John has to deal with multiple casualty's and a fugitive on the loose when at a crime scene, Sherlock is his usual self.
A/N: Thanjs again to all the favourites, followers and reviewers, your all very much appreciated. Had very much a writers block this last few weeks. I both love and hate this chapter all at once, but let me know what you think. I guess it's set with the characters pre-reichenbach. I do have a third part to crashed in the making but I am toiling with it a lot, and it's not done so watch this space. Enjoy...
Chapter 9: Pain management
The warehouse was gloomy and dank, the stench of musky stagnant air and saltwater drifted through the cool room. Boxes and discarded machinery littered all corners of the huge building like an eerie graveyard, casting haphazard shadows around the crime scene. Sherlock Holmes was bent low over the newest cadaver while the team watched on with little interest. The body was that of a young man, well dressed and of wealthy origin. There seemed no outward signs of a struggle, just a clear cause of death. A single bullet hole to the cranium, a neat puddle of blood and brain matter pooled out in a perfect circle around the victims head framing it in a crimson halo.
"Anything?" Lestrade finally said, his voice echoed off the giant ceiling.
"Perhaps." Sherlock sniffed loudly, bringing his face even closer to the dead man he inhaled the man's cologne deeply and hummed to himself.
"What?" The inspector had his pen and paper out now, he had soon learned his lesson to take notes these days. He licked his thumb and turned to a new page in his book.
"He's still here."
"What?" John spoke up, uncurling his arms from around his middle where they had been folded.
"The murderer. He's still in the building." The detective stood straight quickly, his eyes narrowed and his scanned the huge room in a quick sweep, spinning on the spot, careful not to step in the bloody mess.
"Oh stop being so dramatic." Anderson rolled his eyes. "Are you trying to be a drama queen, no rightful soul would want to hang around at a crime scene like this, he'll be miles away by now."
"Perhaps if he wasn't a cripple, hadn't killed just 20 minutes ago and didn't have a problem with sentiment." The word was twisted into a smile. "Why do people always have sentiment?"
"I'm not sure a freak like you would understand." Donovan this time, she hadn't unfolded her arms unlike the doctor. She lent back idly on a nearby desk, the look of disproval etched on her face.
"Cripple?" Lestrade queried, already scribbling in his notepad.
"Hang on a minute." John butted in, "your telling me a murderer is in here somewhere?" The soldier felt for the butt of his gun lodge in the top of his jeans.
Sherlock sighed loudly. "Are you all deaf?" He scowled, "of course he's still here. He's 6'3", probably in a wheelchair or at least walks with aid, the latter more likely as there are no signs of wheels on scene, recently divorced, two kids, has a problem with alcohol and clearly a problem with anger. Used to own the warehouse, the company went into administration not long ago and his brother took it on. Jealously, that's all this is. Petty brotherly feud."
"Oh come on." Anderson stepped towards, "you can't be getting all that from just sniffing a fresh corpse. Can we please just let the professionals in now?"
"Anderson." Lestrade warned.
In a sudden burst of noise there was gunfire around them, the sounds of breaking glass and splintering wood filled the air.
"Get down!" John jumped forwards, grabbing Phillip who was closest to him and dragging him down to the dirty tiles.
He hit to floor himself, and quickly looked up to see with utter horror that Sherlock was now running at full pelt towards the gunfire.
"Sherlock!" John's words came out uselessly, trust his flatmate to run headfirst into danger.
As his friends form disappeared behind a pile of boxes the gunfire ceased. John grabbed for his sig and leapt to his feet, gun pointing towards where the detective had taken off. "Everyone ok?" He scanned the parameter in a flash. Someone groaned and turned back to his colleagues. John's eyes widened when he found none of them up, a pregnant pause passed.
"Little help wouldn't go amiss." Anderson spat, "that is unless you want to go after your freak of a boyfriend."
"He's not..." John gave up and crashed back to the floor next to Lestrade, insult forgotten yet friend not. Soldier within him working through the situation, secure the scene, deal with injuries and then deal with the murderer. John looked down, the inspector was propped up against the desk where he had clearly fallen rather than placed himself. Lestrade's eyes where screwed tight shut against the pain and a sluggish flow of red could be seen from underneath Anderson's hands, pressed tightly into the man's torso.
