WARNINGS: This chapter contains extremely graphic depictions of a deliberately administered drug overdose. Please STOP NOW if this has occurred to someone in your life. Just skip this one and go on to something else. I won't fault you for it in the slightest.
Implied Main character death. Angst.
Sky's usual warning: THINGS. MAY. NOT. BE. AS. THEY. SEEM.
Part two of five.
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"Sherlock, come on!"
John continues to pump on the too thin chest, his arms locked, ramrod straight, and his palms on top of each other, fingers interlaced, as they pound against the marble skin. Sweat pours down his forehead and drips into his eyes. Once, twice, he shakes his head to dislodge the salt drops before they can sting his retinas again.
But he never stops the chest compressions.
His arms ache. Every thirty seconds, he stops to give the rescue breaths. When he began rescue breathing, air in his lungs was just that – air. It has since become imbued with Purpose. Desperation.
Fear.
"Two minutes," he thinks. No reason for worry yet. Early days. Just keep it up….
Twenty-eight…twenty-nine…thirty. Breathe for him.
John's sturdy hands tilt the skull back, his fingers grip the dark curls, his right forefinger and thumb clamp off the nostrils, his left hand under the chin to tilt the head back. Open the airway now, BREATHE, and John blows one … two… three measured breathes into Sherlock's lungs.
He watches the thinly muscled chest rise, then fall as his own oxygen fills the detective's lungs.
Nothing.
He gently lets Sherlock's dark head return to its normal position and then starts chest compressions again.
John's mind counts as his arms piston…and the fear…No. Nope. No time for that. Help is coming. Already on its way. He just has to keep on until they get here.
"We've been here, before, you utter bastard," he whispers.
But he lies.
Sherlock has never lain this still before, nor has his heart ever stuttered as it does now, nearly ready to give up on the constant beat, so close to abandoning its job of circulating blood and oxygen and John throughout the lanky body.
A few minutes earlier, John pressed the three numbers, then hurriedly laid the mobile close by on the near freezing concrete floor. He shouted answers to their questions as his sturdy arms began their rhythm … pound, pound, pound.
Location. Address. Age and gender of patient. Symptoms. What happened? Can he feel the pulse at the base of the throat? Does he know rescue breathing?
"I'm a fucking doctor for Christ's sake!" he shouts at the bloody phone.
He answers until they assure him help is on the way. From time to time, he hears an emergency operator talk to him, as if by keeping up a running commentary, she can walk John through this.
John nearly laughs. He has spent the last two years of his life with a bloody genius madman who can keep up a more or less constant running commentary at crime scenes, in taxi cabs, at parties, on the dance floor, in their own bedroom. Talk, Talk, Talking the world into shape, until John has told him to shut the hell up, you wanker - I need to sleep even if you don't!
He allows himself one glance at his watch, just to be certain. Yup. Passed two minutes, forty-five and coming up on three minutes.
Then he's there. Three minutes. And they round the turn. Into the home stretch.
"Sherlock, come on. Don't do this!"
A steady stream of sweat pours from John's forehead, stings his eyes, drips down his face, onto his hands, dropping onto the still chest, with its dark blue shirt ripped open to reveal the marble skin, gone red now with the repeated thrusts from John's sturdy arms. Once, just once, his hand slips and he feels something give - and crack – under his palms
It doesn't stop him.
"We can fix a cracked rib, Sherlock," he thinks. Later for that. Just keep on. Don't stop. He wouldn't stop on you, Watson.
"Breathe, you utter sod,"John exhorts, even as his trained medical mind runs through the symptoms of clinical death. Consciousness lost within several seconds…measurable brain activity stops within – No. And then ischemic injury … Stop it. Don't go there. Sherlock would not want to live like that. But he won't have to. Just keep at it, Watson.
But it's early, still. We haven't hit five minutes yet.
Where in bloody HELL are the medics!
People have come back from as much as thirty minutes clinically dead, his mind tells him.
But that was after drowning in freezing water, Johnny boy. Not after dying from a deliberate drug overdose on the frigid floor of a fucking warehouse. It's cold here, yes, freezing even, but the sun shines right outside.
