AN: Back with another chapter! Hope you enjoy.
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Two
Sally Donovan is not a fan of Sherlock Holmes. That much she makes glaringly obvious to anyone that will listen. She is of the justified opinion that the man (if you could call him one) is dangerous, psychotic, and no small degree of arrogant, freakish, and rude to boot. The boss had been bringing him 'round crime scenes for years now, and though she was loathe to admit it (and wouldn't out loud), he had most cases solved quicker than she could pour her first cup of coffee. Whether you could call it a good or a bad thing, cases were definitely more interesting with him around, especially now that he had his lap dog/doctor/assistant running along beside him.
Tonight, for example, she stands next to one of a few squad cars as she waits for Lestrade and the other two to return. Currently, all three idiots are running the back alleys next to the Thames, chasing a notorious art thief who had stolen and sold an antique coin cabinet full of equally antique shillings from the British Museum. (The Freak had been the one to make the correlation between his past offenses and this new one, of course. Bloody figures.) Glancing anxiously at the time on her mobile, Sally thinks back on how she'd ended up in this position, once again. Half an hour ago, Lestrade had received a frenzied phone call from Dr. Watson; he'd panted into the receiver that he and Sherlock were on him, given their location, told him to get his arse in a squad car, and promptly hung up. Sally had practically begged Lestrade to wait for the team they had on standby to arrive but, as always, he didn't listen to her, and instead took off running to join the wild-goose chase. The other two officers who had arrived with them had made the smart choice, and opted to wait in their cars for the team to arrive.
She's broken out of her frustrated thoughts by the sounds of a struggle, followed by an indecipherable shout, then the cacophonous sound of a splash from a bit further down on the river. She stands straight up, heart stuttering in alarm. She fumbles for her radio, holds it up to her mouth. "Boss? All right?"
He responds quickly, and she lets out a breath in relief as static ripples through the receiver. "M'fine, Donovan. Make sure the paramedics are ready!" And then he clicks off, offering no further explanation.
She does as told, hurrying over to the ambulance parked off to the side and transferring the meager information to the two young paramedics inside. They nod and get to work, pulling out shock blankets and double checking their supplies. Sally waits restlessly, resisting the urge of her long-buried habit to bite at her fingernails.
After what feels like a lifetime, they round the corner, all three of them looking particularly worse for wear. Lestrade totes the handcuffed art thief, yanking harshly on the cuffs as he shoves him into the back of a squad car. Sherlock (who looks practically unconscious) and John are slower in their arrival, both sopping wet, John practically carrying the former as he supports his weight. The paramedics rush over to help, but the doctor brushes off their attempts and instead begins barking orders at them. The squad car holding the thief pulls out, the siren whooping once as the second squad car's engine starts and follows slowly behind. That leaves only leaves the four of them plus the paramedics on the scene. Lestrade sighs as he comes up beside her, gaze following hers. "So? You gonna tell me?" she asks, curious despite herself.
"Welp," he sighs. "We was chasin' Caffrey, and things were lookin' real good for us right about then. But the rat bastard 'bout-faced and pushed Sherlock in the wa'er. John thinks he 'as a concussion." His Londoner accent is becoming much more pronounced, his words and grammar beginning to slip; he's getting tired. She knows he hasn't been getting near enough sleep lately. Part of her is inclined to say the freak deserved it, but looking at him now, she can't bring herself to say the words. Sherlock looks nothing like his usual self, dazed and dangerously pale and shivering violently against his flatmate.
"Why's he all wet, then?" she asks, nudging her chin in John's direction. Lestrade chuckles, shaking his head. "Madman went in after 'im. Didn't even 'ave to think about it, just dove right on in and pulled 'im out."
Sally watches them from afar. With those two, she's never quite sure what to think. Sherlock might as well be a heartless robot in her eyes—but John Watson treats him differently, always has. She has to wonder why, why a reasonably intelligent man like Dr. Watson would willfully choose to waste his time and emotional energy on such a cold-hearted bastard like Sherlock Holmes. Except that now as she approaches the ambulance for a better vantage point, he somehow doesn't inspire in her the acute sense of detestation which he usually does. John carefully lowers him onto the bed of the ambulance, and Sherlock sways to the side. One of the paramedics quickly covers the man's shoulders with a shock blanket and holds it there. It's telling of his current state that the detective doesn't even protest. Water drips from his bedraggled curls, and it plinks steadily off the ambulance's bumper and trickles down to the pavement.
The other paramedic approaches from the front with a penlight, but John easily blocks the poor bloke's path and snatches the light out of his hand. "Dr. Watson," he swiftly introduces. "And ta, but I've got this," he says, but with the tone of his voice he may as well have told him to fuck off. The pair of paramedics glance at each other, not seeming to have a plan of action for this, and the one holding Sherlock's shoulders steady shrugs. The one that had been trying to examine Sherlock steps a respectful distance back, letting the doctor work.
