Chapter 26 - What to Do!

…

Robin paced worriedly around her office, her little kitten Conan in tow. After Sherlock had run out to who knows where, (Robin hoped that at least he was collecting information or doing something useful) Robin was left alone in her little flat to figure out what to do next.

Oddly enough, she wasn't freaking out as she probably should have been. She was angry at Sherlock's stupidity and her stomach twisted with guilt and worry but she wasn't frantic and she didn't feel another panic attack coming on.

Which was good, she supposed.

Still, as the figure of Sherlock disappeared into the busy crowds of London town, Robin watched from her window. She couldn't just chase after him, could she? She thought to call down to Mr Forester, but what could he do? Then, she thought to call John, or at least inform him of what had happened.

She couldn't though. He had left for the weekend with Mary and was probably still traveling. And, even when they arrived...she couldn't worry him like that. He couldn't do anything and he really did need to relax. John needed his space, he needed Mary. Robin had to protect him.

Mycroft couldn't be any help either, not when Sherlock didn't want to be found. The detective's brother probably already knew that Sherlock had left, anyway.

Worrying her lip, she paced around the room. Robin was anxious for Sherlock. She didn't know what was happening! 'I don't want to lose him either...I can't lose anyone else. Whatever he is to me, it doesn't matter...I just can't lose him. John can't lose him,' she thought, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her jaw and neck burned where he had touched, but she didn't register it.

Finally, when she knew that no help would come, she became resolute. First, in her little calm state, she finally went about cleaning up the shopping that had spilt all over the floor. She muttered a curse at the broken eggs and bruised tomatoes.

Secondly, she cleaned up the flat as best she could. That took a bit longer than expected because she had to reorganize the files, but by early afternoon she was finished. Finding herself calm and distracted enough to work, she went back into her cozy office, booted up her plethora of computers, tablets and drives and got to work.

She worked quickly, finding a system. Her original plan was to just dive straight into the secret military files, getting them unlocked, but she decided better of it. She would need a point of reference and Robin thought it high time that she looked over the normal military files.

It was a quick hack into military archives to get to the files on personnel. Robin had to laugh, their security was so simple that she could have hacked in when she was but a child! Sherlock had the print files, supplied by Mycroft, but Robin preferred the digital.

It took her a few more hours to run through the files. She didn't trust software to do the job this time, no matter how good she made it. Of course, there was not even a mention of a Sebastian Moran anywhere, which Robin expected. She searched through the files containing the names of soldiers discharged both honourably and dishonourably but there was nothing.

Next came the hard part. She had to find the encrypted original files. The private server was easy to find but once she got into it, she was frustrated to see that the contents inside was just a replica of the original site. She worked well into the night, looking through every single code, every single crevice. She had to wonder why she put so much effort into it, but brushed it off as wanting to prove to Sherlock that she wasn't useless...as childish as it might have sounded. She ground her teeth at the thought of the detective, somewhere in the vast city surrounding her, and told herself that she was not going to go look for the numpty as it would just get her killed as well.

She cried out is sheer success when she found where the information was hidden. Whoever had designed the files was a crafty bastard as they had hidden the information inside the normal files, specifically inside and photos. Robin had noticed that the mission and personnel files were uncommonly large for their purpose, the pictures being over 60mb each.

Steganography, the art and science of hiding hidden messages so only the recipient would understand. 'Security through obscurity,' thought Robin gleefully. Normally one would create a decryption program to run through the encrypted information, but Robin didn't have the time or the patience with that.

She was to do it herself. At least her mind would be taken off...missing peoples.

Before she got to work, though, she quickly freshened up and changed back into her normal attire; track pants and a threadbare sweater. A shiver ran up her spine as she walked through the flat, though, her mind slipping to thoughts of the missing detective. She had begun to get used to seeing him about, either working or thinking. She could look for him...search through the CCTV for a sign of him, but she knew her time should be better-spent. Robin was stubborn enough to let the detective blow off some steam and selfish enough to not put herself at risk. If he was injured…well, she'd deal with it then. She had learnt to detach herself from people early on and although she already knew it would fail with Holmes, she would at least try to save herself.

