TITLE: It Takes a Village
CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Forty Nine/ The Godfather: Part III
RATING: T (violence/language)
A/N: Thanks so much for all the kind reviews! I am not a medical professional. The following chapters may not be 100% accurate. Please disregard all errors. Or, if you are knowledgeable/skilled, point them out to me for future reference. That works too.
Chapter Forty Nine: The Godfather: Part III
John crashed forward to meet the floor, agony erupting in his leg like an angry volcano. The painful lava spread over the entire limb, its heat reaching each and every far corner of his body. Crimson magma exploded from the new opening, seeping down, staining his trousers.
It was a suffering sensation he had once experienced before, except that time it had not brought him helplessly to the ground. He attempted to stand again, and cringed as his vision flashed white. He collapsed once more, barely missing a bullet to the back of the brain. His attacker was still behind him and fired off another shot as John rolled out of its path. Now on his back, the former soldier didn't hesitate before squeezing the trigger and planting three of his own bullets into his shooter's chest. As the threat crumpled to the ground, John let his head fall back as his teeth ground together.
"John!"
The man opened his eyes just in time to his wife rounding the corner, and the man behind her, taking aim.
"Mary!"
Mary was busy lifting her own gun above her husband's head. Neither of them knew the dangers behind themselves. The couple fired in unison, the man behind Mary reeling backward before staggering to the floor. John heard a thump behind him and craned his head to see another attacker tipping over, Mary's bullet fresh in his forehead.
Without a moment's hesitation, Mary sprinted and slid to the floor at John's side. She still kept a vigilant watch on their surroundings as she examined her husband.
"John!"
The pair glanced up as Sherlock now made his way far more quickly than he usually moved down the hall. There was panic in his pace, voice and eyes. Mary's own stoic mask was faltering as she worked over the man she loved.
"Give me your scarf, Sherlock."
Sherlock had already been unraveling the blue fabric from around his neck and had it in Mary's hand before she had finished the request.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," John continually repeated as the duo troubled themselves over him. "It's a scratch. A graze. Go on ahead. Go. Find Billie."
"Not without you." Sherlock nodded.
"There," Mary spoke as she finished tying off the scarf she had fashioned around John's leg.
The woman seized a tourniquet out of one of her packs and shoved it into John's hands.
"In case you need it later," Mary nodded.
In case I'm not around to give it to you.
It was a bit of an extreme, sure, but a former soldier, assassin, and detective were not ones to take chances.
Neither of the men seemed surprised that she just so happened to have had one in her plethora of weapons and supplies that were zipped or fastened to her wardrobe. Even John had one stashed away on his person among some of the old Army gear he had thrown on.
"Don't forget to tighten it if the bleeding doesn't stop," Mary instructed. "Do you have proper bandaging?"
"I am a doctor, you know," John managed a smirk.
Both Sherlock and Mary helped heave John off the floor. The wounded man merely grimaced as he accidentally put weight on his leg.
"Looks like after all these years I'm finally going to properly need a cane after all," he tried to tease.
"Oh, don't be so dramatic," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It won't be for long. Can't have you being an old man yet."
The trio moved forward together. John kept his pistol in one hand, while his other arm was slung around Sherlock's shoulders. The detective also left a hand free for shooting, while the other stayed tucked under his friend's arms. In front of the half-limping, half-dragging duo, Mary led the way, weapon at the ready. Her movements were slow so that she could stay close to the others but precise. She was poised to defend or attack now more than ever. John almost pitied any person who came across them now. With one man down and the other man distracted they seemed like easier targets. John knew it was quite a different story. They had already been more than motivated before. Billie was enough motivation for them to swim across the ocean or jump into fire. But now the enemy had hurt one of their own. Mercy hadn't been an option they were offering before to anyone involved in Billie's kidnapping. Now, that unforgiving spirit was coupled with one of revenge. Yes, John knew, even injured, they were now more dangerous than ever.
Mary proved this not two seconds later when another set of lackeys came barreling through a door and towards them. The ex-assassin took them down, granting them one bullet each to the brain. Had there been time, John was almost sure his wife wouldn't have allowed them to die so easily.
Finally, they reached another door. A different door.
The door.
The door, that behind it, would be Billie.
It was almost anticlimactic, even after the firefight.
Each of them hesitated for the briefest of moments.
They would've thought they would be breaking the door down and hurtling themselves inside with superhuman strength and speed.
Instead, though, they just stood there.
