Within seconds of the shot being fired Gregson pulled his gun from its holster and held it before him, aiming it across the street where he felt the sound has come from. The sound of several panicked pedestrians shouting and rushing across the road to the other side of the street only made it more difficult for Gregson to ascertain exactly where the shot had been fired from. But based on where they had been standing, the source was most likely the almost vacant car park across the street.
"Did you see a shooter?" Gregson called, pivoting as his alert eyes darted across the street. As he finished posing his question, he considered how remarkably silent and still his associate had been in the past few seconds, which was not consistent with his character. "Holmes" Gregson called, turning to his side and facing the consulting detective, and lowering his gun and re-holstering it as he saw the sight before him. Sherlock was standing still on the spot, his head slightly low as he pressed his hand tightly to his left shoulder, as blood poured between his fingers. "Holmes!" Gregson yelled, holding the paling detective by his right arm and side as he began to lose his balance. Sherlock had lost over a pint of blood so far, and was beginning to feel shaken and dizzy.
"Watson" he groaned, grimacing as the sharp, searing pain in his shoulder increased.
"Hold on, Holmes, we're gonna get you to a hospital" Gregson stated authoritatively, reaching for his radio as he spoke.
"No" Sherlock hissed, wrenching himself from the Captain's grasp. "I must-"
"The only thing we are gonna do is get you some medical attention, got it?" Gregson stated, the authority of his position entering his tone.
"No" Sherlock returned, removing his scarf with a fierce tug, before scrunching it up and holding it to his shoulder. "I must go to Watson, she could be in danger."
"I'll have some guys sent to her" Gregson offered. "But we need to get you to a hospital" he continued, as Sherlock walked swiftly past him, his body tense and slightly rigid with the pain.
"I am not leaving her to the mercy of a psychotic serial killer whilst I get some inept young med-student exposing me to infection and incompetence!" Sherlock yelled, his pale face becoming clammy as he stared hard at Captain Gregson. Sherlock signalled to a passing taxi, who stopped before him, peering through the window at the agitated man before him. Sherlock exhaled sharply, before turning back to his colleague with a calmer expression. "I think we can be in little doubt as to who is behind this shooting, Captain. I suggest that you are your officers search the parking lot and continue the search for Maria Lennard. The bullet was a through and through, find it, send it to ballistics and work from there" he stated, grimacing once more as the pain returned to him. Gregson watched Sherlock with concern, rubbing his head in frustration as he considered what he was suggesting. He knew that Sherlock would not go to hospital, and his recommendations about what Gregson's next actions should be were sound. Sherlock had lost a lot of blood, but the scarf seemed to be stemming it for the moment. He was pale and visibly shaking, but regardless, it was clear that he would not go anywhere but back to Joan. He wanted to make sure she was safe and, in all honesty, Gregson didn't blame him. And although he would never admit it, he was impressed.
"Fine, go" he said reluctantly. "But at least let me send a patrol car first to-"
"No" Sherlock returned instantly. "No, no one must learn of the address, her safety depends on it. Maria Lennard could not have known that we were meeting Greta Mathers today at this time, so it is possible that followed me from the police station. She won't be on the scene, she would not risk capture. But she could still be close."
"Alright, alright I get it" Gregson stated, walking past him and holding the taxi door open for him. "Just call me as soon as you get there, alright? Let me know you're both okay." Sherlock grimaced once more, his jaw tightening as he attempted to deal with the pain, as he walked past Gregson and towards the waiting cab.
"Of course" he hissed, easing himself into the back seat.
"I mean it, Holmes" Gregson stated in a warning tone before slamming the door. Sherlock turned towards him and nodded once, before giving the taxi driver the name of the street five blocks from the library. As the car cruised towards its location at a speed Sherlock was far from content with, he reached into his pocket and extracted his phone, speed-dialling Alfredo.
"Alfredo" he began, clenching his teeth as he attempted to deal with the pain, which now felt like a throbbing, tearing sensation which was all too familiar. "Alfredo, I need you to listen very carefully" he continued, adjusting his hold on the scarf, which was now completely saturated with blood. The sticky red liquid was seeping through the material and running down his fingers, revealing that the bleeding had increased. The fact that he was suffering from light-headedness and blurred vision confirmed that his condition was deteriorating, and in a few minutes it was possible he would go into shock. He ground his teeth against the pain, and was vaguely aware of Alfredo's voice calling his name, as the taxi driver cast constant glances in the mirror towards him. Sherlock needed to ensure that Alfredo was on his guard, but he did not wish to reveal that he had been shot. Alfredo would never be able to conceal that information from Joan, whose skills in perception and body language almost equalled his own. "I want you to lock the doors and secure the rooms that you are both in. Check the camera footage for the building and surrounding areas, including the hidden cameras I showed you several months ago. I will be with you both presently" he breathed, hanging up as the pain overwhelmed him. Blood was now pouring through the makeshift compress and down his arm, resulting in Sherlock holding the item as tightly against him as he could, causing him to throw back his head and release a cry of pain through gritted teeth. The taxi driver's eyes appeared in the rear-view mirror, and Sherlock examined him with a weary, pained expression.
