A/N: thank you so much to all reviewers and followers. Love you all! Enjoy.
Chapter 10
"Soemac nacitav."
John Watson hears these two jumbled words and knows exactly what they are, the backwards trigger words 'Vatican Cameos'. In a second he bursts from his hiding spot and into the horrifying scene before him. How could he have been so foolish to listen to his friend.
Sherlock Holmes is flat on his back, jaw slack, he's staring unseeingly to the clear skies above, the dead look in his eyes makes the doctor want to vomit.
He's too late.
Still kneeling before his best friend is Sam Egerton, brother of Matthew and murderer of the nanny and now consulting detective. John feels anger rise in milliseconds, grabbing for his pistol in a flash as the man pulls a large knife out towards him.
"Don't you fucking move!" John tries not to look at his friend's motionless form and concentrates on the task at hand.
Priority one neutralise the danger then give medical aid.
The younger man pays no heed to the doctor and with one last attempt lunges up and for John. He doesn't reach the doctor as the gun discharges and the Sam crumples into a heap shrieking in pain from his gunshot to the hip, he would not be walking for sometime. The doctors perfectly placed shot has made sure of that one, not life threatening but potentially life changing and absolute agony.
As fast as he can, John grabs the fallen knife and steps over the man, sure to giving him a kick as he goes.
"And don't get up again," he growls, not surprised that the man is silenced by his agony. John is thankful he far enough out of reach of his best friend, the last thing he wanted was him anywhere near Sherlock's body.
The doctor discards the knife into the flower bed as he falls quickly to his knees beside his best friend. "Oh Jesus no."
He's certain the detective is deceased, he's seen the dead look in someone's eyes like this before. Placing two fingers on his friend's carotid artery a fluttering of extremely slow and irregular pulses make tears spring into his eyes, the rate must only be around 30 to 40 but it's there.
"Fucking hell, Sherlock?" He gently pats the detective's cheeks, "Sherlock come on, stay with me now, helps coming, wake up."
"... John?" Finally a weak barely audible voice sounds. "I..."
The doctor cradles his friend's head and pulls him up to embrace him.
"Dear god. I thought you were gone." Medical assessment suddenly forgotten. "What the hell has he done to you?"
Body still somewhat paralysed Sherlock's eyes gaze down to the discarded vials and syringe on the ground, not very visible in the darkness.
John sweeps one into his hand and reads the contents.
"Fuck." His eyes widening in panic, suddenly also aware of the fresh blood on his palm from Sherlock's head wound. "Shit."
"Coat," the detective breaths, eyes sliding closed.
"No, stay awake." John is cradling his head again, "Sherlock. Please, not after all this I can't lose you again, come on."
"Pocket," he whispers, barely audible and John suddenly cottons on.
He buries one hand into his friend's pocket and comes out with two vials, one looks to be smashed and he reads the label.
'Sodium bicarbonate for injection.'
"You're a bloody cock." The doctor gently allows his friend back to the cold ground, quickly glancing up he finds their murderer now unconscious but he doesn't care if the bastard is dead or alive.
He's sent for one ambulance already but Sherlock would take priority right now, he would be sure of it.
John pulls his medical kit out and turns his phone torch on, balancing the thing on the wall of the raised plant bed so he can see more of the scene and his friend before him.
With shaking hands he pulls out a new needle and syringe then draws up an entire vial. He tries to draw up as much as possible from the partially smashed one, cursing as less than half is salvageable.
"Christ," he swears again, finding one of Sherlock's hands deeply bruised and bleeding from the injection and the second red and swollen with what looks like an injection of potassium outside the vein, the skin is angry and reacting to the acidic solution.
John pulls one arm out Sherlock's coat, his heart skips several beats when he realises the detective has passed out, eyes closed. He's lifeless and John has to check for a pulse again to convince himself his friend is alive.
"Just hang on a second mate," he tries to talk but his voice is now shaking madly.
Stay calm John Watson, you can do this, he says internally.
