By the time she had her next run in with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, she was an emergency care practitioner.
Clarice was the one who gave her the call. She was working an overnight shift, and was mostly just done with everything, so of course it had to be a hectic night.
And to top it all off, right after they'd finished running in an old lady with suspected stroke, they got the call for the stab wound in the park.
Clarice broke the bad news to her in a way that only she could, simultaneously sounding optimistic and serious.
"Thirty something year old male, stab wound to abdomen. Conscious and breathing. Police are on their way. Oh, but... Miranda... It's a code 221bj."
She exhaled loudly. "Fuck. Thanks for letting me know Clarice."
"Good luck."
She would need it.
John Watson was hurt and there would be hell to pay.
She wondered why it was always her who managed to get the 221b calls (the recently put into effect code for calls of a Sherlock and John nature) because it seemed she'd gotten all of them.
She briefed Tariq as he wove in and out of the London streets.
"Sherlock Holmes is the most brilliant man you'll ever meet, and he will kill for John Watson. I'll mostly handle Sherlock, you focus on John. Have you read the newsletters?"
"Of course," he replied.
"Good. Time to apply it."
They were in Hyde park. God only knows what they were doing there at 2am, but this was Sherlock Holmes, and that was about as good an answer as they could get.
At least they were near a road.
Tariq took the ambulance as far as they could go, and they hopped out. It was just off the road that they spotted the two men. John was lying flat on the dirt. Sherlock was just as pale as the man on the ground he was holding the scarf to. He spun off a list of statistics, and Miranda listened while Tariq began his assessment, knowing that facts made Sherlock feel safe. "Stab wound to the upper right abdomen, estimated 30 percent blood loss so far. His heart rate is 132 and his respiratory rate is 30. He's confused, but still conscious."
Miranda nodded. "You keep holding pressure, okay. Tariq?"
"BP is low, heart rate and resps are what he said, he's satting alright at 96."
"John?" she said loudly. The man in question groaned quietly, but otherwise was unresponsive.
"Sherlock was he more lucid before?"
"He was talking before," Sherlock breathed.
"Okay. Tariq, what exactly is the BP?" she countered, not straying from her task of finding a vein. It was hellishly difficult, with the amount of blood loss.
Tariq hesitated. "98 over 52."
Miranda nodded. "I can't find a vein. I'm going to throw a line in the jugular."
"What do you mean you can't find a vein? He's bleeding out, he needs fluids," Sherlock said desperately, clinging to John's hand.
"I know that Sherlock, which is why-"
"Do something," he pleaded, bordering on hysterical.
"Sherlock Holmes!" she bellowed. "So help me I will sedate you. Either calm down and back up, or get drugged and get your own ride to hospital. Your choice."
That shut him up.
"Sorry," he muttered, collecting himself and sitting back slightly, still holding John's hand.
"Thank you."
She successfully inserted the IV line into John's neck and began running fluids.
By then, Tariq had put a pressure dressing on John's abdomen and had hooked him up to a number of monitors and wires, including an ECG, which showed a rapid, but only slightly irregular rhythm. He was still satting well, even though his consciousness was waning.
"John?" Miranda said again loudly while Tariq prepared to move him. There was only a slight whimper in response this time. "John, we're taking you to hospital now. Sherlock is coming though, so don't worry. We'll take good care of you."
With that they scooped him up onto a stretcher, strapped him in, and loaded him into the ambulance.
Miranda practically shoved Sherlock into one of the seats before climbing in herself.
"Which hospital?" he whispered.
"St Mary's. Three minutes away with an excellent trauma centre. They'll take good care of him."
He nodded, and sighed with relief, grasping for John's hand again as they set off.
She eyed his vitals, which were headed in the wrong direction, despite the fluids and other supportive measures. His blood pressure was supposed to be kept low, so as to not thin his blood too much and prevent it from any clotting that it may be attempting. But it was more than that. His breathing was growing sporadic, and his colour was worsening. Perhaps most concerning was the increasing amount of irregular beats on the ECG.
She didn't tell Sherlock about this, and kept her face straight as she reached for the drugs box.
Within thirty seconds, John stopped breathing.
Miranda took a second to knead his sternum, calling his name loudly, to no avail.
"What's happening?" Sherlock asked anxiously.
He sounded close to a meltdown again, which was the last thing she needed.
"He's not breathing. So help me, do not freak out Sherlock..." she muttered, grabbing the BVM and bagging him. "It's normal, considering. Do not panic. I told him I would take care of him and I will."
With practised ease, she slid the ET tube into John's throat. Within seconds she was bagging him again, noting the improvement in colour despite the blood loss.
But it was only a temporary measure. What the man needed was surgery and blood to replace the stuff pouring out of him.
When they left the pair at the hospital, John Watson's heart was still beating, and therefore, so was Sherlock's.
Another job well done.
(She called the hospital the next day. John made it through surgery just fine, and was recovering nicely in intensive care. She awaited the blog post about it.)