It was only for a second, but that second spoke volumes.
This was it. No more years of searching, of waiting. No more wondering. They were going to see Billie. Rescue Billie.
The magnitude of the moment itself gave them pause.
Not to mention their hearts.
Were they ready for this? What was behind the door? Who would they find inside? Would it be Billie? Or would it be another girl, with Billie's face but nothing more? Would she even remember them? Would she be alive? What if it was Moriarty waiting for them, laughing at them? How -
All of their questions were cut short as Sherlock finally began to move. He carefully and slowly shifted John's weight, handing Mary his stolen gun and then rummaging in his pocket. With a soft swallow, he pulled the key out, fingering it thoughtfully before sliding it into the lock. With a controlled breath, he turned the key and listened for the click. The tiny sound was just about the loudest noise any of them had ever heard.
With a nod to both John and Mary, Sherlock lowered his hand and turned the handle.
Sherlock pushed the door open, but it was Mary who entered first, gun drawn and ready. She was still clearing the room when she saw her. It was about that same time that Sherlock helped John through the threshold and they, too, saw her.
It was a good thing John was leaning on Sherlock because even without the bullet lodged inside his leg, he probably would've wavered, if not collapsed completely at the sight. It was as though a tidal wave of relief and joy was washing over him like the volcano previously had. He thought he breathed her name in a broken whisper, but wasn't sure if anything intelligible had actually come out.
Beside him, Sherlock was stiff, nearly unflinching in posture of expression. Inside, a different, chaotic and confusing story was being told, but on the outside, the man remained forcibly strong. He couldn't surrender to the storm of sentiment, not when John and Mary needed him, both physically and emotionally. He clung tighter to his best friend, keeping the man standing suddenly becoming far more difficult and he guessed it had little now to do with the wounded leg.
In front of them, Mary too was rigid. Her back to her husband and friend, she allowed the emotions to overwhelm her face. She quelled tears of sorrowful elation though, as she suddenly sprang forward to her daughter's side.
A teenager was in the place of where their little girl had once been. They could still see Billie in her though. Her hair still shined with the same golden hue. Of course, it was now darkened by dirt and time locked away from the sun, but they would only ever see it as gold. John took in Mary's cheekbones while Mary noticed John's ears. Sherlock could still spot the same curved mouth of her mother and was sure if the girl's eyes were open, the father's swimming blue irises would still be there. How much else of Billie was left, though, they did not yet know.
Laying in an aged hospital bed, wires and tubes extended from the girl's arms. Her still supine form nearly made her appear as though she was - no. None of them would or could bring themselves to even think it.
Billie was alive. Alive.
Unconscious, but alive.
Asleep.
They weren't granted enough time to properly allow the shock to have its full effect. They weren't given the luxury of a regular reunion.
Because flowing through those tubes was Moriarty's devilishly devised chemical compound. The side effects of the different drugs alone were dangerous. Combined, well, none of them desired to imagine what the concoction was doing to her.
Mary was the first to take action. In a sudden sweep of movements after those first several stiff seconds, the mother had freed her daughter from the IVs. She had just retrieved the antidote from one of her pockets and administered it to Billie when the girl began suddenly screaming. Billie's body seized as Mary momentarily covered her mouth.
"Sherlock," John was barely keeping himself from shouting as he nearly launched across the room on his invalided limb.
The sudden pressure caused a shriek of pain to go screaming through his entire being and Sherlock barely caught his collapsing friend in time.
"She's seizing," The medical man and soldier were shining through, despite the obvious agony. "Mary."
The one word command was enough for the mother to take a backseat and the nurse to take the steering.
Mary hastily loosened her daughter's clothes and began turning the girl on her side just as convulsions wracked her thin frame.
Even from across the room, the doctor was examining his daughter.
"Was it poison?" He directed his question to Sherlock without looking at him.
"I - I don't -"
And once again, Sherlock didn't have an answer. Once again, he had failed Billie.
"Do something!" Mary ordered.
"Sherlock," John put as much military force behind his words that he could, knowing he needed to pull the detective out of his mental spiral. "She's either poisoned or overdosing."
Sherlock's eyes seemed to suddenly double in size. Securing his hold on John with one arm, he used his other to reach into his friend's pocket, pulling out John's antidote. His gaze was dark and scrutinizing, eyes dancing dangerously over the small object.
"He switched them!"
"What?" Now John was shouting.
Sherlock carefully leaned John against the wall as he stalked over to the bed, examining the equipment with precise hand and eye movements.