"Let me see." John waved off the hands and Anderson obliged.
"It's nothing." Greg hissed as the pressure was released. "Just a scratch."
John quickly ripped the inspectors shirt back to reveal the flesh wound, it was bleeding in a steady flow from his lower right abdomen. His trousers were already sticky with blood, even from moments ago after being hit. His hands quickly assessed the extent of the wound and he sighed loudly.
"It's through and through." He grimaced in unison with the inspector as he probed the site. "Sorry." He added. "Doesn't look like any major organs are hit but we need to get you to hospital asap, your bleeding heavily." John knew all too well what sorts of mess bullets did to the abdomen.
"Great." Lestrade let out a cry of pain. John removed his coat, bunching it and pressing it hard onto the area. "Armed response will be on the way if the rest of the team heard gunfire." He stifled a moan, struggling against the agony "but medics won't be allowed in until the place is secure and the gunman down." He huffed.
"I'll deal with that." John looked back with worry to were the consulting detective had disappeared.
"Sally's hurt." Anderson had quickly moved to the other officer and John looked over. Sargent Donovan was inspecting her left arm, pulling at the bloodied shirt sleeve.
"A second." The doctor looked down at Lestrade's pale complexion, shock was setting in. "I need you on the floor." He said to his friend.
"What?" Greg looked perplexed, he groaned quietly, dragging in shallow hitching breathes as John pressed harder.
"On the floor." John repeated, "if you pass out sat like that you'll hurt yourself. And that way we can get more pressure on this wound."
"Oh hell." Lestrade gulped back rising nausea. "It's bad isn't it."
"I've seen worse." The doctor didn't lie, he had, but he'd seen better too. "Come on?" He gently pulled the inspector downwards, letting his body slide effortlessly to the cold damp floor. Greg let out a short whimper.
"Right." John finally said, checking his friends pulse, happy that although racing he probably wasn't going into hypovolaemic shock quite yet, but also mindful it wouldn't be long. "Anderson. I need you here." He motioned to the man who was now fussing over Sally. No time for affection yet.
"Now." His tone turned commanding when the officer didn't move immediately. Anderson practically jumped and scrambled back to John.
"What do you want me to do?" His voice had a slight shake to it now.
"Keep pressure on." The doctor nodded to his hands which where held fast over Lestrade's abdomen, "don't hold back, even if he tells you to stop." John gave Greg an apologetic look. "Your stopping him from bleeding to death."
"Ok." Anderson could only manage, he took over his hands in the same position as John's had been. "For how long?"
"Until I get back to you, or the medics arrive." The doctor quickly took another count of Lestrade's carotid pulse. "Try and stay awake ok?" He squeezed his friends shoulder tightly. Greg smiled back grimly but did not say anything, trapped in constant shaking breaths against the pain.
"Show me?" John then turned to Sargent Donovan who was prodding her arm very gently. He ripped the garment so he could easily access the wound.
"Hey?" She protested.
John exhaled, "I'll buy you another." He said halfheartedly. He looked closely at the bloodied mess and gave a relieved brief smile, "Just a graze by the looks of it, more likely from the shrapnel. Here." He pulled harder on the sleeve and ripped an large piece off and used it as a makeshift bandage, Sally hissed loudly as he secured it tightly to stop the ugly wound from oozing anymore but John didn't apologise this time.
"Thanks." Sally finally said.
"No trouble."
"What the hell do we do now?" Anderson looked at his bloodied hands and the sight of his boss's pale form. "There's a bloody psychopath running loose with a gun."
"Sherlock's on it." John retrieved his gun.
"Oh that brings me all the joy, one psycho after another."
"Anderson." Lestrade's weak voice was barely audible.
The sound of a firing gun filled ears again, Sally, Phillip and John all ducked down but thankfully felt no nearby bullets. In such a huge building it was hard to say exactly where the weapon was firing. But John know one thing, Sherlock must have intercepted him. He didn't know if this was a good or a bad thing.
"Stay here." John crouched low, shouting over the din, "keep Lestrade conscious." He looked worriedly at the inspector, his eyes slits and fighting against the pull of blackness. "Get the team on the phone. Make sure they have the parameter surrounded. If you hear more gunfire, don't come looking."
"Got it." Donovan pulled out her phone and it was already dialling out. She crawled next to the inspector.
