Ten days later…
"Well, I wouldn't have to yell if you didn't insist on hiring imbeciles with the I.Q.s of particularly demented chipmunks, would I?" Sherlock hissed at a particularly irate Lestrade as he threw the empty evidence bag on the floor in frustration.
Jaw set, lips pursed Lestrade walked away before he could give into the fierce impulse to punch him.
The huge shed in the backyard of a ramshackle house surrounded by tin fencing was in complete chaos. Forensic teams were standing by as instructed by Lestrade, waiting for Sherlock to finish his survey of the scene. As per course, it had taken only moments to make his deductions and then turn his attentions to the glaring Anderson waiting at the wings for his turn.
"This fucking case has gone on too long…everyone is on the edge," Lestrade thought grimly as he walked purposefully towards John.
A series of four disparate homicides of street-workers had been linked by Sherlock to a deadly new variant of crystal methamphetamine that had taken to the streets of London. Casualties in terms of death and permanent brain damage were piling up. Every new homicide seemed to give further clues until they had finally identified the perpetrator, a dangerous drug-dealer by the name of Ellie Mitchell, who had gone missing. A huge manhunt was underway with little success. Tempers were running high.
John stood aside, arms folded in front of his chest, worried eyes looking at a particularly manic looking Sherlock. He had already examined the body and related his findings and couldn't wait to drag Sherlock out of there and put some food into him and force him to get some sleep, at gunpoint if he had too. Look at him….Dark circles under his eyes, hair in complete disarray from having passed his fingers through it in frustration a million times, jerky movements…I need to take him home.
He eyed the approaching Lestrade warily, well aware of the complaints about to come up.
Lestrade sidled up and stood next to John, arms twitching, face grim.
"John, you've to do something, mate. He's driving everyone up the wall."
"What do you want me to do?" John asked.
"I don't know….talk to him, ask him to simmer down, bring him to heel….whatever it is that you normally do," was the exasperated reply.
"Yeah well, you need him. You know you do. You're just going to have to work with him.," John said sharply. John buzzed with silent anger himself as he valiantly defended his friend, "Ask yourself where would the Yard be if he hadn't isolated the variant of the meth and traced it all back to Ellie Mitchell? I mean, come on, you would still be treating all the homicides as separate events, wouldn't you." He looked at Greg pointedly. "He's busting his guts, trying to solve the case, isn't he? And you need him."
Greg gave a sigh, his tone rueful, "Yeah, God help me, I do."
John snorted, "Believe me, God is already helping you. You have Sherlock Holmes on your side, don't you?"
Lestrade turned to John, eyes narrowed suspiciously. But he wisely remained quiet and walked away after a couple of moments.
Bring him to heel….whatever it is you normally do….this is what I have been doing with Sherlock all these years? As though he didn't tower over all of us in both intellect and rationality…..as though he were a stray dog…..I can't even bear to think about him like that anymore….why does it upset me so? The thought of anyone saying anything belittling about Sherlock…..seems like just yesterday I was doing the same thing…..God, why did he ever put up with me? If I were him, I'd have kicked me out ages ago.
"Come on, John," Sherlock's brisk voice interrupted his stream of consciousness and John trotted behind him dutifully.
Sherlock's phone rang. He gave monosyllabic replies to whoever he was talking to and kept walking towards the main road. "Fine, we'll see you at seven," he said as he hung up.
"Who was that?" John asked.
"A source, Winnie Sanchez," Sherlock murmured, a thoughtful frown on his face. He turned back to look at John. "John, he thinks he knows where Ellie Mitchell is holed up, it's a bolt-hole in Tottenham and he is willing to take us there tonight. But he refuses to come should there be any police involvement."
John frowned, "So what? You think we should go alone? It's a rough neighbourhood."
Sherlock shrugged, "I need to get home first. Need to hack into some databases. I need more data about Mitchell."
John pulled his coat-sleeve briefly and pointed to a cab. "Yeah, let's get home, eat something and grab a shut-eye first. You haven't slept in four days, Sherlock."
Sherlock ignored him as he got into the cab and started texting again.
