Damaged Heart

Chapter Five

The Wolves

He takes a break at the first civilisation he sees which is only about a mile away. He pulls in by a pub which advertises rooms to let. That sounds good to him. He can regroup for the night here and make his way home in the morning.

'A room for one night please,' he says, addressing the barman. He pauses for a moment. 'And a pint of Fosters.'

'Sure,' the man replies, drawing his pint. 'Room four is free. You can put up there. It'll be forty quid.'

'Fine,' John responds curtly. He pays for his room and the drink and retires to a table in the corner. As he drinks he glances around at the rest of the room. The pub is fairly empty, the few clientele he imagines are regulars by the way they are familiarly addressing the barman. One man opposite him, on the other side of the room, is reading the local paper. John can just make out the headline from where he's sitting.

LOCAL GANG STRIKES AGAIN

It's accompanied by a series of mugshots. As is usual with police photos the men all look particularly thuggish and nasty, glaring at the camera through heavily-lidded eyes. He realises that he has absolutely no clue what has gone on in the outside world during the time he spent at the manor. So when he goes to the bar for another pint, he casually asks the barman about the gang emblazoned across the front of the paper.

'You're kidding, right?' the man responds incredulously. 'Them's the Wolves. They've been all over the news for weeks. Where've you been?'

Good question, John thinks wryly but instead takes a sip of his pint and asks for more details.

'They're nasty,' the barman says in a low whisper. 'It's not just muggings. More often than not they kill their victims. The last one had about twenty stab wounds if you believe the news.' It is clear by his grim tone that he does and John blinks.

'So they're still at large?' he asks.

'More's the pity. The police round here are useless, they've got no idea. Five locals are dead and they're running around like blue-arsed flies.'

John indulges in a few more minutes of idle conversation before heading back to his table. By his fourth pint he is starting to feel a little light-headed and decides to take a quick ramble around the village before retiring to his room for the night.

The crisp autumnal wind hits him the moment he steps outside and he breathes deeply for a few moments before starting off at a brisk pace. He has no idea where he's headed but his sense of direction is good and he has no fears about getting lost, even in the almost inky darkness.

Twenty minutes later he is about ready to go back to the pub when he hears muffled footsteps approaching him. He thinks nothing of it until he sees four shadowy figures emerge from the gloom.

One of them lights a cigarette and by the brief flare of the lighter, John is able to pick out features. The Wolves gang. Sighing he stops walking. This is turning out to be one hell of a day.

'Haven't seen you around here before,' one of the shadows drawls, casting a glance to his companions.

'Yeah, I'm from out of town,' John responds shortly, starting to walk past them. The one on the far left throws out an arm to stop him.

'Not so fast. We've been looking for a bit of fun.'

The one with the cigarette takes a deep drag and then throws it to the ground, virtually unsmoked. 'Empty your pockets,' he snaps.

John takes a moment to size up the situation. If only he had his gun this would be no problem. As it is he's outnumbered four to one and the alcohol is still affecting his reflexes. Slowly he begins to turn out his pockets and hands his wallet, phone, keys and some chewing gum to the biggest of the gang.

The man examines them cursorily, slings a rucksack off his back and empties them into it. Replacing his bag he then turns his attention back to John.

'Cheers. Usually they put up more of a fight.'

'I flatter myself that I'm not that stupid. Four to one aren't good odds.'

'Hey, we bagged a smart one! Let's see how clever you are against these, eh?'

Four knives appear and John begins to back away, his hands raised. It's never really been his style to edge away from a fight but he knows a losing situation when he sees one. After a couple of steps, however, he finds that he's managed to back against one of the many trees which border the lane.

The four advance before he can move any further, the leader presses the advantage, holding his knife against John's throat. John swallows, his adam's apple bobbing against the steel. He can feel it pressing against his windpipe.

'Please,' he gasps, hating himself for begging but he really has no choice, 'stop.'

'Stop? Oh no, we're just getting started.' His assailant turns to his gang. 'How many times d'you reckon we can stab him until he dies from bloodloss?'

'How does none work for you?'

John starts, the movement causing the blade to press deeper into his throat. He knows that voice. Why is he here?

The attention of the gang is distracted, they take a few steps backwards and in that moment John feels a hand grasp his arm. Suddenly he is hauled sideways, away from the tree. Stumbling over a root he falls to the ground. Blinking hard he cranes his neck and glimpses a slender, dark figure standing just in front of him, in between him and the gang.

'Who are you, some kind of good vigilante?' one of the men sniggers, running a finger along the blade of his knife.