John jumped to his feet, gun in both hands just at the firing stopped. He trained his own weapon on the spot where he last saw his flatmate. There was still silence and he jumped forwards into action. "Where are you?" He whispered to himself rounding on a stack of boxes he placed his back up against them.
John sized up the situation, considering all things he decided to reveal his position. "Sherlock?" He shouted, his voice echoed several times in the huge place. There was no answer for a moment, he trained his ears on impending silence, moving forwards with a bit more purpose this time, dodging quickly between machinery and desks. "Sherlock?"
"John?" A weak gurgled reply sounded and the doctor ground to a sudden halt, the sound of his friends voice sending a bolt of panic through his chest.
"Where are you?"
"Stay there!" A voice shouted and a figure appeared in the doctors eye line. He spun, raising his gun up to meet the man, who to his horror had a firm grasp on his best friend. "Lower your gun doctor Watson or I'll put a bullet through his brain too." A shiny grey handgun was pressed neatly onto the side of the detective's head.
John lowered his weapon, placing it on the ground with slow precise movements. He swallowed thickly past the lump forming in his throat. He couldn't help but take stock of his best friends current state of health.
Sherlock was sagged in his captors grasp, his hands were clasped tightly around the choke hold of the fugitive. His eyes slits and his face was pale, beads of sweat were clinging to his forehead and upper lip. A small rivulet of blood was on his chin, dribbled from his lax mouth, there was an impressive split in his lip from a clear scuffle. He struggled to inhale, angling his head upward to open up his airway.
"Let him go." The doctor said, his voice dripping with anger seething beneath the surface.
"No." The man tightened his hold on the detective and Sherlock gurgled out a breath and groan, a fresh mouthful of frothy blood erupted from between his lips. John felt bile rise in his throat, this was a bit not good.
"Let him go or I will take you out. The place is surrounded, there's no where to go."
"John..." A useless moan.
"Call them off." The tall well built man shouted, tightening his hold further. "Or I swear I will put a bullet in his skull for your misfortune." The gun ground harder into the side of the detective's head, Sherlock's eyes closed and he swayed violently, legs weakening from clear lack of oxygen. "Would be a shame, to see such a genius's brain splattered over the floor. Good deductions by the way, shame I'm not actually a cripple." He laughed.
"I can't call them off, I don't even have a phone on me." John cried, swallowing back the panic.
"Then take me to someone who can!"
"You shot him, he won't be able to talk." The doctor almost shouted back but held his tongue.
"Take me!" The man's unbridled anger shon through. He pushed the detective forwards and Sherlock lost his footing, suddenly placing his whole weight onto his neck. He choked madly, scrabbling uselessly for air and to find his feet. "Oh don't be so dramatic." The man let go off the detective's neck and grabbed his coat collar heavily, yanking him upright and then pushing him forward to stumble on his feet, the barrel of the gun did not leave his skin. He then re-established a hold around the lanky mans neck.
The murderer pushed the detective on and Sherlock let out a low and long groan before managing it forwards. John eyed them both with caution and stepped backwards again, heading for the main crime scene. One wrong move and there would be another body to deal with at the very least, let alone the wounded inspector Lestrade. John bit back the guilt of leaving him to search out his friend.
A pause and Sherlock spoke again, voice absent of his usual baritone from lack of oxygen. "John..."
"Quiet you!" The murdered squeezed tightly on the detective's neck and he choked briefly. "One more word and I'll put another bullet in you."
Another? John clenched his jaw, fighting back the need to jump forwards and kill the bastard right now. The doctor searched for signs of a bullet wound quickly, but found none. The rise of panic was becoming unbearable, now weaponless he felt useless in the situation. John shook his head at his friend, no time for games now, this was serious, not that Sherlock would ever think so.
A few steps on and the detective struggled in his grasp again. The fugitive growled. "Stay still!" He choked harder, cutting off all air to the man's lungs, Sherlock's eyes rolled and he opened his mouth like a fish out of water in a desperate attempt at dragging air into his lungs past his constricted trachea.
The detective's eyes met his best friend's, several emotions passing across his face before he mouthed two unmistakable words. 'Vatican Cameos' His eyes snapped shut and he went limp in his captures grasp.