Back in 221B, John busied himself with rustling up some lunch.
He peered into the freezer. Wonder how old these sausages are….well, there's some bread and some bacon…..if I make something hot he might eat something….
Setting the plate with hot toast and bacon and sausages, he poured some barbeque sauce in the corner and took it out to Sherlock. Sherlock sat on his chair, deep into whatever he was researching. John pulled the coffee table close and placed the plate upon it.
"Have something to eat, please Sherlock," John said.
Sherlock nodded, "In a bit, wait, John."
John sat on his chair and ate his lunch quietly as Sherlock worked away. He muttered comments from time to time as he thought aloud and vented his vexation. John listened and stayed mostly quiet, occasionally asked questions in the hope of helping Sherlock's thought processes. He felt relieved when Sherlock absently picked up the plate and started wolfing down the food on the plate, clearing it within minutes.
John stared at the tired face, the dark circles under the eyes, the curls that had gone limp with fatigue and neglect. God, what I wouldn't give for this to be over. Catch fucking Mitchell and get Sherlock to rest.
Post-prandial lethargy and fatigue caught up with him as he slouched further on his chair and observed Sherlock. And allowed himself the delicious luxury of fantasising. Again. He smiled to himself. I'm totally over my head here. I'm so infatuated.
It had been ten days since that memorable night when Sherlock had finally touched him. Ten days since John had nuzzled his face against that beautiful neck for long minutes. And most of his waking hours and even his dreams were full of unending replays caught in a loop. I'm not going anywhere, my love…..KNOW YOUR PLACE….Is this what you wanted, John? I could touch you like this every day….. You are mine and I am your home….. Memories of Sherlock's scent, which by now was the most intoxicating smell John could imagine…. Sherlock's touch, the strength in his arms, his breath, his husky voice, his fury, his tenderness….. all engulfing him from all sides.
He had woken up after an exhausted sleep the next morning, fully expecting awkwardness, more conversations. But trust Sherlock to continually surprise him. The days that followed had been tranquil, happy. Sherlock seemed to have completely put aside what had happened and life carried on as normal, companionship and affection, banter and silence co-existing side by side. It was as if that night had never happened, a figment of John's imagination.
And in ten days he had touched John only once, that too in passing.
Eight days earlier…..
Victor frowned at the canvas as he dipped his brush into the acrylic green paint and pondered on whether a muted lining would be sufficient or he needed something bolder. The air in the modest conservatory was fragrant with the earthy smell of fresh rain on dry soil and dozens of different flowers that were in full bloom all around him. The glass walls opened to a wrap-around trellis a distance away both creating a sanctuary and offering privacy.
He looked up at the crunching sounds of shoes on the gravel path leading to the conservatory. Sherlock's distinctive figure walked around the trellis and stood at the door, tall and imperial, hands behind his back and an inscrutable expression on his face.
Victor put back the paint brush slowly as his heart started to race. He had been waiting for this visit with nervous anticipation. He stood looking mutely at Sherlock, the pleasure at seeing his Dom mixed with dread at his anger creating an untenable mix in his gut.
"He came to you." Sherlock's murmur sounded deep and loud in the closed space.
Victor looked at him, guilt and contrition all over his face. He had no defence. For the first time he had kept something hidden from Sherlock, he deserved anything that Sherlock chose to do to punish him. The last two days had been hell; his phone never far from his twitching fingers, wanting to call, wanting to ask for forgiveness for his silence.
Eyes lowered, he sank to the ground till his knees hit the gravel, arms submissively by his side. He stayed silent, defenceless and ready for penance.
Sherlock's expression softened as he watched Victor sink down to his knees. He moved closer and looked down at the lowered head of his Sub.
"Explain."
Victor swallowed nervously. "He was confused and in need of advice. I…. Sherlock, I talked to him, tried to get him to understand," Victor looked up at Sherlock. "Is he okay? I told him he would lose if he came to you in anger. Is John alright?"
Sherlock frowned as he pulled an armchair close and sat down, crossing his legs, hands on the arm rests.