Her stomach still grinding with anxiety, she tried to shake herself out of her stupor. 'Careful, Robin, or you might just grow to care for the detective too much. You've already become...attached. Fond, even,' she reprimanded herself before she returned to her little office, readying herself for a long night.

With the mass of information, she would be finding (there where over 120 possibly military files to go through with encrypted information) she knew she wouldn't be able to finish right away, not with the care she had put into each code she inputted. One slip-up and she might crash, be locked out or, worse, alert the enemy (Moran or other) to her work. Each file she had found was unrelated to Moran, as far as she could tell, but were found in the list of discharged soldiers she had looked through earlier from the military's database.

The night went by quickly and quietly, Robin's mind focused singularly on her work as she knew this would bring new leads, letting herself and her friends become one step closer to freedom. It was the only thing she could do, the next logical step.

...

It was well into the next day and Robin hadn't finished even half of the files yet. There was just so much information she had to decode, sift and then read.

She had almost given it a rest, figuring that once she wasn't even able to read through her glasses, there was a problem. She was weary to the bone...it was odd though, she had never felt that way when she used to live solitarily. Maybe it was all the information she had had to sift and read...but she suspected that emotions played a large part in it. Worry still gripped her stomach at the thought of Sherlock and she had to physically shake herself not to call John. He didn't need the stress. The guilt of not telling John ate at Robin as well, however. If something happened, she'd call. She just had to...trust Sherlock.

At the moment she was in the kitchen, sipping a cup of tea and gobbling down a pear or two.

Then...back to work.

...

Two whole days had passed since Sherlock had run out and Robin was still decrypting the files. The work was precise, long and information-packed. She had made a list of anything she found might be helpful, saving everything else to her own private drive. Once Sherlock got back, she would tell him about the info, maybe even get John to look at the military personnel lists.

The name Moran hadn't appeared yet, but Robin was getting close, at the moment she was reading a page on a select sniper corp, deployed to take down the Taliban or something or the other. She didn't really know much about the military, except whatever John had told her. It all sounded very top secret. She had found information on offshore investment groups that could topple a few key corporation, a few blacklists, the locations of places that were used from anything from smuggling to…worse things.

'Great, more secrets I've got take to the grave...' she thought, grumbling. Knowledge was power, in her world, and she was no doubt a queen. In a matriarchal monarchy, keep in mind, none of this king silliness.

Suddenly, she heard a loud thump and crash come from below, at the front of the shop.

Robin froze, a jolt of fear running through her spine. Had she accidentally alerted the authorities?

Breathing in quickly, she rolled her tense muscles, realizing she probably hadn't relaxed since the bloody detective left. Booting down some of her computers, she saved her work and hid the evidence, just in case. She slowly got out of her chair and moved towards the window, meaning to peak and see what was happening up front. She stalled, though, as she heard someone move from down below.

"R-ROBIN!" called up Mr Forester after he had apparently found out what the noise was from. Robin had a good guess but hoped to whomever that it was wrong. But, unlike Mr Foresters normally cheerful yelling, this call was laced with worry.

Robin was off in seconds, almost tripping and falling as her body ached for the lack of use.

Rushing down the fire escape, she ran into the book store, only to see that Mr Forester was dragging in a half-conscious and bloodied Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh no-" whispered Robin, her anxiety increasing tenfold as she helped her elderly landlord with the detective. Gladly, Sherlock was aware enough to stumble into the shop on his own without too much help once he was righted. He was too weary to speak, but he did grunt in effort, his body strained as he clutched his left shoulder painfully.

"Rob, dear...is that? Isn't this the detective Holmes, who jumped off that roof a few years back? John's friend?" asked Mr Forester nervously, who hadn't really known that Robin had been keeping Sherlock safe. She nodded reluctantly, looking over the detective as she cleared the way to the old stairs that would lead up to her flat. Sherlock wasn't in any condition to get through the normal way.

"I-It's a long story, Mr Forester, please - I don't have the time right now. Please, I'll take care of him, just don't let any strangers near, please," pleaded Robin, who was already halfway up the stairs with Sherlock clinging to her shoulder. She clutched onto the detective, keeping him upright the best she could and reassuring herself that he was, in fact, still breathing.

