Chapter Twenty Five- 2010 Consequences (Part Three)
Greg met Mycroft's eye as he strode up the hospital corridor toward the resus room. As much as an injured Sherlock featured in Lestrade's nightmares, it was the inevitable confrontation with Mycroft Holmes than he had always feared more. Until tonight, Sherlock's various bumps, scrapes and physical damage over the past five years had not yet led to his elder brother showing up at a hospital.
Five years ago, Lestrade had sworn to the elder Holmes that he would keep an eye on Sherlock, and make sure that the Consulting Detective did not come to harm. It had been a hard promise to keep over the years, given the younger Holmes' willingness to push the envelope of safety right to the limit. The occasional relapse and detox under Greg's supervision was one thing that Mycroft had been willing to watch from afar, because it had never lasted long. All Greg had to do was threaten Sherlock with an end to the case work, and he'd get back on the straight and narrow. The odd mishap and visit to the A&E whilst chasing a suspect had also passed without bringing Mycroft out of the shadows.
But, this time was different and Greg knew it.
Sherlock had been taken by ambulance to the Accident & Emergency Department of the Royal London Hospital at Whitechapel. The ambulance crew made Lestrade follow on behind them in unmarked police car driven by the two SO6 officers who had been assigned to look after Sherlock. They arrived almost simultaneously with one of Mycroft's men, so he told all of them where the ambulance was headed.
By the time Lestrade arrived at Whitechapel, Sherlock was already in the resus room being worked on by the A&E team, so he had no idea about how badly injured Sherlock was.
One of the nurses gestured to the chairs lining the corridor. "I'm sorry, Detective Inspector, but you will have to wait here." He had been waiting for about ten minutes when the double doors at the end of the corridor opened. Greg had a distinct case of déjà vu to the time when Sherlock had overdosed on the roof of the Peabody Buildings, as Mycroft came striding down the corridor, carrying his accusations of Greg's negligence as tightly furled as that umbrella of his.
This time, Mycroft walked straight past him and in through the doors of the resus room. As a family member, he had that right, and Greg did not. That fact pissed off Greg to an extraordinary degree, but he sat on his feelings. He'd been dealing with his emotions all night, and he told himself that he could handle this.
Lestrade tried to convince himself that he'd be feeling the same thing if it was one of his team members in there, but he knew that was a lie. The fact was that Sherlock had come to mean more to him over the years than just a "colleague." No matter how much Sherlock tried to keep him at arms-length, to ensure that their relationship appeared professional in the eyes of Lestrade's team, they both knew that there was an unsaid bond that pulled them together. It was one of the reasons why Sally Donovan did little to restrain her dislike of Sherlock; she could sense the connection and it made her jealous. The team resented their unspoken understanding, and the idea that much of their own reputation in the Yard was driven by Sherlock's extraordinary skills. Greg made a choice every time he involved the consulting detective; his need to solve the crime and see justice done was more important than any team member's ego or comfort. They didn't have to like him for it.
Yet, in return, Greg knew that Sherlock would never call him "friend"; the young man's lack of social skills, his refusal to modify his behaviour to suit others' feelings, his cultivation of a sociopathic persona- all of those things meant he was unlikely to acknowledge the ties. His ritual abuse of calling the DI an idiot, an unobservant plod, and "just like every other useless police officer" was in part to ensure that the team did not think there was anything personal between the two men. Greg knew that and accepted it as necessary; he worked hard at not taking offence. He reckoned that to Sherlock, everyone could safely be catagorised as unintelligent. And yet, Greg knew and Sherlock knew that when it came to it, the two could rely on each other to be there when it mattered.
Except tonight. When Sherlock had gone haring after his suspect, without telling anyone where he was going or what might happen when he got there, Lestrade had not had his eye on the young man. Yes, he had told Sherlock countless times to make sure someone knew, but he also knew that when that extraordinary mind pounced on a solution, ten steps in front of anyone else at a crime scene, he would not stop to explain himself. He knew it, and yet had been unable to stop Sherlock from taking absurd risks. Was it Sherlock's fault? Greg could not really blame the young man; he knew that poor impulse control and a lack of understanding about personal risk was something that came with the package that was Sherlock. He had promised Mycroft that he would compensate for that by protecting his brother. And tonight, he had failed in that duty.
After twenty more minutes of sitting, Greg rubbed the back of his neck and wished he could smoke a cigarette. Waiting for news was the worst part of the whole evening. It gave him time to blame himself and to pray that his lapse of concentration had not cost Sherlock his life. Greg was not sure how he would be able to deal with the guilt of that, nor how Mycroft Holmes would make him pay.
The swing doors on the resus room banged open and a trolley was pushed out, moving rapidly toward the lift at the other end of the corridor. Two junior doctors were positioned on either side and keeping their eye on the portable monitors. Standing up, Greg caught a glimpse of a head of dark hair, still strapped to a body board, neck braced and held rigid by plastic blocks. Oh God, please, not a head or spinal injury.
Mycroft emerged seconds later, listening intently to a doctor. Greg noted that the doctor had no blood on his scrubs, and hoped that was a good sign. When the conversation finished, and the doctor turned away back toward the resus room, Mycroft looked down the corridor to where Greg was standing, and locked eyes. The DI saw nothing to take comfort from in that glance.
Greg stood his ground and waited as the elder Holmes came to him.
"He's being taken for scans and then to emergency exploratory surgery- blunt trauma to the abdominal area."
"How serious is it? And what's with the spinal collar?"
Mycroft lips thinned in disapproval. "The doctors won't say anything other than they won't know if it's life threatening until the surgery. Apparently, it's notoriously difficult to diagnose the full extent from scans or x rays. There are clear signs of significant internal bleeding and they suspect organ damage- liver laceration, possible splenic rupture. The initial X rays show a hairline fracture of his pelvis, as well as a fractured lower rib on his left side. And he has a serious concussion, which needs further investigation, because they suspect bleeding and swelling of his brain. All of which lead me to ask you a simple question, Detective Inspector- how was this allowed to happen?"
The question was asked in the mildest possible tone, yet Lestrade knew the implications that lay behind it, and the menace that was there, depending on what answer he gave.
Greg looked back down the corridor. He shrugged his shoulders and said lamely, "Well, you should see the other guy."
Mycroft scowled.
"As ever, Sherlock figured something out- and, no, I have no idea how, because you know as well as I do when he is in full-on mode, he doesn't stop to tell anyone anything. He must have figured out who the murderer was and where he'd be, just as easily as he earlier deduced the weapon used to kill the victims. We found that same weapon at the feet of a man who fit Sherlock's description. The suspect was dead, in a drainage ditch at the bottom of the block of flats where I found Sherlock on the second floor scaffolding. It doesn't take a Sherlock to deduce that when your brother caught up with the suspect, they fought, and Sherlock won."
"Let's all hope that my brother doesn't end up in a score draw then, Detective Inspector, by dying himself. This…game… as you describe it, isn't over yet." Lestrade felt the full force of that chilling gaze, and nodded his agreement.
