Convergence of the Twain, a Doc Martin and Sherlock Crossover Story
Doc Martin belongs to Buffalo Pictures. Sherlock belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I own nothing but my imagination.
Set between episodes 3 and 4 of Doc Martin series 5 and between episodes 1 and 2 of Sherlock series 2
As always, many thanks to my amazing betas, ggo85 with her amazing knowledge of military helicopters and Snowsie2011 who filled me in on the finer points of blood transfusions.
Chapter 11—Flight
"Can you call the hospital on that thing?" Martin shouted at the helicopter crew, pointing at the radio with one hand while the other held the bag of Hartmann's aloft. The racket was deafening, even with everyone wearing headphones.
The nearest crewman nodded. "What's the message, Doc?"
"Tell them he's going to need an immediate transfusion. Have them hang two units of O negative and prepare to type and cross-match for further transfusing."
"Not O negative. That's not the right blood type," blurted Sherlock, his voice crackling in the speaker in Martin's ear.
"Since when are you the doctor?" Martin said angrily. "O negative is the universal donor. Any patient can be transfused with that type in an emergency. We can't wait on the transfusion while we test for his blood type."
"You won't need to wait. He's AB positive."
Martin stared at the detective. "How would you know that? Let me guess. You can deduce it from looking at his trouser turnups or the way he eats his eggs or something . . ." The sarcasm dripped from his voice.
"No, it's not something visible. But he's my flatmate."
"Not a typical question on a lease form, blood type. Why would you ask? Were you planning on opening a blood bank in your sitting room?"
"Noooo. But John's a soldier, at least he was. He still has his identity discs – he wears them most of the time but I've caught the odd glimpse of them around the flat. You can check for yourself but I am quite confident they say his blood type is AB positive." The detective's expression was fierce, but there was just a touch of a blush, as if even he recognized it was unorthodox to keep track of your flat mate's blood type. He busied himself with the Ambu bag he was squeezing to keep his friend's lungs filled with air and looked away from the doctor.
Martin hesitated for just a moment then, glancing over at Holmes, he rolled up the patient's bloody t-shirt from the waist until he spotted the metal discs hanging below the sternum on a sturdy chain. He read the information and then looked at the detective with one raised eyebrow. "You there, with the radio" he shouted, "Call the hospital back and tell them to have four pints of AB positive at the ready."
Sherlock looked up when he heard that and two intense pairs of blue eyes met and locked briefly. Each man acknowledged the other with a brief nod before turning back to the patient's care. They had seven more minutes before the helicopter would reach the airbase where the anti-venom could be administered, and perhaps for that time at least they could call a truce.
X
Mycroft Holmes was not unused to hurtling through the darkness in a helicopter on a mysterious mission to deliver a package that could mean the difference between life and death. In his line of work this was, while not a common way to spend the evening, not an unheard of one either. And, unfortunately for him, he was also not unused to responding to urgent distress calls from his younger brother. Sherlock had, from the most tender of ages, demonstrated a remarkable and infuriating talent for getting into scrapes. And Mycroft as the elder brother, self-appointed guardian, and legal and practical agent of their mother, bore the brunt of the rescue work.
What Mycroft was not accustomed to was coming to the aid of Dr. John Watson. Sherlock had never before asked for his help on behalf of someone else, not his clients, Mrs. Hudson, or even that Adler woman to whom he appeared to have grown attached in some way last year. Mycroft had known from the start that John Watson was a force to be reckoned with, from the way he'd stood his ground, and stood up for Sherlock, in his first interview with Mycroft. Mycroft had to admit it had been helpful, having another voice of reason in his brother's life, one his brother apparently paid heed to on occasion. John's assumption of his role as flatmate, sidekick, associate, perhaps even friend if Sherlock would admit to having such a thing, had brought Mycroft a modicum of peace of mind with regard to his brother. What he hadn't realized until just now was that it had also brought Mycroft someone else to worry about. Constantly.
Once the pilot had set the helicopter down, Mycroft removed his restraining harness and picked up the black cold-packed case containing the anti-venom. It took only a minute or two for the crew to open the doors and lower the staircase. With a brief salute and murmured thanks for a safe journey, he clambered down the steps. The rotors thundered overhead and the resulting blast of wind threatened to flatten him. Ducking out of habit and necessity, he moved swiftly away from the aircraft and onto the tarmac. He gave a thumbs up sign to the pilot as the beat of the rotors picked up and the big machine lifted off once again and sped away into the darkness.