'Hardly,' Sherlock responds. In the next second he has leapt into action. From his vantage point on the ground, John isn't entirely sure what he's seeing. It seems like Sherlock is pulling some serious martial art moves. He is fluid and swift, one moment in one place and the next somewhere different. The leader falls first to a powerful roundhouse kick in the head. Seconds later a second collapses, clutching his face and moaning in agony. The last two look a little anxious. John hauls himself to his feet and tries to figure out what is going on.

'Sherlock?' he mutters.

Sherlock doesn't answer. He's busy dealing with the last two gang members who have converged on him as one. John starts forward just as Sherlock knocks one of the thugs flying towards a tree.

It's almost like something out of The Matrix, John thinks absently. He half expects Sherlock to begin defying gravity running up trees. He begins moving forward again.

'Sherlock!' he calls louder, 'behind you!'

The last gang-member has been creeping up, his knife outstretched. At John's call Sherlock rolls to the side and flicks his foot out in a nifty move which results in the last thug tripping and falling to the ground. Coolly Sherlock gets to his feet, grabs the man's head and slams it down against a protruding rock.

There is silence in the lane. The prone forms of the four men lie scattered where they fell either on the lane or in the woods surrounding it. John holds onto a tree, scarcely able to believe what he has just seen. Sherlock is standing a couple of feet away from him and, now that John really looks at him, he's swaying slightly.

The next second Sherlock crumples to the ground. John stares at him and bites his lip. He doesn't have any responsibility to the other man. The man who has made his life miserable for the past few weeks for no apparent reason. The man who has mocked and insulted him about deeply traumatic instances from his past.

But, no. He's a doctor. He is supposed to help people in need. He can't just leave Sherlock here, in the company of four gang-members who may well be regaining their senses soon. And besides, the only reason Sherlock is here now, injured and unconscious on the ground is because of him. Sherlock was protecting him. Hastily he runs to the prone body of the gang-member who took his belongings and claws them back out of the bag. Brilliant, there isn't any reception on his mobile.

'Hang on,' he murmurs, beginning to run back down the lane. 'I'm going to get help, Sherlock.'

When he reaches the pub he heads inside to ask if he can use their phone.

'Sorry, it's out of order at the moment,' the barman responds. 'Besides which, I don't see why I'd lend it out to help Mr Holmes. The man's a monster.'

John doesn't stay and argue. He is already aware of the hostile atmosphere which came into being the moment he said Sherlock's name and he is running out of time. Swiftly he crosses to his car and drives the short distance to the lane where the ambush occurred.

He parks as close as he can to Sherlock, then gets out and kneels beside the taller man. In the dark he can still see the blood streaking Sherlock's clothes and the asphalt of the lane.

'Shit,' he mutters to himself, slinging an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and heaving him upright. With some effort he manages to drag Sherlock's limp form over to the car and into the back seats.

He drives off as fast as he dares, considering that he's had four pints of lager. Back to the place he swore he'd never return to again. Holmes Manor.

XXXXXXXXXX

'Jesus, what happened?'

Greg meets them at the door, having buzzed to let John in through the gates. He lends a hand in getting Sherlock out of the car and into the house. By this point Sherlock is beginning to come to, albeit slowly.

'The Wolves gang,' John pants as they manoeuvre Sherlock up the stairs. 'Have you heard of them?'

'You kidding? Everyone round these parts has.'

'Yeah, well they attacked me. Then, all of a sudden, there was Sherlock.' John glances at Greg over Sherlock's lolling head. 'Did you know he knew martial arts?'

'Of course,' Greg responds blithely, pushing open the door to the West Wing. 'His parents paid for him and Mycroft to have lessons when they were kids. Mycroft never really took to it, he was never the most active of children. Sherlock was a different story. He was obsessed. I think he's near a master now.'

'That wouldn't surprise me,' John replies, thinking back on the moves Sherlock had pulled. 'He was incredible. If it wasn't for him I'd be dead, no question.'

'I did wonder where he was going,' Greg murmurs as they approach Sherlock's bed. 'After you left he was storming round in a temper for ages. Then, suddenly, he left. For the first time in nearly seven years he just went out the gates at a run.'

'Wait, he hasn't left the house in seven years?' John asks incredulously.

'It's a long story,' Greg responds, giving John an apologetic shrug.

'One of these days somebody is going to tell me what's going on, right?'

'Perhaps,' Greg says, grinning. They glance at each other and nod before tipping Sherlock onto the bed. He groans in pain.

'It looks like the cuts are quite superficial,' John says, snapping into doctor mode. 'He'll need a bit of looking after but he should make a full recovery.'

'What can I do?' Greg asks, looking a little lost.

'Bring me a bucket of warm water, some rags, antisceptic if you have any and some bandages. He's lucky that these don't require stitches otherwise he'd have had to go to hospital.'

'No problem,' Greg says, already backing out of the room.