Sherlock!
Over his head, the glaring light from the fluorescents paints the scene in ghostly hues of bluish white. John thinks it's a horrid thing … fluorescent lighting.
Sherlock's normally pale visage glows bluish in the bad light.
John notes the other worldly paleness of his partner, even as his arms and hands and fingers and the muscles in his chest and shoulders keep up their relentless pounding … even as his brain threatens to go off line.
What was in the sodding bag?
He had assumed heroin or even cocaine, but for the detective's reactions. Lethargic, eyes rolling back in his head. Once, twice, Sherlock, even while unconscious, turned his head as his stomach spasmed and attempted to rid itself of whatever was flowing into his veins from the tubing.
John feared the detective would choke to death before he could reach him.
And John can smell something metallic in the air, can taste something – bitter - when he breathes into the soft lips gone slack. At the acrid taste, he nearly gags.
John doesn't allow himself to look to the side, to the gurney where Sherlock was strapped down just moments earlier. He deliberately doesn't look at the long tubing which snakes from the bulbous bag of fluid and winds its way downward, looping lazily through the air from the stanchion, before finally ending in the horrid needle that was stuck in his friend's forearm.
How much poison and what type had dripped into the pale arm before John managed to free himself of his restraints?
After nearly screaming himself hoarse, John had finally managed to tilt his chair over, hearing bits of the rungs break. Several determined rolls of his compact body back and forth, with every muscle in his shoulders, back and legs getting into the act and then – finally - the back of the chair give way. A few more determined kicks and he was free of the bloody chair.
And all the while he was cursing sheer murder at the bastards who did this, and screaming at Sherlock over and over and over again, "Hold on, you son of a bitch! Just hold on … I'm coming…I'm right over here, Sherlock! For fucks, sake, come ON!"
And then finally, finally, feeling the slight give in the rope. Nirvana. If they'd use zip ties, he might not have been able to free himself. Thank god for unimaginative criminals. Good old nylon rope, which will eventually give, if you keep struggling and yanking and pulling AND are willing to bend and break your own damn thumb in order to free yourself.
John was willing.
He ignores the disjointed, hideously swollen thumb, although his mind is going white with the pain, and keeps up the chest compressions. Now he's past the three minute mark and he can't help himself, he glances at his watch, then all of his attention is back on the silent bastard who lies in front of him on the cold warehouse floor, his body getting colder by the second, and where in bloody hell is the ambulance and the medics? Where is Lestrade?
He feels Sherlock's flat stomach spasm once, twice under his hands. The other man's pulse is weak and getting weaker. Nearly non-existent. The crystalline eyes have rolled back in his head. John's medical mind notices these relentless signs, even as his body and soul refuses to give up.
Then Sherlock convulses and his head tips back on the dark curls and his body spasms and John sobs.
"No, love, don't do this to me. To us. Don't go where I can't follow!"
And he stops the chest compressions and John's belt is out of the loops of his jeans and the leather pressed between Sherlock's teeth before he even notes what he is doing. He's performing battlefield medicine on the other man, his actions practiced, automatic.
Sherlock's not breathing now. And John can see the faint tips of his fingers and nails, gone bluish.
He goes back to chest compressions even as he hears, or thinks he hears, the sound of the approaching ambulance.
Did the bastards lock all the outer doors or leave them open in their rush to get away and leave them there – Sherlock to die and John to watch him die? Left him alive because he, John Watson, wasn't important enough to kill.
Give the medics a minute to rush the doors, to force the locks, and Yes! John hears the second siren now and this sound is different, higher. The scream of police cars. Lestrade's bunch has finally arrived, then.
Close. So close.
He stops compressions to give the three breaths and his desperation pumps oxygen into the idle lungs, nearly shuttered now. Then back to chest compressions and he doesn't allow himself to even stop and think how long it's been.
What did the bastards put in the bag?