"You alright, my man?" he asked, his eyes drifting from the mirror to the road and back again. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and threw his head back, as he pushed his body into the back seat of the taxi, which smelled of popcorn, beer and stale sweat.
"Wonderful" he hissed, closing his eyes as his vision became to blur. He could sense that his words were becoming slurred and his breathing erratic, but they were less than a minute from the address Sherlock had given him. Despite wishing to respond with a cutting yet ingenious remark, Sherlock found that all his faculties were presently devoted to keeping him conscious and functioning. Stronger than his bodily will or his physical abilities was the sound of the name of his partner, which was reverberating off the walls of his racing mind. As soon as the taxi pulled up at the street, Sherlock used all of his energy to heave himself forwards, throw a twenty dollar bill at the driver, and leave the vehicle without a word. He walked as briskly as he could down alleyways and across roads before he reached the entrance to the library. He rose his bloodied hand to type in the security code which opened the door, which he wrenched over with all the force he was able to muster, slamming it securely shut behind him. As soon as he entered the building, he found himself armed with strength that he feared he had lost due to his injury. Sherlock held his arm tightly to him, gritting his teeth through the pain as he ambled down the corridor, leaving a bloody trail in his wake. He reached the door to the rooms where Watson an Alfredo were safely held, typing in a different security code, and pulling the door open as the alarm system beeped in consent.
As soon as Sherlock entered the room he found himself staring at Alfredo and Joan, who were standing opposite each other in the centre of the room. Alfredo had a confused and slightly worried expression on his face, and Joan wore resolute look of concern, which deepened as she turned to the sound of the opening door, and found herself facing her injured partner.
"Sherlock!" she called breathlessly, turning from Alfredo and rushing towards him. Despite being eight months pregnant, Joan reached him within seconds, and before he could open his mouth to offer her some dismissive words in relation to his injury, or a reassuring statement of the same type, he found the pain and blood-loss overwhelm him completely. As Joan reached him, she placed one hand on his uninjured shoulder and the other just beneath the hand he had clasped tightly to his injured shoulder. Before Joan could examine the wound, the gentle feeling of her fingertips upon him broke down the barriers of strength he was forced to create, and he felt himself falling to the ground.
Joan called his name once more, before hooking her arms beneath his shoulders and pressing her body tightly to his as she attempted to lead him to a chair. Sherlock felt Joan's curved stomach pressed against his own as she attempted to hold him upright, before he was consumed by darkness.
"Whoa, whoa!" called Alfredo, rushing towards them both and pulling Sherlock from Joan's grasp. "You really think you should be doing that, given your-" he paused, inwardly chastising himself at his words.
"My what?" she asked, turning her head from Sherlock to Alfredo. Thankfully her concern for her injured and now unconscious partner diverted her attention from Alfredo's question, and she turned back towards Sherlock, placing her fingers lightly on his neck. "His pulse is thready, I need to look at his shoulder" she began, as Alfredo pulled Sherlock towards him. "Take him to the bedroom, lie him down" she ordered, her tone a mixture of fear and medical experience. Alfredo willingly complied, half-hoisting Sherlock across his shoulder and carrying the injured man across the room to the bedroom. As he lay him down on the bed, he was vaguely aware of Joan moving around him, pulling a brown battered suitcase out from beneath the bed, placing it onto a chair and opening it. She rummaged through it, pulling out several items and placing them on the bedside table, before turning on the lamp and pulling on some gloves. Joan removed the scarf from Sherlock's arm and tore the fabric of his shirt from his body. There was too much blood for her to see what was happening, although it was fairly obvious. Her eyes darted from his injury to his face, which was pale, taut and covered in a think layer of sweat. She could feel him trembling slightly beneath her hands which, combined with the nature of his injuries and his condition, was symptomatic of shock. Joan grabbed a towel from the drawer and pressed it to his arm before turning back to Alfredo, who was watching the scene with wide eyes. "I need to clean the wound before I can attend to it, can you get me a bowl of hot water?" Alfredo nodded, before turning towards the door, pausing, and looking back towards Joan.