Taking one deep breath, he cuts Sherlock's expensive jacket and shirt from wrist to elbow, ripping the rest. He searches frantically for a vein finding his friend's vascular system has shut down and veins all but disappearing from view. He tightens a quick tourniquet over the detective's upper arm and tries again.
"For God sake, come on."
The doctor pokes inside his friend's elbow, pressing gently for a vein but finding none, but it's no use, his friend needs this injection to combat the catastrophic acidosis which is currently ranging war through his veins.
John pushes he needle under the skin, blindly searching out the vessel until finally there is a small flash back of blood in his hub. He releases the tourniquet and injects as swiftly as he can without the worry of causing undo side effects.
But Sherlock suffers them none the less. As John almost finishes the dose, he tries to time to a slow infusion but he knows he is probably going too fast and his friend's body starts to twitch and he lets out a moan.
Once done with the drug John slides his friend's upper body onto his knees and cradles him gently as the man's body struggles to keep up with the changes in metabolic PH.
Sherlock's eyes peel open slowly and he stares up at his friend listlessly, his body gives occasional convulsions and his breathing has slowed to an almost alarming rate, his transport doing its best to correct the imbalances going on in his blood stream.
"Got anymore?" John asks calmly whilst monitoring the detectives pulse.
There is no answer, Sherlock only stares upwards listlessly, the doctor isn't even sure he's actually conscious of anything right now.
"Where the hell did you get those vials from in the first place?" he cries, an involuntary steady stream of tears are now slowly making their way down his cheeks, chilling them in the cold icy air.
Hold it together Watson, now is not the time for emotions.
John tries not to think about the sluggish warm damp trickle of blood dribbling its way through his fingers as he supports the back of Sherlock's head. The dark curls are soaked through and sticky from the flow. The smashed pot makes the doctor fill with dread from the thought of a potential fractured skull. But no, not right now, right now he needs to keep his friend alive until more help arrives, he could do nothing for a cranial fracture right now if there was in fact one as he highly suspects.
"Sherlock can you speak to me?" he asks firmly, "come on, tell me something obnoxious." He tries for a GCS reading instead, to inform the medics when they arrive.
There's no answer, so he tries again.
"Sherlock?"
"John." The voice is weak and terribly slurred but it's a start. The younger man's body jerks and he cries out against the pain it causes.
"It's okay."
"I think I'm dying," Sherlock manages to garble. John grimaces at the words and the state of his friend's slurring speech.
This was a bit not good.
"No, you're not."
The doctor takes a pulse, trying not to panic at the feel of it, arrhythmic, weak and all over the place. It's no wonder Sherlock is feeling so ill, his body is struggling to keep up with the change in blood electrolyte balance and John knows this is risking all sorts of side effects including fatal heart rhythms.
"Shhh, take it steady, helps on the way I promise." John curses himself internally. He had promised Sherlock he would stay hidden until he called for help but no matter what he wished to god he had arrived earlier.
How could he have been so stupid!
"Why did you tell me to hide! You Berk!" He lets out an growl, "why didn't I know better than to wait until now!" He's livid.
Minutes earlier.
"Jesus." John rounds on the corner of the garden centre plant display to find his friend flat on his front, he's not certain that the man hasn't just passed out from the cold and exhaustion but the smashed terracotta pot makes him think otherwise. "Sherlock can you hear me?" How could it have taken him so long to pick the damn lock, he really needed to get the detective to show him how to do it properly again.
He checks for a pulse happy to find a steady one but curses.
"Bloody hell."
He pulls his phone out to dial for help but a mumble from his friend puts him off.
"Don't," Sherlock wheezes, "Not yet."
"What?" John is on his knees now and his face almost on the floor looking at the detective closely for signs of consciousness.
"Hey can you hear me?" He gently pulls one of Sherlock's eyelids back and a groan replies to his action.
"Open your eyes for me?"
"Do stop talking now and listen," Sherlock's voice is clear as day, it's as if suddenly he's fully awake and it takes John aback.
"What..."
"Listen carefully right now."
The detective opens his eyes to cracks and brings his hand up to cup at the base of his skull in a grimace. "I need to be quick because he's coming back."
