Her golden eyes stared through him as if he were a vapid sitcom as he pounded his hands onto her rib cage, trying to keep to a rhythm. It was obvious he was failing as her gaze slipped further and further away until her eyes glazed over. Still he wouldn't give up, pressing his palms into her chest repeatedly, counting as he did so. The moment he got to thirty he'd pause, gulp in a lungful of precious oxygen, pinch her nose and close his lips over her mouth. He kept at it for as long as he could, but then rough hands were dragging him away from her and men in white were crouching around her, calling her the body like she was some kind of inanimate thing. He pushed the hands that held him back, but feebly so; he was too weakened by his lifesaving efforts to loosen the grip.
"Tomas? Tomas Delaware?" A deep voice intruded into his empty mind. With a jolt he realised the voice belonged to the hands holding him still and tore his eyes from her unmoving corpse as the medics covered it. A man had his tanned hands clasped over Tom's shoulders, keeping him from moving. His fingers dug into the younger man's shoulder, but not in a painful way, merely forceful. The man was not exceptionally tall, with sandy hair and deep blue eyes that were currently studying him with great concern. "PC Delaware, I need you to come with me."
Tom found himself at a loss for words. His darling Dinah was being loaded into the back of an ambulance, still dripping in blood with her painfully empty face hidden from view. There was no longer any breath in her lungs; no twist of smoke from between crimson lips that were wording some clever mock insult. There was no longer pale skin and brown hair twisted up into a French knot, or golden eyes outlined in black. There was no longer any Dinah, so what possible reason could there be to leave with this man? To even move from this place? What reason was there to wash the blood from his hands?
"Tomas, please." John Watson pulled the younger man up, supporting most of his weight as he lead him away. He stumbled beside the doctor, unable to speak. He wasn't sure why this man - who was pretty obviously a doctor, with the stethoscope dangling around his neck and at the badge clipped onto the waistband of his trousers - was trying to pull him away from the accident scene, the police, the ambulance. He didn't know that Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan had ordered John down here and told him to get through the officials by any means possible, or that the hospital badge that John now unclipped and tossed aside was stolen. John let go of the officer, who had gone into shock. Letting him slip onto the pavement and stare blankly at the bricks ahead, he pulled the stethoscope from around his neck and stuffed it into his thankfully large coat pockets. A quick search produced his phone, which he used to dial the number of a certain consulting detective.
"Yeah, tell Sally I have him. Short staff means the single cop and two paramedics were willing to take any help that came their way - what do you mean it's morally - oh bite me, you use Lestrade's badge all the bloody time. No, I don't know if the others were good or bad. Where are the kids?"
Tomas stared up at the fast-talking doctor as a stream of abuse came from his mouth, ending with "What do you fucking mean you don't know where the kids are? I gave you one job, Sherlock!"
He was slightly dumbstruck as the doctor seemed to be overcome with rage, freezing, his face turning white with his jaw clenched. The young officer pushed himself backwards as the doctor hung up and exhaled slowly. John stared down at him for a second before holding out one hand.
"Come on. I'm sorry about your wife."
"She wasn't my wife," He managed to choke out, suddenly overcome with emotion as the shock began to wear off. It took him a few moments to swallow down his tears and he allowed John to pull him back up. The doctor was cold, standoffish, and didn't say another word as he lead Tomas down the streets. Still in the daze of shock, he allowed himself to be taken to a nearby house; one familiar to the doctor, but not to him.
Tomas found 221 Baker Street to be pretty damn well looking. He and Dinah lived in a shabby flat in one of the more shady areas of town. He earned a bit on his wages, she had a job at a local restaurant - pretty meagre and definitely beneath his darling's skills and smarts. He promised her things would change once he got promoted and she could quit her job, they could get married in a proper big church wedding like she deserved, and maybe even start a family.
He supposed none of that mattered now. She was gone.
John pushed him towards the stairs before walking down the hall; unsure as to what he should do, he walked upwards and rapped at the door, four quick knocks in quick succession.
"We're not taking any cas- oh. Constable Delaware. Come in."
A deep voice greeted him as the door was opened by a gangly man with dark, curly hair and eyes the colour of an ocean. Tomas stepped inside, his disjointed mind finally beginning to pull the pieces together, but he found himself in such a disbelieving stupor he was unable to react. His dilated eyes began to survey the room; it was filled with clutter, a mess of folders, books, papers and - was that a human heart in a jar? He visibly shook himself, as if he could shake the mishmash of thoughts straight from his head.
Quite suddenly he found himself being pulled into the arms of a woman, who embraced him so tightly and completely he couldn't help but wonder if perhaps, by some miracle, she was his mother. When she pulled back, though, his eyes took in a mess of dark curls and coffee-coloured skin, two soulful brown eyes staring up at him from a thin face. It took a few moments but he did recognise her. Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan.
"Tomas, I am so sorry!"
He found himself in yet another hug by Donovan's arms, and for just half a moment he wondered why she was apologising before it hit him again, that crushing realisation that his Dinah was dead. There was no other word for it, no other way to describe it or say it. It was a cold and harsh statement, an unforgiving word, but it was the truth. Dinah was dead. He knew what dead was, and knew it well. A life in police work would do that to a person. Dead was the lack of respiration and pulse, the cessation of life, the decaying of physical matter until nothing remained. The extinguishment of one of the universe's many glowing sparks. And there was nothing he could do to change that.
Tomas was guided to a lush sofa nearby and forced to sit, a cup of warm tea put into his hands. Donovan's cool hand rubbed soothing circles into the base of his back, the other handing him a tissue to wipe away the tears that had formed in his eyes.
Eventually he found the courage to ask. "Sergeant, what am I doing here?"
She gave a short, sharp laugh, sounding bitter when she spoke. "Tomas, you're aware of the Chaos, aren't you?"
He nodded; of course he was. In the two weeks since they'd announced their existence, the group had truly been living up to its name. Crime had not tripled or even quadrupled, but had increased to such a level that hospitals and police stations were becoming understaffed, underfunded and running purely on volunteering and overtime. Many had just quit because of the threats to the lives of their loved ones. Tomas had received such a threat and elected to ignore it. And now Dinah was dead.
"They've taken everything. But we can't prove it. So now we're just taking on people who we can trust."
"What about the government?"
"Tomas, why do you think nothing's been done about the crime? The...chaos that's taken over the city? They have the government. They have everyone."
"Not everyone." The gangly, deep-voiced man spoke up from his place in the corner. "My brother-"
"Isn't here right now, Sherlock. It's up to us." Donovan sounded tired, like this was a conversation she had repeatedly. Sherlock didn't respond, shaking his head slowly; for all their issues, he had faith his brother could solve this problem. He was unaware Mycroft was solving the problem, in his own way - and he wouldn't know that for quite some time.
There were a few tense and awkward moments of nobody saying anything at all, until the grief-stricken constable looked up from his tea and decided to ask. "What can I do about it?"
"Well I guess this is war, Tomas." Sally gave him one of those sad, frustrated smiles he only ever saw when she'd been working for hours. "What are you going to do about it?"