Terribly sorry for the super duper long delay in getting this finished. The road block in my brain was severe, but it's finally finished. If you've stuck it out to see how it ends then thank you so so much.
I'd also like to send some beta thanks to the lovely PrehistoricCat. Thank you so much for massaging my story for me and keeping me on the straight and narrow. Everyone should check out her stories. She's a fantastic Primeval/Primeval New World fic writer.
Now, on to the disclaimer stuff...
I own nothing.
Sherlock Holmes, John Watson et al. are creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (with the modern adaptation this fic is based on being created in the brilliant minds of Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss). I've just had a fiddle with them.
Chapter 8
"Black Prince Road," called the cab driver as the car slowed. "You sure you want to stop here, mate? Not really the best neighbourhood for a stroll and you don't look like you could handle any altercation, if you don't mind me saying."
John opened the door to exit the cab. "An altercation is the least of my worries, but I appreciate your concern." Stepping out, he grit his teeth at the sudden pain in his side, feeling the pull of his stitches. With all of the hurried activity, he could feel that some of the sutures had come loose. If there were too much more jostling about the wound would fully reopen. They were already beginning to seep heavily.
The light of the day was fading as John began walking down Black Prince Road, he was well aware there were several pairs of eyes already on him. He was certainly out of place here and he knew it. He didn't care, as long as he found Sherlock.
John spotted a young woman who looked to be sleeping rough and bedding down for the night, so he decided to stop and ask if she'd seen Sherlock. "Excuse me, I don't mean to bother, but I'm looking for my friend. I'm John Watson and he's…"
"Sherlock 'olmes," cut in the woman. "Yeah, I knows ya. I'm Margaret. Spoken to 'im a number of times. Also, seen you two in the papers."
"Yes, that's us. Look, I know Sherlock has help sometimes with our cases from some of you that sleep rough. Have you seen him today? It's very important I find him, he's injured and needs my help."
"I just got kicked out the shelter today, so I ain't seen 'im, but Bill might've done. He's just 'round the corner there," she pointed in the general direction of a nearby house. "Hope you find Mr. 'olmes, he's good to us. He don't treat us as rubbish like the rest do."
"Thank you Margaret," John stood up and nodded gratefully before he headed off to find Bill. As John turned the corner he saw a man slumped in a doorway with a blanket draped over his shoulders and his head bowed low. The shock of dark curls startled John at first, but there was no mistaking that head of hair. He rushed to him at once grasping his side as he knelt down to touch the man's bowed head.
"Sherlock," breathed John. "Sherlock answer me." John lifted Sherlock's head back and gently pulled an eye open. "Please, god, please," John pleaded. "Please tell me you didn't…" he pulled the blanket away to reveal a blood soaked shirt. Pulling the shirt away from Sherlock's shoulder revealed the wound.
GSW* to the shoulder, clean through and through…No bone involvement. It would heal completely.
Looking further down Sherlock's arm, that was all John saw. Nothing else. No needle marks.
John reached up and felt for a pulse. Weak, but still there. "Sherlock, you need to wake up," John shook Sherlock lightly to rouse him.
Sherlock had lost a fair amount of blood and needed attention quickly before he went into hypovolemic shock. John pulled out the mobile he'd 'borrowed' from the hospital lost and found and called for an ambulance. After ringing off John tried to wake Sherlock again.
"Sherlock," John said softly as he ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "Dear man, can you hear me? Come on now, you've got to wake up. Help is on the way. Now open your eyes and look at me. Let me know you're still here."
Sherlock's eyes fluttered.
"That's it," encouraged John. "Come on, open those piercing blue eyes of yours and look at me. Let's go Holmes, do it. Now!" he shook Sherlock again, a bit more roughly.
Sherlock's eyes opened slowly.
"Hello there," John smiled.
"Sorry," whispered Sherlock. "My John. Couldn't. Save. All my fault. Dead. My fault. See you soon. Love." Closing his eyes, his head fell forward again.
"No." John grabbed both of Sherlock's arms. "Sherlock, I'm not dead. Look at me please."
Sherlock lifted his head and opened his eyes to look at John. "John?" Sherlock squinted to focus more clearly at the blurry blob in front of him. "How? You were dead. I. You. You were. No pulse. How?"
"Yeah, well apparently my heart had a reason to keep beating." John kissed Sherlock's forehead and pulled him close. Finally, hearing the sounds of sirens in the distance John said, "We're okay. It's going to be okay."
After a scene was made by both men when they arrived at A&E, John was allowed to stay with Sherlock while his injuries were seen to. Unbeknownst to either man, due to all the bending and stress his side had taken, John's wound had completely unraveled and began to bleed profusely.
The doctor made John lie on a gurney to address his injury where the open wound was now stitched together using staples, causing John a fair amount of pain. Seeing John's blood soaked shirt and his pained expressions set Sherlock off again, but John was able to calm him. "It's alright," said John placatingly. "I'm just right here."
Sherlock calmed enough to let the doctor finish treating his shoulder. A unit of blood was now making its way into Sherlock's body to replace what he'd lost, and his ghostly pallor receded the more blood he received. John could tell Sherlock began to feel better soon after the first unit had gone in because the man was becoming more verbally abusive by the minute.