His voice was soft, "He didn't lose, Victor. I lost. It was the best defeat of my life."
Victor looked up, frowning as he tried to decipher the meaning behind the cryptic words. Sherlock looked at the kneeling figure in front of him calmly. Victor stayed motionless, eyes back on the ground, searching for words.
Moments passed with only the sounds of the birds in the garden interrupting the quiet. Sherlock waited patiently.
Finally Victor murmured, "If I had called and told you and John came to know of this, he would never have been able to trust me again. The next time he had questions or needed to talk to someone, he would have had nobody. I offer this by way of explanation, Sherlock. It's not an excuse. You have every right to be angry and I accept any punishment you see fit."
Sherlock's gaze softened further with approval, with pleasure and uncrossing his legs he ordered gently, "Come here."
Eyes hopeful, Victor shuffled forwards till he was in between Sherlock's legs and looked up, taken aback by the warmth in Sherlock's eyes instead of the anger he had expected and dreaded. Soft lips touched his forehead, his lips as Sherlock murmured, "You did what was in the best interests of John. Did you really think I would be angry about that?"
A small smile crept onto Victor's face as relief flooded his body. He looked up as he asserted, "You love him….. a lot."
Sherlock lips quirked, "Yes. Yes I do." His hand moved to raise Victor's chin up, eyes flicking searchingly over Victor's face, ready to detect any sadness, any jealously. Finding none, he smiled and continued with genuine pleasure in his voice.
"As I do you. This isn't a race, Victor. Each sentiment is unique in its place and each is important to me. It would be a miserable, constricted existence indeed if we could love only one person to the exclusion of everyone else." He smiled, "To paraphrase Whitman, I am large, I contain multitudes."
As I do you…..as I do you…. Victor hoarded the words like a miser. Every syllable spoken with tenderness over the years, words earned and unearned, from the man he worshipped like no other. He brought them out often, in the privacy of his mind and replayed them over and over with a smile on his face.
"Have I pleased you?"
Sherlock's lips grazed Victor's, a soft caress full of promises. He murmured, "Yes you have." Sharp teeth nibbled on his earlobe and the husky voice continued, "And for this, today you get to ask. Ask for whatever you desire. Anything that is in my power to give."
His lips moved to suckle Victor's lower lip and even as Victor opened his mouth in submission, he breathed in hungrily the smell of Sherlock's breath, his skin. He was sitting in, what was to him, the most cherished place in the entire world, at Sherlock's feet and he had Sherlock's focus and indulgence. He sighed into the kiss happily.
A warm hand gripped his nape firmly and Sherlock broke off the kiss to angle his face up.
"What would you like?" he asked softly, teasingly.
Victor looked up at irises that shone with a green hue flecked with gold, at the beautiful face of his Dom. He had spent years staring up at that face and still felt awe every time, at the beauty, the kindness that he always saw there, hidden deep underneath that domineering manner, the ruthless cold façade. At a mind that saw too much, knew too much and still made allowances and indulged him.
"Please, Sherlock….I leave in three days. And with John….I don't know when I will be able to have this again…..please let me pleasure you," he begged.
Sherlock's smile was seductive as he pulled Victor closer. Bending down he claimed his mouth again, tongue moving expertly, invading even as his hands moved down to unbutton Victor's trousers. Sliding both hands under the loosened trousers and pants, his palms grasped both cheeks and squeezed the muscled globes firmly. Sharp teeth teased the delicate flesh under the jaw, tongue flicking out to feel the thudding pulse racing beneath it. One hand moved to grasp the bulge in front and rub it. Victor panted and moaned, responsive and submissive, he moved to allow Sherlock access to whatever he wanted, played like the finest instrument under Sherlock's hands.
"Please, please….Sherlock…."
Sherlock smiled as he murmured against his lips, "Of all the things you could have, that is what you want?"
Victor's hand was gripping a muscled thigh, his fingers digging in to maintain his balance as his devoted eyes looked into Sherlock's indulgent ones. His voice was a gasp, a prayer.
"You….you….only you, only ever you. Your taste in my mouth, your hands in my hair, breathing you in…..only you, Sherlock."