"Who?" John quickly does a 360 of the surrounding area, not that he can see much except the pitch blackness of the night.
"The suspect, he's gone for his bag of supplies he needs from his car, I was earlier than he expected so he had to improvise, but looks like the pot had it coming anyway."
"You're concussed, we're getting you to hospital right now."
John ignores him and starts to dial, only to have his mobile slapped out his grasp quickly. John is taken by surprise, Sherlock's eyes are now wide and focused on him.
"Are you listening to me or not?" The detective gulps back and The doctor suspects he is feeling nauseous. "I need you to get into the shed and get recording." A shaky hand holds out a small recording devise. John isn't sure where he's got the thing from but takes it anyway and looks over as Sherlock points forwards. There, not five yards ahead is a small wooden shed more like cupboard.
"Your suffering a severe head injury."
"He barely hit me." Sherlock scoffs, "do stop being so dramatic. Get in and don't come out until I tell you to. Don't call the police yet."
"I don't understand?" John looks to his phone then his friend and then the shed.
"It doesn't take much," Sherlock moans out, as another wave of pain hits him. "Just get in and promise me you won't come out until I give you the signal."
"What signal?" John gives in to his better judgement and collects his phone from the cold pavement, noticing Sherlock's own just ahead and smashed.
"You'll know. Just don't come out before. Just promise John, otherwise we'll never catch him"
"What?"
"Get in, he's coming back." Sherlock waves weakly. "Go!"
Something in the pit of the doctor's stomach says whatever plan his friend had was not good but he goes anyway, against better judgement, for he also knows that in the end they are here to catch a murderer.
He finds the shed open, quickly jamming himself inside he turns his phone back light on and places the recording device down by the crack of the wooden door. He quickly sends out a text to the only person he knows can get help to them quickly - Mycroft. Although it is possible to text the emergency services and he'd registered long ago he trusts that the older Holmes brother will know how to proceed with the situation and probably get help here quicker than anyone else. The message is simple. 'Urgent help needed, Sherlock injured, suspect in play. Twin locks Harden centre, now. JW.'
Be damned what Sherlock wanted, when this is over they would need help, and not just the police, Sherlock's head injury was not something to disregard.
Within seconds he hears a set of footsteps on the slightly gravelled pathway.
Present time.
John wishes he had jumped out of his hiding spot when he had first heard the murderer approach, yet somehow he has managed to let the whole scenario run out before him and his friend's life is now in serious danger because he had promised his friend on first finding him that he would stay hidden. "Do you have any idea what you've done?" He finally snaps.
"John."
"You planned this all along didn't you, just to get a confession, whilst it listened to it. Christ you moron! You brought the sodium bicarbonate because you knew what he was going to do, didn't you?" The doctor raises his voice, looking down to his perplexed friend. Sherlock is shuddering and smiling.
"John..."
"This isn't bloody funny. You could fucking die, don't you get it?!" He's furious, its then he realises that his friend isn't actually smiling, he's holding back a silent cry of pain.
"J..n.." Sherlock stammers.
"What is it?" His heart suddenly plummets in his chest, panic rising in his throat at the sound of his friend's weaken voice.
"I think I'm going to have a seizure," Sherlock says quickly. Then he groans, gripping tightly to the doctor's coat all of a sudden.
"No you're not, you're panicking. It's okay," John soothes. He cups his friend's cheek gently but to his horror Sherlock's eyes roll upwards and his body begins to stiffen, as ever, the detective is rarely wrong.
"Alright," the doctor says calmly. "Easy now."
Careful, not to do more harm, he slowly pushes his friend onto his side as Sherlock's body completely gives out to uncontrolled jerking. The detective's arms have bent slightly and hands fisted tightly. The awful sounds of strained useless breaths through ridged clamped teeth makes John turn his head away momentarily, he hated seeing someone seize. Sherlock's brain was short circuiting and he was at total mercy of it now, and the doctor couldn't help but let himself begin to panic more.
Where the hell was that help!