"Alright, dear, I'll bring up some food later on, and some supplies," relinquished Mr Forester, seeing the distress in Robin's eyes and hearing the worry in her tempered voice. He'd never seen his tenant so outright flustered. He was surprised and relieved that she had gained someone else to care about. Maybe even more than John.

"Thank you!"

Robin quickly and quietly heaved Sherlock towards her flat, gladly having no problem with the barely used front door. The stairway up was dusty and Robin had to shove a few boxes to the side, but she managed. She silently thanked Sherlock for still being coherent enough to stumble up the stairs so she didn't have to bear his whole wait alone. She thanked Mr Forester silently for keeping maintenance on the door locks.

"Did anyone see you, were you followed?" asked Robin curtly, turning her attention on Sherlock now. She was stressed, worried, but at the moment she was trying to quell the anger in her. She felt like curling up into a ball or hitting the detective...one or the other…or both.

Sherlock sighed and concentrated, but shook his head, remembering that he specifically made sure he had lost anyone who could have been trailing him. Robin relaxed a smidgen, at least they would be safe here still.

"C'mon, just a bit further," she mumbled out, Sherlock stumbling along. By now Robin figured that Sherlock had been hurt in the shoulder, probably shot.'Moran.' She figured that he had a few more scrapes and bruises, maybe a stretched knee muscle, or hamstring, by the way he limped. It scared her witless.

She dragged the man towards her office, knowing that her workroom stored her first-aid kit.

"Two whole bloody days, two days," Robin mumbled hoarsely, shifting Sherlock so that she could free an arm.

Sherlock, seeing where they were going, tensed. He couldn't really fathom going into the room, especially after Robin had put so much effort into keeping it private. Even in his beaten state, he saw this as a monumental step for Robin and...he felt appreciative that she let him in...even if they were in such dire circumstances. He was weary, though, he wasn't thinking straight and he was becoming lightheaded and nauseous from blood loss.

"W-wait-" he began in a wavering baritone as Robin reached for the door handle.

"There's a cot in there that you can lie down on and my supplies are in here," she explained crisply, stress making the hacker a short tempered helper. So that was where she was sleeping for the past two weeks or so.

As soon as she opened the door and dragged Sherlock in, he wanted to analyze everything. He cursed, though, when he realized that in his state his mind was too blurry and preoccupied to really take much in. He'd absorb and deduce when he wasn't in so much bloody pain.

Getting Sherlock to sit on the extra cot that she always kept in the corner of her workroom, she rushed around frantically, trying not to freak as she figured out what to do. She turned sharply on the detective, knowing that he was still aware enough to answer some basic questions. Hounding him about what the hell happened would come later.

"What is injured?" she asked sternly, a sense of melancholy rushing over her.

Sherlock wasted no time in replying, "Bullet wound to the…the shoulder. Sniper. Went right through. Hit major lateral shoulder muscle but, …missed any major artery and nipped a vein. Clavicle is intact. Bruises on torso primarily…a few scrapes in general. Right i-iliotibial muscle at knee is sprained, I suspect," Sherlock listed off quickly, making Robin suck in a breath as she realized what she had to do. Sherlock felt a pang of guilt and then worry settled in as he offhandedly noticed how tired Robin looked, how stressed. He had put a massive burden on the woman in front of him. Even more so with his sudden disappearance. He admired her perseverance.

Still, he didn't have time to think as pain shot through his shoulder once again. The bullet might have missed anything vital, but it had hit a good bunch of nerves. Even just an inch or two to the right and it would have hit his spine, killing him immediately or paralyzing him. He had wrapped the wound as tightly as he could, but back-alley medical treatment was limited at best.

"I'm going to call John, he'll know wh-" began Robin, thinking that Sherlock would prefer him now. The doctor needed to know anyway. Robin should have called him immediately, she knew that now. Why had she been so stupid to assume that if Sherlock had come back, he would have come back fine? Of course with his mindset at the time he would have done something stupid. John would have known what to do immediately.

"No!" interrupted Sherlock quickly, not wanting John to get involved. He didn't want anyone else hurt because of him. While...out...he had learnt that John was still a target. If he came any closer or showed any sign of helping, he could be shot at any moment. He couldn't lose him. Damn his apparent heart.