He's a doctor and he puts all the symptoms together in three seconds – thready pulse, nearly gone; shallow breaths that have now – apparently - stopped. Pupils ... mere pinpricks in the truly terrible lighting. Metallic smell and bitter taste in his mouth during the rescue breaths. Abdominal spasms and the faint, sickly green hue which has replaced the ghostly blue. Heartbeat fading …. Fading …. fading…
Morphine. A deliberate, killing dose.
The fucking bastards hooked him up to a morphine drip – and left him. And grinned at each other while they did it.
John's mind supplies antidotes, probable treatment if the Medics. Will. Just. Fucking. Hurry.
Discontinue rescue breathing and bag him as the medics can do a better job then he can. IV fluids and, of course, activated charcoal. Naloxone. Multiple doses. Yes. That will work. Just. Hurry.
John sobs out the prayer even as he exhorts the detective to stop this. Just Stop It Right Now.
Please God, let him live.
John's tawny hair sticks to his scalp with sweat and he ignores the growing pain in his thumb and the ache in his shoulders and hands and knees where he straddles the detective on the unforgiving cement.
Nearly four minutes now and he can hear the pounding as someone attempts to break open the damned doors. He fervently hopes for paramedics first and Lestrade's people second.
His mind plays back the last few hours and he's horrified – horrified – that so much can go so wrong so quickly.
Twenty-eight…twenty-nine…thirty…Breathe for him.
Three street dealers taken down in five days. Three. And Sherlock had suspected all were part of the same cabal. And then the phone call. One to John's mobile and how in hell they'd got hold of his number is beyond him. And one to the Yard. Straight through to Lestrade's office. Same deadly cold voice each time. Same exhortation.
"Tell your boy, Holmes, he's next. Fair warning." And the line gone dead. Unknown number; impossible to trace.
But then - nothing. No more threats and Lestrade had purposefully told them, "No cases, guys, not for a few days. Let it rest. Let the Yard take care of this." And Lestrade had gone to work attempting to trace the calls. And track down the local drug lord. No joy.
Sherlock had scoffed. Obvious the dealers were all working for the same –
Sherlock's body convulses again, slight, but John notes it and stops the compressions for a second, while the detective rides out the faint spasm. Then his arms lock and he goes back to his task.
John's mind continues to replay events. No cases for four days. And the detective has that look in his eyes. The look which tells John the amazing brain is going to derail unless something happens and soon.
"Find me something, John. Find us something. A case. A distraction. Something."
And John had immediately noted it had been a while since they'd simply walked the city, visited their favorite park and bench and maybe it was time to look in on Sherlock's homeless network and why not take the respite as it is offered and just drift for one day, visit the British Museum as the detective had yet to see the new Egyptian mummy exhibit and Sherlock had grinned and said, "Of course. Of course. Perfect, John."
And he had been the one to suggest lunch afterward at the little French café that John likes so much. Sherlock would eat between cases, John knew. So they had walked and viewed, sat and talked. And lunched together and his mad love had even eaten off John's plate. And John had let him.
And then the taxi through the city, and while they were on their way back to Baker Street, the text – ostensibly – from Lestrade.
Suspect cornered. Warehouse district.
May be our man.
Will you come and ID?
GL
And of course, they had gone. It wasn't that far from where they were, nearly on the way home, it turned out. They'd dismissed the cab driver once they saw the black and white. And John had pulled his gun and kept it in his right hand as they entered the abandoned warehouse.
But John frowned when they walked through the open warehouse doors, as it was just too damned quiet. They'd glanced at each other, then gone straight to the little interior office and he had turned to say something to Sherlock and Sherlock had nodded, distracted, and then the door had slammed behind them and John had cursed himself and they both heard the faintest of sounds. A small whoosh of air.
And then they'd smelled the gas. And they knew. He knew.
But too late because they were both falling, toppling onto the cold concrete floor.
And then nothing.
Until John awoke, still groggy from the gas, nauseated, with a stupendous headache, tied to the bloody chair and he had opened aching eyes to the horror of an unconscious Sherlock strapped to the metal table. A moment and he realized it wasn't a table, but a gurney, raised to its full height. And this is a medical warehouse after all. So no problems finding what they needed, including the stanchion and the tubing and Christ but Sherlock was still out from the gas. Even then, they had taken no chances and had restrained the lanky body with multiple nylon straps around chest, waist, and ankles.