By the time they were ensconced in a private room arranged for them by Mycroft, it was well into the early hours of the next morning.
"Sherlock," called John from his bed. "How are you feeling?"
"I've been better," said Sherlock flatly.
"Quite," the corner of John's mouth turned up slightly. "I have to say, I'm glad for that shoulder injury though."
"Well, that's a bit cruel." Sherlock sounded a bit surprised at his doctor's confession.
"Just listen will you?" John carefully got out of bed and padded barefoot over to where Sherlock lay. "Budge over," he said climbing in to lie next to Sherlock.
Now nestled next to Sherlock, he continued. "I'm not happy you were shot, but I am glad that your shoulder was injured only in so much as it inadvertently kept you from using, which we both know saved your life."
"John, I know you're probably angry with me for what I was going to do."
"I won't say I'm not, maybe just a little," concurred John. "But if the tables were turned, I'd have done the same. Maybe not the same way, but there's no way I'd be able to survive another Sherlock death. Never again."
"We're a bit mental aren't we?" Sherlock wrapped his good arm around John.
"Only a bit?" John smiled and leaned forward, kissing Sherlock lightly. "Mm…I'm knackered. Mind if I kip here in your bed for a little while?"
"John, there's no way I'm letting you go right now, so sleep away my good man." Sherlock leaned his head against John's, kissing his temple.
John was quiet for some time and just when Sherlock thought he was asleep John said, "So…you and Victor?"
"Mm," replied Sherlock noncommittally.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"No, not really but as you were adversely affected by our acquaintance, I think it only fair I give an explanation."
"Only if you're sure but later, yeah? We both need to rest now."
Sherlock nestled in closer. "As you like John, I'm not going anywhere."
Both men were asleep within minutes.
Several hours later John and Sherlock were awakened by Bradstreet, who'd come to collect their statements. First to follow up on what had happened to John during his abduction, then next what transpired between Sherlock and Victor before Bradstreet's arrival at the church.
"We're thinking his mum's death was the trigger," said Bradstreet. "She died about a month and a half ago. Cancer. Well, cancer by way of suicide. She was terminal. There was a letter found among Victor's things. She shot herself and left him a note. According to authorities, Victor was the one that found the body. He hadn't even known she had cancer." Bradstreet's face pinched in a confused manner. "What I don't get is why he targeted you two and those homeless contacts."
"Maybe he just saw Sherlock in the papers or on the telly and became fixated," offered John as an explanation that wouldn't involve dragging Sherlock's relationship with Victor out into the open. It wasn't anyone's business but Sherlock's and with Victor dead, no one needed to be any the wiser.
Sherlock couldn't stay quiet though. It was important to get it all out. John needed to know. Ozzie, Elliot, Jason and Amanda at Canary Wharf...they all deserved closure. "Victor and I were…involved when we were at University together. He and I cared very deeply for each other; at least I thought he cared for me as much as I did for him. All of the clues from the crime scenes came from our time together. The chess pieces, the poem…just secret codes, ways to communicate without anyone else even realising. Victor wanted to finally bring our relationship into the open with his family. So, even though it was against my better judgment, I went home with him for the holidays during our last year. His family did not approve of our relationship and let's just say it ended very badly. Victor blamed me for the way things turned out and he never spoke to me again. Just like that. Out of my life forever. Someone I thought I might spend the rest of my life with. You say his mother's death was the trigger? I agree with this as the most likely cause. His father died before his eyes from a massive heart attack, so his mother's death probably caused that all to come flooding back. He was a decent fellow once; before he let his parents warp his incredible mind. You know the rest regarding my homeless network. That's all I care to say at this time. If you need more, I can come to the station once I'm released."
Bradstreet seemed satisfied with Sherlock's statement. "No, Mister Holmes. I think that'll do. No need to drag things out." Bradstreet gave John a nod and turned to go.
The room was silent for several minutes before John said, "I'm sorry."
"Whatever for?" Sherlock tilted his head back to get a good look at John.
"About Victor. Whatever he became, it wasn't your fault you know? I'm sad that you had to deal with all of that. It couldn't have been easy for you. Something like that? You must've been crushed."
"It wasn't long after that I was on the street, using and not caring whether I lived or died."
"Well," John squeezed Sherlock tighter. "I for one am very happy you lived."
"You know, it's no wonder I didn't recognise you when you found me yesterday. What the hell were you wearing anyway?"
"Whatever I could beg, borrow or steal from the hospital, and I'm sure your lapse at not recognising me had little to do with my wardrobe and more to do with the fact that you'd lost a considerable amount of blood and thought I was dead."
Sherlock winced at the word 'dead'. "Don't," he whispered, pulling John closer to wrap his leg possessively over John's as they lie in the narrow hospital bed.
"Sorry." John turned to face Sherlock and kissed him tenderly on the lips.
"You appear to be quite indestructible," stated Sherlock when they parted. Lightly stroking the bandage over the stapled area at John's side he softly said, "How many lives do you have John Watson?"
John took Sherlock's face in his hands, rubbing his thumb along Sherlock's bottom lip.
"Just the one, but it's all for you."