It was then several things happened at once. Despite his taller and well muscled stature the captor grappled with Sherlock's apparent dead weight. The detective listed sideways the gun fired and he cried out and went down. Sherlock hit the floor hard but not without a first a precise kick of the doctors gun, sending it scattering forwards. John stooped low, collecting the weapon and then sending a shot towards the now fleeing suspect. The young man screeched, hit in the upper leg he limped forwards still. His gun was suddenly forgotten about, thrown to the ground, he fled.
"Go!" Sherlock coughed, rolling onto his back and gasping loudly for a long breath.
John stood on the spot, teetering on his decision. He took one look at his struggling friend and kept his feet firmly planted in the spot. He'd shot the man. He wouldn't get far, and he knew armed response would not be far away by now.
"You alright?" John bent down and Sherlock pulled himself upright, grimacing as he began to stand.
"Fine!" He cried, teeth gritted, "go after him."
"Nope." John steadied him as he swayed, coughing violently for a moment the detective bent over, dragging in more uneven breaths.
"What?"
"Your a fucking idiot!" The doctor berated. "Why the hell did you go running off like that!" The doctor regretted his words as he listened to his friends gagging coughs. "Are you alright?"
"Never better." Sherlock finally stood straight and John could see his neck now, already red and swelling with bruising, but at least his lips weren't blue anymore. "Lets go." He hurried forwards and back the group and the doctor followed, quickly collecting the fugitives gun.
"Where you not hit?" John dashed after his flatmate's long strides.
"No." Sherlock's voice was still weaker than before, "I faked him shooting me when I found him, he thinks he hit me. Didn't exactly go to plan."
"Clearly." The doctor caught up. "Are you sure your ok?" He eyed the man's paler complexion.
"I said I'm fine." Sherlock batted his hand towards his friend. "Just a little scuffle and nearly throttled to death." He smirked. "Not the first time, I'm sure it won't be the last."
"You'd be dead if I hadn't arrived, you berk."
"Please." He coughed again and then managing a smile, "it was all show."
They rounded back to the main crime scene and to the three colleagues. John hurried back to them. "How's he doing?" He was on his knees back beside the inspector.
"I dunno. I think he's blacked out." Anderson was in the same position, his knuckles white from the pressure on his hands.
John surveyed his friend quickly. Pulse erratic, skin pale and clammy, his breaths were shallow. "Let me see the wound." He moved Anderson away and pulled off his now soaked coat. The bleeding had slowed but was still far faster than the doctor would have liked. "Greg?" He bent over the inspector, tapping his cheeks lightly. "Lestrade. Can you hear me?"
Greg let out a weakened moan but didn't open his eyes.
"Keep the pressure on.' He turned back to Anderson asking him to go back to his job of stemming the blood flow. John then turned to Sally. "Any luck with the response unit?"
"They're just arriving now. Where's the gunman?" Donovan had her mobile plastered to her ear, she looked at Sherlock up and down. "What happened to you freak?"
"Give me that." John almost grabbed the phone from her grasp. He held it up to his ear. "This is John Watson, we need immediate medical attention in here. We have an officer down and in hypovolaemic shock."
"Sir. I am George Fenton, head of armed response. We cannot send in medics until the area is secure. What's the status of the personnel in there?"
"One officer down with gunshot wound to the abdomen requiring emergency attention, two others walking wounded." He looked to Sally's bloodied arm and then glanced quickly at his best friend, still seemingly breathless from the strangling, he frowned.
"What's the position of the gunman?
"North side of the building. He retreated that way but has sustained a bullet to the upper leg, I suspect he hasn't got very far. He's unarmed as I'm aware, he discarded his weapon. I have it secure on myself. I suggest moving in."
"Agreed." The commanding officer said. "We'll be with you in a few minutes. Medics just behind."
John put the phone down but left the line open.
"Armed response on the way." He said the them, quickly checking Lestrade's pulse, as if a minute would have made much difference to it. "Just hang on mate, helps on the way."
Within what only felt like seconds there was loud crashing of a door and the sound of men rushing into the building. John's heart pumped a little faster, the sound was unmistakable and something he had come to know for many years. Men shouting 'clear' as they secured areas through the warehouse took the doctor back to Afghanistan. He steadied his breath against the rising panic, he was in London and all was ok, now was not the time to lose it. He looked to his friend to find the detective eyeing him with a scrutinising glare.