Gently Sherlock disengaged, his eyes lidded with pleasure as he let go and sat back. He unbuttoned his trousers lazily, pulled the zip down.
"Hands behind your back. Just your mouth. I want it slow and teasing. Make it last." His voice commanding, seductive.
Victor shuffled forward eagerly.
Eyes narrowed with ownership, he watched as Victor lowered his head.
"Make it good," he ordered before he sighed and sat back to enjoy his Sub's service.
It was much later that evening when Sherlock dropped his keys on the living room table and removed his coat. John looked up from his laptop.
Pulling off his scarf, Sherlock said, "I went to see Victor today. He has sent his regards." His eyes were focussed with intensity on John's face ready to observe even the minutest emotion.
John looked at Sherlock waiting for the onrush of the familiar possessive fury and pathetic jealously. He frowned as he realised he felt none. Did I get Victor into trouble? Is he okay? Was Sherlock upset that we spoke to each other? What did they do? Did Sherlock fuck him? Am I allowed to ask? Why am I not upset at the thought? What's happening to me?
Sherlock stood, watchful and silent, ready to answer any questions that John might pose.
"Yeah well, I must catch up with him before he leaves for Europe," John said finally.
Sherlock quirked his lips and touched John's shoulder briefly as he walked towards his bedroom. "Good, John. That's good," he murmured as he went.
Present day…..
"Hurry up, John," Sherlock's voice boomed as John raced down the stairs, tucking his gun inside his jeans at the back.
Sherlock looked at him with narrowed eyes as he stood impatiently by the door, arm outstretched with John's leather jacket.
"Gun?" he asked briefly. John nodded grimly as they moved out.
Out on the road as they waited for the taxi to approach, John rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, fists clenching and unclenching by his side. Adrenaline was pumping into his body, making him hyper vigilant as his eyes darted around. All protective instincts were up. Bloody hell, why does he want to go to such a bad neighbourhood without backup. Fuck if I am going to allow anything to happen to him…..will die myself first….
Sherlock rattled off an address and spent the next few minutes on his phone. John sat quietly looking out at the streets whizzing past, lost in thought. After some time, Sherlock sighed and sank back into a slouch on the seat.
"Grab a nap. I'll wake you, we've at least another half an hour to go," John said.
"Hmm…." was the brief response as Sherlock closed his eyes.
They picked up Sanchez on the way. He insisted on directing the taxi through narrow alleys in Tottenham and got them dropped off at the corner of a deserted street. His manner was edgy, nervous.
"This is as far as I go with you, Mr Holmes. You're on your own now." Sanchez's voice was muted as he stepped away and waved goodbye. "It's about fifteen minutes walk beyond the end of the street. Aim for the river and to the left of the cemetery, you'll have to walk through wasteland. It's an old crumbling house that ain't listed anywhere. Be careful, Mitchell is a slippery customer and he's dangerous," he warned.
John watched his retreating back grimly and turned to Sherlock, "You're sure you want to go ahead?"
"Yes."
He shrugged and they walked silently towards the end of the street and stepped into the open ground towards the river using their torch for illumination. Damp swampland, rubbish tips, mud was everywhere.
The faint outline of a one-storey house became apparent in the moonlight after a few minutes. It basically looked like a matchbox on its side, only four narrow small windows and a fence made of ramshackle tin sheets and assorted shrubbery. The entire vicinity was shrouded in darkness. They paused behind a shrub as they considered their next move.
John looked doubtful, "Sherlock, what's the plan?" he hissed.
Sherlock's eyes were narrowed as he considered.
"If he is hiding in there, we trap him. If not, I am hopeful that we get some leads."
"Not much of a plan!" John said drily.
Sherlock shrugged, "Desperate times…."
Treading carefully, they moved to the wooden backdoor which bore the evidence of termite damage. Sherlock worked on the old lock as John kept lookout. Inside they flashed a torch around. Workbenches lined the walls. Old chemistry equipment, Erlenmeyer flasks, burettes, pipettes, weighing scales, notebooks with folded papers littered the benches. Packets of powder sat on one side. A tap dripped slowly over the sink. One of the two chairs in the room was overturned, its torn cover flapping in the slight breeze that blew in through an open window. A lone bulb hung from the ceiling dangling from a long wire in one corner. A dark corridor led to two more rooms in the back.