John had screamed at them, shouting epithets, screaming every bloody curse word he had ever learned through two consecutive tours as a field medic.
The two of them had ignored his screams, all the while they went about the task of hanging the bag of fluid, sliding the needle under the pale arm. And tweaking the connections on the tubing.
Then one last glance at John. And the first man walked away without a backward glance.
The second one stayed behind for a few seconds and John had memorized his face and could pick him out of a crowd of thousands …light brown hair, slight tan, cold grey eyes, charcoal gray trousers and plain white shirt. His haircut and stance screamed military. He'd glanced once at Sherlock, then looked directly at John and shook his head. His North Country accent tossing out the only two sentences either one of them had uttered: "Paybacks are hell, Watson. Enjoy the show."
And then they had left them there in the small office. Closed the door. And simply walked away.
And John had sat for five fucking seconds, stunned that they had left him his mobile – and his gun. He could see them both lying on the desk, a few feet to his right. His eyes widened at the sight.
And then he had screamed and shouted and struggled with his bonds, yanking for all he was worth against the stupid chair and the stupid ropes that bound his wrists and ankles … and all the while, he fucking screamed at the detective to "Wake the fuck up, Sherlock!" and "Open your damn eyes, you bloody wanker!" And finally "Fight, you sick son of a bitch, fight! Get that bloody needle out of your arm! Sherlock!"
Over and over and over again.
But Sherlock had never regained consciousness and if he heard John, he had not acknowledged by even the merest of movements his partner's voice. Or frantic screams.
And then John had finally, finally bent and broken his own left thumb, enabling him to at last slip out of the bonds, then free his legs from the shattered remains of the chair. He rushed to the other man and pulled his body onto the cold concrete to begin rescue efforts. After first sliding the damned needle out of the crook of the detective's arm.
And that was over four minutes ago and now John hears the medics – or the police – pounding at the steel warehouse door. Locked and bolted he guessed from the inside. And if so, how did the two sobs get out? Later for that.
They should be in and through in a minute.
John doubles up his fist and slams it into the white skin directly over Sherlock's heart – John's heart. The detective doesn't move. Doesn't breath. His heart in full cardiac arrest now.
And John sees the pale visage as it seems to glow a sickly green in the overhead lights.
"Kryptonite green," John thinks, and nearly giggles from sheer disbelief and horror as he continues to pound on the broken ribs, over the place where Sherlock promised to keep his heart safe for John.
Yet another lie from this infuriating man.
And then they have broken through the outer door and they barrel in and shove John aside and they have the defib paddles. A whining sound and John knows the odds now. He's a combat medic and he knows the frigging odds.
The shout of "Clear," and they hit the pale body with the paddles. Once. Nothing. But Sherlock's body arcs slightly with the shock.
Then the whine again and once more. And once more - Nothing. And with the second attempt, Sherlock's body doesn't even convulse at the flow of electricity.
And John moves farther back in the shadows as they work. Away from the medics, even as he shouts out answers to their questions, his mind, working on automatic, supplies the answers to their relentless questions. What was in the bag? How long has it been? What in bloody hell is going on here? Name, age, what other health problems? Christ, what other health problems? He – nearly – laughs.
And he hears Lestrade's people now, as they pound down the stairs. Obvious, they came in from the other entrance.
And over and above it all, he never takes his eyes off Sherlock's face.
Gone still. Completely utterly still. Vacant. It's former tenant engaged - elsewhere.
And John knows that even if they can bring his love's body back to him, the incredible brain, the beautiful brain is already dead. And Sherlock would never, ever wish to live like that.
John watches the medics in their frantic movements and has the tiny epiphany that it's far, far too late … for both of them. But he wasn't enough of a threat to them to kill. Or ordered killed.
And now he knows why they left him his gun.
Quickly now, before Lestrade's men reach them.
His hand reaches out.
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