Authors' note: There is bound to be considerably less parallelism here on in. We will continue to write together, and we will continue to post in tandem, though you will undoubtedly notice startlingly familiar ideas bouncing back and forth between the stories from chapter to chapter. Flatmates of more than fifteen years do grow to think somewhat alike. As always, reviews are love, so please let us know what you think.
Chapter 2
Sherlock's eyes widened as he took in the glittering red dot on Mycroft's chest, then he turned and dove for John's bed. He slammed into the edge of it as hard as he could, using his hip and thigh to lever the bed across the lino floor. It wouldn't budge, and Sherlock dropped to his knees to take off the handbrakes. Behind him, he could hear Mycroft moving just as swiftly, could hear the distinctive sound of shoes skidding to a halt and then switching direction. Whatever was happening with his brother, Sherlock didn't have time to help. With the brakes finally off, he gave the bed an almighty shove with his shoulder, slowly sliding it across the floor and into the corner, knocking aside chairs, and equipment as he went, but he didn't stop until it was jammed into a corner, as far out of window's line of sight as he could get it. John, jostled about, groaned in his drug-induced sleep. Rising to his feet, Sherlock gave his flatmate a quick once-over with his eyes, no signs of renewed bleeding, still wan and grey-looking, but he seemed to be breathing well enough. Reassured – if not satisfied – he turned back to the rest of the room. Mycroft was not visible anywhere, but the red dot danced across the floor, seeking a target.
Sherlock, backed into the corner with John, was about to sing out for his brother when a sister, no doubt drawn by the noise, appeared in the doorway. "What's going – " She broke off with a scream as two more red dots appeared on the floor, both streaking toward her. She vanished, yelling for help, and Sherlock tuned her and the rest of the ward out as best he could, though his mind couldn't resist one entirely irrelevant observation: she's cheating on her diet again.
"Mycroft?" he hissed.
"Not now my boy," Mycroft said, his urbane voice coming from the en suite loo. He'd clearly been unable to make it to the exit and had ducked into the water closet as the next best option. "Anthea, send the team to my location immediately," his brother continued, obviously speaking into his mobile. "Possible snipers, threat imminent." Then a moment later, Mycroft called, "Is John all right?"
Sherlock looked back at the bed. John's breathing was slow and steady and he showed no signs of waking. The drip stand was still standing and still plugged into the wall, though the flex was fully extended. One of the red dots hovered by the foot of his bed, seemingly unable to reach its target even if it knew where that target was. The skin between Sherlock's shoulder blades itched. How thick were the walls here? How powerful were the rifles that Moriarty – it had to be Moriarty – had trained on this room? Did they have infrared scopes? What were their orders? Bollox! He needed data!
He scanned the room trying to observe what he could. One light at the foot of John's bed, another by the door to the loo and a third making slow circles on the lino in the centre of the room. Assumption: the snipers knew where each of them was. Fact: the lights were only targeting John and Mycroft. Conclusion: the snipers were not after him, only the people he… damn it! The commotion in the hall outside was growing. Sherlock could hear sirens in the distance, getting steadily nearer. Time squeaked by. He considered leaving the relative safety of his corner, he wanted to be out there, looking for the snipers, but just because they weren't targeting him in particular, didn't mean they wouldn't shoot him. Worse, a ricochet might hit John… or Mycroft… or some innocent bystander. Damn, damn, damn! He clung to his corner, senses strained to their limits for the least suspicious sound, slightest fraction of movement. He waited and watched John breathe.
Where was Moriarty? What did he want? This wasn't like him. There should be demands and phone calls, cryptic messages and posturing threats, not this… silence. Sherlock couldn't even call the man to demand answers because the police, in their infinite wisdom, had taken his pink phone as evidence, along with his clothing. Lestrade swore Sherlock would get his coat back – it was expensive and a gift from Mummy, after all – but the phone was what mattered and it was out of reach. Then he remembered. Mrs. Hudson! That darling, beautiful, inspired woman! When she'd brought Sherlock a set of clean clothes, she'd brought his own mobile along with his pants and trousers. Pulling the phone from his pocket, Sherlock called up his blog, "The Science of Deduction," and rapidly typed in a new post.
