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Chapter Twenty Four
"Doctor Watson"
Lestrade was at a loss. He stood outside the bedroom door, listening to John trying to calm Sherlock down. The detective was in a manic state, all control lost under what Lestrade could only assume was panic. Fear. Something shattered in the bedroom, and Lestrade flinched. Most likely anger too.
Mrs. Hudson had called him, a first. She had been tearful, scared, babbling about snipers, and John being threatened. Something about Sherlock not being well. Lestrade had flown out of the nightly debrief, ignoring Donovan as she called after him. Lestrade arrived at Baker Street within twenty minutes, and he knew Sherlock would never forgive him, but he had called Mycroft en route. The elder Holmes had listened quietly, and then told him to stay at Baker Street until reinforcements arrived. Lestrade knew the MI6 man didn't mean more police either.
"No John! They had you pinned to that chair! I could only watch! I sat and watched as they threatened you! I could do nothing! Me. I could do nothing to stop them!" Sherlock shouted, rage and fear ravaging his voice, making him sound inhuman.
Lestrade reached for the door handle, but hesitated. He knew John was fine, and that Sherlock would react badly to him interrupting. Lestrade couldn't make out John's reply, just the murmur of the doctor's voice, calming. Lestrade backed away from the door, heading back out to the front room. Mrs. Hudson sat on the couch, sniffling.
"You alright?" Lestrade asked, sitting next to the old woman, hand rubbing soothing circles on her shoulder.
"I think so. I didn't understand what was happening at first. Sherlock…" Mrs. Hudson wiped at her cheeks, and sat up straighter. "My boy knew right away what was happening, he told me to hold still."
"I'm sure that was the best thing to do. Mycroft's men are clearing the buildings around Baker Street. I don't think they stuck around anyways." Lestrade said, checking his mobile for any texts from the surveillance team. Mycroft had texted him, told him his people were sweeping the area, and to stay inside until they told him it was clear. Nothing as of yet.
"I don't understand any of this." Mrs. Hudson sat up straight, wiping her hands on her thighs. She looked at Lestrade, and he caught a glimmer of steel in the fragile woman next to him. "Are my boys in trouble?"
Lestrade fought back the impulse to smile, knowing she wouldn't appreciate his thoughts on how charming she was when trying to be brave.
"Looks like it. But you know those two; they can handle it." Lestrade told her, ignoring the fact that Sherlock was having a minor meltdown, and God knows how John was handling things.
His mobile chirped, vibrating in his pocket. Lestrade pulled it out quickly, checking to see if he had any news yet. It was from the surveillance team; their backup had arrived, and the surrounding area was clear. No signs of snipers, or unusual activity. Mycroft had ordered them to stay on guard, within a one block radius.
Lestrade sighed in relief, and leaned back on the couch. "It's ok, the sweeper teams cleared the area." He squeezed her shoulder once more, and she patted his hand in thanks. He struggled up from the comfy seat, and dreaded walking back down that hallway. He heard another crash from down the hall, and decided he better brave knocking.
Sherlock was shaking, nerves on fire. He stood over the shattered remains of a specimen case, glass littering the floor, shards shining in the light from the lamps. John cussed under his breath, and moved to Sherlock's side, grabbing his hand. Sherlock swallowed back his chaotic emotions, struggling for control. He had lost it once the snipers had withdrawn; Sherlock barely remembered yelling at Mrs. Hudson to stay away from the windows, to call Lestrade. Sherlock had seized John's arm in a vise like grip and dragged him into the dubious security of the bedroom and locked the door. John had barely managed to get half of the story out before Sherlock dissolved in to a fit.
John was safe, alive. Only because they had spared him. Sherlock had been helpless, rendered useless by fear. He knew logically that he had done the only thing he could, that any action of his part would have resulted in John's death. That was the whole point; proving to Sherlock that he wasn't the one in control. They were. Death and Mary.
Sherlock paid no attention to the glass shard imbedded in his knuckle, nor to the pain and blood. John was swearing at him, but his hands were gentle as he tugged Sherlock around, and made him sit on the bed. John examined his hand, and he flinched when he saw the glass piece buried in his lover's hand.
"You need stitches, some antibiotics. I'll need my bag. Stay here." John told him, turning for the door. Sherlock reached out for his arm, afraid to let John leave. "Sherlock, love, I'll be fine, my bag's in the front room."
"No." Just one word was all he could manage, and his skin felt cold, sweat chilling him all over his body. His grip smeared blood over John's forearm, and Sherlock didn't notice. John looked down at his lover, and whatever he saw in Sherlock's face made him pale, his eyes widen. John was torn. Sherlock needed medical attention, but John knew he couldn't leave the room without Sherlock losing it further.
Sherlock barely registered the soft knock at the bedroom door. He saw only John, refusing to take his eyes off his doctor. John tore his eyes away, and looked to the door.
