Cookies will be teleported to those who guessed at my diabolical plot event! Hmmm, maybe I should have been a bit more subtle about it all...
This was written whilst listening to 'O Fortuna', it just made it a lot more epic :D
Oh and yes, Ruard WAS heavily influenced by Aziraphale from 'Good Omens', you know who you are.
Feel free to translate Ruard's French, it might make it funnier :)
...
Everyone was panicking. They'd never panicked before, but that French arse-licker had called the entire fucking squad on them. He knew they'd been shopped when little Abbie came rushing through, yelling about coppers and that the quiet bloody Frenchman was the dickhead that did it. He'd yelled at them to leg it, they'd find another base later, they hadn't been traced so far. Where the police would be, that faggot Holmes wouldn't be far behind.
'Move!' he roared at a timid young newbie, who promptly fled along with Pete and the others.
'What about 'im?' asked one of them, nodding at the floor. Markin didn't spare any glances.
'Leave him, with any luck he'll die before they get here.' He told them, pulling up his collar so as to better hide his face outdoors. 'Just move.'
...
Sherlock drummed his fingers on his knees, staring out the taxi's window as if he could make the world speed up just by glaring. Ruard was sat in the passenger seat, gabbling instructions at the driver rapidly, sometimes forgetting himself and slipping into his native language before correcting himself.
'Can't this thing go any faster?' Sherlock snarled, Ruard pushed his glasses back over the bridge of his nose wretchedly.
'Have you seen the coppers behind me mate? Whole bloody pack of 'em, more than me life's worth to get done for speedin'' grunted the driver.
'They're with us you idiot!' Sherlock yelled, 'I'll bail you out if they give you a ticket just MOVE!'
'Mère de Dieu que vous êtes grognon aujourd'hui. Je vous jure de vous regarder la télévision anglaise trop bien.' Ruard sighed, placing his fingertips to his temple. 'Left here please, do as he says... Je ne peux pas gérer plus de cette merde....'
The cab turned a corner and the driver accelerated warily, Sherlock made a 'it's fine' gesture over his shoulder to the police officer driving the car directly behind them.
...
Everything fell silent. Thank God. The world around him stilled as the footsteps retreated into the darkness. The sounds of the world outside dimmed and he sank down into a safe little world inside himself. In a world where not even Sculptor could touch him, he gladly fell into oblivion.
...
After much swearing and frustration, the cab managed to race through a set of traffic lights dead set on making things worse for them. Sherlock was more restless than he'd ever been in his entire life, fingers entwining with anything he could get his hands on, his scarf, his own hair, the seatbelt. Despite them not telling the driver a word about the situation, it was as though the urgency and panic was contagious, as the driving became more erratic and no more attention was being paid to speed limits. To stop himself destroying something out of irritation, Sherlock's fingers flew over the keypad of his phone:
Mycroft: Found him. Please alert Harry Watson and Sarah Parker. -SH
He pocketed the phone, no doubt Mycroft would understand. This was taking forever! All he wanted was to find John as get him as safe and sound as humanly possible. If John needed medical attention- as he surely would- then Sherlock wanted to make sure his friend got the best care in London, expenses be damned. Hell, John would recieve hospital care even if Sherlock had to make bandages himself. Ruard glanced at him helplessly, a gleam of reassurance shining through the concern. Sherlock swallowed and returned to staring worriedly out the window, watching London stream by.
Suddenly, in haste and excitement, Ruard began to slap the driver on the shoulder and pointing down a little turn-off into an alleyway.
'There! There! Rapide! Go go! There!'
Sherlock's own hand had flown to his seatbelt, opening it with a swift click. As the taxi rolled into a stop, Sherlock, abandoning any sense of safety, was practically jumping out the car. Ruard passed the money to the driver, thanking him and told him to keep the change. The chubby man's face frowned as he saw three police cars and an ambuance squeeze their way down the tiny street. Never in his life had he been part of such a palaver.
'Do ya want me to hang about?' he asked the blonde man, Ruard shook his head.
'No thank you Monsieur, you have done enough.' He said, his voice grave, 'We will make our own way back, merci once again Monsieur, merci.'
With that, he ran to catch up with Sherlock, who was restlessly pacing up and down the alleyway whilst the driver took off. Two men accompanied Lestrade out of the first police car. One of them was Anderson, who had volunteered just in case a second pair of hands was needed. Sherlock frowned slightly at the other, blinking as the man walked towards him.
'Dimmock?' he asked, the Detective Inspector nodded grimly.
The two of them had never exactly seen eye-to-eye, what with Sherlock being his arrogant self and Dimmock being a stickler for rules. The Inspector had been less than welcoming during the case John had christened 'The Blind Banker'. However, the man had warmed to Sherlock and John after the issue and parted ways with Sherlock following in John's footsteps, giving his loyalty to the world's only Consulting Detective.
I go where you point me.
Suddenly Sherlock saw it; four men were stood practically in a line facing him, three of which he tolerated (if disliked immensly) and one whom he was on friendly terms with. Ruard, Dimmock, Anderson and Lestrade, four leuitenants awaiting orders from their general. He didn't have friends, had no peers save John, he was not the sort of person who deserved heroics from ordinary people. And yet here they were.
'Where to Arthur?' He asked croakily, Ruard pointed to a little rotten door. It was so bleak and grimy you would be forgiven for passing it by.
'It's the entrance to an old storage cellar.' Ruard was saying, 'Churches used it to store books.'
A policeman Sherlock vaguely recognised as 'First-Timer' approached the door, truncheon in hand. Sherlock smiled, his nose was still out of joint where George Markin had punched him during the arrest...it seemed so long ago.
Lestrade nodded and First-Timer (now the newly christened Broken Nose) signalled for him and the rest of his team to break down the door. To everyone's amazement, the door was unlocked, and flew open easily.