M,
WHERE ARE YOU?
VERY BORED.
SH
There. That should catch Moriarty's attention. Now if only the consulting criminal would answer. His fingers drummed the air in impatience as he waited for a response, but he didn't have to wait long. His phone beeped, notifying him that he'd received a new email message, forwarded from his blog.
SH,
SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW. DO GIVE THE TIN MAN AND THE COWARDLY LION MY REGARDS.
M
P.S. BEST PLUG JOHNNY BOY'S IV BACK IN BEFORE THE BATTERY RUNS DOWN. IT'S JUST COME LOOSE. WOULDN'T WANT HIM TO SUFFER… POINTLESSLY.
Sherlock's head snapped up, his gaze darting to the wall outlet where the flex had, in fact, come loose. Cursing, he walked straight across, moved the drip stand a fraction of a foot closer, and plugged it back in. "Sherlock, what are you doing?" Mycroft demanded from the loo. Get back in the corner."
"He's not going to shoot me," Sherlock grumbled, marching back to John's bedside any roads.
"You can't know what he'll do. He's unhinged."
"He's a clever – " Sherlock began heatedly.
"Is everyone all right in there?" It was Lestrade. From his vantage point in the corner, Sherlock could see the DI squatting in the hallway outside, just to the side of the door. He was wearing a bullet-resistant vest and a ballistic helmet.
The detective inspector leaned a little further around the door frame, and Sherlock snapped out, "Do get back, Lestrade. Surely, even you know that there's no such thing as bullet proof armor. You'd best remain where you are."
"Damn it, Sherlock! Is everyone all right or not?"
"Physically, we are quite well, Detective Inspector," Mycroft interjected. "However, if you would so good as to see to our uninvited guest, we should certainly prefer it."
Sherlock couldn't restrain a smile quirk of his lips as Lestrade visibly rolled his eyes as this imperious request. "ARV's on its way," the DI said, "AFO's should be here any second."
"Simply, marvelous," Sherlock muttered. "The cowboys are coming. As if things weren't enough of a shambles already."
"Excellent," Mycroft said, speaking over the top of him, before adding, "Do remember, Inspector, that Mr. Moriarty is a bomber, and see to evacuating the hospital."
"Already underway," Lestrade confirmed, "Starting with this floor."
"Do you even know where the gunmen are?" Sherlock bellowed. "An evacuation could end in a shooting gallery. Fish in a barrel!"
"Let me worry about that," Lestrade said. "Now, has Moriarty contacted you this time?"
"Not precisely," he temporized.
"Sherlock!"
"I contacted him… on my blog. He's definitely watching."
Lestrade said something – no doubt profane – in response to this, but Sherlock couldn't quite make out what over the commotion from the ward beyond the door. Time crawled by, the combination of danger, tension and boredom leaving Sherlock feeling as if he were going to come out of his own skin. Why was Moriarty fannying around this way? Frustrated and impatient, Sherlock began to type a new post on his blog, only to have the message, "403 Forbidden," pop up instead. He stared at the screen for a moment, dumbfounded, then – "Bugger! Mycroft, get your interfering mitts off my blog!"
"And allow you to antagonize and taunt an already unstable individual who may or may not intend to shoot us all? I think not. Besides, Anthea is attempting to trace him. You'll obstruct her efforts."
"Her efforts! Mycroft, I am perfectly capable of – " Sherlock broke off as John groaned softly, his left hand twitching on top of the blankets, his brow furrowed. Without thinking, Sherlock reached out and touched the back of John's hand with his own. "It's all right," he said more quietly. "We're all right. Rest." Gradually, the lines smoothed out of John's face and his breathing deepened again. The moment he was confident that his flatmate was back under, Sherlock began typing a blistering text meant for Mycroft, but he stopped when new voices joined Lestrade's at the door. No doubt the cowboys had arrived. Sherlock's fingers resumed drumming the air as Lestrade consulted in hushed tones with the ranking AFO. The rest of the ward had grown rather quiet, and Sherlock deduced that the evacuation had cleared the immediate vicinity. Another familiar voice drifted to his ears and he flinched. Sally Donovan. Bloody Sally Donovan. Of course she was here, as if things weren't bad enough.