There was an ambulance waiting near the end of the runway, along with a police van and a Land Rover with the RAF logo on it, and light was spilling from the open doorway of the closest building. Mycroft made his way in that direction as he heard the sound of a second helicopter approaching. When he reached the doorway, he looked at his watch – could it only have been an hour since his brother's frantic call? It was very lucky indeed he'd been in an intelligence briefing with the Air Wing Commander at Odiham when the call had come in. It had taken only a few brief telephone calls and less than fifteen minutes to obtain the anti-venom and arrange transport to Cornwall.
The ambulance crew raced to assist in moving the patient out of the helicopter and soon there was a knot of people rushing towards the building, pushing the trolley and carrying various pieces of equipment. Mycroft spotted Sherlock immediately.
He caught Sherlock's eye, and thought he saw a look of something like relief on his brother's face. Sherlock separated from the pack, eyeing the parcel in Mycroft's hand.
"Did you bring . . ." Mycroft could hear the tension in his brother's voice.
"Yes, here it is." He handed Sherlock the case. "How is he?"
"Not out of the woods yet. The doctor did a bit of surgery before we left." He swallowed and pushed a hand through the tangle of curly black hair. "He needs the anti-venom. And a transfusion."
His brother looked uncharacteristically worried. "Go on then. I'll wait."
He watched as Sherlock delivered the case to a tall, stocky man with brutally short hair. Mycroft concluded that he must be the doctor, as he was incongruously wearing a suit and tie instead of a uniform and he seemed to be taking charge. Sherlock spoke to him briefly before stepping back to lean against the wall. Mycroft could see that his brother's eyes were glued to the proceedings. A petite, dark-haired woman stood on his left, equally engrossed. Mycroft slid up against the wall to Sherlock's right and had his first real opportunity to observe the injured Dr. Watson.
John didn't look well, that much was certain. He was clearly unconscious, and one of the medics was squeezing a bag to force air into his lungs. He was covered in blood, as was Sherlock for that matter, and he looked shockingly pale against the white sheet on the stretcher. The dark-suited doctor was injecting the anti-venom into the port on the drip bag when Mycroft caught a glimpse of his face.
"Good Lord, Sherlock," he whispered to his brother. "You didn't tell me the local GP you were having treat John was Rusty Ellingham."
A flutter of interest passed over Sherlock's face. "You know him?"
"We were at school together. He was a year ahead of me – house prefect the year before I was. Brilliant pupil."
"Ah yes. That would have been before my time."
"Rusty?" asked the dark-haired woman. "But he's not a redhead." She gave him a quizzical look.
A broad smile cracked Sherlock's face. "You obviously haven't spent much time at boarding school, Inspector Rivers."
"Ah, yes, well . . ." Mycroft glanced at Ellingham, discomfited at the prospect of dissecting the nickname. Seeing his brother's animated face, he realized he didn't need to.
"Rusty is short for 'rusty springs'. The perennial nickname of a bedwetter," Sherlock explained.
"And he's the GP? In that Cornish village?" That seemed out of character. Last he'd heard, Ellingham had been some kind of surgeon in London. Made quite a name for himself. Not that he showed up for Founder's Day teas or whatnot, so Mycroft hadn't actually seen him in years, probably a decade or two to tell the truth. Ellingham had always been a miserable bugger, but he'd won all the medals in his year. John was likely in good hands.
"Obviously," replied Sherlock. "Shall I give him regards from his schoolmate, old Dodger Holmes?" There was just a hint of mischief in his voice.
Mycroft flushed.
The woman perked up. "Dodger? Was that your nickname? Because you liked Dickens?"
Sherlock chuckled at this, although his eyes never left John. "Dickens? Hardly. Look at him. He's not the artful dodger, he's a jammy dodger – after his favorite biscuits!"
Mycroft felt his cheeks burn. "That was a long time ago."
The young woman smiled. "Alright then, what was your nickname, Sherlock?"
Mycroft could almost hear Sherlock stiffen with embarrassment as he muttered "None." Served him right, the punter.