"Suspect down." An echo from across the warehouse.
"John?" a breathy detective.
"It's alright Sherlock. I'm alright." John stood to meet the coming officers. They barraged in, guns still drawn, and to anyone not used to armed presence it was more than a little intimidating.
"Fenton." A man held his hand out to John, replacing his rifle onto his shoulder. "Medics just behind." He said. "Dear god, is that Lestrade?"
"It is." John turned back to his friend. "He needs hospital. He's bleeding heavily."
"Where are those medics!" The officer bellowed to the others just as two familiar reflective coats appeared, medical kit in tow.
"Thanks." One said to Anderson, "we'll take it from here."
"Gunshot wound to the lower right abdomen, through and through. Heavy haemorrhage, direct pressure applied and slowed but he's still heading into hypovolaemia from the blood loss. GCS of 12, tachycardic at 135."
"Thank you." The second medic smiled sadly, "it'll be ok sir, we'll get him into the Royal London."
John did not answer, just simply nodded in response and watched at the two medics got to work on the inspector. Placing ECG lines, an intravenous catheter and oxygen mask, all standard practice. He remained glued to the spot as he watched them without any real thought.
"We should scoop and get out sharpish." One said. "We need to get him into surgery to stop this bleed."
"A second ambulance is here." The doctor jumped at the sound and found George Fenton leading officer was still beside him. "I'll send for a third for the suspect. Get yourselves checked out." He pointed towards the other side of the warehouse, follow Jones here, he'll take you."
The four of them left quickly, longing to see the back of this crime scene. The two ambulance's were waiting close to the warehouse entrance and just as they stepped out into the cool autumnal air the trolly carrying the unconscious Lestrade passed them and he was bundled into the back of the first vehicle.
"Let's take a look at that shall we?" A young blond medic intercepted Sally and motioned to the back of the ambulance. The sergeant followed her in into the doors.
"Sherlock?" John turned to grab him for a check over and before he ran off. Too late. The man was already half way across the car park. The doctor sighed loudly, balling his hands into fists, "cock." He swore under his breath and broke into a run after him.
The detective was almost out the car park exit by the time John caught up with him, the earlier tightness in his chest all but gone after his sprint, breathless he stopped by his best friend to regain his sharp inhales.
"Sherlock, you really should be looked over."
"Pointless." The taller man strode out faster and the doctor had to jog to keep up the pace. "I have no major injuries, just bruising. Nothing but a cold compress will solve." Sherlock crossed the deserted street and cut through to another car park, clearly a shortcut to somewhere. "Besides John, your my doctor I don't need someone else interfering with my care. You know what I'm like about being touched by others."
John frowned, something was off about his friend. Sure, he was used to him rushing off at crime scenes, but usually when the suspect was still at large, not being marched out in handcuffs. "Are you sure your ok?" He watched his friends gait closely, finding him holding his right arm tucked into his body.
Sherlock huffed, deciding to ignore the question.
"What's wrong with your right arm?"
"Just drop it John!" He snarled.
"Where are we going?" John finally gave up.
"Baker Street."
"You'll never find a cab here." The doctor cried. "We're half way to the docks."
"Really?" Sherlock turned to smirk at his friend before turning back to hide the grimace pass his features. He pulled apart a broken wire fencing stepping through, down a short wall and into an ally. Three slides and they were out onto a busy street.
"Oh." John's mouth motioned as the detective put out his left arm to wave down a cab. The ebb of worry started to creep into his being. John looked closer as he came to stand next to his friend waiting for the car to pull over. The detective's brows were furrowed into a tightly knitted frown and John could see the tension in his jaw. Sherlock pulled the door open and stepped inside the vehicle, planting himself on the seat furthest away.
"221 Baker Street." He said before turning his face to the window while John got in. The door shut and car lurched briskly into motion. The detective inhaled sharply.
"Sherlock?" John edged closer. "Come on now. This is not just from being half throttled to death."
"I..." The detective swallowed hard. "I'm fine."
"Stop being a twit and let me look at you." The doctor saw the cabbie raise his eyes to the rear view mirror with interest.
"Piss off." Sherlock curled himself inwards, tucking his head down into his coat collar, he rested his head on the window. John watched his breath mist up the cool window quickly from quickened rate of inhale and exhale. Yes, something was definitely wrong.