"Shouldn't we get him to the hospital?" he asked tentatively, as Joan pressed the towel to Sherlock's wound, wiped away some of the blood and attempted to examine it once more.
"There's no time" she responded simply, her eyes not leaving Sherlock's arm as she continued with her ministrations. "It looks like he's severed his axillary artery, he'd bleed out before he reached the OR" she continued, removing the towel from his arm and looking into the wound, which confirmed her diagnosis. "Please hurry" she requested in a low, nervous tone as she turned towards him. Alfredo nodded in agreement before disappearing from the room. Joan reached across to the table and picked up a scalpel, some tweezers, cotton wadding and the equipment required for stitching. She then adjusted the angle of the lamp so it was shining upon his wound, and continued to press the bloodied towel to him, so that it allowed her a temporary glance at his severed artery. "You should've gone straight to the hospital" she murmured, as she used the surgical instruments to open his wound further to examine the severed artery more closely. "What were you thinking?" she asked, placing the cotton wadding into the wound to stem the bleeding. "And what is it with you and getting shot in the left shoulder?"
"Must be a bullet magnet" came the slurred voice of her companion, which caused her to pause in her actions, and gaze upon him with concern. Sherlock was still incredibly pale and covered in a thin layer of sweat. His body was trembling beneath her touch, and yet, his eyes were open a fraction, and gazing at her intently. Joan clamped the artery and was relieved to notice that the bleeding subsided. Before stitching the artery and the bullet wound, she leaned over him and examined him closely. His face, his clamminess, his pallor, and the sharp inhalations of breath followed by a temporary tension of his muscles. But of all of this, the thing that she mainly focused on was his eyes. The deep pools of hazel which were staring at her languidly, as if analysing her, and trying to gage her current state. Before he could complete his deductions, she spoke.
"I should give you something for the pain" she stated, despite already knowing his response. Sherlock continued to watch her for a few moments, his half-closed eyes focusing on her own, before he gritted his teeth and tensed once more.
"'fraid not, Watson" he hissed through his clenched teeth. "It's fine" he continued, in a manner which made Joan aware of the fact that he was using small, brief utterances instead of longer, more detailed explanations. It was because of his pain. As Joan looked down upon him, she found herself amazed; not only at the fact that he was not screaming in agony, but that he had regained a level of consciousness. The pain must be excruciating. "Axillary artery?" he asked, leaning back and closing his eyes as he inhaled deeply in order to deal with the pain.
"Yes" she replied simply, as he nodded once and leaned back into the pillows. "What happened?" Sherlock's eyes flickered open slightly, and he watched her for a moment before responding.
"Outside Mathers' apartment" he stated between sharp intakes of breath. His word were becoming increasingly slurred, and he was shaking and blinking rapidly. "Possibly Lennard, can't-"
"Sherlock, Sherlock I need you to be quiet, still, okay?" she stated simply, as she removed the cotton wadding from his wound and pressed the towel around it. "I need you to stay with me, Sherlock, you're going in to shock" she stated authoritatively, pressing the towel upon his arm as she leaned over him. Sherlock's breathing was becoming more laboured, and his entire body was tense and rigid. "Sherlock" she called, her voice guiding him through his pain and back to his reality. "Sherlock, stay with me" she ordered. But it was no use. Even the sound of her voice was not enough to compensate for the blood loss, pain and trauma. Despite how hard he fought against it, Sherlock's eyes slowly drifted shut, and he was unconscious once more. "Damnit" Joan whispered, as Alfredo re-entered the room.
"What can I do?" he asked, placing the bowl of hot water upon the bedside table. Joan did not respond immediately, her eyes locked on the pale and shivering body of her partner, as Alfredo's words resonated in her mind. "Miss Watson?"
"Blankets" she murmured, pressing down upon the towel on Sherlock's wound as she spoke. "He's going in to shock, we need to keep him warm whilst I fix his arm. I'll stitch the severed artery, close the wound and then examine his back-"
"His back?"
"It's a through-and-through" Joan explained. "There's not much blood on the bedding from his back, so it was probably a clean exit, but it will still need to be attended to" she returned, her eyes not leaving her partner as she spoke. "I'm also gonna hook him up to an IV, he needs to replace the fluids he's lost."
"Do you have that stuff here?" Alfredo asked, taking a step closer to his injured sponsee.
"Yeah" she responded simply. "We have medical supplies to deal with surgical and non-surgical emergencies, and enough fluids to assist at least five people" she explained, removing the towel and examining his wound once more. "Sherlock insisted." Alfredo watched as Joan picked up some surgical instruments and began to tend to the severed artery. "This is very delicate and will take a while. Hopefully he will begin to stabilise once the wound is dealt with and we replace the fluids he's lost."
