A/N: Many many apologise for taking so darn long to write anything. Being busy does not really cover life right now. Ive not had a moment to myself and i really needed to write something. And i don't care if its nearly 3am here, i needed an outlet. Enjoy anyway. We love Lestrade in this chapter (you might want to refresh your knowledge and read the previous chapter).


Chapter 28: Chest Trauma (part 2)

Greg Lestrade was known for being very unflappable, calm in any situation brought before him. He would never be able to do his job if her were. In his career so far he had seen his fair share of violent crime, murder, disaster and gruesome scenes. Since meeting Sherlock Holmes his job had done nothing but become more of this and he had to admit in some respects he enjoyed it.

However when the call that day came in, something in the pit of his stomach twisted into an agonizing knot.

"Explosion near Mansion House sir." A young constable peered through the door of Lestrade's office with a worried look in his eyes.

"Aren't counter terrorism all over it?" Greg's eyebrows rose in question, it must have been sent to him for something.

The uneasy pause from the PC only heightened the inspectors anxiety, the hairs on his forearms tingled. "What is it?" he asked sitting straighter at his desk, coffee that was half way to his lips now forgotten.

"Eye witness's say they saw two men enter the building not long before the place went up…"

"And what did they look like?" Greg swallowed back the nausea beginning to ebb.

"One short, greying hair, the second tall, dark hair, long coat."

"Christ… lets go. Give me that address." Lestrade jumped from his seat, collecting his car keys in haste.

When the detective inspector arrived at the scene of the explosion it was utter carnage. Several large fire engines dominated the street view, one crew were working on a small fire, which seemed to have broken out in one of the adjacent buildings to the blast. Many police services had already arrived and were in the process of securing the scene and calming a number of distraught individuals who had clearly been witness to the whole event. One ambulance pulled up just behind Greg's car as he made his way into the maelstrom of activity.

"Inspector Lestrade" Greg flashed his ID. "Any casualties?" He asked the chief fireman who had taken control of the scene.

"Two men were seen to enter prior to the explosion but we cannot go inside until we have assessed the stability of the building structure, there is substantial damage to the load baring walls. Although there is no active fire inside and a chance of people being trapped I cannot risk my boys going in until we cant get braces on these walls." He pointed to the cracked brickwork of the old Victorian house, its walls clearly bowed and buckled from the explosion. The windows were blown out and glass and debris littered the front pathway before the house.

Lestrade's heart thundered in his ears. This was an address of interest in Sherlock's latest mystery, a murder of an Austrian Government official, a high profile case, this was an empty property in question. The likelihood of the dynamic duo being inside was high considering witness statements.

Greg pulled his phone out, hitting his speed dial he held the mobile to his ear.

'The number you have called is unavailable'

It was not unusual for Sherlock's mobile to be off but this didn't help the rising panic setting in. He dialed again, this time John Watson and this time the phone rang out several times before switching to the answer phone message system.

"Shit." Greg pocked his phone and pushed past the emergency services, paying no heed to the cries for him to stop. Be damned, it might be dangerous to enter but he cared about these two men a little more then he ever admitted to anyone. The idea of leaving them in the path of a building at risk of collapse was not worth thinking about.

He barely made it through the front door before almost tripping on debris in what must have been the hallway. Plasterboard and what looked like floorboards where almost completely barring his way into the building.

"John? Sherlock?" Greg shouted in the eerie silence of the wrecked building.

There was no answer to his shouts and he tried twice more but with no luck before continuing on and picking his way slowly through the debris, taking care not to injure himself on the jagged rubble.

It was only then, after stumbling through what was probably an old doorway he heard the soft whimper of life. And what he was about to see he wished didn't burn into his memory but it did.

Lestrade's hand flew to his mouth in the hope to abate the rising nausea. As he had rounded into the room the sight of Sherlock Holmes on his knees came into his sight.

His famous dark coat was powdered with white from the blast, and he was bent forwards on his knees his body forcefully pushing downwards. It took Greg several seconds to see that the force he was exerting was onto nothing other than John Watson's bare chest.

"Fucking Christ." The inspector swallowed hard to avoid vomiting.

It was clear the detective had not seen him. He bent forwards, sealing his pale lips over the doctors and forced air into the older man's lungs before continuing chest compressions. "Please." Greg heard him whimper, "Please John."

Lestrade hurried to them, partially tripping on seemed to be an old table, now just a pile of wooden splinters. This brought Sherlock's face up to meet his view.