"Who is it?" He asked softly, being careful not to be too loud. Sherlock was on the edge.
"It's Greg, the area's clear. You two okay in there?" Lestrade asked through the door, his voice nervous.
"Um, yeah. One sec." John looked down at Sherlock's hand, blood still dripping in a steady beat onto his arm, to the floor. There was growing puddle of it under his arm, and several large stains on Sherlock's leg, the bed. John stepped away, just one step, letting Sherlock keep his grip and he reached out, and unlocked the door. He popped it open, and he saw Lestrade through the gap, a concerned look on his face.
"We had a minor accident; can you get my medical bag from the front room? It's on the desk." John asked quietly, staying calm, doing everything slow. Lestrade's eyes darted past John to Sherlock, and the blood. His eyes widened in shock, and he nodded once before disappearing.
Sherlock was cold, and he was having trouble focusing. His thoughts had stilled, his mind fuzzy, and he kept his eyes on John. He knew that if he didn't John would disappear. A part of him dimly recognized he was going into shock, but he didn't care. The warmth of his lover's skin under his hand was the only thing he needed. John, with one arm, slowly worked Sherlock out of his suit jacket, and the only time Sherlock let go off John's arm was when John pried his fingers off one at a time, pulling the jacket away as he did it. He gripped John's arm as soon as John tossed the jacket to the side, forgotten before it hit the floor.
Lestrade was back in a flash, stepping into the room as John waved him in. Lestrade swore under his breath at the sight of Sherlock's hand, the glass protruding from his knuckle. It was easily over an inch long, nestled between the joints of Sherlock's hand. Blood welled out around the glass, dripping to the floor.
"Christ! You gonna take care of that here?" Lestrade asked, as John opened the bag, digging through it one-handed. John pulled out his forceps, clamps, needles, and the medical thread for stitches. He pulled open the tiny pocket hidden on the inside, saw he still had some morphine, and antibiotics buried in gauze wrapping. Sherlock wasn't even paying attention; he just kept his gaze on John.
"Yeah, no choice. Don't think I could get him to cooperate with an ambulance, he isn't stable." John told Lestrade, and he knew Sherlock was in a bad way as the detective didn't even react to what he said. Nothing. It wasn't the blood loss, Sherlock was bleeding badly, but he was still well under a pint in what had bled out already. It was his mental state that worried the doctor. John had a hunch that if he went to leave the room, Sherlock would react very badly. "I'm going to need your help."
"Sure. Tell me what to do."
"Have Mrs. Hudson get some towels, hot water, then come right back here."
Lestrade left, and John heard him talking to Mrs. Hudson. She sounded upset, but John couldn't worry about her now. John moved quickly, grabbing Sherlock's free hand, and making his detective grip his belt, tucked his fingers into his waistband. Sherlock instinctively gripped tightly onto John's belt, fingers clutching. John moved in close, standing between Sherlock's knees, and as soon as he did, Sherlock relaxed, his forehead lowering to rest on John's stomach. He sighed, and almost went completely limp. John had been expecting that, and braced his detective against him. John was able to hold Sherlock up, and use both hands again. He quickly pulled on some gloves, and went to work.
John stepped into doctor mode seamlessly, evaluating and inspecting the injury. The glass shard was exactly centered between the largest knuckle and the one to the outside of it. He gently felt around it, down the length, and determined that it hadn't severed anything. Blood gushed out every time he did that, and Sherlock made no reaction. His detective huddled against his stomach and hips, his curls obscuring his face. John worried there might be fragments, but he wouldn't be able to determine if the piece was intact until he pulled it out.
Lestrade came back, and he had the hot water and towels.
"Wet those down, and hand me one. I need to wash this blood away so I can see it clearer." John instructed, and Lestrade hurriedly did as he asked. John used the warm damp towel and gently wiped away at the blood, closely examining the wound. "Pull on a pair of gloves, and come around to his other side, hold his arm up for me."
John needed to be able to use both hands for pulling out the shard, and he couldn't do that and hold up the arm too. Lestrade quickly pulled on a pair of bright blue gloves, and carefully sat next to Sherlock. Lestrade looked slightly uncomfortable, eyeing Sherlock as if the detective might bite him for getting so close. John laughed quietly, and shot Lestrade an amused look.
"Don't worry Greg, he doesn't bite that hard." John said, and chuckled when Lestrade looked confused before his face got red in understanding. Lestrade firmly grasped Sherlock's arm, and held it up. John was able to let go, and cleaned the wound off as best he could. The blood flow had slowed, just seeping now.
"He didn't hit an artery, thankfully. I should be able to stitch him up just fine here. You got him? He might jerk away when I start."
