Chapter 9

Sherlock gave John an approving lifted eyebrow and a smirk. "Yes, it is. Now let's get you fixed up and ready to take down this son of a bitch."
Sherlock is swearing. He really is pissed. Well, John was one of his favorite things, and this was the second time he had been messed with, so what can you do? John almost chuckles at the though but winced instead as the cold droplets of water runs down his scolded fingers. Yeah, this guy is in big trouble once Sherlock has the information he needs beaten out of John's attacker. Big trouble.

Okay. Deep breath. John estimated they had just about fifteen minutes before the intruder would wake up, which means fifteen minutes until mayhem begins again. He began assessing the damage done so far in his head. First bombing: lighter damage to his right shoulder - he should have taken a look at those fragments Sherlock said he had in it, they are beginning to bother him- and shock. Sherlock was not harmed. Second bombing: His shoulder is damaged during his descent of the staircase, and of course, he is temporary blinded and deafened. Briefly he wondered if he had bled from his ears, but shrugs it off. What difference does it make now? He also gained a number of cuts and bruises which he never had a chance to estimate the severity of. He had been looked over by nurses at the hospital but Sherlock managed to wrench him from their grip before he had the chance to fully comprehend what shape he was in. But he had walked from the place on his own two legs, hadn't he? Once again Sherlock was not harmed, however terrified or shocked he may have been on John's behalf. And now to the latest attack. His shoulder felt worse than ever, being knocked over and almost sat upon had not suited it, apparently. The back of his head was throbbing painfully but wasn't bleeding. No concussion at least.

His hands, though. He tried his best to focus, to bring his mind back to medical school, trying to remember any details about burns. Anything. They hurt, check. They looked and often smelled gruesome. He failed to remember any useful or at least scientific facts about burns. "How does it look?" he suddenly blurted. There was silence for a moment then Sherlock's looming presence was beside him again. He must have been pacing the room again. "Tell me." He demanded sensing Sherlock stalling. "I'm not-" he cut himself off. Something Sherlock never does unless he has an epiphany of galactic proportions. Now he just seems unsure of himself, or what to say. The apocalypse must be approaching. "No blisters yet, but clearly forming." He settled for. "Skin is a harsh red. Slightly swollen areas, skin seeming to crackle at several places. It looks painful. Is there anything I can do?" Sherlock all but whispered the last part. He seemed on the verge of exploding into a mess of rage and death, only held together for John's sake. John would have been moved, would perhaps even have smiled at him, had the time been another. When Sherlock uttered the word 'help' however, something imprinted deep in John's mind seemed to click. He opened his mouth, and out poured everything he had ben searching for.

"Cooling the burn reduces swelling by conducting heat away from the skin. Bandaging keeps air off the burn, reduces pain and protects blistered skin," there were other things, other important things, but they did not help his particular case. Sherlock had him by his wrists and on his feet in seconds, and John heard the water starting to run from the kitchen sink soon after. "Cool, not cold." John commented. The water was adjusted to his need and Sherlock let a wet finger run over his wrist to show him the result. He stuck his hands in the water as answer. It was an indescribable relief. His skin seemed to be on fire, and the water seemed to dull the pain however little. "Sherlock who is he after?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock had his entire being focused on John, not at all prepared for his question. John muffled a groan of pain and continued. "You're fine, I'm not. It's a little weird, that's all. Maybe he's after me, but not you? That guy-" John jerked his head towards the sitting room. "- He speaks Dari. That can hardly be a coincidence, right? And I was blinded, so they must know of my shooting skills. That makes sense doesn't it? He's after me for some reason."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "I see why you would make that assumption but I believe you lack evidence." John snorted, "Yeah, right. What do you think then? Got any proof yourself?"

"My work is based on what I see as much as what I know, John. I deduce with my eyes as much as my mind." John fell silent, considering what Sherlock was saying. "But you weren't blinded." He responded. "I could have been. If I had been the one getting your jacket instead of you, I would have been blinded."
"But it was my jacket, why would you-?" Sherlock cut him off.

"For no particular reason, maybe I forgot something myself, perhaps I changed my mind, maybe I had a new idea-"
"Sherlock it wasn't your fault," John said firmly. "I got my jacket, I was blinded by a bomb, and even you couldn't see that one coming."

John wasn't sure how the conversation changed so much so fast, but Sherlock's frustrated voice and senseless arguments had him worried. "I'm alive and you're alive. We're good."
Only the quiet splashing of water against the sink broke the silence. "We're good," Sherlock agreed, or maybe he just repeated. "Yes."

"Yes," John continued," Now let's think logical, okay?"
"Yes. Agreed." Sherlock straightened where he stood. "This man, did he mention the bombings?"
"No, he-" John froze. "Did you check him for explosives? He's not-?"

"He's clean." Sherlock assured him. "Now, give me until he regains consciousness to think this through. I want my hands on the neck of whoever caused this."

And then Sherlock sat on the kitchen table, sweeping away a good percentage of his homemade lab to make room for him, not caring the least about the mess or the shattering noise he produced in doing so. Then he became silent, not bothered by John's presence or the water running nearby. John kept his mouth shut and focused on strangling hiccups and groans of pain.

A moan of pain, not from John but the intruder, send Sherlock's voice to work. "I have memorized almost every officer working on the Yard, and every single one who investigated what little is known of Moriarty. Sixteen of them know of our flat and fourteen of them have been here personally. Eight of them have had military service and a number of them were in Afghanistan. All of them hate me, for several different reasons, and they all have experience with explosives, which is why they worked on the first Moriarty case to begin with."

Sherlock stopped, giving John time to process the information. "You've narrowed down the suspects…" John whispered.