There was a mixture of blood and soot at the detective hairline, his eyes were wide and red from panic and raw emotion and his skin was white as a sheet.

"Greg…" Sherlock cried, barely audible. "He can't…. not…" He pointed to John's lifeless form. His eyes then screwed tightly closed and he turned his head into the sleeve of his coat letting out a cry of both grief and utter despair. The sight enough to almost send Greg to his knees.

"It's alright mate, we've got this Sherlock." Was all he managed to say before he watched the detective continue his efforts at restarting his best friend's heart.

Lestrade was no medic but he had enough training and even more so with John teaching him plenty. He bent down beside the jolting form of blogger, CPR was not a nice sight in any case. The recipient's body receives quite the beating for any chance of survival and Sherlock was performing the task in textbook fashion despite his clear anguish.

The inspector placed two fingers onto John's neck, feeling a pulse thud beneath them in time with the detective's compressions, he was doing a good job but Lestrade could see exhaustion setting in.

Sherlock paused and gave two breaths to his friend.

"Stop." Greg grabbed his arm before he continued the compressions. "He's got a pulse."

"John!" the younger man shouted, bending close to the doctor's face again. He tapped roughly on the other man's cheeks. "John?" his voice was hoarse and near unrecognizable.

"It's alright." Lestrade gasped at the detectives shoulder to steady him and gently pushed him back a little. "Give him some room would you, hang on." His own voice was shaking.

John gave a gurgled a strained groan before inhaling a short and clearly painful breath. He moaned out and inhaled again. Lestrade suddenly noted the large gauge needle sticking out his skin between his ribs, the thing was hissing with air alarmingly, a trickle of bloody fluid was in a perfect line down to the floor. Only then did he notice the amount of crimson spread around them.

"Shit, whose blood is this?" Greg's panic really was at the end of his physical abilities to control.

"John?" Sherlock was back bending down over his friend, "Can you hear me? Talk to me John?" he stuttered near hysterical in his tone, his cupped the doctors head in his hands. "John?"

"Sherl…" John whispered, his voice weak and breath strained. "I… I'm here."

"Take it easy." Lestrade gently gripped around the detectives upper arms again to attempt to get his attention back on him and to calm the shaking man. It was then that Sherlock felt all but heavier than he should and in an instant Greg saw the man's eyes roll back.

"Right… down we go then." He acted quickly, pushing up and supporting the detective backwards and into a pile of what looked like soft furnishings. He cradled the man's head as he lolled bonelessly into a partial sitting position, his legs askew.

Greg swept the famous coat back to assess for injury. "Fuck." He swore. "Guess we know where all that blood is from then." He clocked the large jagged metal sticking into the man's leg and the temporary tourniquet above it. From the look of it, he was sure it was almost through and through.

"You did good mate, just hang on yeah?" he felt for a pulse again but on a different friend. He found it rapid and bounding, he was no doctor but knew this was a sure sign of shock and blood loss.

"Inspector Lestrade?" a shout came from other side of the house. "The building is a risk of collapse. You need to get out. That's an order sir."

"I have two casualties with severe injury. I'm not leaving without them." He shouted back.

"You need to get out sir." The fireman replied. "Can they walk?"

Lestrade partially laughed at the thought and partly at the predicament that he was finding himself in. The place was obviously at such a high risk that the fire and rescue service had been ordered to hold back, this was unusual that the danger must have been pretty likely.

"No." Greg said but not certain it was loud enough for the man to hear. "But we'll find a way." He bit his lip turning back to the two friends.

"Right." He inhaled and paused.

John's eyes were near slits, he was gazing weakly at the ceiling, his breaths hard and strained. Sherlock was out, head rested back, eyes closed and hollow looking, his jaw slack.

"Right." He said again. He needed to move now, no time to decide. In his eyes John was both the priority and the sickest since he had suffered a cardiac arrest not minutes ago. That and he knew if he got Sherlock out and lost John the detective was likely murder him in his sleep for saving him and not his blogger.

"Your first John." He bent low sliding his hands under the man's knees and his upper back.

The inspector was by no means the fittest he could be and right now he was regretting all those weekends in the pub. John was not overweight but he was stocky and not easy to lift from the floor. With an uncountable amount of cursing he slowly managed to pull the doctor into his grasp, John's head rested into his shoulder.

"Greg." He whispered, pulling in a sharp inhale of pain. "Leave me." He groaned. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Coming." Lestrade moaned out, the strain on his arms causing his own level of agony, he didn't know if he could do this. Stepping over the wreckage in the room he shuffled towards the front door down the hall wobbling as he began the ascent then descent on the debris blocking the exit.