It was four minutes and twenty-eight seconds before Lestrade addressed the occupants of the room again. "Mr. Holmes," the DI called, "We're going to get you out first as you're closest to the door. Sergeant Kendal and his men are going to come in and get you properly suited up. Then they'll walk you back out."
"I understand completely, Detective Inspector. Proceed."
Sherlock ground his teeth, watching in frustration as two men entered the room behind a wheeled, Sarkar ballistic shield and then backed their way into the loo, the red dot spasming after them, as if in frustration. Mere seconds later they emerged, backing out of the loo with Mycroft carefully positioned behind the ballistic shield, a bullet-resistant vest thoroughly crushing his Henry Poole suit, his T Fox Umbrella clutched in one manicured hand. Sherlock caught his eyes for just a moment. Mycroft's gaze was stern and remonstrative, as if Sherlock were actively doing something to annoy him when he was just standing there, waiting to be rescued like some mundane, good little hostage. Sherlock scowled back at his brother until Mycroft vanished from view. The moment he was through the door, the red dot that had followed him joined the one at the foot of John's bed. The implication was clear.
"All right, Sherlock. Your turn," Lestrade called.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he glanced down at John, saying nothing. This time, two ballistic shields entered the room, first one and then the other, a third man following behind, two more of the bullet-resistant vests held in front of him. The moment they reached the corner when Sherlock had tucked John away, the man with the vests – Sherlock judged him to be the aforementioned Sergeant Kendal – handed one vest off to Sherlock and turned to place the second on John. Swatting away the helping hands of the other AFOs, Sherlock grabbed Kendal by the arm. "Stop Sergeant."
"Mr. Holmes, my men will – "
"Damn your men, you're not putting that on John," Sherlock said emphatically.
"Moorehead, get him out of here," the Sergeant ordered, but brushing the other men aside, Sherlock grabbed the vest he was attempting to fit onto John and tossed it summarily across the room.
"What the devil are you – "
"Sherlock, what's wrong?" Lestrade barked. "You need to let them do their job."
"So I should let them kill John?" he shot back angrily. Then, turning to the sergeant, he pointed emphatically at his flatmate's chest. "Dr. Watson has flail chest which means that, in this case, two of his ribs are floating free, ready to puncture lungs, heart or other vital organs. If he is struck in the torso by a bullet, even one whose impact is redistributed by the woven fibers of a bullet-resistant vest, the force of the impact will kill him."
"You can't know that for certain, and – "
"I can and do know that," Sherlock snapped. "What is more, the constrictive nature of the vest will impair his breathing and could be enough, in and of itself, to move his broken ribs and cause him serious injury. He cannot wear a vest."
"Listen to him," Lestrade called out. "If he says it's so, it's so."
"Bloody…" Kendal began, then shook his head. "Okay. Fine, you win. Now, let us get your vest on, unless you're hiding some detrimental medical problem?"
"No, but Moorehead is. I judge him to be suffering from a serious thyroid condition. He should be seen by a doctor immediately."
Kendal gaped at him for a moment, then grabbed Sherlock roughly by one arm and all but forced him into a vest, muttering darkly the entire time. The moment the vest was properly seated and fastened, Sherlock eeled out of Kendal's grasp and moved closer to the bed.
"Now, go get John's doctor. His name is Pepperidge. Suit him up and bring him back to see about getting John out of here."
"We will, Mr. Holmes, just as soon as – "
"I am not leaving without John."
"Mr. Holmes – "
"Damn it, Sherlock! This is no time to play the sodding hero!" Lestrade shouted from the hall.
"I am not playing, and I am not leaving. If you attempt to force me, there will be a fight and your men will undoubtedly be exposed to sniper fire," he explained in his most reasonable I am explaining the obvious to Carl Anderson tones. "Now go."
