A/N: Greg Lestrade's point of view. Part two.
English is my second language, not trained as a writer nor a story teller of any kind, and I am nothing more than myself. -csf
II.
Where do you hide a stolen ambulance in London?
Like a tree in a forest, you hide it in a Hospital lot. That's also the best way of returning it safely and quickly. Undoubtedly it's being missed. And the inspector knows that a "borrowed" ambulance, having gone through John's knowledgeable hands and Sherlock's pilfering habits, is likely both meticulously reorganised and missing a few items.
Greg Lestrade finds himself rubbing his face once more.
Which Hospital? Well, there's only one hospital that is a second home to Sherlock Holmes. St Bart's. Even if the genius' favourite rooms are the morgue and the labs, as Sherlock doesn't deal well with the living ones. John can easily guide him through the actual teaching hospital wings.
What about whoever they kidnapped or whatever they were up to? Greg can only hope they will not be traumatised for life.
.
Scotland Yard's badges open many doors – little wonder Sherlock likes to nick them. Good thing he hasn't this week. John's own NHS consultant badge would secure them entry through the hospital magnetic locks with far less fuss this time. Greg shows his badge to a busy receptionist that buzzes him in distractedly.
The triage room is organised chaos all around him. He hardly gets a look about when a well-known baritone greets him:
'Hmm, I was hoping you'd show up, Lestrade. Come this way, you stick out as a sore thumb in here.'
Damnit, where did Sherlock come from? Worse, he seems to have been expecting Lestrade. Very ominous.
Greg dutifully follows the straight back, arrogant posing paramedic, even the polyester uniform looks five times better as if made for a men's magazine cover shoot. Greg shakes his head, he's possibly in shock. Sherlock not only looks good in the paramedic outfit, he looks the part. Decisive yet economic gestures, muffled footsteps, mingling in with the A&E's crew and patients as a veteran. Sherlock Holmes is a man who could have chosen many professions and many faces in life, and from an intellectual point of view he would have excelled them all.
They pass a real medical man working busily to relieve some poor sod's condition, some short guy efficiently setting up fluids through an IV line, when Sherlock yanks the man to his side. Greg is stunned to recognise John's honest blue eyes reproaching Sherlock's clawed grip on his arm.
'I told you not to do anything, John!'
'The old man is severely dehydrated, it was just an IV line!'
Sherlock rolls his eyes at John's inability to say No to his caring vocation. Not that it's much of a problem when directed at himself, Greg notices.
John too is wearing the same paramedic uniform, and his movements are looser and prouder. This is John's own turf – a medical setting, the unsettling background noise of crying and moaning, the unshakeable stench of high grade cleaner, sweat and urine. This is where John is an unacknowledged hero, protects lives, saves the day. Greg notices Sherlock is studying John too as they walk off through side corridors, passing the odd nurse or crash cart for a code red. Still Sherlock hasn't let go of John's arm, as if he secretly fears John will do a runner to go treat some patients on his own.
Greg supposes Sherlock is always wary that John's true vocation is more of medicine than protecting skinny geniuses with a penchant for danger, and that one day John tires of Sherlock's all consuming Work. Greg, for one, doubts that will ever happen.
'Sherlock, explain all this for me?' the inspector demands as soon as they have reached empty corridors and relative privacy.
'You're doing fine, inspector. Doing everything I wanted you to do. Did you get a text from my interfering brother?'
'As a matter of fact, I did. He'll be pissed at me. He'll get me demoted.'
'He won't, I'm sure. Still you can ask him yourself,' Sherlock states, making a sudden entrance to one of the consulting rooms. 'Mind you, that text was a ruse. John sent it. Mycroft was a bit busy at the time, getting shot by a marksman.'
'What!'
'Unfortunately the Kevlar bulletproof vest damaged the slug.'
'Bulletproof vest? So your brother is okay?'
'Bruised ribs, whining about not being able to breathe, though the distinct use of the language pre-empts his allegations as exaggerations.'
'Someone tried to shoot Mycroft?'
'Exactly. Didn't I say that? Do catch up, inspector.'
'And you knew it would happen and set up a fake injury to give the marksman the idea that he succeeded?'
'It seems very simple to me, inspector.'
'And you and John were the first paramedics on the scene?'
'We seemed to have a spare ambulance on our hands.'
'How did you know your brother was going to get shot at?'
Sherlock smirks. 'The same way Mycroft was wearing a bulletproof vest.'
From a chair at the corner of the dimly lit room, looking very pale under the daylight filtering through the window above cutting his haggard profile into stark relief, Mycroft retorts with as much regal poise as he can muster under the circumstances: 'Why, inspector, I planned it all.'