'Unlocked?' came Sally Donovan's voice, Sherlock started, he hadn't noticed her arrival.
'Alright everybody, proceed with caution.' Lestrade told them all. Sherlock promptly ignored him and hurried inside.
It was a cellar all right, dusty and cold. The bare stone walls were slightly damp with the humidity outside. Sherlock felt a few paramedics squeeze past him, one cringing at the moss about the walls base. The smell of damp was almost metallic.
'Sherlock?'
Sherlock glanced back at Lestrade, who was fiddling with the cuffs of his jacket. The grey haired man cleared his throat and refused to look at him.
'Er... what if he's-'
'He's not.' Sherlock cut in sharply, perhaps a little harsher than the question credited. But bollocks if he was going to admit that he was scared to death of losing his flatmate, maybe he was just trying to convince himself more than anyone else in the vicinity, maybe he was indulging in a bit of wishful thinking, but the sheer conviction in his voice caused Lestrade to nod in acknowledgement.
'Here! I've found him!' came a paramedic's voice.
Sherlock turned on his heel and bolted to the direction of the voice, he skidded to a halt when he came to the doorway of a chamber.
On the floor, next to a fallen chair in the middle room, face down, was a man covered in blood.
No.
'JOHN!' Sherlock cried, starting forward. He was unsuccseful in his attempt to reach his friend by the arrival of about five other paramedics. Sherlock became aware of a pair of arms holding him back, stopping him from barging through the gaggle of people surrounding John.
'Mr Watson? John? Can you hear us John?' someone was saying, gently touching John's blood covered arm. Sherlock could see numerous gashes pitting John's skin. Desperatley, he tried wrenching free of Lestrade's grip, but to no avail.
'Let them do their job.' He told Sherlock quietly. Sherlock nodded numbly, his eyes fastened onto the sticky red liquid shining darkly in the gloom.
John. His sweet John Watson, was lying still enough to pass for dead. Please, please please please don't be dead.
'He's lost a lot of blood, we also need oxygen. Can you hear me John?' All these medical phrases and questions echoed eerily around the chamber, bouncing off the stone walls.
As medical equipment was being ferried down into the room, one medic gingerly nudged John's raw shoulder.
'We need to turn him over, but his kneecap's broken. Help me.'
Broken kneecap. He wouldn't have been able to walk let alone run.Sherlock could only watch as a small group of men and women gently roll the injured man onto his back.
Almost at once, a cry escaped one woman's lips as she jerked her arms away. Anderson swore in disgust and there was the unmistakable sound of someone quietly retching in the background. Donovan stumbled back and gasped in barely contained horror. Sherlock craned his neck to see, and froze at what met his gaze:
The entire left side of John's face was drenched in blood. A horrific, gaping hole where his eye should be.
Sherlock's knees almost gave way. A sickening rush filled his head and his vision went a little blurred, which he blinked away. He felt a crippling cold in his veins, making him shiver slightly, it had nothing to do with the low temperature of their location. To his immense shame, Sherlock's jaw dropped and no amount of effort could make him close it. For the first time in precisely 17 years; the great Sherlock Holmes was speechless.
The suddenly,the world started moving again. More medics swarmed around John, obstructing Sherlock's view. As for Sherlock, the fact he couldn't see the man spurred him into action again, and he renewed his attempts to free himself from Lestrade, shouting John's name over and over again, possibly believing he could wake the other man up by calling him back from the depths of unconsiousness.
'John! John Watson! It's me, Sherlock! John I'm here! I'm here John! We've got you! John!'
Lestrade grimaced, none of the culprits were here, it was obvious they were long gone. He couldn't keep his grip much longer, the taller man was stronger than he looked, and he was bordering on hysterical, twisting and pulling his body away from Lestrade's arms. Lestrade was angry. He'd seen this sort of crimes before, he'd seen even worse, but this was different. This was someone he knew. He thought of the John Watson he knew; gruff, polite and comforting. He thought of the calming influence he had on Sherlock. An veteran soldier and a doctor, someone so dignified and so important to civilian society did not deserve this. Bleeding, broken and close to death. No wonder Sherlock was panicking, he didn't know the man as well as Sherlock, but he really wanted the guy to pull through.
At last, Sherlock tore himself free of the Detective Inspector and rushed to the flock of medics crowding his friend. John's face was covered with an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, and an ice-pack and bandages were being pressed gently onto the exposed eye socket. John's breathing was too shallow, too rapid to be anything remotely near comforting, but it did make Sherlock giddy with relief to know that John was, in fact, alive.
It took a full 10 minutes for John to be carried to the ambulance, and it didn't take much for Sherlock to convince the paramedics to climb into the small space with them. Glancing back he saw Ruard, pale and shocked, hovering on the curb near a police car. Their eyes met and Sherlock gave a small nod. It was a nod full of non-verbal messages: Thank you, I'll let you know, you can you. Ruard seemed to get them loud and clear, for he nodded in reply and shakily polished his glasses on his coat sleeve. No doubt Lestrade would bug him for information if he didn't leave soon.
Sherlock switched his attention back to John, who was now fixed to a heart monitor. Shock was a heavy risk now, and John's feet were elevated using pillows, he stared at the unconsious man now being prodded and poked by doctors, tubes sticking horribly out of his arms. It hurt, deep down, to see his friend like this, to see him lying so fragile, crammed into the back of an ambulance. But all the same, Sherlock's heart- the one he never admitted to having- lifted at the sheer fact John was here, with him.
I'm here John, this will never happen again.
...
Gah! I really didn't know how to wrap up this chapter, hopefully it's decent enough :3
Everyone having fun?
Next chapter: Was this a coma? It was way too noisy...