Sherlock's eyes are half-closed, and his head seems to tilt loosely forward and backward on his shoulders, like an infant trying to hold its head up. She's never seen him seeming so...weakened. It's odd and disconcerting, seeing the overbearing arsehole reduced to this. John pulls back Sherlock's eyelids, moves the light methodically back and forth over his gaze from a few different angles. He tuts disapprovingly at whatever he finds, but doesn't seem too overly worried.
"Sherlock? Can you hear me?" John calls, simultaneously feeling along Sherlock's scalp, probing with his fingers. Sherlock makes some kind of vague noise in response, but Sally can't decipher it into words. John swears softly, and one of his hands emerges from Sherlock's head covered in blood. It had been unnoticeable before, mainly due to the dark color of the man's hair.
"Gauze, thermometer, gloves," John rattles off, and the paramedics rush to do his bidding. Sally has the thought that little Dr. Watson in his fuzzy jumpers can be quite commanding when he so decides to be. His presence has changed almost completely, his posture distinctly different. She supposes this is the Captain John Watson that the military knew, not the one that follows Sherlock around like a lost dog. He presses the gauze firmly to a spot on the back of Sherlock's head, then grabs the wrist of the paramedic standing behind Sherlock and places it there, like a human paperweight. When the thermometer beeps and John pulls it out of Sherlock's mouth, John curses again, more vehemently this time.
"Sherlock, are you dizzy? Do you think you could stand for me?" His voice is gentle, and as the paramedic replaces the gauze on his head with a fresh piece, John holds it in place and runs a hand soothingly over Sherlock's shoulder, trying to rouse him.
"John…? I'm...I'm fine," Sherlock slurs. He tries to stand but doesn't quite manage it, and John sighs in what looks like exasperated relief as he steadies his friend back onto the bed of the ambulance. "Yeah. Yeah, it's me. And no, you're not. We need to get you back to Baker Street and out of those wet clothes, Sherlock. Can you stand long enough to catch a cab?"
Sherlock nods unsteadily, eyes half-lidded. Oh, dammit. With a reluctant sigh, Sally steps forward and makes her presence known by clearing her throat. "D'ya need a lift? The boss won't mind if you do."
In truth, Lestrade never would have minded. It's Sally who's making the sacrifice. John cocks his head at her as if confused by the offer, but doesn't refuse it. She uses the radio at her hip to inform Lestrade, and he pulls the patrol car conveniently right up next to the ambulance. The paramedics, probably feeling rather useless, hand over a pile of extra shock blankets, and Lestrade hops out of the driver's seat to help her line the backseat with them so as not to ruin the upholstery. She looks over to see that John's gotten Sherlock standing now, though the detective still looks completely gone. Her eyes wander to John's hand, which is vigorously rubbing the other man's lower back, suspiciously close to his bum. She arches her eyebrows at him, and John flushes, mouth gaping open indignantly. "Oh for Christ's sake—it's for a medical purpose! Grow up."
She opens her mouth to respond, but Lestrade clears his throat and gives her a look over the roof of the car, so she relents, grumbling to herself as she gets in the passenger seat. John loads them into the backseat, and they're off towards Baker Street. Once the doors are closed and they're all boxed in, Sally catches a whiff of the wet-dumpster stench of the Thames coming from the back and cracks her window just enough for a few breaths of fresh air so that she doesn't gag.
"Heat," John requests—demands, really. Not willing to protest, both Sally and Greg wordlessly direct their vents back towards the pair. After a few moments of silence, Sally glances in the rear view mirror and tries to school her expression into indifference. John has his arms around Sherlock, and Sherlock's head has lolled onto John's chest, his mouth hanging open in sleep. John alternates, one hand still holding pressure on the gauze, the other trying to rub heat back into Sherlock's arms and legs. His gaze is distinctly protective as it moves back and forth between the top of Sherlock's head and outside the window.
Probably assuming he isn't being watched, the doctor pauses a moment in his ministrations. He cranes his neck slowly downward to look more closely at the other man's face, and Sally sees a very soft smile begin to grace his lips. He lifts a hand and uses one finger to brush a soaked curl off Sherlock's forehead. Her eyes widen as she watches them, nearly transfixed. Lestrade clears his throat and Sally rapidly averts her gaze from the mirror as John's head snaps up in surprise. She catches Lestrade's pointed gaze on her as she looks away, and they share a look which is silent but packed full of meaning. "He gonna be alright?" Lestrade asks, careful to keep his voice at a lower volume in regards to the sleeping detective. Sally shakes her head just a little, as if to clear it.
It takes John a moment to respond. "Yeah. Yeah, he um...he hit his head on the way down, got himself a mild concussion. Little touch of hypothermia as well." At the words, he goes back to rubbing at Sherlock's arms, but with a lighter touch so as not to wake him. Sally thinks a bomb couldn't wake the man right now. He looks border-line comatose. A thought occurs to her, and she turns in her seat to look at them.
"Wait—if he's got a concussion, shouldn't we be keeping him awake? Not letting him sleep?"
John shakes his head, smiles at her like she's a little kid who doesn't know much. It's condescending, but in a more tolerable way than Sherlock. "Nah, that only applies in severe concussions, not minor ones like this. He should be fine by the morning. Probably have a headache for a few days."
