7. Lemon Tree


Spurred on by the sounds of thumps and grunts, John hurtled to the foot of the stairs, his hand reaching halfway around his back of its own accord before he recalled that he had left his pistol locked away at home. Instead, he burst entirely unarmed into a dim room lit by a single weak bulb. Its illumination was barely enough to reveal the shapes of three men surrounding Sherlock, who was lying on the floor, kicking feebly, his hands clawing at his throat in a frantic effort to loosen the rope that one of the men was twisting around his neck.

"Stop it!" John called, in the voice he had used on trainee medics about to do something foolish. "I warn you, I am a doctor, and I am also a soldier."

Sherlock's assailants paused, glancing at each other. Freed from their attentions, Sherlock went limp on the floor, his gasps for air loud in the sudden silence. After a moment, Sarah gave a little snort and pushed past John.

"Oh, for goodness' sake," she said. "Listen, John's a good man, but he's terrible at threats. He means that if you don't leave Sherlock alone, he will kill you all and make it look like an accident."

One of the men turned to glare at them. "Who are you? You're not on the list." He advanced toward them. Sarah took a reflexive step backwards and then splashed Ivan the Terrible in his face. The smell of coffee and vodka filled the air, and John took advantage of the man's momentary shock to knock him down with the heel of his hand against the man's jaw.

The other two men exchanged a look and fled into the darkness. John's eyes adjusted to the dim light, and he spied a cricket bat propped against a desk. He seized it, and the man he had knocked down struggled to his feet and stumbled after his companions. As he fled, Sherlock pushed himself to his knees and tried to grab him, but missed. He doubled over coughing. The wounded man vanished into the darkness, and a door slammed shut.

John dropped the cricket bat and hurried to Sherlock's side. Sarah had already untwisted the rope from around Sherlock's neck and was working on his scarf. John opened Sherlock's coat and then unbuttoned his shirt to his chest as Sherlock took great gasping breaths.

"Light," John muttered. "I need more light."

"Torch," Sherlock wheezed. "Dropped it. Over there." He gestured vaguely with one hand.

Sarah handed Sherlock's scarf to John and went in search of the lost torch. John peered at Sherlock's throat. Even in the dim light, he could see a ring of bruises, scratches, and abrasions around Sherlock's neck, rendering the carotid pulse inaccessible. He folded the scarf into a rough square and set it on the ground, and then nudged Sherlock's shoulder. "Lie down, on the scarf here."

He eased Sherlock down onto his back, picked up his wrist, and found the radial pulse. It was strong, but fast, probably from adrenaline. Sarah emerged from the darkness and pressed a torch into his hand. "Found it."

"Thanks." John shone the light on Sherlock. "Ligature abrasions and scratch marks," he muttered. He aimed the beam at Sherlock's hands, revealing spots of blood on his fingernails. "Defensive. Well done you. Going to be a bit bright now." He flashed the light in Sherlock's eyes, which were red and watery. "Conjunctival petechiae." He sighed and reached into his jacket pocket for his mobile. "You need hospital."

Sherlock grabbed his wrist. "No," he gasped. "Find . . . find them. Men."

"Sherlock, hush."

"No. Listen. This business. It's . . ." Sherlock's words dissolved in a fit of coughing. John grasped his shoulder to steady him.

"Sherlock. I want to hear it. I really do. But I also want to hear all the other deductions you're going to make, on all the cases you'll work after this one, and I won't hear those if you die because your throat swells closed from a broken hyoid bone. Let's get you to hospital. You can tell us everything there."

Sarah sat back on her heels. "Do you want to call an ambulance or just bring him ourselves?"

John pressed his lips together for a moment. "This time of night, on a Saturday, an ambulance will take a while to get here. He's conscious and breathing, with a strong pulse. I think we can transport him. I'd like him to have an MRI, if possible, and I think I know where. Can you bring the car around? I'll make some calls."

Sherlock gestured in the direction his assailants had fled. "Back door."

Sarah nodded, and got up and left. John opened his mobile and punched in a number. "It's a good thing you were efficient about getting attacked," he told Sherlock. "We should be able to get you there before they close." He smiled as the familiar voice of the receptionist at the Urgent Care Centre of the Princess Grace Hospital came over the line.

"Hello, Lucy," he said. "It's John Watson."

"Oh, hello, John," the receptionist said. "Is there a problem? Your last shift was yesterday."

"Yeah, no, it's not about that. Actually, I need a favour, if it's not too much trouble. It's just that I'll be bringing in a friend who's been assaulted. Sherlock Holmes, male, age thirty-six, someone tried to strangle him."

"How's he doing now?" Lucy asked.

