Warning: Donovan has a bit of a potty-mouth. This is not my fault.
Sally Donovan, Freak-Wrangler
Chapter 2: Earl Grey and Toothpaste
Holmes' blood-covered hand came up and pressed against John's neck. "Got a pulse." His voice was clipped, anxious.
I pinched John's nose shut, put my mouth over his, and breathed four quick breaths out of me and into him, turning my head to watch his chest fall after each one. After the fourth breath, I waited, but he didn't keep breathing on his own, so I continued for him. In, out, in, out, trying to keep a consistent rhythm. John tasted like Earl Grey and toothpaste.
Holmes had one hand pressed to John's belly, and with the other he checked repeatedly for a pulse. I didn't pay any attention to him. It was his fault John was lying here bleeding instead of home drinking tea.
An eternity later I heard noises behind me, scuffing shoes, a shout of "This way!" and then a paramedic in a blue shirt came into my field of view.
"Ma'am? I can take over for you." He had an artificial respirator in his hand. After one last breath, I backed away, wiping my mouth with the back of my trembling hand, and he quickly got to work.
Another paramedic knelt across from Holmes, gloved hand out, ready to take over. "Ok, sir, you can step back now," she said.
The Freak shook his head mutely and stayed put, his hand still pressing the blood-soaked scarf hard to John's side. Lestrade appeared out of nowhere, leaned over him, hand on his shoulder, and said something quietly into his ear. He finally sat back on his heels, breathing hard, and let the paramedic slide her hand in where his had been. Another paramedic was already kneeling in my spot, checking John's pulse, and a fourth was standing behind Holmes, waiting for him to move so she could start an IV.
Lestrade, arm still around Holmes' shoulders, looked around wildly and spotted me. He silently jerked his head in my direction. Even without words, the implication was clear: Donovan, get him out of the way. I pressed my lips together and shook my head tightly. No way was I taking responsibility for the Freak.
Lestrade narrowed his eyes and repeated the gesture, and I caved with a small sigh. I didn't want John to die because Holmes wouldn't get the fuck out of the way.
"Come on, Freak, let them do their job."
Holmes squinted at me. He looked a little lost. I didn't want to have any sympathy for Holmes, but that lost look got to me a bit. The expression seemed so odd on his face, so unlike his usual scowl.
"I'll—I'll take you to the hospital."
Holmes finally clambered to his feet and backed away, eyes never leaving John's still form on the ground. The paramedic immediately knelt in his place and began pushing up John's sleeve for the IV. Lestrade flipped me his keys.
"Take my squad car." He made a vague gesture toward where his car was presumably parked before turning his attention back to his walkie.
I caught the keys and grabbed for Holmes' arm, but he shook my hand off and strode away, looking a bit unsteady on his feet. I hustled to catch up with him. "Hey, you ok?"
"Why would you care?" I opened my mouth to snap back at him, but he was staring at the paramedics, the usual vitriol absent from his voice. Maybe it was an honest question? Only Sherlock Holmes could tell a man's occupation from his left thumb, but wouldn't be able to understand why a person would actually care about another person's well-being. Living with John apparently hadn't rubbed off on him at all.
I sighed and rubbed my face with my hand. "Come on, Holmes, let's get your statement—" oh, God, that was going to be an ordeal—"and go to hospital."
"No, I need to stay with John."
"Where do you think they're taking him?" I was trying to keep my tone reasonable, but it was taking a super-human effort to stop myself from snapping at him.
He dithered in the alley for a minute, like he didn't know what to do. When I had finally had enough, I grabbed his coat lapel and towed him around the corner to Lestrade's squad car, where I sat him down on the boot.
"Make yourself useful," I said brusquely, digging out my notebook and a stub of a pencil. "Tell me what happened." I flipped open the notebook and waited expectantly for him to go off into one of his "deductions".
No response.
"Hey, Freak-" I began, looking up from my notebook. In the light from the streetlamp, I noticed something I hadn't seen before—there was a lot of blood on his face. Where was it coming from? Could he have gotten that much of John's blood on his face?
I flicked on my torch and aimed it into his face, and he flinched away from the light. Oh, he was hurt. Beneath the blood, I could see bruises on his cheek and jaw. Swollen lip. The blood was coming from a gash above his left eye. So that explained the scuffle and thumping I had heard before the shot. I aimed the torch into his eyes and he shied away, screwing his eyes shut. Concussed, probably. Shit.
"Stay put." Leaving him sit on the boot, I went around to the side of the car and hauled the first aid kit out from under the front seat. I needed to take a better look at that gash on the side of his head. It probably needed stitches, but I really wanted a statement from him before I let the doctors get their hands on him. I shuddered at the idea of "getting a statement" from the Freak. It was nearly impossible to sort out the fact from the conjecture with anything he came up with. And if he was concussed, well—all bets were off.