Sally is tempted to say something like, Good, he gives everyone else one. Remarkably, she restrains herself.
"What about you, then?" Lestrade asks, glancing away from the road momentarily to look in the rear view with concern. "Hypothermia and all that? You were in the water, too," he informs, as if the doctor isn't dripping wet enough to tell that for himself.
"I wasn't in the water as long as Sherlock was, and I don't have a concussion. Plus, Sherlock hasn't slept in three days." He glares at the now-sleeping man huddled in his arms as if he can hear him. "Exhaustion makes the body more vulnerable to things like this, makes the symptoms come on stronger than they normally would."
Lestrade hums vaguely in agreement and diverts his attention back to the road.
Sally's mouth doesn't consult her before it opens, and says, "I have tea still hot in my thermos. Would that help warm him up?"
John's hands pause their constant rubbing on Sherlock's arms, and he blinks at her in astonishment. She can't really blame him, because she's just as stunned. They blink back and forth at each other for awhile before John speaks.
"Uh—no, I don't trust him not to choke on it in his state. Probably couldn't wake him up to drink it, anyway." Sally nods and turns back to face the front, wondering what the bloody hell had gotten into her. Yesterday she would have said let him freeze and probably pushed him back into the water. I must be tired, she thinks.
"But, um, thanks for the thought, Donovan. That was—" he clears his throat. "It was a good idea."
She nods again, and feels the silence descend over the car again. She reaches out to turn the radio on, mindful to keep the volume at a comfortable hum of sound. But there's nothing except commercials playing on the radio, no traffic to distract her attention, and Lestrade determinedly says nothing more for the rest of the ride, the traitor. Inevitably, her gaze roams back to the mirror again. It's odd, being in a car for so long with Sherlock and not hearing a peep from him. Without his relentless diatribes to rile her up and make her want to throw herself out of the car, she gives herself a moment to observe him for a change. He almost looks like a different person, face slack in sleep, shivering pathetically and curled into his doctor for warmth. And the way which John cares for him is blindingly obvious; he had stepped readily back into the role of army doctor for him tonight, barking orders and controlling the situation without hesitation. If it were someone else, someone not so heartless, she thinks (with less conviction), she might say the whole thing was rather heartwarming.
She sighs and takes a long sip of her tea, gaining a new appreciation for the double-walled insulation that has kept it still steaming for the last two hours. She'd been worried for Lestrade earlier, but she realizes she really hasn't been sleeping either, lately. Sally thinks of Anderson, of the whirlwind argument they'd been having for nearly a month yet with no end in sight. She slips into a dozy awareness, letting her nerves be soothed by the steady rhythm of the engine. She blinks awake and sits up when the car stops. She glances out the window. They've arrived at Baker Street, and it appears their landlady has left the outside light on for them. It casts an eerie shadow on the otherwise dark and vacant street.
"Aw, bless their hearts," Lestrade quips quietly beside her, and Sally cranes her neck to follow his gaze into the backseat. Oh, good Lord. She had thought it was oddly quiet, even with the benefit of Sherlock being unconscious. John has now fallen asleep as well, and his head rests on top of Sherlock's where it still presses against John's chest. His arms are still wrapped protectively around him, and now Sherlock's own wiry arms have come to rest loosely around John's waist as well, hands burrowing under his coat. There is a perturbed frown on John's face, as if he's still worried even in sleep. But both men's breathing is deep and heavy, and she almost regrets having to wake them.
"John, mate," Lestrade calls softly, and Sally turns back around so he doesn't feel like the spectacle which they are when he wakes. Greg reaches back to nudge the doctor's knee, and Sherlock groans in protest. Sally sees him snuggle further into John's neck through the rear view and raises her eyebrows. John comes back to full awareness pretty quickly (army training and all that) and immediately takes stock of his position. He blushes furiously and refuses to look either of them in the eye.
He shakes Sherlock awake, or at least as awake as he's going to get, and politely declines Lestrade's offer to help him get the incoherent man upstairs with a tense smile. Seeming more like himself, Sherlock grumbles something about having a headache and being cold, and still mainly refuses to part from John's warmth as he drags them both out of the car. John scoffs irritably.
"Oh, are you? Well, then maybe you'll listen to me next time and not run off on your own after a criminal, you twit. And I'll have you know—" the rest of his rant is cut off as the door slams closed, and Sally watches them walk away, pressed impossibly close together, towards the front door.
"Like conjoined twins, aren't they?" Lestrade comments, and there's a smile on his face like he has a private joke with himself. She shoots him a thoroughly perplexed look, feels her world view tilt as she watches John turn his key in the lock and stumble with his lanky detective through the doorway.
"Are they…?"
"I really have no idea," he sighs as he pulls away from the curb. "But if they're not, they bloody well should be."
She still has a great, great dislike of the pompous sod, but as Lestrade drives them the short distance back to the office, she rests her head back against the seat and thinks begrudgingly that maybe Sherlock Holmes is slightly more human than she had originally thought. Who'd have known?
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AN: Alright folks, that's it. Please, please leave me a review to let me know how I'm doing. Until next time!