Chapter 10
Sherlock and John both tense and then look at each other for confirmation for the shortest second before they are pulling up trousers and John is in search of his gun. Sherlock can't get his shoes on, because he didn't untie his laces to get them off, so he gives up and races to the bedroom door, which is of course still locked.
"John! The key!"
John has his gun in his hand and is loading it. He had forgotten about the stupid key.
He looks around haphazardly and then tells Sherlock "I don't know, I must have dropped it. Just force the damn door."
"I can't. I put in an extra secure lock to prevent just such a thing. Just find me the key!" He looks a bit sheepish, saying it.
John drops to the floor to search, while Sherlock impatiently waits for him and starts shouting directions at John, while uselessly jiggling the door handle to show John to get on with it.
"For fuck's sake you stupid git, get down here and help me."John tells him.
They both hear the dull thud of something heavy hitting the floor. Sherlock drops down on his belly and crawls under the bed. John blindly feels under the cabinet. Suddenly he spots the key in the corner below bathrobe. He scrambles to get it and hurriedly opens the door with gun loaded in his hand, while Sherlock is wriggling out from under the bed. He is already halfway down the stairs before he hears footsteps behind him. He hears Mrs. Hudson scream again and stops dead at their front door. Sherlock bumps into him, which makes John's heart jump high into his throat.
"One man, around 14 stone, likely armed with a handgun and a reserve as well as a knife of sorts as a backup. Professional, knows hand-to-hand combat. Not that quick though and he has an injury on his right leg, probably severed a tendon once, that's his weak spot, " Sherlock whispers behind John's back.
John nods and quietly moves down the stairs, until he has a clear overview of the situation. The intruder is half-hidden by the kitchen door, and it seems he is holding Mrs. Hudson by the throat. The close body contact rules out a direct shot. He knows he missed the creaking step when the man turns in his direction. Quickly John presses his back against the wall, but whether he is too late or the man decides to investigate regardless, he hears footsteps coming towards the front door in a slow slightly uneven gait, mixed with the terrified little footsteps of Mrs. Hudson. John looks up, where there is no sign of Sherlock, so he makes a quick decision. He pushes himself off of the wall to gain momentum and lunges himself against the intruder, adjusting slightly to avoid squarely hitting Mrs. Hudson. The man automatically aims his gun and shoots, but misses, because John's attack is a bent one, low to the ground, familiar to all those who play rugby, and the bullet flies a good 8 inches over him. John's shoulder makes heavy contact with the man's upper legs and it pushes him off balance. He lets go of Mrs. Hudson and his gun to break his fall.
While they are collapsing to the floor, John shouts for Mrs. Hudson to run. His opponent uses the time to reach for his boot. John unorthodoxly tries to prevent him from getting his reserve gun by squeezing the man's calf. It works; the man roughly kicks his leg to make John let go and the gun falls out off the shaft. Unfortunately when jerking his leg, his attacker also knees John full in the face and he hears a crunching sound. Combat training makes him kick the gun away, while automatically reaching for his face. His hand is wet after touching his nose.
Then he becomes aware of something sharp against his throat. The man hisses: "Get up," and John scrambles to his feet. He feels the blood from his nose dripping off his chin and on the hunting knife Sherlock so accurately predicted, which is pressing into his Adam's apple. The force against his throat is a precise balance between threat and delay, likely to be upset adversely by John stamping down on the man's foot, or kicking back against his shins. So he holds still, aiming to become as unthreatening as old ladies in their nighties. But then the pressure is gone, and all 14 stones of the man fall back from John. He looks up and sees Sherlock standing in the hallway, with smugness in his entire posture. John steps away and turns to find his assailant clutching his right side around John's favourite bread knife.
"You had to use that one, didn't you, " he admonishes Sherlock with relief.
Sherlock tosses him handcuffs rather similar to those used by the Yard in general and Lestrade in particular, that John uses to cuff the man to the stove. Before he can prevent it, Sherlock is gripping the bread knife with enthusiasm.
"Who send you?" he demands.
The man just moans in reply. Sherlock makes to twist the knife and John quickly grabs his arm. He nods at Sherlock that it's okay and Sherlock, surprisingly, backs off.
John then turns his attention back to his assailant. "You are going to bleed out, which judging by the localisation of the wound will take roughly two to three hours. I would say that is a rather painful way to go. Now either you tell us what we want to do and I take care of this for you, or we go watch Eastenders upstairs at a volume loud enough so we don't have to hear your moans. It's up to you."
John ifeels/i Sherlock looking pleased behind him and kicks him against the shins.
"So, which is it going to be?" John says in the friendly conversational he generally reserves for 62-year-old patients with persistent belly aches.
The man doesn't get a chance to answer though, because Mrs. Hudson walks in and shrieks: "Oh John, what has he done to your face?" and starts collecting napkins to stop the bleeding. She comes to a abrupt halt midway between the door and the drawer she was aiming for. She half-turns to look at Sherlock and then slumps to the ground.
Sherlock moves just in time to catch her before she hits the floor. John leaves the man to take care of Mrs. Hudson, giving Sherlock a look that he hopes says: see what happens when you pretend dead. Sherlock, perhaps in reply, draws a checkered - and neatly pressed - handkerchief from his back pocket and hands it to John. He looks at it confused, before he realises he is bleeding on Mrs. Hudson's apron. He presses it against his bloody nose and with his other hand softly shakes Mrs. Hudson's shoulder. It takes only a few moments before she comes to with unfocused eyes directed at John. They flutter close and when they reopen they are determined.