"Sherlock would have needed friends for there to be anyone to give him a nickname." Match point, brother dear.
There wasn't time for Sherlock to respond. Just then, the ambulance was backed up to the door so the trolley could be rolled up the ramp.
They stood and watched Ellingham as he barked instructions to the various medics and ambulance attendants. When the doors slammed shut and the ambulance pulled away, lights blazing and sirens wailing, Ellingham let his head drop for just a moment before he peeled off his gloves.
"Will he be alright, doctor?" asked Inspector Rivers.
The doctor looked up at her. "We won't know yet. He received the anti-venom within the recommended time window and the hospital is prepared to transfuse him." He stopped to bin the discarded gloves, then looked at Sherlock. "His vitals were stable. That is a good sign."
Sherlock cleared his throat. "Thank you, Doctor." He turned to his brother. "Mycroft, I need you to take Inspector Rivers to London. She has some evidence to deliver to Inspector Lestrade at the Met."
Ellingham looked up at the mention of Mycroft's name and then frowned. He looked at Mycroft and then back at Sherlock and then at Mycroft once again, recognition dawning on him. "Holmes. He's with you. I didn't realize. He's your . . . your . . ."
"My brother, Ellingham. Sherlock is my brother."
"I don't recall a Holmes Minor at school."
"No, he was sufficiently younger that you wouldn't have overlapped. And our alma mater was only one of the academic institutions that encouraged my brother to seek educational opportunities elsewhere."
Sherlock snorted.
"Good to see you, Ellingham. And thanks for taking care of Doctor Watson. I have come to rely on him to look out for Sherlock."
"Holmes." Ellingham nodded. "Well your brother has been looking out for Doctor Watson this time. His contacts at the Home Office, getting the anti-venom arranged so quickly . . . wait. That was you, wasn't it?"
"I was able to, shall we say, expedite my brother's request. I am certain his connections at Scotland Yard would have come up with it, but perhaps not quite so promptly." Mycroft did his best to sound modest.
Sherlock grunted, and Ellingham let his eyes flicker over the younger man's face.
"So, Sherlock, you were saying that the delightful Inspector and I have a little package to deliver to the Met."
"No small package – it's two ruddy great snake carcasses filled with heroin!" exclaimed Inspector Rivers.
Mycroft's eyes widened. "I see. Dare I ask . . . ?"
"Better not," said Sherlock. "Just be sure to tell Lestrade to keep that bastard Anderson away from them at all costs."
"Come this way, then, Inspector. Your chariot awaits." Mycroft turned to Martin. "Good to see you, old chap. Next time you're in London, let me stand you a drink at my club."
This time it was Martin's turn to snort.
"Are you coming with us, Sherlock?" Inspector Rivers asked.
He shook his head. "No, I need to go back to Portwenn. I know that blasted monkey is involved in this somehow. If I can track it down, I may find out who is behind all this. It is personal now; I am certain that snake was meant for me."
"Monkey?" asked Ellingham. "You say there is a monkey involved in this as well as snakes."
"Yes, I think so. And if I'm right, we should find the monkey and a whole bunch of dangerous snakes, some of them dead. The smugglers would have to kill them to retrieve the drugs."
"Well, I haven't seen a monkey. But I do know a forest ranger who stumbled upon a pile of dead snakes that looked like they'd been shot and then eviscerated."
Sherlock's head snapped at this one. "Where? Near Portwenn? Anywhere near the power station?"
"In the woods, near the ranger station along the coast."
"Can you take me there?"
Ellingham looked uncomfortable. "I could. Though it is best not to surprise Stuart. And I should look in on Doctor Watson, see how he's coming along."
Sherlock looked abashed for a moment, as if he'd only just remembered Doctor Watson, pale and unconscious, somewhere at the Royal Cornwall.
Taking pity on his brother, Mycroft sighed and pulled out his mobile. "I suppose you'll need transport, won't you, Sherlock – since you arrived in the helicopter that will be taking the Inspector and me on to London. I'll have Anthea send a car for you and Doctor Ellingham. If he's agreeable, perhaps you can both visit John before heading back to Portwenn."
As he dialed his assistant, he overheard Ellingham say, "What kind of a monkey are you looking for?"
What a circus!
To be continued . . .
