A/N: Am I dragging this? I'm probably dragging this. It's just that it's been such a long time since I last played narrator...
Sorry. This came to me on the bus; I've been feeling sort of miserable, so this came about in the space of two or three stops. Might still delete this... -csf
'John, come on, don't be an idiot! I couldn't have told you my plan!' Sherlock protested, with an eye roll.
The doctor turned briskly and faced angrily the younger Holmes. 'Why does that lack of trust sound familiar?' he bit back, sarcastic. There was an angry smirk twisting his features to the point that it almost looked like a self-deprecating smile had changed his features impishly. Sherlock once again had an instinctive feeling that John was a complicated man.
Greg decided to interrupt those two before it escalated any further. 'What am I supposed to do with this hand-thing?'
John was about to add something in the same authoritarian voice when he shut his eyes firmly, all his body going rigid.
Both his friends steeped forward towards him at once.
'John, what's wrong?' the DI voiced. Sherlock had gone into some sort of muted shock as he raked the smaller man with his scrutinising gaze, running multiple background analysis.
Greg helped John keep as straight as the doctor could, as he clearly was giving in to a desire to crumple himself into two. Sherlock snap turned to his older brother and thunderously demanded an explanation: 'What happened to John?'
The genius stammered, trying to recall: 'The men, they asked him questions โ well, they asked us โ persuasively. They may have roughened up John a little, but he never complained ofโ'
Sherlock cut him off at once: 'He wouldn't complain. Soldiers don't complain.' And with a fluid dive to meet John at eye level he commanded: 'Diagnosis, doctor?'
There was a slight hint of fiery defy in John's eyes, and Sherlock could have hugged his friend for being such an idiot right then. So human, so alive.
'Internal bleeding is a possibility', John reported, his voice weak and shaky now. 'Honestly, I didn't pay much attention, I had other things to worry about.'
Sherlock blinked. Was there no hint of rationality left to serve the doctor?
'You idiot...' he muttered as John was sliding a bit more from Greg Lestrade's grip towards the ground. With a sudden brisk energy, Sherlock directed: 'Lestrade, your car, now! We must get John to a hospital.'
'We need to call for an ambulance', the DI noted.
'There may not be enough time', Sherlock refused, as he gently circled the doctor's waist and under the legs. In a burst of strength, he hoisted up the pale and clammy looking doctor in his arms.
Greg's mind was made. 'Stay there!' he ordered the other Holmes, as a material witness to the case. 'My team will be here soon, they'll take over!'
Shocked, Sherrinford nodded mutedly.
The police car was nearby, Sherlock's long legs led the way to the parked vehicle. The DI opened the back door and, even in the dire circumstances, he couldn't help notice the gentleness with which Sherlock manhandled the injured doctor to lie across the back seat. Greg took the wheel, and started the engine and the siren. The burst of noise startled the small doctor that, with the legs bent at the knees, seemed to hardly fill the back seat properly. His pale face and vacant eyes were a marked contrast to the dark vinyl seats. Sherlock climbed in just then, closing the door after him. The skinny detective narrowly fit in the space between the back and front seats of the car, crouching and looming over John alike.
Greg stepped on the gas hard, propelling them forward at high speed. As he glanced at the rear-view mirror and the house being left behind, he saw the crumpled fabric on the driveway pavement. Left behind was Sherlock's bulky coat. The wool long coat was almost like the detective's armour for battle, it made him taller, more overbearing, a graphic and iconic silhouette of a dark angel of justice. Sherlock had shed all that, and the cold distant detective persona. Stuck between the back and front seats of the police car was a very scared man, afraid to lose his best friend, and with it the life he loved so dearly.
'John, stay awake', Sherlock mumbled, soft but demanding, never looking out of the car at Greg's brisk turns or even when other cars braked noisily to let them pass. He had to admit the DI was doing a good job.
The DI's fingers found the intercom radio and he relayed the message. The need for an A&E team on standby, their expected ETA, the little they had gathered from John himself and Sherrinford about John's injuries.
'Almost there, mate!' Greg shouted over his shoulder as he focused on avoiding the incoming cars.
'John, stay with me!' Sherlock's voice rumbled deeply from his precarious position behind the driver.
'How's he?' Greg asked the detective.
'Barely conscious. Deep bruising on the torso with blood accumulating under the skin in dark patches. Internal bleeding is still ongoing. Possibly one or two fractured ribs. Decreased reaction to manual palpation and subsequent pain... We're losing him. Drive faster!' There was evident despair in the detective's voice. So clever, so genial, but he couldn't stop time and put his friend back together again.
Greg dared to glance over his shoulder. Sherlock's face was so close to John's that his breath waved John's blond hair, damp and clumped over the doctor's forehead. 'John, tell me what to do', Sherlock whispered.
No answer.
Sherlock put two fingers over the neck artery, desperate to feel the doctor's pulse, that undeniable proof of life. It wasn't as strong or steady as the detective would like.
'Can't you drive any better? John has got internal injuries, he can't be jolted around!' Sherlock growled at the voyeuristic driver. Greg snapped his back on the road at once.
'No, John, no.'
'Sherlock, what is going on?' Greg's voice sounded admittedly panicked.
'I'm not done with you, John! You are not dismissed, captain Watson!'
'Sherlock, what's wrong?'
The hospital was finally in sight. Greg didn't know how he had got there so fast and, at the same time, taken so long.
'Breathe, John!'
Greg glanced over his shoulder again. Sherlock's face was almost unrecognisable as he froze for an instant, staring frightened at his friend, Sherlock's fingers digging deep into the man's neck, searching for the life beat. The next instant Sherlock was pulling John's head back and clearing his airways, then diving to breathe air into John's starved lungs. Breathing for John. Hyperventilating, by the sound of it.
'Sherlock!' Greg snapped at the panicked genius.
It must have worked because Greg started hearing Sherlock count under his breath, before swooping down again, inflating John's uncooperative lungs with precious air.
As Greg gunned the car towards the A&E's entrance he could recognise a team waiting for John, ready to take over.
He just wasn't sure the genius was going to accept handing over John to the doctors.