John glanced over at Sherlock. "Conscious and breathing, though not easily. I think he should have an MRI. Can you please get someone to call down to Radiology and get a request processing?"

"I can ask," Lucy replied. "Are you all right, though? You said it was an assault."

"Yeah, I'm fine, don't worry. Can you get that appointment going?"

He heard the clicking of computer keys. "I've got the forms called up. When can you get here?"

The back door opened, and Sarah entered. She waved her car keys at John. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"The Princess Grace can take him. How soon can we get there?"

Sarah considered for a moment. "Ten, fifteen minutes?"

John nodded and turned his attention back to the call. "Lucy, let's say fifteen or twenty minutes, just to be on the safe side."

"All right. We'll be expecting you."

John ended the call and put his mobile away, then turned to Sherlock. "We're going to take you to the Princess Grace and get you looked over. Do you think you can get up?" He slid an arm beneath Sherlock's shoulders, and Sarah took Sherlock's arm. Together, they helped him to his feet and supported him between them as they led him out to the car.

"Business, down here," Sherlock murmured. "Illegal."

"Understood," John said, as he and Sarah manoeuvred Sherlock into the front passenger seat of the car. "I'll call Lestrade, have him meet us there. Just relax now."


John gave silent thanks that the doctor in charge of the Urgent Care Centre that evening was Maureen Dennison, with whom he had shared several memorable shifts. Dr. Dennison nodded to them as they arrived, and gestured them to the waiting area. Sarah sat with Sherlock as John filled out registration forms. He decided on the spur of the moment to direct any fees above and beyond what NHS would cover to Mycroft, as he considered that it was Mycroft's fault that Sherlock had been in harm's way in the first place.

After a while, a nurse appeared. "Sherlock Holmes?"

John eased Sherlock to his feet. Sarah took his coat and scarf. "I'll keep these and wait for Lestrade," she said.

The nurse took John and Sherlock to a curtained bay, and John helped Sherlock onto the exam bed. The nurse looked at Sherlock's neck and clucked sympathetically at the abrasions. "Oh, that's not pretty. Are you in pain?" She wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock glanced at John, and then nodded. "Headache," he rasped. "Throat hurts."

"All right. BP looks a bit elevated. Let me get your pulse, and then I'll get someone in to see you." Sherlock was quiet as she took his wrist, which John attributed to his sore throat. After she was done, the nurse picked up Sherlock's chart. "Just to confirm, you requested an MRI, Dr. Watson?"

John nodded, and the nurse left. Sherlock turned onto his side, twisting his face away from the overhead light. Neither he nor John spoke for a few minutes. The curtain surrounding the exam area twitched aside, and Lestrade appeared, escorting Sarah and the nurse who had just examined Sherlock, and who now carried a camera and a ruler. Sherlock groaned and struggled to sit up as Lestrade approached him.

"Christ, what did they do to you?" Lestrade asked, peering at Sherlock's throat.

"Why . . . can't you ask . . . the right questions?" Sherlock asked.

"Tried to strangle the life out of him," John said.

"Well, if we've got a few minutes, let's start documenting those injuries," Lestrade told the nurse.

"Waste of time." Sherlock coughed, and flinched as the camera flashed in his face. "Should be asking . . . who, not what."

"Not a waste of time if I can add assaulting you to the charges," Lestrade countered. "Besides, I've got a pretty good idea of who. Been having a chat with Dr. Sawyer here."

"And I've had an interesting evening of my own," Sarah put in. "You're going to sit and let the nurse photograph your injuries, and I'll tell you all about it."

John smiled. "Better listen to her, Sherlock. She can go places you can't."

"It's astonishing what you can hear in the ladies' loo," Sarah said, and Sherlock raised his eyebrows at her. "Sometimes, women like to talk about men where men can't hear. Like Francine Brighton, who just had to tell someone how fed up she'd become with her husband's outside activity."

"See, that's the bit that I don't understand," Lestrade said. "This conversation happened in a swingers' club, right? Where this couple were regular members?"

"That conversation, yes," Sarah replied. "But that's not where we found Sherlock."

"The club is . . . a front," Sherlock murmured. "Legitimate, but not . . . the primary business. Downstairs is . . . real money source. Ledgers. Membership rolls. Another club." He paused for breath, and the nurse took advantage of the opportunity to take close shots of the wounds on his throat.

"Trafficking," Sherlock said after a while. "Girls. Private sales to . . . valued members."

"Dear God," Lestrade said, wiping his hand over his face. "And you managed to, what, stumble into the middle of it?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Do I even want to know how you got involved in the first place?"

Sherlock managed a wry smile. "Dear . . . caring Mycroft."