"He's better equipped to deal with this, though. I...I c-can't. I c-can't d-do-," stuttered Robin, trying to reason with the man.

"Don't you dare call him," replied Sherlock, pain still growing as Robin now rushed about getting her first aid kit, a bowl of water, wrappings, shears and towels. As much as she didn't want to do this, there was no time to loose.

"B-But," Robin tried to argue, but was immediately shot down.

"You are perfectly capable of…of…taking care of these injuries, Whittaker! By the time John would even arrive I would have bled out. You are trained in first aid, field medicine...and...oh! The herb and chemical collection! The pills! A naturopath, a herbal expert! You obviously have the skill, you exhibited a bit of it when John and I...reconciled. Now stop gawking and stuttering and help me, your inability to function is completely imbecilic," barked Sherlock.

Robin didn't even mention that he hadn't quite gotten the deduction right. Like most things, she had studied first aid and basic health and wellness procedures, along with infection control, for a while on the internet. It was for her own good and for her own experience, as doctors were not a possibility for her…but that didn't matter now.

"You'll need stitches," warned Robin, falling into the role of the reluctant healer.

"Do it...please," pleaded Sherlock, as if he thought she would just abandon him. Maybe she would have, before she had met John, met him, but not now. Not ever again. 'He…h-he's begging. He never does that. Bugger it all,'

Abruptly setting down her supplies next to the detective on a little table, Robin turned to face the sitting Sherlock and quickly peeled of his windbreaker, his bloodied shirt following. Robin saw his rudimentary first aid and sighed a bit, slightly thankful for the extra time it allowed her.

No time for being shy.

She did however, place both lithe hands on the detective's cheeks. Awkwardly, to be assured. She watched him for a moment, almost mimicking what he had done earlier, but without anger. With curiosity and worry she watched Sherlock's (handsome?) eyes and she catalogues the different hues. He was in pain, tired and still had the frustration and anger from before...but at least he had come to his senses. His pupils were dilated and she could feel his pulse at his neck...erratic but strong enough.

He had frozen at her touch, but recognized her action and let her observe, at least she would have less to worry about. He tried not to think of their proximity.

Eventually, she let go, huffing and righting herself before ordering (in a very un-Robin-like way) Sherlock to stay put as she grabbed some herbs that would numb the pain, sanitize and stop the inflammation. She didn't just have herbs, of course as she also grabbed oils, rubs and a variety of pills that she kept in anonymous bottles. She grabbed some strong smelling salts as well, just in case if numbing medicine wasn't enough and she needed to knock him out. She found some old medical needles and string that she had asked from John once (she never gave a reason, but at the moment no one cared) and carried her supplies back into her office where the weary Sherlock waited. She cleaned his wounds and the surrounding area as the wound had bled over most of his chest and back. Using alcohol to sterilize the wound and spreading the numbing cream, Robin was glad that at least she didn't have to dig out a bullet. 'I wonder how he even got back in one piece…he must have been shot recently,' contemplated Robin as she ran to a small box in the corner of her office, drawing out a flask of whiskey and handing it to Sherlock. He took a swig thankfully before staring at the bottle as if it contained the key to the universe.

Prepping a needle and string, Robin glanced at the consulting detective. "You ready?" she asked, shifting to get a better view of the back of his shoulder, where the bullet had entered. She leaned close, smelling blood, smog and grime on the detective. She was a bit glad, though, that she could still smell that weird...Sherlock...smell (she hadn't the time or thought to catalogue it). He wasn't oblivious to the proximity either, though more focused on his wound and his pain. Still, he picked up the distinct smell of musty books, mint and...evergreen was it, from the woman in front of him and it gave him a bit of comfort. He trusted her.

"Sherlock?" asked Robin when he didn't reply, her gaze as passive as she could make it, only her eyes revealing a roaring war that was being fought in her psyche, a greater sadness that should be ever felt, even in this situation. For what reason, no one but Robin knew.

"Do it," he replied sharply, bracing for the pain.

...

Author's Note:

And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive. Ah, ha, ha, ha, Stayin' alive.Stayin' alive. Ah, ha, ha, ha, Stayin' alive.

cheers,

Elleari