I pulled on gloves—didn't want to touch his blood with my bare hands. He used to be a druggie; who knew what he had picked up. I squirted some purified water on a piece of gauze and leaned in to wipe away some of the blood from his forehead. His nose wrinkled up in disgust.
"You smell like Anderson," he sneered.
I paused and just looked at him through narrowed eyes. What a total twat. Finally I shook my head and said quietly, "I don't know what he sees in you." I took another swipe at the gash, a little harder than absolutely necessary.
Holmes flinched like I had hit him. His eyes slid away, back toward the dark alleyway where John was bleeding out on the pavement. "Nor do I." His voice was very quiet and his lower lip looked a bit wobbly. I realized that was probably the only true thing he had ever said to me. Ouch.
"Low blow, sorry. Truce." I muttered. There was a spot of something darker on his forehead, some kind of grease. I pulled out a swab from the kit and took a sample. Looked and smelled like gun oil. Another spot of the same stuff adorned his jawline under his chin. So he had had a gun to his head at some point during the struggle. That gash on his head could have been made with the butt of a pistol.
"Look straight ahead," I said, because his eyes kept sliding to the left, watching the alleyway. I swung the torch up at his left eye, watching for the pupil to change in the right, but it was impossible to tell because he kept looking away.
"Dammit." I grabbed his chin and made him hold still. "Look at me!" His gaze snapped around like he had just remembered I was there. Before he could look away again, I swung the torch up to his right eye and watched for the pupil to respond in the left. Reactive, but sluggish. A concussion was highly likely. And the way the gash was gaping, it needed stitches.
I put the torch away, took out my phone and started taking pictures, of the cut on his head, the bruises along his jaw, the scrape on his cheek that had bits of gravel stuck in it. I collected a sample of the particles from the scrape.
"Ok, hands out." I ordered, and he complied. Both palms were scraped up, hands covered in blood, definitely mostly John's. His hands were shaking, just a fine tremor. I squirted water to wash off the blood and took a picture, then turned his hands over and snapped photos of his scuffed knuckles. So he had fought back.
A bit of his left wrist was visible for a second and I caught a glimpse of dark purple bruises. When I grabbed his hand to push the sleeve up, he took a quick breath, not exactly a gasp, but enough to let me know it hurt. There were bruises like grapes encircling his wrist, looked like fingermarks. Someone with big hands, long fingers. From the angle, I would say his wrist had been twisted behind his back. It would take a lot of force to make bruises that deep. I snapped another picture.
I swung the torch down and discovered that the knees of his trousers were muddy and torn, possibly from when he was working on John, but again, it would take quite a bit of force to tear his expensive trousers. I had been on my knees too, and while I was muddy, my trouser legs were intact. So, shoved to his knees then?
Ok, enough deductions of my own, it was time to hear what he had to say. I pulled out my notebook and pencil again. "Ok, Freak, what happened?"
He didn't answer. When I looked up at his face, he was watching the alleyway with a lost expression.
"Hey, Fr—Holmes? You with me? I need a statement."
"Oh, right. Um—there were three of them, no four, wait, three. We were running down the alley behind Pakenham street and then took a left on—no a right first, and then a left—." He was talking very fast.
"Whoa, whoa, I can't write that fast. Wait a minute. . ." I put away my notebook and pulled out my phone, opened the voice recorder app. "I already know where you were. Start by telling me how you knew which way to go."
"Blood spatter by the victim. Shoeprints, sizes 11, 9, and um—13, no—12. Maybe. Russian make. Knew they were close. Which way would they go? Scent of motor oil, cheap cologne, and uh—chocolate? I guess it was chocolate. Chop shop on corner of Wren and Gough. The victim worked there, his attackers did too.
"Hold up a minute. Chop shop? How do you know about that?"
"It's where all the high end stolen cars have been going recently."
I just looked at him blankly.
"Lamborghini, two Bugati Veyrons, Ferrari, and a vintage Corvette? How do you not know about that?"
"Not my department."
"It was on the news!" He shook his head, and then winced. "Never mind. They didn't have much of a headstart. I went after them. Took a shortcut. John was right behind me. Um—Oh, shortcut, yeah. Stopped to listen for them, but John was breathing too hard. Couldn't hear anything. We came around a corner, brick building, graffiti on it, local gang, shaped like-but that's not—oh, that's not important. Never mind. Um—We surprised them. John pulled out his gun, but they all had guns. The one with size 11 feet put his gun to my head. Colt 380 Mustang. Small but deadly. Silver with black on the grip. Oh, maybe that's not important either. Um—John dropped his gun. Size 13 pushed me down to my knees and twisted my arm up behind my back. I could feel the bones snap. The smallest man picked up John's gun and put it in his waistband, in the front; stupid move—oh, right, not important. Pushed John on his knees too."