Sighing John takes a seat next to the bed and examines his patient. Sherlock's hair is matted with drying blood and sweat. His skin is icy to the touch and there are various shallow knife cuts littered all over his chest and arms. Idly John reaches out a hand and brushes a clump of dark hair away from Sherlock's pale forehead.

At that moment Sherlock's eyes snap open and John withdraws his hand. 'How are you feeling?' he asks coolly, leaning back in his chair.

'Never better,' Sherlock responds sarcastically, his eyes fixed on John. 'What's the damage then? Doctor?'

John purposefully ignores the barbed comment and continues his mental list of Sherlock's injuries. Luckily Greg arrives in the next few minutes and hands John everything he needs.

'Mrs Hudson found some iodine in the cupboard,' Greg mutters. 'I hope that'll do as antisceptic.'

'That'll be fine,' John says, waving him away. 'I've got it from here.'

'Oh that's reassuring,' Sherlock says caustically. 'Doctor John Watson's on the case.'

'Will you just shut up?' John returns, almost laughing at the look of shock that crosses Sherlock's face. He imagines nobody's ever spoken to him like that in quite a while. Greg, sensibly, backs out of the room and shuts the door behind him.

'You'll need to take your shirt off,' John says. Sherlock obeys, wincing as the fabric pulls against some of the wounds.

'This might sting a little,' John says, dipping a rag in the warm water. He applies some iodine and touches the rag to the first gash. Sherlock hisses between his teeth, curses quite colourfully and tries to yank his arm away. John sighs and pins his wrist to the bed.

'You're not going to make this easy are you?' he murmurs. 'By the way if you hold still, it won't hurt quite as much.'

'Oh, thank you for those pearls of wisdom,' Sherlock snipes. 'If you hadn't gone running off we wouldn't be in this situation.'

'Well if you hadn't acted like such a complete pillock I wouldn't have left. And I did not run, I drove.' He smirks.

'Need I remind you that you were explicitly forbidden from coming in here?' Sherlock says icily.

'Need I remind you that slavery was abolished in eighteen-thirty-three?'

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and an unwilling smile crosses his face. 'Touché doctor.'

John finishes cleaning the cuts and examines the results with a critical gaze. 'Well, that's all done. Good news, I think you'll live.'

He's hoping for another smile but instead Sherlock's expression darkens. John knows when to remain silent and so doesn't push the point. Instead he swallows.

'Thank you,' he says awkwardly. Sherlock glances at him.

'What for?'

'Saving my life,' John responds shortly, rubbing at the hairs on the back of his neck. 'I would've... well, it would have been tricky if you hadn't shown up.'

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, an unfathomable expression on his face. 'You're welcome,' he says eventually, turning his attention to the blanket. 'How long do I have to stay cooped up here?'

John, happy with the switch to less turbulant emotional waters, sighs heavily. 'Any normal person I'd say at least a couple of days. For you, a couple of hours should be fine.'

Sherlock scowls as if to say that a couple of hours is far too long to relax in bed. John glances around the room, searching for inspiration.

'What's that experiment you've got going on there?' he asks, gesturing at the lab table and all the simmering apparatus.

'Nothing really,' Sherlock says dismissively. 'Just something to distract me.'

'From what?' John asks, his words coming out without any interference from his brain.

'My life,' Sherlock responds bluntly, staring in the opposite direction. His tone indicates that's absolutely all he's willing to say on the subject so John presses for more information about the experiment.

'It looks complicated,' he mutters.

'Not really,' Sherlock says casually. 'It's simply a test to see the difference in blood coagulation in different areas. I have a feeling it might be helpful to the police, if they deign to use something produced by an amateur of course.'

'Sounds to me like you're hardly an amateur,' John replies, laughing slightly. He is rewarded by a slow smile crossing Sherlock's face.

'You're a very unique person, John Watson,' he says eventually. John grimaces, unsure whether to take that as a compliment.

'Thanks. Listen, about dinner, do you want something brought up?'

'I'm not hungry,' Sherlock responds instantly.

'That's as may be, but you're eating whether you like it or not. I repeat, would you like it brought up?'

Sherlock scowls but John merely folds his arms across his chest and fixes Sherlock with what he hopes is his most intimidating stare.

'Fine. I'll have it brought up. But only if you have it here with me.'

'What, dinner?' John asks, shocked out of his complacency.

'You're not going to refuse again are you? That's getting tedious. And besides, I'm not telling you. I'm...' he hesitates, fiddling with the blanket, 'I'm asking you. Have dinner with me. Please.'

John quirks an eyebrow. 'Well, seeing as you asked so nicely, I accept. I'll dash down and tell Mrs Hudson. Don't move from that spot.'

Sherlock makes a mock army salute and John chokes out a laugh before disappearing out of the door.