"Eight. Two of them are women, the remaining six men. It is statistically more likely for it to be a man but let's not rule the females out yet," he continued. "Now all we need is a description of this person and how he or she came in contact with your attacker," and with that he jumped elegantly of the counter and strode towards the moaning man sitting tied up to a chair in the sitting room.

The sound of harsh skin-on-skin contact rung through the room, and the attacker snapped to attention. A stream of sour curses was spilled from the attackers lips. "Shut up," Sherlock hissed. "Do you speak English?" Sherlock asked sternly.

"No English," the man said in English words but with a heavy accent.

"John, ask him how he met whoever gave him the task to get to our flat," John stayed by the sink, turning towards the voices and translated Sherlock's words.

"Who send you here? We know you were giving orders by a police officer. Who was it?"

A defiant huff was all he got. Then a loud shriek of pain and the man began to ramble in Dari: "Cheshem! He is called Cheshem! I met him in prison, he gave me this address, told me to kill a thief, that it was an honorable job!"

"Cheshem," John repeated. "He calls himself 'eye'." John told Sherlock, forcing himself to shift between languages, which for some reason he found to be very difficult. "I am no thief, and there is no officer in the yard by the name of Cheshem. Give me some answers or I'll have Sherlock break your arm beyond repair." His words came scarily easy to him, but he hardly had to lie. Sherlock would doubtless break this mans arm- possibly for a second time, considering the loud crack his body emitted when Sherlock wrenched him of John only minutes ago- should John ask it of him.

"Cheshem said he was a soldier, like me, fighting for honor. He said when he returned to his home two men had taken his job from him, his honor! He said this is where you live, and I must kill one of you or my brothers still in prison will be sentenced to death!"

"You cannot be sentenced to death in the UK." John countered.

"You can in Afghanistan," the attacker answered grimly.

Huh. Well, yes, you can. John turned to Sherlock. "We're looking for a man," he began. "He speaks Dari, is obsessed with his own honor, has been to at least one Afghani prison in his service and has had contact to several of their inmates. He has been in the war for a long time, or at least he got deep in it. His name 'Cheshem' was likely given to him by the locals, and it's not uncommon that soldiers stick to these names when back in the civil world, but it could be a sign of PTSD. Does that narrow it down?"

A smirk was evident in Sherlock's voice, "I see three options. Officer Harrison, Officer Dale and Officer Yeux."

"Age?"

"43, 34 and 29," Sherlock answered promptly.

"Was one of them the officer who helped me get to Baker Street?"
"No, he was a newcomer. Spotless record, no military service."

Silence. Why was there so much silence? John felt his fingers twitch for a gun, and winced at the pain it caused him. He felt like shooting something, repeatedly and merciless. And perhaps that should worry him, but right now the only thing that had him unsettled was the lack of a target. Just as Sherlock was about to ask for another translation, police sirens began to emit from the street just outside. "We have to go." Sherlock said. John saw the shape of his arms rise above his head and rush down over the sitting man in front of him. A surprised yelp, and then he was unconscious once more. "Now he wont talk for a while."

"What? What are we doing? Are we running from the police again?" John asked, water still running over his sore hands. Sherlock yanked his hands away from the blissful cold and skillfully ran a soft bandage over the hurt areas. "Bandaging keeps air off the burn, reduces pain and protects blistered skin," Sherlock quoted him. "Now get to the ladder. We wont have time to explain the to Lestrade, and there is a very real chance that out madman is about to storm in here with him, and accusing an officer of orchestrating this mess in a room full of officers wont be taken lightly. Especially because they wont believe us."
"Why won't they believe us?" was all John could think of.

"Because they're stupid, obviously."

"Obviously," John muttered. He was pushed towards Sherlock's bedroom, where he was guided out the window. John managed to grab the staircase by bringing his entire hand around the metal pipes and supporting himself by his wrists. It was less painful that using his fingers but it made him considerably slower. When John was half way down, he heard the police barging through the front door. Shouts and commands where send flying through the air, reaching Johns ears and had him look upwards. Where was Sherlock? Why was he not right above him, following him? John became aware that Gregory's voice wasn't among the shouts and a scenario formed in his head. Had the madman somehow convinced Sherlock and possibly himself had something to do with bombings? And had Gregory either not believed them or simply refused to arrest them? Or was he not informed? What wouldn't they think when they saw that man, tied up and seemingly beat up in their sitting room? Were they going to be arrested? Where the hell is Sherlock?

John bit his lip when he almost shouted out Sherlock's name. If Sherlock was to be arrested, his position on the ladder was at least hidden. But what good would that do? Without Sherlock he was just a clumsy blind man with severely burned hands. Should he go back and explain everything and hope for the best? Or is that what Sherlock is doing? John kept descanting the stairs, not knowing what else to do. Both feet on the ground, he looks up, just at the outlines of Sherlock's great curls peeks outs of the bedroom window above him.

"Keep going, get a cab!" Sherlock whispers only loud enough for John to hear. Sherlock turns abruptly; John hears more shouts and both men know that the officers have made it to Sherlock's floor.

For a moment, John feels left behind, even though he was the one who made it out of the window first. If Sherlock is grabbed now, with no sound proof of his theory, John if left to walk around in his semi-darkness until someone spots him. He feels very, very exposed, and his fingers are twitching more than ever for that stupid gun. John is faintly aware of his mind melding the shouts with screams of agony and the darkness created by his loss of sight is turned into a cold, starry desert night. Please, Sherlock. For the love of god, don't get caught.

Will Sherlock be caught? Goddamn cliffhangers. Thank you for reading, and once again, don't be shy, leave a review and tell me anything you'd like.