"Down." John exhaled, "Go get Sherlock…" his voice was barely audible but his grip on the inspectors clothes tightened. "Let me down, I can walk."

"Like hell you can." Lestrade near fell as he reached the other side of the rubble and he had to use the remains of the wall to steady himself. As his shoulder met the structure a small array of bricks came away and began crashing around them.

"I need some help!?" he cried reaching the outside his knees beginning to buckle and as he tried to lower the doctor down he lost his grip.

John's feet met the floor but he could not hold his own weight, he went tumbling forwards but just as Greg thought he was going down a fireman caught him in his grasp.

"Chest trauma." Greg sucked in gulps of air from the exertion, "Cardiac arrest, get him to the ambulance now." He pointed, turning back to the crumbling building.

"You can't go back in there, the place is about to come down!"

The inspector heeded no attention to the statement and he almost vaulted the blocked hallway, cursing as his trousers snagged on a jagged piece of glass and it gouged into his flesh.

"Sherlock!" he shouted, rounding into the room to find the man exactly as he left him. "Sherlock, we've got to go… now." Another small selection of building material clattered to the floor.

"Come on?" Greg pulled at the large Belstaff and with another groan he levered the man into a near standing position.

Sherlock's eyes opened slightly, his globes rolling from one side to another but not focusing on anything. "John?" he asked.

"He's safe, now it's your turn come on, one foot at a time." The inspector wedged an arm around the chest of the lanky man and used the other to hold tightly onto the front of his coat in a bid to steady him should he fall forwards or backwards.

"Tired." Sherlock moaned but managed one step forward, his injured leg then gave way and his weight fell into Greg's, nearly sending them off course.

"Yeah I know." Lestrade pushed him back up. "You can sleep in a bit, but first let's get out this place alive shall we?" he smiled sadly pushing forwards. They made it out the room in what seemed like forever, slow going when Sherlock could not weight bare on his leg. When they made it into the cluttered hallway the enormity of trying to get the detective over the pile of wreckage then becoming apparent. This was going to take an age if they were going to ensure no more injury to either. Greg's new wound was throbbing with pain.

"Get out!" The shouts from outside filtered in. "Its coming down, get out now!"

The rumble of falling bricks and mortar filled the inspectors ears and dust began to fill the hallway, blocking the daylight filtering in from the open door behind the rubbish.

Greg then did the only thing he could think of. He bent slightly and brought his hands together around the detective's bloodied leg and pulled him into a fireman's lift.

Sherlock howled, thrashing slightly at the pain the lifting caused before going limp in the inspectors grasp. In that instant Greg wondered if it were harder to carry a conscious or unconscious person. It didn't matter right now, he would ask Sherlock later if they got out this hell alive.

He drove forwards, the sounds of the collapsing building increasing in intensity around them. Growling in pain at the strain of carrying his friend over the multitude of rubble, stumbling madly before practically diving out the door and into the street. He kept running as he reached the front path and road, feeling and hearing the house behind them coming down in a deafening roar.

As he reached the other side of one of the fire engines his legs gave out and both he and the unconscious detective went crashing to the tarmac, a cloud of dust pluming around them.

Moments later, as the dust began to settle a horrible silence came over the scene. Sherlock was beside him, still and limbs out in awkward angles, Greg swallowed back the panic once more checking and finding a pulse to his relief.

"You lucky bastard." The lead fireman came into view. "That was the most heroic yet foolish thing I've seen. Well done." He clamped a hand onto Greg's shoulder. 'You alright?"

Greg just nodded, his brain struggling to keep up with the shock of the situation, he had literally just cheated death by seconds.

"Stay here the paramedics are coming, your other friend is already on the way to hospital, they weren't waiting around."

Greg only sighed a slight exhale of relief when the medics arrived and began to assess the detective's unconscious form, scooping him onto a spinal board and gurney before he barely realized.

"I think you should come with us too Sir." One of the medics gently asked, guiding the inspector to his wobbly feet and into the waiting ambulance where they were loading Sherlock. "Sounds like you're the hero of the day."

Lestrade sat into the chair of the ambulance, gazing over the pale unconscious form of the detective being hooked up to wires and IV lines.

The medic draped a blanket around his own shoulders and it was then he realized his was shaking, the magnitude of the situation only just coming to light. "Thanks." He said simply as the doors closed and the vehicle jolted into action.