John whispered, "I'll check upstairs. I don't think anyone is here, but it seems they left not too long ago."
Sherlock nodded his acquiescence and moved to the rooms at the back. John flicked on the bulb as he climbed upstairs.
The sound of feet hitting the ground outside was startlingly loud in the quiet house. Sherlock overturned a corner table in his hurry as he rushed out the door calling out to John, "John, he's getting away. Get down here and help me."
John yelled back, "Sherlock! He jumped from the window, I saw him. I'm coming down."
Sherlock chased after the figure running helter-skelter into the dark bushes in the distance, waiting to hear John's familiar panting behind him, thankful that he had thought to bring his gun along.
The explosion when it came was muted, over-ridden by the roar of walls collapsing.
Heart thudding, Sherlock looked back wildly as the decrepit house shook and he saw clouds of floating dust exit forcefully from the windows.
"JOHN…." He cried out and started running towards the house as Mitchell disappeared into the darkness. His long limbs flew towards the house and reaching it he found the outer structure still intact. He rushed in through the still open back door only to be confronted with pieces of concrete slabs lying on the floor. He looked up wildly and saw a large hole in the ceiling where the floor of the first floor had collapsed.
"JOHN…..can you hear me?" he called out urgently, even as he coughed. The dim bulb on the wall continued to illuminate air that was thick with particles of cement and paint and dust.
A feeble voice answered from somewhere under one of the big slabs, "Over here."
Sherlock switched on the torch for extra light and frantically tried to locate the voice, "I'm coming. Talk to me, John."
John lay stirring slightly in the middle of the room, a chunk of concrete slab over his legs. His face was ashen, covered with dust, paint flecks and particles of plaster and cement, the only colour was the splash of red oozing from a deep gash over his forehead.
Grimly Sherlock put his hands under the large slab and heaved up. It fell with a loud thud, spraying even more dust and particles into the already suffocating, dense air. His voice was urgent as he asked, "Are you hurt? Can you move?"
Racking coughs shook John's body as it desperately tried to clear the dust and paint particles from his clogged airways.
The torch set up an eerie iridescent light around as Sherlock wedged it between pieces of the debris.
"Where does it hurt?" he demanded, his eyes darting over John's body, his touch purposeful as it tried to assess damage.
John coughed again, "Back…..back hurts. Hurts to…" coughing again, "hurts to breathe." He heaved, trying to get air in, "I was following you outside…explosion….the roof collapsed…..hit….hit my back on the edge of the bench before I fell and then that slab fell on me." His chest was struggling to expand, his breath coming in loud wheezes.
"Shh….don't try to talk, let me check."
Sherlock flinched as he saw a bone sticking out of John's right leg above his ankle, the muscles clinging to it now covered with dust particles. Grimly he called out the injuries aloud, "Open fracture of….looks like right tibia….. bleeding is minimal." His hands moved over John's legs, feeling, pressing as he came up. "Abdomen is soft." He felt the pulse on his left wrist as he moved up, "Weak but regular. Your breathing is laboured, did you hurt your chest? Did you hurt your neck."
John's body was shaking with coughs and loud whoops as he tried to answer. "Hurts….right chest," he gasped. He grabbed Sherlock's wrist, his voice held a mild panic, "Sherlock, I can't…..can't feel my legs. I don't feel any pain…..you said there is a fracture? Sherlock?"
John looked up as Sherlock's face loomed over him, eyes darting assessingly over his face, "I'm going to get you out of here, John. Stay with me." With resolute fingers he undid John's shirt and focussed on the chest movements for a few moments and noted that the right side was moving lesser than the left side. There was a large bruise on the lower part of the right rib cage. His hand moved to the neck and the pulse felt weak, thready. Long fingers dug into his cervical spine feeling for any tenderness. John was motionless, struggling to breathe, wheezing loudly.