Lestrade sighed. "I am seriously considering tracking your brother down and knocking some sense into him."

John laughed. "You'll have to wait your turn. I get first go at him."

"Hey, what happened to Do No Harm?"

"Oh, that's not harm. It's a favour to normal people everywhere."

"Point."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and swatted at the nurse, who had finished her documentation and was trying to clean the abrasions on his throat. The curtain was pulled aside to reveal a man in a black uniform with a wheelchair. "Sherlock Holmes, to Radiology?" he asked.

"I can walk," Sherlock grumbled as John helped him up.

"Well, don't tell anyone. This is a hospital, they've got an image to maintain." John helped Sherlock settle into the wheelchair. "This'll be a while," he said.

Lestrade nodded. "Right. I'll get a team looking over this trafficking club, and I'll call when we've got something useable. Can I drop you anywhere, Dr. Sawyer?"

"I'll wait here, thanks," Sarah said. "Hang onto their things."

"Thanks," John said. He turned to Sherlock as they set off. "Have you ever had an MRI before?" Sherlock shook his head. "Well, here's what's going to happen."


The scan took about forty minutes, by John's estimation, and the radiographer let John sit in the booth with her. Radiology had never been John's specialty, but he had done enough emergency work that he could follow the scans without difficulty. He didn't even try to hide his relief when the scan was over and he helped Sherlock back into the wheelchair.

"I'll live?" Sherlock asked with a smirk.

John smiled, glad to see Sherlock's default haughtiness reasserting itself again. "Unofficially, yes. They'll have to get a radiologist to look at the scans, but, yes, I think you'll be fine. You're very lucky, you know."

"Not . . . luck. Just sensible . . . enough to maintain . . . an Army doctor."

"Yes, you're very clever. Now, hush. Rest your throat so you can tell Mycroft off later."

"After . . . you and Lestrade . . . have punched him?"

"Exactly."


Sarah was waiting for them back in Urgent Care, still holding Sherlock's coat and scarf. Sherlock had been put into a hospital gown for the MRI, and he began to shiver after a few minutes. Sarah draped the coat over him, and he curled up beneath its warmth. "Try to nap a little," John told him. "It'll be a while before the doctor gets here."

In fact, it took a little over an hour. The doctor who eventually turned up was a pleasant-looking woman whom John had not met before. "Sherlock Holmes?" she asked. Sherlock stirred and blinked at her.

The doctor smiled. "I'm Dr. Moore. How are you feeling?"

"Bored. Everyone . . . asks stupid questions. Too much . . . noise. Throat hurts."

"Mmm." Dr. Moore peered at Sherlock's neck, and then used a light, a tongue depressor and a commanding tone to look inside his throat. "All right, the scan says your hyoid bone is intact," she said, "and that's a good sign. Can you swallow?"

Sherlock demonstrated, wincing a little as he did so.

Dr. Moore looked down his throat again, and then glanced over her notes. "We've been discussing the case," she told them. "Specifically, whether or not to admit you overnight for observation. I think you're basically fine, but strangulation injuries can worsen over time. It'd be a precaution."

"I want . . . to go home," Sherlock said. "John . . . perfectly competent."

"Dr. John Watson, hi." John held out his hand. "I'm his flatmate. I've done both GP and emergency work, some of it in the Army."

Dr. Moore looked interested. "That's a thought. I'd feel better if you had backup, though, Dr. Watson. If anything went wrong and you needed to come back in a hurry."

"I could help," Sarah said. "Dr. Sarah Sawyer, GP. I could stay at least until morning. And I've got my sister's car with me."

"We live a few minutes away, on Baker Street," John added. "We could be back here in five minutes if there were a problem."

Dr. Moore pursed her lips. She glanced at her notes again, and looked Sherlock over. "Well," she said at last, "I've always been a great believer in paying attention to psychological recovery as well as physical recovery. If you'll both agree to look after him and bring him right back if there's any problem . . ." She handed Sherlock the discharge forms. Sherlock signed them, and Dr. Moore gave John her card and left.

Sarah got up and set the pile of Sherlock's clothes on the exam bed at his feet. "I'll go bring the car around while you get dressed."


It was late enough that the streets were empty, and all three of them were exhausted. After they arrived at the flat, John escorted Sherlock to his bedroom and deposited him on the bed. He removed Sherlock's shoes, and Sherlock curled up beneath the covers.

"Try to get some sleep," John said. "I'm going to make up a bed on the sofa, and Sarah or I will come in and check on you every half hour or so. Sleep as long as you want."

"John . . ." Sherlock murmured.

"Hush. You did well tonight. Mrs. Hudson will be proud of you."

He patted Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock finally relaxed into sleep.