It wasn't just a rumour, it was a fact; Lestrade's division of Scotland Yard could not, and would not, get on with each other. John had long since given up trying to be the peacemaker. Sally and Anderson made a point of antagonising Sherlock, who wasn't exactly sweetness and light to them, either. And Lestrade would always be caught in the middle, not knowing who to side with.
Anderson and Sherlock both often acted like they knew everything. But, as Lestrade had once said, 'The difference between Anderson acting like a know-it-all and Sherlock acting like a know-it-all is that Anderson deludes himself into thinking he knows it all, and Sherlock actually does know it all. It's why they're both so hard to cope with.'
Sally refused to let herself be caught in the middle. John knew that she respected Sherlock, if not liked him, but she had a long-standing mutual dislike of him, and would always side firmly with Anderson. John couldn't help remembering how Sherlock had introduced her as an 'old friend' and how she hadn't wavered upon her insistence that he was a freak.
But there was one day, just one, that John saw Scotland Yard working together, putting aside their differences.
It was another typical day in Scotland Yard. Anderson was trying to irritate Sherlock, who was being his usual 'it's-obvious' self. Sally and John were both intently studying the corpse, trying not to get involved.
'An amateur criminal, can't've committed many crimes before; evidently knows nothing about blows to the head. Quite messy and drawn out. The killer is quite short, about John's height-' John shot him a death glare, but Sherlock either didn't notice or ignored him, '-likely to be quite young, dark hair…'
Sherlock continued at his usual top speed. Suddenly, he stopped short. 'Oh, I know where we'll find him! Come on, hurry up, it's getting dark.'
To John's immense surprise, Sally, Lestrade and Anderson followed him as well. Through a dark alleyway, out the other side, taking a wild detour through a closed road, John tried to keep track of where they were going but Sherlock was running too fast, and there were too many twists and turns.
'Should be around here,' said Sherlock slightly breathlessly. 'About…' he checked his watch, 'fifty seconds.' Sally exhaled slightly, putting an arm round Anderson, who was trying to catch his breath.
They stood around, trying to calm down. John had felt the effects of an adrenaline rush, and could feel his heart beating fast. Sally was counting under her breath, and Lestrade was breathing hard. John had the strange, nagging suspicion that they were being watched, but put it down to the aftereffects of an adrenaline rush.
They were standing by the Thames river. It was a surprisingly empty road, with just an inconspicuous man dressed in dark clothes leaning on the bridge's wall, slipping something into his pocket. Fog had gathered, leaving them unable to see further than a hundred metres in either direction. The fact that the sun was setting fast, and cold was setting in, didn't make anything easier.
'Sherlock—' Lestrade frowned, before stopping abruptly.
The next thing they knew, Lestrade was on the ground, gasping, and running away was a man; short, dark hair, quite young… John realised with a jolt that this was Sherlock's description of the criminal. He cursed aloud, as the other three members of Scotland Yard leaped up and towards him. Sod's law dictated that John's leg would seize up right then, and he stumbled. Sally caught him effortlessly, setting him back on his feet with surprising ease, considering the situation.
'What the hell's happening?' John couldn't tell where the yell came from, whether it was Anderson or Sherlock, or even Sally, but he knew that something was happening and that it wasn't good.
Then he felt a blow to the back of his head, and everything went black.
'John, wake up. Do not even think about staying there. We need you. John, get up or I'm going to—'
'S'okay, I'm up,' mumbled John. 'What's happening?' He heard the worry in Sally's voice, and knew that she wasn't joking. 'Lestrade?'
'Has been knifed and knocked into the Thames. Sherlock and Anderson are still trying to pull him out. It's bloody freezing and we're worried about hypothermia, amongst other things. You got knocked out by the killer, who managed to get away while we were trying to get Lestrade out. He wanted a diversion, so that we definitely wouldn't be able to go after him. Sherlock was all for running after him and punching his lights out, but Anderson managed to stop him. Come on, up, Lestrade's life is on the line and you're lying in a pool of your own blood.'
John staggered to his feet, still internally reeling from a combination of being knocked out and Sally's information, delivered at top speed. Sally pulled him over to the edge of the pavement, where Sherlock and Anderson were crouching over Lestrade's prone body.
'We got him out,' called Anderson. John braced himself for the inevitable insult, and Sherlock's snappy retort, but nothing came. Instead, the two men examined him carefully, feeling beneath his neck, and checking his pulse. Anderson looked expectantly up at John. 'Any ideas? You're the doctor around here.'
John shook his head, feeling dizzy. 'Possible trauma,' he replied. 'Check the pulse. CPR.' Every sound, every word was like an explosion in his mind, and he tried to keep his explanation limited, but Sherlock and Anderson both understood, saying nothing else.
Within seconds, his worst fears were confirmed. Sherlock swore under his breath, softly and viciously, and Anderson took off his coat to use as a pillow beneath Lestrade's head. Sherlock bent over the detective inspector, and began compressions.
'Hundred a minute,' called John. Sherlock frowned briefly. 'About one and a half per second. Don't hesitate, don't stop.' He stepped forward. While Sherlock continued, he examined Lestrade, along with Sally. 'No exit wound, could be worse. Like Sherlock said, inexperienced. Messy and painful; he specialises in blows to the head. Well, not specialises as such.'
Sally nodded, and continued his analysis. 'He fell into the river, so would've had oxygen deprivation for a few minutes. It may have been cold enough for hypothermia to set in, delaying his vital functions and therefore perhaps helping a little.'
Sherlock stopped pressing down, breathing quickly, and Anderson took over with barely five seconds delay, checking his pulse then resuming compressions. It wasn't exactly the model example of professionalism, and John had seen better during his days at the clinic, but Sherlock and Anderson were doing a good enough job.
Not that it seemed to be working.
Anderson and Sherlock worked together, one taking over when the other was unable to continue, and Sally and John worked to try and get him warm, and minimise blood loss. Four working as one, gears of a well-oiled machine.
Nothing was happening. The two men trying to restart Lestrade's heart admitted no exhaustion, but John could see Sherlock shaking, and Anderson gasping faintly, when suddenly Lestrade let out a gasp and started to cough out water.
It was beyond John's imagination, the four of them working as one to support him. John rolled him onto his uninjured side, Sherlock caught his flailing arms, Sally supported his head and shoulders, and Anderson murmured soothingly to him, calming him down. Eventually, he managed to sit up, gasping with pain and looking exhausted, but alive.
No one was in any state to move. It was cold, and dark, but they were all too tired. Sally's grim smile was tinged with fatigue and sadness. John still felt dizzy and sick from the hit to his head. Anderson was shaking from head to toe. From cold or exhaustion, or something else, John couldn't tell. Sherlock was breathing raggedly, clenching his fists, evidently trying to calm himself down. And Lestrade was in no position to go anywhere, having been stabbed and thrown into the Thames.
Looking around, John realised that he had never seen this before. He'd never seen them all so unguarded, so vulnerable. The smile on Sally's face that wasn't sarcastic or full of contempt. Anderson's gaze wasn't irritated or angry. Sherlock wasn't antagonising or arguing with anyone. This exhausted, yet intensely joyful atmosphere was something he'd never experienced.
'Don't worry, it won't happen again.' Sally broke into his thoughts with a grim smile, as if sensing what he was thinking. John grinned.
It was something he'd never experienced. And something he'd never forget.
Hello, everyone! Happy almost-christmas! And happy new year if you don't celebrate christmas! :) I'm so sorry that I haven't updated for a very long time. Inspiration loss… If you've stuck with me, thank you so much! Thanks for reading, maybe you could leave a review? :D