"Um, sure. Go ahead." Lestrade didn't sound so sure, but John took him at his word, and using the forceps, took hold of the end sticking out of the flesh and swiftly pulled it out. There was no resistance, which there would have been if it had broken apart in Sherlock's hand. John dropped the shard in the hot water bowl, and wiped away at the fresh blood. He used the forceps to gently examine the wound, and he felt no contact on any smaller shards that may have been left behind when he pulled out the larger piece. Sherlock hadn't reacted at all, not even a twitch when John pulled it out. John didn't know if that should worry him or not, but he decided it didn't matter, Sherlock wasn't fighting him.
Mrs. Hudson had come in, and she was quietly sweeping up the glass from the destroyed case. John ignored her, concentrating on Sherlock. She gasped in dismay at the blood on the floor, and said something about mopping. John just hoped she'd wait until he was done.
"No fragments, nothing severed, fucking lucky, Sherlock." John knew Sherlock couldn't hear him; John was certain Sherlock was out. His pulse was steady though, John wasn't worried. John broke the seal on a sterile suture set, and he swiftly threaded one of the needles, the curved, sharp steel glinting wickedly under the light. John stitched up the injury, smirking when Lestrade had to look away, face almost as pale as Sherlock's.
"Almost done, no passing out. Two incoherent men in my bedroom would be too much." John said, and Lestrade made a face at him. The stitching was easy; John had fixed up far worse, in far nastier conditions. No bombs going off, no dust everywhere, fingers aren't numb from the cold, and no one is shooting at me! Well, maybe not quite true on that last one.
"He's out, Greg. Tell me what happened, I didn't get much from him before he snapped." John asked as he continued to stitch the gash back together.
"Someone aimed two laser sighted sniper rifles through the window at you while you were sleeping, and at Sherlock while he was at the table. Only for a few minutes, but it was enough to make Sherlock go, well, like this." Lestrade said. Sherlock was still out, his face firmly planted in John's stomach. The fingers of his uninjured hand were still tucked under John's belt, arm limp.
"It was dreadful! Horrible! Sherlock couldn't pull his eyes off you the whole time!" Mrs. Hudson started to sniffle again, and she left the room to compose herself.
"Sounds pretty dreadful, glad I was asleep." John mused, examining his last stitch. Proud of his work, and very thankful Sherlock had cooperated, John wiped away the last of the blood, and patted the skin dry. "I'll wrap this up, give him some morphine to keep him down, some antibiotics, and he'll be fine. Well, until he punches something else, at least."
John wrapped Sherlock's hand in bandages, careful not to overdo it as Sherlock would get annoyed by it faster and rip it off. "Hold his arm for me, keep it up, we don't want it to start bleeding through the stitches." Lestrade gingerly held up Sherlock's arm, and John was touched by the care the inspector was using. John pulled off his gloves, and wiped his hands, not caring about the blood drying all over his arm, his clothing.
"Sherlock? You still passed out?" John gently ran his hands through Sherlock's curls, massaging his temples. No response. "Ok he's still out, hold him up while I get the meds ready."
Lestrade wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist, and held him up while John slowly freed himself. Sherlock was limp, and John was starting to get worried, just a bit. If he had passed out normally, he should've been coming around by now, surely. John opened two sterile syringes, and knowing Sherlock's dosage by heart, filled the appropriate amounts. John sighed, and realized with Sherlock out like he was, and his shirts being tailored so exactly to his lean frame, he wouldn't be able to roll his sleeves up high enough.
"He is not going to be happy." John groaned as he got out his shears, and without hesitation, cut away at the fine white shirt. Lestrade looked amused, and John snickered softly as he gleefully stripped Sherlock down to his waist. Smooth, pale, nearly translucent skin covered lean, firm muscles, and John had to be careful he didn't get distracted. Sherlock was a gorgeous sight, even unconscious and bloody. He sterilized a spot on Sherlock's upper arm, and jabbed him quickly with the syringes. John cocked a brow at Lestrade, the inspector was nearly green, and looking away once he saw what John was doing.
"Thank you for your help, Greg. This would have been a lot harder without you." John said, putting the used syringes back in their packages, knowing he would have to dispose of them before Sherlock came back around. Can't be too careful with a recovering addict. "The morphine will keep him down while I clean up, set the room back to rights."
"Not a problem, John. Glad I could do something. I should probably check on the security detail outside." Lestrade gently lowered Sherlock to the bed, the detective unresponsive, still unconscious. Lestrade cast one last concerned look at Sherlock before quietly leaving.
John quickly cleaned up, packing his gear away. He grabbed the syringes, and ran downstairs, through Mrs. Hudson's flat, and outside to the trash bins. John looked up and down the alley, up at the roof, and saw nothing. He bent the needles against the metal bins, rendering them useless, before tossing them in the bins and dashing back inside. He wasn't going to tell Sherlock he went outside, no point in provoking his patient. He ran back upstairs, and went straight for the bedroom.