The sergeant, stymied, looked back toward the door. "Just do what he says," Lestrade called. "He can and will be impossible otherwise."
Leaving one of the ballistic shields behind, and, after instructing Sherlock to stay behind it in words that no proper Englishman should ever use, Sergeant Kendal and his men left. The shield was a mere five feet high, and Sherlock crouched behind it, protecting his head. An intact torso would do him little good if his brains were blown all over the wainscotting. His phone beeped at him, and looking down, Sherlock saw that he had a text. His heart leapt for a moment with excitement, but it was only from Mycroft.
AS SAFE AS I CAN BE. YOU MOVED INSTINCTIVELY TO SAVE JOHN AND NOT ME. YOUR QUESTION IS ANSWERED, LITTLE BROTHER. THAT IS A FRIEND.
MYCROFT HOLMES
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Bloody Mycroft. He always had to have the last word.
Lestrade watched in growing exasperation as the AFOs emerged from the hospital room with neither Sherlock nor John Watson. The sergeant looked at him and shrugged helplessly. "Not sure how to safely move the patient. The other one's right about that. We need his doctor." Lestrade nodded, but before he could even raise his radio to his lips, an aggravated voice chimed in behind him.
"That's what I've been trying to tell this… this woman, but she won't bloody listen to me!" The DI turned to see Donovan, with the help of uniformed constable, trying to hold back an older gentleman in a lab coat about fifteen yards down the hall.
Trotting over to them, he said, "Who are you?"
"Pepperidge," the man replied. "I need to see my patient. Right now. You can't keep me out. You'll kill him if you handle him wrongly."
Lestrade looked at the man's photo identification where it hung from a clip on his pocket. "Lionel Pepperidge, BMBS." The picture showed a slightly younger, slightly less hoary-headed bloke, but it was unmistakably the same man.
"Right then. You're with me," Lestrade said, taking Pepperidge by the arm and walking him rapidly toward Watson's room. "Has anyone explained the situation?"
"I was told there was a bomb threat," the doctor said, staring at the AFOs gathered outside room 111 with wide, alarmed eyes. "They said you were evacuating this entire floor."
"It's not precisely a bomb threat," the DI corrected. "Dr. Watson and a… friend are pinned down in there. There are laser sights trained on the room. No shots have been fired yet, but it could happen at any time. We need to get them out."
"Moving him – " the doctor began quickly.
"Is the only option," Lestrade finished for him. "It has to be done."
"Fine," he agreed, bracing himself, "but I have to do it."
"Sir, the danger is real. The man doing this has already killed more than a dozen people."
"Then let's not add my patient to the tally." He jerked his chin at the AFOs. "Give me a vest and few of those strapping young fellows, and I'll get Dr. Watson out."
Lestrade looked at Pepperidge long and hard, trying to take the measure of the man as Sherlock so often took the measure of a crime scene, finding truth in small details. "All right," he said at last. "God help you, but all right." Turning, he called, "Kendal!"
"Yes, Inspector?" the sergeant said, hurrying over.
"Get Mr. Pepperidge suited up and take him in to retrieve Dr. Watson. You are to take his medical instructions as direct orders. Understood?"
"Yes, sir!"
"I'll also need a collapsible trolley from the A&E with a LSB," Pepperidge added. "Then I'll need access to the imaging lab to be certain no additional damage has been done."
"Wait, what's an LSB?"
"Long spine board," the surgeon explained. At Lestrade's look of incomprehension, he said, "Backboard. A backboard, like they use in ambulances. There should be some in the A&E with the trolleys."
"Got it," Lestrade said. Then pulling his radio, he called down to the constables working the ground floor, giving instructions for them to get the needed equipment from one of the nurses and send it up immediately. He sent Donovan on to hustle them along. Then, while the AFOs got Pepperidge suited up, Lestrade went back to the door of room 111. "Sherlock, we're sending in someone who can get Dr. Watson out. Just sit tight."
"Where would I go?" Sherlock replied acerbically. Lestrade couldn't see his consultant at the moment, but there was a faint beeping sound coming from the room… a very non-medical sound.