"You got it" Alfredo replied, before turning and leaving the room once more. Joan titled her head to the side briefly as she registered him leaving, before turning back to her partner and dealing with his wound.
Joan was standing over her partner, undertaking her delicate and precise work with incredibly care, for two hours before she had fixed the artery and stitched the entrance wound. Her attentions had been completely focused upon her ailing partner, until a worried phone call from Captain Gregson forced her to pause for a moment. He informed her of the incidents surrounding the shooting, and Joan assured him that her partner would be fine. The fluids and blankets seemed to have had a positive affect upon Sherlock, who was recovering slowly. He was still incredibly pale, and undoubtedly in an unimaginable amount of pain, but his expression had softened slightly, and his breathing was becoming much less laboured. Joan placed some gauze and bandage over the entrance wound, taping it to his skin, before depositing her bloodied surgical instruments into a silver tray by her side, and replacing his saline bag.
"We need to turn him over" she stated simply, as Alfredo moved beside her.
"Are you alright?" he asked kindly. His tone and his question aroused her curiosity, and despite her attentions being devoted almost entirely upon Sherlock, she found herself unable to simply dismiss his question.
"Of course, why?" she asked, turning to meet him with a calm and sombre expression. Alfredo watched her for a moment, meeting her eyes confidently with his own, before attempting to consider the best way to continue their conversation.
"Working on someone you care about, someone you're close to, can't be easy" he began. Joan nodded in assent, before turning back towards Sherlock and placing her hand upon his right arm. "It's... been a long night" Alfredo continued casually. "You've been on your feet for almost three hours, and this work is precise and tiring." He paused for a few moments, and Joan ran her hand down Sherlock's arm and towards his wrist, taking his pulse and breathing in a sigh of relief.
"I did longer stints in the hospital when I was a surgeon" she explained. "Despite the circumstances, this procedure is not as complication as several I had to perform."
"What happens next?" Alfredo asked gently.
"I need to deal with the exit wound, then we need to monitor him. His breathing is recovering and his pulse-rate is slightly elevated, but that's to be expected" she began, tilting her head as she watched him rest. Joan removed her hands from him and arranged the instruments and items that she needed on the bedside table as she spoke. "We'll need to monitor him throughout the night." Alfredo nodded towards Joan's back, and watched as her deft and determined movements demonstrated both her skill and her dedication. But she was heavily pregnant, had barely slept, and was now overcome by worry for her close friend who she was currently operating on. Although he had no wish to pry, he was worried about her. As a sponsor, he knew how to look out for aggravating factors that could cause a person's health or well-being to deteriorate. And he knew that, if Joan stayed up all night with Sherlock after having spent the best of three hours operating on him, her health and well-being could be in danger. And so could her baby's.
"I can do that" Alfredo offered immediately. "Why don't you fix him up then rest, yeah? I can come and get you if there's a problem." Joan paused for a moment, placing the scalpel back upon the cloth as she turned towards Alfredo.
"Are you okay?" she asked, repeating his question from earlier. "What's going on, Alfredo?" she continued gently. Alfredo watched her for a moment, and considered informing her that he knew her secret. But after finding his attention drawn to the injured man on the bed, he found himself immediately reconsidering this idea, and reprimanding himself for even having had entertained it in the first place.
"Yeah, sorry, I-" he began, as Joan's eyes ran across his face analytically in a manner which reminded him very much of her former mentor. "I just feel a bit useless, y'know? I mean, you're the doctor fixin' him up, and I'm the hot-water-and-blankets boy." Joan's kind eyes softened and she lowered her head as looked upon him, her eyes meeting his and resting there.
"Your help has been invaluable, Alfredo" she stated kindly. "I couldn't have done this by myself." Alfredo smiled slightly, the left side of his mouth rising as he looked at her.
"Now we both know that ain't true" he stated, raising his eyebrows as he spoke. "But thank you."
"I mean it" she responded, her voice low and gentle, "really, I do." She was quiet for a few moments as she allowed him to process her words, which she hoped he believed. She certainly did. It took everything she had not to break down completely at seeing Sherlock like this, and Alfredo's presence was both a reassurance and an asset. "Will you help me turn him over?"
"Sure" Alfredo returned immediately. He walked from Joan and stood at the other side of Sherlock. At Joan's request, he placed one hand on Sherlock's side and the other on his uninjured shoulder, as she placed one hand beneath his injury, and the other on his back. They were going to turn him carefully onto his right side, where Alfredo would hold him steadily, so that she could tend to the exit wound. Joan placed her hand gently beneath his injury and took a few steps forward, leaning over him so closely that their bodies were only inches apart. She could feel the warmth resonating from his skin and warming her own.