Sherlock was still out, and the morphine would have taken hold by now. John knew he hadn't needed to use it; the pain would have been manageable for Sherlock. He used it to keep Sherlock asleep, calm. Sherlock had snapped, had a minor breakdown. The pain relief was just a bonus. He knew it was dangerous, Sherlock used to be addicted to opiates. John hoped that he hadn't made a mistake.
John moved over as Mrs. Hudson came in, a damp mop in hand. She swiped it over the floor, scrubbing at the dried blood.
"John dear, get him covered up, he'll catch cold." She told him, using her best Mum-voice on him. John smiled, and tugged Sherlock until he was lined up on the bed correctly. He folded a blanket over his lover, and he would wait until Mrs. Hudson was gone before he stripped Sherlock down. She was determined to get the floor clean, and John decided to take a shower while she attacked the floor.
John took a quick shower, unwilling to leave Sherlock's side for too long. He changed into clean clothes before leaving the bathroom, glad he had, as they had another visitor. Lestrade was back, and talking quietly to Mycroft, both of them standing in the front room. John had known since Baskerville that Mycroft knew Lestrade, but he had never seen them together. John stood at the bathroom door, and just watched. Neither of them had seen him yet, and Lestrade was standing very close to Mycroft's shoulder, their heads bent, speaking low to each other. Mycroft was listening carefully, and nodding occasionally to whatever Lestrade was telling him. It was the look on Mycroft's face that made John break out into a huge smile. The elder Holmes actually looked human, face unguarded, attitude gone. Mycroft was paying attention to Lestrade with an intensity John had yet to see him use for anyone other than Sherlock. Lestrade shifted on his feet, somehow inching closer to Mycroft. John bit his lip, and backed slowly away, towards the open bedroom door, hoping to make it through without spoiling the unexpected moment he was witnessing.
Whoa. This is surreal. Are they… what the hell are they? Not judging, no judging! Crap, Mycroft just saw me! John nodded at Mycroft, just as he crossed the bedroom threshold. The elder Holmes stood up straight, face shuttering away, and he was instantly the Iceman again. Lestrade turned, and saw John, somehow making the fact he stepped a few feet away from Mycroft look very natural. John just held up a hand, and looked into the bedroom. Sherlock was still asleep, and his hand hadn't started to bleed again. John stepped out of the room, and closed the door behind him.
He walked out to join them, pretending he hadn't seen a thing.
"Mycroft, wasn't expecting you." John said, looking at Sherlock's brother, wondering why he was there.
"Well, yes, I wasn't expecting snipers to send my brother into a tailspin." Mycroft's attitude was back, and John fought hard not to react. Mycroft was an ass, but that didn't mean he had to be one too. "Is he still unconscious?"
"He'll be fine. Are we safe here?" John asked, refusing to discuss Sherlock's current state.
"My men cleared the area. We found where they were, the next floor up across the street. We closed off access to that spot, the building has been restricted, and we have teams around all streets accessing Baker Street keeping watch. They will not get through again." Mycroft said, with an attitude that clearly said this was somehow, in some way John's fault.
John had an epiphany of sorts, in that moment. Mycroft had spent the entirety of his life trying to control and, in some ways, protect Sherlock. Almost as soon as Sherlock came back from the dead, Sherlock had cast off what little influence Mycroft had, and attached himself firmly to John, in a way he never had with anyone, ever. Mycroft was scared. Jealous and scared, and the bugger had the audacity to be in denial about it. He most likely believed that this was all avoidable if Sherlock hadn't gotten involved with John. For a natural-born genius, Mycroft was a complete idiot.
John ignored Mycroft, like he would a patient who was complaining about some minor ache when the guy next to him was bleeding out. Sherlock was his to care for now. Forever.
"Then I guess we'll be staying here, I'll see what Sherl' wants to do in the morning. Thank you both, I seriously appreciate it. Greg, you were invaluable, thank you. Mycroft, I'm sure I'll be seeing you soon." John nodded to both men, politely indicating they should go. Lestrade got the hint, clapping John on the shoulder as he went for the door. Mycroft just gave John a disbelieving look, like he couldn't believe he was being dismissed at all.
John just gave him a sedate smile, hands tucked into his pockets, and waited. Mycroft tried staring him down, but John had lived with Sherlock for years, and the elder Holmes had nothing on the younger. His smile got bigger as Mycroft caved, and with a small nod, he followed the Inspector out of the flat.
John sighed in relief, and went to the kitchen. He was starving, and Sherlock would be out for a long while. Fully expecting a severed head, or some thumbs, John pulled open the door, and to his everlasting relief, saw no immediate signs of human body parts. He did see the ham sandwiches, and blessing Mrs. Hudson impulse to be a mother hen, dived on them.