"For the love of St. Michael, who are you texting now?" Lestrade shouted. The only answer to this was a resounding silence, and shaking his head, Lestrade went to join Donovan, who was just returning. The DS gave him a quick status update on the progress of the emergency response team. The bomb squad had only just begun its search for explosives, but it was hard to know where for them to begin in a two-hundred-seventy-year-old hospital with nearly seven hundred patient beds. Did they start with the area nearest Dr. Watson's room, or in the areas of the facility most often frequented by the public? Thankfully, answering that impossible question wasn't his problem. That mess he'd leave to the experts.
Even the evacuation of the north tower of London Royal Hospital, including the premiere trauma center that had saved Dr. Watson's life after the explosion, had been passed over his head to a chief inspector, and that was just fine with Lestrade – it left him free to manage the overall investigation into Sherlock's mad bomber, Moriarty, and the snipers currently holding Dr. Watson and Sherlock pinned down. Anderson and his team were still at the Haverstock Public Pool, sifting through the rubble. There had been no sign of Moriarty's body, and from the looks of things, there wouldn't be. Somehow the daft bastard had slipped away. Whether he'd been injured or not, Lestrade couldn't say, and that was one of the questions he wanted Anderson to answer. He'd placed a call to the tech not thirty minutes before just to emphasize just how crucial it was that they find DNA evidence that could conclusively link to Moriarty, preferably attached to a large puddle of blood.
Donovan had come back from her mission with not one but two nurses and all of the equipment that Pepperidge had asked for. Unfortunately, she also came back with word that the bomb squad hadn't cleared any of the imaging labs. The very radioactive nature of the materials contained in those labs made them especially dangerous targets for any kind of terrorism, and the squad was being pedantic about the whole thing. Incoming emergencies were being routed to other hospitals. Patients with appointments for examinations were just piss out of luck. "I chewed on them for awhile, and they unbent enough to send someone in for one of the portable units. They're sending it up," Donovan put in, clearly pleased with herself and deservedly so. "Toff from the lab came back inside to set it up when he heard it was for Pepperidge. Guess he's the second coming round here."
"Where?"
"Empty staff room on this floor currently being rapidly disinfected. No exterior windows, limited access and well away from any probable hazards," Donovan supplied. "Freak still in there?" she asked, inclining her head toward room 111.
"Yes."
"Why'd he stay?" she challenged, though who she was challenging Lestrade wasn't certain. "Why isn't he bouncing all over London, chasing this blighter down? That's what he gets off on."
Lestrade narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and did not answer. In truth, he wasn't certain himself and he doubted Sherlock was either.
A short time later, Lestrade and Donovan both watched from just down the hall as no less than three ballistic shields entered Dr. Watson's hospital room trailing a trolley with backboard, Pepperidge and two more stout blokes in body armor. Nothing could be heard for a while after that except for the men moving about and Pepperidge barking out orders which were, presumably, obeyed. Then, just when Lestrade thought everything was going to go smoothly for once, he heard Sherlock's voice rise above the rest.
"Are these level III or level IV ballistic shields?" Sherlock demanded.
"What? How do you – " That sounded like Kendal.
"Level III or level IV?" Sherlock repeated, enunciating sharply, in a tone that added, more clearly than words, truly, the sergeant must be impaired in some fashion.
"Why in the bloody hell – "
"Level III hardly seems adequate given that we do not know what kind of – "
"Shut it, Holmes!" Pepperidge barked. For a wonder, the consulting detective apparently did… shut it.
Lestrade spared a glance for Donovan and saw her shaking her head in disgust. "Freak," she muttered, by no means under her breath.
Moments later, Pepperidge and his two helpers exited room 111, Dr. Watson on the trolley between them. Sherlock followed quickly after, but Lestrade didn't breathe a sigh of relief until all the AFOs were out as well. Then he considered how short-lived his relief might be. Just what would this madman do now that his favorite targets were out of range?vccc If a bomb was going to be detonated, this was the moment.
tbc