She slaps Sherlock across the face hard.
She sits up. "How could you? What you have done to poor John. That is inexcusable behaviour, Sherlock, letting us all believe you had gone on, most of all poor John. He couldn't even return to the flat for weeks and all his stuff was here too. Hardly took any drawers with him, barely surviving. And he was so angry with you. Every right he had too. Oh Sherlock!" and then she puts her arms around Sherlock and draws him into a very tight embrace, while sobbing on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock looks totally unsure of what his reaction should be and just lets her. When after some time he decides to extract himself by sort of handing her to John, she adds: "And now, another burglar in the house. I don't know what this area is coming to. But don't you worry, I've called that lovely fellow at the Met and they are on their way. Dear me, all this. Oh Sherlock!" and she starts sobbing again on John's shoulder.
John and Sherlock look at each other at the same time and have a silent discussion using only their eyebrows. John's raise saying: not another body. Sherlock's raise while he looks up at John: not what you're thinking of. John's squeeze together: do you have a better idea? Sherlock's head falls back and his shoulders slump: fine. He then fishes a phone from his one of pockets and John hears him saying: "This is not a social call, Mycroft, " before walking off.
John peels the still sobbing Mrs. Hudson off of him, with the promise of a cup of tea and turns his attention to their captive who is groaning in pain.
"I can take this out now and stop the bleeding. Then you talk, or I swear to God, I will leave Sherlock alone here with you while I make Mrs. Hudson's tea, " John says.
The man can barely nod at this point.
"Sherlock! " John yells into the hallway, "Get my emergency kit, will you? And put the kettle on, while you're at it."
John gets up to rummage through Mrs. Hudson's drawers in search of a pair of scissors. Immediately Mrs. Hudson gets up to help him, though her hands are shaking so bad, she drops the scissors right upon finding them. John picks them up and steers Mrs. Hudson to the hallway, where they meet a panting Sherlock, who hands John his kit. John entrusts Mrs. Hudson's to Sherlock's tender care, who puts an arm around here and keeps muttering "A nice cuppa" to her.
John starts cutting open the man's shirt and removes it carefully. He lays out the materials he expects to use with rhythmic precision, getting his mind ready for the complete focus of emergency surgery. Each metal instrument is familiar like dusty sandstorms and the sound of gunfire in the distance, their order determined through dying boys amidst severed limps, observed through detached eyes. He knows he relies on Sherlock as his ears and eyes, like army life taught him to blindly rely on his backup, so his senses are freed for only those medical movements.
He cleans his hands with disinfectant and lays open two sterile gloves. He prepares the area around his bread knife with iodine on cotton, taking care that the tweezers don't bump into the knife. He puts on his left glove and spreads his fingers around the entry wound. With his right hand he starts pulling the knife out very slowly, watching the man's complexion for any signs of oncoming hypovolemic shock. John admires the amazing pain tolerance of the guy as he is still conscious and watching him as he works. When the knife finally comes out, John notes with relief that blood is oozing from the wound steadily, making any arterial damage unlikely. Spleen injuries can still bleed like hell internally though. He puts away the knife and put on his other glove. Just when he is ready to examine the wound, two hands on his shoulders pull him away and his place is taken by what is presumably a doctor, in a fine tailored suit, just visible under the scrubs he's wearing.
He draws himself out of his flow of concentration. Sherlock is leaning against the wall next to the door, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unhappy with the way things are going. Behind Sherlock he hears a familiar voice.
"Look lad, you're damn right I'm questioning your jurisdiction. I was called here personally. Now let me see your supervisor. Go on."
Then two other suited men are closing the door effectively blocking out the sound of Lestrade's voice and Lestrade's view of the situation. John chances a look at Sherlock.
"MI5, " he mimes, as though just the mentioning of them could infect him with their stupidity and utter boringness.
John is still working on the absurdity of the situation. The locum doctor is sewing the wound shut with effortless sutures. One of the two men that closed the door is searching their attacker's clothes, the other has gone into the hallway. John's hands are still gloved and covered in blood, which is drying and cracking, like the blood on his face has already done.
He takes off his gloves and moves to the sink. Meticulously, he washes his hands and then uses one of Mrs. Hudson cloths to clean his face. John guiltily wets it, knowing it will upset her for days. He gingerly touches the wet cloth to his nose and winces.
"Let me." Sherlock has moved beside him, without him noticing and is holding out his hand to take over the cloth.
John pushes his hand away and tries again himself. His nose seemed to have grown twice in size, because he touches it before expecting it and it hurts like hell.
"John…" Sherlock says, using a perfect imitation of John's voice when he thinks Sherlock is acting like a petulant child.
John hands over the cloth and Sherlock starts cleaning. He has to rinse out the cloth six or seven times.
"You should perhaps have Mycroft's pet-butcher take a look at it, but is doesn't look broken."
John sniggers, because well, butchers in bespoke suits, performing secret trauma surgery, while wearing a leash held by Mycroft, just makes you do that. And then he winces, because snorting his nose hurts like hell.
The suited man looks at them. "Please, " and he gestures for them to go upstairs.
They carefully avoid the bloodied tiles and obey. Upstairs, Mrs. Hudson is on the sofa with puffy eyes and holding a cup with two hands and Mycroft is sitting in John's chair, looking thoroughly displeased with the mess that is their sitting room.
"Do you really insist on being taken care of all the time, Sherlock?" he sighs.
Sherlock scowls.