"Does your neck hurt when I press here?"
John shook his head and gasped, "No."
"Good, that's good."
His hand fell away limply from Sherlock's wrist as he seemed to drift.
"JOHN…..stay with me…..JOHN?"
John breathing was getting more strained as his chest seemed to collapse in with each breath. Through the haze in his mind Sherlock's voice filtered through as though coming from a great distance.
"Listen to me soldier, you have to stay with me. Stay awake, John. I order you to."
John looked up with dreary, half-closed eyes as his consciousness drifted. Hurts…..hard to breathe….so easy to just let go…..can't feel my legs….spinal injury most likely…. Am I about to die? Never thought it would be like this…..still haven't told him how much I love him…it's okay to die like this….with Sherlock before my eyes….my eyes….can't keep them open…he wants me to keep my eyes open…sorry, Sherlock, I can't seem to obey your order….. I love you…..save me, Sherlock…breathe dammit…..Breathing…..Breathing is boring….boring….. his eyes drifted shut.
"John….listen to me. Stay awake. I know it's hard. Keep your eyes on me. John! John?"
Heart pounding with adrenaline and fear, Sherlock pulled his mobile out of his coat pocket. He jabbed a number on speed dial and put it on speaker phone, before placing the phone near his bent knees. He noted the breathing get more shallow as his hand went to the pulse again, his ears focussed on the ringing phone.
"Come on….Come on, pick up, PICK UP," he murmured as he removed his coat to allow freedom of his shoulder movements. "John, John are you with me? JOHN?" he yelled out.
John struggled to get the words out. One last gesture, one last effort. Then there will be no more need to breathe….he should know this…he deserves to know this…. I haven't left a note….isn't that what people do? Leave a note…...
"I….love you," his voice was a croak as tried to get the words out.
"Idiot!" Sherlock hissed fiercely. "You really think I don't know that…..John, please….John, stay conscious. Fight…."
The breathing had slowed down to almost nothing, the pulse was getting weaker, more irregular. John struggled to stay awake, to breathe…Sherlock…..Sherlock…. The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street…...Afghanistan or Iraq….….Want to see some more?...John drifted, his head lolling to one side, unresponsive.
Grimly Sherlock placed the heel of his left hand on John's chest and his other hand over it. He interlaced the fingers of both hands and said sharply, "JOHN? Don't make me do this, John. Come on, John. Fight, damn you. It cannot end like this. I won't permit it…"
"Sherlock? What's the matter?" Sherlock sagged with relief at the sound of Mycroft's voice over the phone. Finally!
He started chest compressions, urgency in his voice, "Mycroft, listen to me. John's down. We're in Tottenham, beyond Creighton Street, in an abandoned house between Moselle and the cemetery. Send help, NOW."
One….two…. three…. Four…. five…
True to form, Mycroft did not waste time with useless questions. Sherlock heard him bark orders instantly, the sounds of running footsteps and buzzers buzzing.
Twenty-seven….Twenty-eight…. twenty-nine….thirty…..
Sherlock counted on auto-pilot even as every sense was alert, the sensory data flowing in, being analysed, categorized, deduced with effortless ease by his brain. He bent down to tilt John's head and pinching his nose, created a seal between their lips and breathed out slowly, deeply, one eye on the chest moving up satisfactorily. He repeated the rescue breath.
One….two…. three…. Four…. five…
"I've started CPR, Mycroft. How long?"
"Give me a minute, Sherlock," Mycroft said firmly, as he rattled off orders in a calm, authoritative voice. "What's his status?"
Twenty-seven….Twenty-eight…. twenty-nine….thirty…..
Bending down again, one rescue breath…..second rescue breath…..
One….two…. three…. Four…. five…
"Can't feel a pulse, he's not breathing. Open right tibial fracture. Said his back hurt and he couldn't feel his legs before he lost consciousness." Sherlock's voice came in short bursts as he concentrated on administering emergency aid.
Twenty-seven….Twenty-eight…. twenty-nine….thirty…..
Bending down again, one rescue breath…..second rescue breath…..