With the man's back turned, Sherlock didn't notice when John's shoulder's severely slumped, or when his eyelids fluttered.
"They're the same," Sherlock bit off suddenly. "It's not poison, it's an overdose. He was already overdosing her to induce a coma and we just gave her more of the drug."
"What about yours?" John asked and no one noticed the whisper his voice had now become.
"He could've switched mine too," Sherlock grunted as he dug his hand into his pocket.
"No, no, he didn't," Mary shook her head. "He wouldn't."
"What?" Sherlock furrowed his brow. "How do you know?"
"Because it's the story!" Mary implored. "Both stories. In Sleeping Beauty, we're asleep. The king and queen. We couldn't save the princess. The knight did. You're the knight, remember? That's how you figured all this out. You're the knight, and, you're the godfather. The godfather had the cure. The knight saved the princess. It has to be you."
Sherlock stared curiously at his own antidote now in his hand.
"Of course," he shook his head. "You were correct, John! And Mary, oh, clever, Mary! An overdose. He planned this. He knew one of you would be the first to administer your copy of the antidote."
Slowly, Sherlock stepped forward, kneeling down at the bedside of the girl who had long ago been his princess. He would be her knight again. He would save her. He had to.
"The cocktail contained physostigmine, along with other parasympathomimetic alkaloids and inhibitors. The chemical breakdown was fascinating. Genius, really. The amounts would have to be absolutely precise."
He found himself unknowingly holding his breath as he administered the drug with practiced hands. Gradually, the girl ceased thrashing and her breathing fell into an even pace.
"Benzodiazepines," Sherlock sighed with a small smile. "They were in the antidote too."
"How long before she wakes?" Mary glanced from her husband to her daughter, stroking the girl's hair.
"The effects won't be immediate, it -"
Sherlock's explanation was promptly cut off as shouting filled the halls beyond the door. Apparently, some of the previously unconscious guards were not so unconscious any longer.
"Go," John ordered the pair, grabbing his gun with a grunt. "I'll stay with her."
Sherlock hauled his friend from where he had practically slid all the way to the ground and brought him across the room. Gingerly, he placed John at the end of the bed, below Billie's feet.
Mary hesitated only long enough to plant a lingering kiss on her daughter's forehead and then another on her husband's lips.
"Don't take pressure off that," she warned. "Be safe."
"You too," John offered her a soft smile.
"Five minutes," Sherlock warned. "If we're not back yet, barricade the door," his glance dropped to John's leg, "if you can. Try not to die of blood loss too quickly before we get back." Sherlock's smirk was lacking something.
"Try not to shoot my wife when you're aiming for them and miss," John replied in kind, a tired, yet teasing glint to his eye.
"She shot me, remember?" The detective quipped.
"Boys," Mary reprimanded, nodding toward the hall.
Sherlock laid a firm hand on his friend's shoulder and then turned and followed Mary out the door. It wasn't long before John began to hear the screams and gunfire. He tried not to panic. Tried not to think about his wife or best friend possibly shot. Or the fact that he was a literal sitting duck. Or how much blood he had already lost. How dizzy he was. Or about his daughter, laying beside him. So close. They were so close. They couldn't lose her now.
He was already glancing at his watch before even a minute was up. He hadn't told Sherlock that he might not be conscious in another five minutes. That they might come back to him passed out in his own blood.
He had to make the decision. John could wait the five minutes and hope and pray that Sherlock and Mary came back. He could bank on the luck that had kept him alive all these years while at Sherlock's side and believe that, just maybe, he would have enough strength to make the barricade then. But what if he was wrong? Then again, if he acted now, he could be inadvertently locking his friend and wife out as he bled to death. Or, using his leg and strength to do so, might actually cause him to lose consciousness faster. There wasn't exactly a glaringly positive option.
Forcing himself off the bed, John limped his way across the room, clawing at the wall with each agonizing step. There was a small bookshelf along the way and John used whatever strength was left in him to push it in front of the door. He ended up on the floor, crawling and pushing and groaning. He did the same with an aged filing cabinet and chair. When he was finished, he practically collapsed at his daughter's side once more. He had done the action enough on the battlefield that it came without hesitation now. Sticking his finger in the wound, John grunted as he tried to stopper the bleeding. He seated himself directly across from the door, protectively positioned in front of her. Tightening his grip on his gun, John stared down the door, ready for whatever came through.
He had no idea that the true danger was lying right behind him.
