Twelve: Mayday Mayday

A/N: I've tweaked this prompt to include calls for help that don't involve a motor vehicle. Set during 'The Secret of the Unicorn'.

It had all happened so fast.

He'd stood no chance of avoiding those bullets.

Tintin hadn't even noticed the car had pulled up until it was too late. He looked back on it with confusion, for it wasn't even a subtle car; a bright blue shade of paint was hard to miss.

To be fair, he had thought, I was looking at the doorway at the time.

The stranger's face had twisted into a painful grimace as the bullets pierced him, burying themselves underneath layers of flesh. He'd lost consciousness immediately and fallen backwards from the impact, almost burying Tintin as his body collapsed on itself. The man's fedora had fallen from his hand and landed on Snowy's head, sending the canine into a frenzy as he fought to dislodge it.

Tintin's first instinct was to hold the man up, but his biceps quickly began to falter as the full weight fell into him. I'm not strong enough for this!…

"Bandits!" Haddock shook his fist feverishly. He began to shout so loud that his rage was heard throughout the entire street, drowning out Snowy's incessant barking. "Crooks! GANGSTERS! ICONOCLASTS!"

"Captain!" Tintin puffed, his arms beginning to quiver from the effort of supporting the man. "Captain, help!" Mon Dieu, this man is heavy…

By the time Haddock finally came to Tintin's aid, the young man was almost supine on the ground underneath the injured man. They quickly hoisted him off the reporter and sprawled him flat, shoving the bullets aside with their shoes.

Tintin didn't need a medical degree to notice the bullets had pierced the skin near his heart. The man's white shirt was already soaked as blood began to pour from the wounds, the stain quickly spreading to his overcoat. The colour had begun to drain from his face, sending chills down Tintin's spine as he recognised it as the familiar shade of death.

He pressed his fingers to the man's carotid artery, and was relieved to find a faint, albeit irregular pulse. "Captain, have you got a handkerchief?!" Tintin spoke rapidly. He pressed his palm firmly against the bullet holes, wincing at how quickly his hands became slicked with blood. "Quickly, Captain!"

Haddock frantically fished around in his pockets, eventually producing one from his jacket. "I don't know how clean-"

"Doesn't matter," Tintin snapped. He ripped the man's shirt open and forced the handkerchief into the largest bullet hole, the white material turning red within seconds. "We need to keep him from bleeding to death-"

"Help! Help!"

Tintin whipped his head around to see Mrs Finch trembling in the doorway, her hands clasped in front of her as she screamed hysterically. "Help! Help! Police!"

"Mrs Finch! If you want to be useful, go inside and ring for an ambulance, quickly!" Tintin barked, turning his eyes back to the injured man in his arms. Honestly, screaming isn't going to save this man's life.

"Lad, what can I do?" Haddock spoke quietly. "I mean, I've never been in these sorts of situations before-"

"We need to put pressure on the wounds," Tintin grabbed his friend's hand and placed it on top of the handkerchief, "so keep your hand there and do not let go."

Nodding frantically, Haddock did as he was told, even placing his other hand on the wounds for good measure. How this lad keeps a cool head at times like this, I'll never know…

"Ughhhhhh…"

Tintin's eyes snapped back to the injured man, whose eyelids were beginning to flicker. "Hey! Hey sir, stay with me! You need to stay awake for me, okay?"

The man only responded with a groan, his head lolling so far to the side that Tintin had the irrational worry that he would snap his neck.

"I've rung them, Mister Tintin!" Mrs Finch came sprinting from the doorway. "They're on their way!"

"Good!" Tintin didn't bother looking up from his patient, instead continuing to feel for a pulse. "Now get us some clean tea towels, quickly!"

Mrs Finch had barely left when the man stirred again, his eyes widening at the sight of Tintin. "…Take…"

"We've got you, sir, we've got you," Tintin hoped he sounded reassuring, but was too focused on how the bleeding was seemingly unimpeded by the pressure Haddock was exerting on the wound.

"Take care!" The man's voice was barely above a whisper. He stared with desperation at TIntin, the effort to stay conscious clearly taking its toll. "…They'll kill…you too!"

"Who?!" Tintin spoke in exasperation. "Who are they?! Tell us!"

The man's mouth opened, but quickly fell closed as he moaned. Using the last of his strength, he raised his arm and pointed to something behind Tintin before he lost the battle for consciousness. Haddock had to place an arm out to stop the man from hurting himself further as his head slammed onto the concrete.

Tintin's mind was a whirlwind of questions. He turned his body to face the direction the man had pointed in, only to be met with a small group of sparrows feasting on the crumbs of a passer-by's meal in the gutter. "Sparrows?!" He spluttered. "What does that mean?!"

Haddock said nothing. He only stared at the deathly features of the unconscious man and prayed for his soul.

It was, by far, the longest seven minutes of Haddock's life.

His hands had gone completely numb by the time the first paramedic relieved him of his duty, and he found himself staring at the blood that had imprinted itself onto his flesh. It had taken a fair amount of stretching and flexing before he felt the nerves in his fingers invigorate.

In his defence, he had been pressing two tea towels and a handkerchief into the man's chest. He'd surprised himself with the amount of strength he'd exerted, and was disheartened to have seen blood continue to weep from the bullet wounds.

Both men had sagged with relief as the paramedics bundled the man onto a stretcher, placing an oxygen mask over his face as the rear doors were closed.

Even scrubbing his hands with one of Mrs Finch's damp tea towels didn't put him at ease. He made a mental note to have a hot and thorough shower as soon as they'd spoken to the police.

As the Captain watched the police make their way through the mid-morning traffic, Tintin found himself staring at the concrete wall next to the entrance of his apartment block. His eyes were fixated on the spray of blood that now adorned the front of his home, as well as the three bullets that were sprawled on the footpath.

"What exactly did he mean?" Tintin pondered. "What on God's earth have sparrows got to do with the Unicorn?!"

It seemed he would be in for another sleepless night, for there was much research to be done.