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
Mycroft sighed with relief even as he watched Anthea talking on her mobile phone, gesticulating and barking orders.
It was almost five minutes later that Mycroft voice came back on, "Emergency services are on their way. Two ambulances have been dispatched and Anthea is mobilising a rescue helicopter. Is there any place it could land near where you are?"
Sherlock panted, "There is a patch of open ground about hundred metres from here."
He could feel his muscles tiring and resolutely clenched his jaw. Rescuer fatigue set in within as little as two minutes of commencing CPR reducing the efficacy of chest compressions, most compressions after this time becoming too shallow to be effective…Random facts read a long time ago floated into his brain. He renewed his efforts and tried to distance himself from the fact that the fragile wounded body under his relentless hands belonged to John.
Twenty-seven….Twenty-eight…. twenty-nine….thirty…..
Bending down again, one rescue breath…..second rescue breath…..meticulously checking that the chest rose with each prolonged, forceful breath that he exhaled into his friend's mouth. CPR in cardiac arrest after blunt force trauma to the chest is associated with a uniformly poor prognosis. Pulmonary or cardiac contusions, tension pneumothorax, pericardial tamponade are co-related with especially poor outcomes…random facts and figures continued to pour into his brain from that vast repository of information,his mind-palace.
Having set things in motion and with the knowledge that capable hands were co-ordinating the rescue, Mycroft sat down to focus on supporting his brother, his face grim as he ruthlessly clamped down on the worry chewing through him.
"What happened?" his voice was calm.
"Ellie Mitchell," Sherlock's brief reply.
One….two…. three…. Four…. five…
"I want him dead. And Willie Sanchez. Both dead," Sherlock voice was dangerously cold.
"It'll be taken care of, Sherlock," Mycroft promised.
"There was an explosion, old house, ceiling collapsed…." Sherlock panted.
Twenty-seven….Twenty-eight…. twenty-nine….thirty…..
One rescue breath…..second rescue breath…..
"How long has he been down?"
Instead of answering the question, Sherlock concentrated on his dwindling strength. Sweat flowed freely from his forehead, his dusty shirt clung to him with his perspiration, eyes watering despite his considerable focus…..John, John….stay with me…..there is so much life still left to live, to explore, to indulge…..so many cases to solve…..so many fights to fight…..John….John….
One….two…. three…. Four…. five…
It was a few seconds later that he gasped out, "Twelve minutes and twenty seconds." His voice was steady despite the fact that he was blinking back the tears of frustration and anxiety that were streaming through his eyes. Only Mycroft Holmes could have detected the undercurrent of panic in the terse response.
"Keep….."
Twenty-seven….Twenty-eight…. twenty-nine….thirty…..
One rescue breath…..second rescue breath…..chest rising…..
"Keep talking, Mycroft."
"Stay focussed, dear brother. Help is on the way"
One….two…. three…. Four…. five…
"Don't know….." Sherlock's voice was laced with exertion, "Don't know how long I can do this."
"What choice do you have?" Mycroft murmured drily. "I'm right here. Talk when you need to. Save your energy for John. It is going to be okay. I've mobilised everything. Help is on the way." Mycroft's voice was the calm tone he had used to comfort Sherlock as a child. Sherlock leaned on it and kept going.
Twenty-seven….Twenty-eight…. twenty-nine….thirty…..
One rescue breath…..second rescue breath…..
"Keep him alive, Sherlock. Keep that blood pumping to the brain. Five to six centimetres of compression only... Make them effective. Be careful with the pressure, try not to fracture a rib."
"I'm not a child, Mycroft," Sherlock snarled even as he fought the cramping exhaustion in his arm muscles.
One….two…. three…. Four…. five…
"Anthea and Michael are getting the hospital and specialists ready. Radiology and operating theatres are on stand-by. Everything that is humanly possible will be done for him, Sherlock. They should be there soon," Mycroft crooned reassuringly.
Minutes ticked by.
Twenty-seven….Twenty-eight…. twenty-nine….thirty…..
One rescue breath…..second rescue breath…..