Sherlock's mouth sours to the idea of being a pawn in his brother's hands.
'John, give my brother a sedative, he sounds hysterical,' Sherlock hisses.
Mycroft rolls his eyes and adds, 'Sherlock gave a minor contribution to the plan.'
'I planned it singlehandedly, Mycroft.'
'Only the high-speed race across London. Hardly necessary, John,' the governmental official directs at the army doctor.
John quotes, with a fake smile that speaks volumes on the danger Mycroft is getting himself into: 'First do no harm, the Hippocratic oath goes.'
'I'm afraid my brother's bad influence has been rubbing off on you, doctor Watson.'
John grins openly.
Greg shakes himself awake and glances at the door behind him.
'If Mycroft has suffered an attempt on his life, how come the Yard is unaware of it?'
Sherlock purses his lips thin. Right now, standing side by side with his brother, the real unity between the Holmes brothers is more evident than the dramatic quarrels. There are near imperceptible similarities in their posture and mannerisms, that only siblings growing up together can jointly acquire.
'That would be,' Mycroft answers himself, 'on account of the MI6 being compromised by the enemy. Welcome to the game, inspector. I hope you don't come to regret your impulsive decision to find my brother and doctor Watson. In fact, this may very well be your last chance to walk away and avoid getting sucked into this dangerous game. You – and doctor Watson – have one last chance to leave and remain safe.'
Sherlock quips: 'And what am I, mashed potatoes?'
'Oh, please, Sherlock, we both know that you wouldn't miss the chance to see me if I were actually to get shot in the near future.'
'You really should have listened to my warnings last week.'
'How was I to know the ambassador's wife had been so deeply compromised?'
'Anyone could see she was a secret lesbian and that her maid had been acquiring compromising pictures for months!'
'Oh yes, the frailty of love. You're an expert on that now, aren't you, Sherlock?'
'This is not about Irene Adler!'
'Irene Adler?' Mycroft sounded genuinely surprised, as if he clearly meant something else; although Greg was too suspicious of the Holmes brothers to believe their careful displays of emotions.
Greg could read Sherlock to a certain extent, mostly when the younger Holmes let his guard down, away from the public eye, John close by. Sherlock's public persona was inscrutable. The same went for Mycroft Holmes, the British government's puppet master.
Yet put the two brothers together and they act like nine year olds locked a battle of wits, every time. The inspector wonders if the Holmes brothers even lose touch of the audience around them, so desperate to verbally spar.
'Alright, I'm assuming John has insisted on a hospital pit stop to ensure Mycroft's health. I know for a fact that a bulletproof vest stops a bullet but you still feel as if you've been kicked by a horse.'
Mycroft comments airily: 'My, what a varied life you've been living, inspector. Getting on the wrong side of horses?'
Greg is reminded that Sherlock and Mycroft aren't quite as dissimilar as they may look. This is the sort of crap that Sherlock would give him as a junkie fresh off the streets, when they first associated. A penchant for scrutinising the inspector's colourful analogies so to redirect attention from their perceived frailties.
'John, how's he doing?' he turns to the doctor instead.
The doctor places the stethoscope around his neck, forgetting himself momentarily as a paramedic and not the doctor in charge. Answering the question as if to Mycroft himself (he won't belief Mycroft will ask), he assures: 'Everything checks out. Extensive bruising over the left lung, but nothing broken. It will start receding in a couple of days, Mycroft.'
'I suppose it makes me somewhat heroic,' the older Holmes teases. Greg notices John's hands tremor at the nonchalance. Greg doesn't need to read John's mind to guess that the older Holmes has had access to the best and latest prototype of personal armoury, and John has encountered far less lucky soldiers with the conventional army issued vests. Not that John wanted Mycroft's damage to be more extensive, he might be wishing his army mates had such luxuries when he served, if the inspector can guess. Greg reaches out to the abandoned vest and studies the impact dent. High calibre bullet, likely to shatter on impact. Sherlock mentioned it was too damaged, practically untraceable back to the firing riffle. This is the kind of kill shot that emulates John's own experience in Afghanistan. Only John's vest couldn't stop the bullet ripping through.
Greg instinctively looks to find John and offer some word of comfort or other. He finds the doctor's closed off expression, hard as stone and hesitates. Not the right time, not yet.
Sherlock, on the other hand, is studying the empty corridor outside. 'This is as good time as any,' he mutters. 'Lestrade, arrest my brother. There's a Met police car outside, with the keys left in the ignition.'
'What! Sherlock, how many emergency vehicles did you steal today?'
'Merely borrowed, inspector. John and I will meet you outside. Off you go! I trust you brought handcuffs with you?'
Greg groans into the palm of his hand.
.
TBC