Despite having been unconscious for the best part of two hours, the sudden sensation of being turned to the side partially roused Sherlock, who shook and resisted as he was moved. He attempted to push Alfredo out the way with his right arm, his whole body tensing as he muttered some indecipherable words and sounds, as he continued to resist their efforts to move him.
"It could be a delirium associated with his blood loss and the pain. It's common in trauma" Joan explained, leaning over him and reaching for his right arm as she did so. "Sherlock, Sherlock can you hear me?" she asked. As she did so, she removed her hand from his left arm and attempted to secure his body. But the moment her hands left his left arm, she felt him move it back and forth, lifting it despite the pain, and splaying his fingers as he reached forth and then back. "Sherlock, Sherlock stop, I need you to be-" In an attempt to secure him safely, Joan moved so close to him that her stomach was pressed against his back. Sherlock's left arm continued to flail, as his body tensed and his breathing became erratic. But after a moment, his left arm moved back and came into contact with her stomach. The touch was gentle and temporary, due to Sherlock's weakness. After moving forward once more, Sherlock's arm hovered in the air for a few moments, before falling weakly down upon his side. His flailing stopped and his tension abated slightly, much to the relief of Joan and Alfredo. But before they could continue in moving him into an appropriate position, Sherlock's left arm rose from his side and moved back once more, his splayed fingers connected with the centre of her stomach, before running down them in a slow yet controlled manner. She was so surprised at the contact, and at the strong and apparently deliberate movement, that Joan did not react immediately. Instead, she remained perfectly still as his hand drifted down her stomach. As often happened when Sherlock touched her abdomen, Joan could feel the baby begin to kick strongly against his hand, which lingered for a moment, before falling down. From the other side of the bed, Alfredo observed with interest how Sherlock's expression softened slightly at this contact, and his tense body began to relax. Joan reached for his hand and secured it to his side, concerned about how such movement could pull the stitches in his injury. She held his hand securely in place before looking up towards Alfredo. Before she could issue instructions, she found herself drawn to the look in his eyes, and the intensity of the gaze he had placed upon her. "We need to turn him, okay?" she said gently. Alfredo nodded slowly, before complying with Joan's request.
As she suspected, the exit wound was clean and fairly straight-forward to deal with. Half an hour later she had stitched and bandaged the wound, and turned Sherlock back into his original lying position. His breathing had improved, his heart rate had recovered, and some colour was returning to his cheeks. Although he did shake occasionally, this decreased slightly when she draped another blanket across him, tucking it under his sides. Joan removed her gloves and tossed them into the bin, before placing a cool hand onto his clammy forehead. Sherlock's eyes remained clothes, and his chest rose and fell with his gentle breathing. The silence of the room was broken by Alfredo.
"You've done all you can do" Alfredo said simply, placing his hands on his sides as he stood at the foot of the bed. "All we can do is wait. Why don't you let me take the first watch, right? You rest."
"I'm fine" she responded tiredly, moving towards the bed and perching herself on the edge.
"I'm sure you are" Alfredo continued tentatively. "I just wanna make sure it stays that way." Joan turned to face Alfredo with a wary and suspicious expression, which he instantly attempted to placate. "All I'm sayin' is, if you collapse from exhaustion on my watch, your partner's gonna put me in a situation where I'm the one needin' medical attention." Joan's expression softened slightly and she suppressed a small laugh.
"That's sweet, and I'm grateful" she said simply, before turning back to Sherlock. "But I want to spend some time with him" she continued. "Just to be sure."
"Alright" Alfredo conceded, knowing that she would not rest. "I'll be goin' over the camera footage from outside and inside the building like Sherlock suggested" Joan nodded in agreement. "You come get me if you need me, alright?"
"Sure" she responded, turning back to face him. "Thank you."
Alfredo nodded, turning and walking from the room, and closing the door behind him as he did so. As soon as the gentle click of the door could be heard, Joan's hand ran across Sherlock's torso, found his fingers, and squeezed them tightly.
On the other side of the door, Alfredo spent the next hour or so going through the images from the cameras that Sherlock had placed inside and outside the building. As he reached the present day, he came across something which both startled and worried him in equal measure: six hours before Sherlock was attacked, a hooded figure had approached the front door of the building they were currently in, and had placed its hand upon the door, splaying its fingers across the glass. It took less than three minutes before Alfredo was able to find a partial profile of the individual's face, which he compared to photographs in his possession, which really was not necessary, as the identity of the individual could not have been clearer. The concealed individual who had approached their place of safety just hours before Sherlock had been shot was Maria Lennard herself.