The doctor watched for several minutes, trying his best to deduce anything from his friend but could not place anything except perhaps he had injured his right arm, now firmly wedged away from him so he couldn't assess it. The cab suddenly came to a grinding halt.
"Watch it!" Sherlock yelled as he was bounced forwards and back again in his seat. His face suddenly paled and John then noted the light sheen of sweat much like earlier appearing on his forehead.
"Sorry mate." The cabbie replied, "road works. Traffics a mess up here."
"What's wrong with your right arm?" John tried again, knowing now that the directed aggression was more likely due to pain than annoyance.
"I just twisted my wrist in the fight, nothing to be concerned about." The detective inhaled a shaky breath, eyes closing for a brief second before reopening and focusing on the passing city out the window.
"I don't think so." John shook his head. "That's not it. Last time you twisted your wrist you ripped half the ligaments I didn't find out for three days until I saw the bruised swollen hand and that was only when you were playing your bloody violin, now deal!" He was running low on patience now.
"No."
Just as John took a breath to speak the cab bumped down a dip in the road works and Sherlock let out a brief whimper. He closed his eyes against his friends glare,
"Right." The doctor moved to the seat opposite his flat mate. "Coat off. Right now."
"John. Don't." Sherlock didn't reopen his eyes.
"Now!"
The detective did not budge so John saw this as an invitation to do the deed himself. He lent forward quickly yanking forcefully on the man's left coat sleeve. This time his friend cried out fully, eyes snapped open and wide from pain.
"Stop!" Sherlock shouted, sagging forwards in his seat, he dragged in short sharp breaths and gave out another low moan before sitting back up.
"Then tell me." John's face was turning red from rage.
"I may have made a miscalculation." Sherlock's sentence was broken between hitching inhales. "I thought I would make it out the way before he fired the gun."
"Where?" John sat straight.
"Shoulder." The detective reclined back in his seat and gulped past the rising bile, threatening to vomit at any moment.
The doctor leant forwards, carefully pulling off the large coat from Sherlock's right shoulder, his hands came away sticky with blood. "Christ." He bit back. "Change of plan cabbie." He turned to the driver for a brief second. "Get us to the nearest hospital."
"Right 'o." The driver didn't ask questions, but John could see his eyes tracking them in the mirror with some concern.
How had he not noticed this before? The bloody idiot had been so good at hiding it up until now. John pulled gingerly on his friends shirt, unbuttoning he garment. The detective didn't say a word, the doctor could see his face was now plastered with pain, scrunched into a permanent grimace. He pulled the shirt across his skin and it was slick with blood. John bit back his remarks he wanted to berate to his friend, he felt his own shoulder twinge with pain. The bullet had entered from the side of his friends arm, obviously penetrating up and into the detective's shoulder and collar bone area.
"How the hell are you still conscious and functional Sherlock?" John shook his head. "This is about one of the most painful places to take a bullet. How?"
"Pain management." The detective huffed out in a breath but then let out another short cry as the cab turned a corner wedging his injured appendage into the door.
"What?" John shook his head again. Unbelievable.
"It's all in the mind." Sherlock sat up a little, his eyes opening slits. "It's all about controlling the pain and putting mind of matter. Not hard to learn."
"You preposterous twat." The doctor sighed. "There's a reason why we feel pain, and it's not to hide it from our friends."
"I was going to tell you."
"When?"
"Perhaps once I had cleaned and assessed it myself." He gasped loudly as John removed his scarf and pressed it into the wound to stem anymore blood flow, thankfully it seemed to have slowed already.
"You deserved that." John didn't look apologetic, he looked mad.
"Why?" The detective bit into his lip hard and closed his eyes against the rising agony.
"Sherlock." The doctor shot, he was furious. "You have a bloody bullet lodged in the bones in your shoulder and you were going to tell me after you assessed it at home and decided it needed medical attention? Or were you going to wait until you went septic from the infection? What planet are you on mate? I mean have you got a bloody death wish or something because your going the right way about it!"
There was silence and for a second John regretted his outburst.
"Sorry."
"No matter." The doctor huffed. "We're here now." He motioned to outside and the entrance to the emergency department coming up.
"Good." Sherlock shot a crooked smile, "make sure they give me morphine." And he passed out.