Holmes' explanation was even more convoluted and confusing than typical. Thank God for voice recorders. "Describe them."
"Yeah, they were all Ukranian—"
"Not Russian? I thought you said the shoes were Russian."
"The shoes were, but they were Ukranian. Their shirt collars were wrong, too pointy."
"Ok. Whatever. Go on"
"The first one was 6'3", almost 18 stone, size 13 feet, black boots. Blond hair in a buzz cut. Vertical scar beside his right eye. Tattoo of a lightning bolt on his neck. No, wait, that was the second one. The second one had the lightning bolt. 5'11, 16 stone, size 11 feet, brown lace-ups. Um—tattoo on his neck. . ."
"You already told me about the tattoo."
"No I didn't."
"Lightning bolt?"
"Oh. Right. So—hair color reddish brown. Pony tail. Dirty hands, engine grease. Looked like he bit his fingernails. Third one was shorter, maybe 5'6", size 9 feet, filthy trainers that used to be white, short blond hair parted to the left side, mole beneath his left eye, something brown on his hands, maybe mud? Or chocolate. I couldn't tell. Um—the other one was tall, 6;3, 18 stone—"
"Wait a minute, I thought there were only three."
"There were. Do try to keep up."
"You already told me about that one."
"No, I'm telling you about him now."
"Blond buzz cut? Scar by his eye?"
Holmes squinted at me.
"Yeah, you already told me about him. Honestly. What happened next?"
"Oh. I tried to get away. I flipped the one holding me over onto his back—"
"You flipped him over your shoulder? A man weighing 18 stone?"
He scowled at me. "It's physics," he muttered. "A simple matter of leverage. . ."
"Ok, never mind." I interrupted. "What happened next?"
"The one with the ponytail hit me with his gun—no, it was a piece of rebar. Maybe, not sure. Not important, right? I think—I'm not sure what happened next. I think I blacked out because next I knew I was on the ground and they were kicking me. Oh, that was the bit with the rebar. Hit me in the ribs. There was a scuffle, I saw John trying to get the gun away from the shortest one, there was blood in my eyes so I couldn't see much. There was a shot and a thud, then I heard you yell. They all took off and I got up. John didn't. You know the rest, right? Did I leave anything out?"
"Ok, that's good enough for now. Let's go to Barts." I snapped off the recorder and opened the front passenger door. He didn't move, so I took his arm and put him in the car, hand on his head to keep him from giving himself any more brain damage. As I circled around to the driver's seat, I texted Lestrade.
Update?
The response came as I was buckling my seatbelt. Still working on stabilizing him.
Holmes is hurt. Taking him to Barts.
How bad?
Scuffed up a bit. Knock on the head. Making slightly less sense than usual.
Holmes said nothing all the way to St. Barts. I was afraid he was going to start crying, but he just sat there stone-faced. When we were parked by A&E, he carried on staring straight ahead and didn't even try to get out of the car.
"Freak! Hey, Holmes!"
He jerked his head up like I had woken him up. "What?"
"We're here. You gonna walk inside yourself or am I gonna have to carry you?"
"God forbid," he muttered, hauling himself out of his seat. I took off across the carpark without waiting for him.
Inside A&E, I spotted Teresa, the triage nurse, working at the intake desk. She and I knew each other from previous cases and I felt comfortable with her. Big and solid, she wasn't the type who would put up with any shit from Holmes.
"Hi, Sally," she greeted me with a warm smile.
"Hi, Teresa, this is Sherlock Holmes. He needs his head stitched up, possible concussion too." Maybe they could examine the inside of his head as well. If only.
Teresa's smile widened. "Oh, Sherlock, yeah, we know him." She raised her voice a little to carry across the room to where Holmes was standing by the entrance. "Haven't seen you in a while, Sherlock. Go ahead and have a seat, Love." Her voice was gentle, reassuring. "I'll call Dr. Cordella down. She's with a patient just now." She waved to the chairs, and he dropped into one with a grunt of acknowledgement, elbows on knees, head in his hands.
Teresa turned back to me and mouthed "Frequent flier," giving me a knowing wink.
Huh. Frequent flier? Not too surprising, I guess. I wouldn't exactly call him accident-prone, not really. More like. . . reckless and self-destructive.
Just as I sat down in a chair on the other side of the room, my mobile buzzed. Lestrade.
They're bringing him in.
How is he?
Hanging in there.
Find the perps?
Nothing yet.
Holmes says there's a chop shop on Wren and Gough street. He thinks that's where they're going.
Holmes kept his head down until the ambulance pulled up outside, flashing red lights reflecting off the walls and ceiling of the sterile white waiting room. We both silently stared at the doors until they swung open, and the paramedics pushed the gurney in at a fast walk. One paramedic was straddling John, doing chest compressions, while another pumped air into him with the artificial respirator. Shit. This was bad.