*A/N: Yay, chapter tew! In case anyone was wondering (and I didn't make it clear in the last chapter :P) this is NOT a John/OC or Sherlock/OC story. The girl is a teenager, so that would be exceedingly creepy and plus breaking up Johnlock is an unforgiveable sin!
Disclaimer: Really? Must I say it? Really?
Chapter Two: Bullet Holes
Before either of them could get a word out, a groan escaped her lips and she collapsed.
John recovered quickly from the surprise and caught the falling girl, lowering her gently to the ground. She was a lot lighter than she looked and felt fragile, meaning she had been starved for a time. Going into army doctor mode, Watson immediately slammed the door to the flat and shrugged off Sherlock's dressing gown. Kneeling down, John elevated the girl's traumatized head, noting she had momentarily lost consciousness as he examined her.
"Sherlock! Sherlock get down here now!" John bellowed, probably waking Mrs. Hudson in the process. A moment later the tall, lanky man came rushing down the stairs. He was much more alert and compliant after his return to 221B, much to Watson's chagrin. It takes a fake suicide to get you to listen… John offhandedly thought as he went back to the mystery girl.
Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the abused girl in John's arms as the doctor catalogued her injuries. Lacerations covering entire body, semi-serious head injury, old, but not healed. Bleeding from exertion. Bruises covering entire body. Various instruments, blunt objects. His doctor brain went to work as he looked her over. John had to lift the auburn haired girl's hand from the wound on her side she had been trying to cover to get a look. The surrounding area of her (less than) white and blue cardigan was sopped in her blood and John was forced to rip the fabric. The pain of the adjustment woke the girl and she tried to bolt up into a sitting position, gasping for air like a stranded fish. Watson had to slow her down and keep her from going into a panic.
"Try to take deep breaths." He coaxed in a calm voice.
Meanwhile Sherlock had been making his own observations about their guest. Red hair, pale skin, assuming green or blue eyes. Scottish or Irish descent is likely. Mid- to late teens. Normal dress, does not hold important social status. Held captive and tortured for at least three days… approximately five. Strong smell of petrol, mixed with various components of dirt coating her body. Held in deserted automobile warehouse. Five possible locations. Inexperienced interrogator, wounds unprofessional. Also not serious, they wanted her alive. Most likely for possessing information valuable to captor. Is useless dead… The bullet wound… He puzzled over this for half a second before it made sense. Made by poor marksmen at long distance. Explains potentially fatal placing. She was trying to escape… looks like she succeeded. A thought flashed through Sherlock's mind, what if they followed her…? He immediately went to the window, looking out. The genius could not currently decipher anything else as of right now without getting a better look that Watson had not about her wounds other than which object made what wound, ranging from the toe of a boot to razor blades, because of her current physical condition and the distance between them.
Who are you? Sherlock wondered, glancing back out the window, and then getting closer to her and Watson then stepping back as she bolted up. John instructed her to take deep breaths as her eyes rolled around in panic then locked on her caretaker.
"Ar-are you John Watson?!" she demanded, gripping the front of his sleeping shirt with unproportional strength that was fueled by adrenaline and terror.
"Y-yes, I am." The doctor replied.
Yes, definitely Scottish. Highlander. Sherlock thought.
"I need to take you to a hospital-" John started, but was quickly cut off.
"NO! You can't take me to a hospital!" she shouted, panic gripping her like a vice.
"So, um, I guess that means the police too then…?" the doctor asked, beating Sherlock to the punch.
"Especially not them!" John could feel the trembling of the girl in their close proximity as she tried to stress to him the seriousness of her situation and how it needed to remain as private as possible and out of the public eye.
"Why not?" Sherlock less than asked, stepping into the conversation. The girl whirled quickly, causing Watson to wince internally at her movement. A look of relief crossed over face and she opened her mouth to speak, "They can't - agh!" the adrenaline that had been fueling her actions and fending off the messages of pain that ranged from every wound on her was running its course, sifting out like sand in an hourglass, and already taking a deep physical toll. She cried out from the bolt of pain from her rashly quick motions and she slumped. John caught her before she could reach the tile and hit her head. The doctor feared she had a concussion and had to get her to a medical treatment center as soon as possible.
They can't what, know? What can't they know? This new evidence drew the conclusion that the girl's captor(s) were people of interest involved in some sort of crime ring, very intimidating, or exceedingly dangerous and were otherwise not to be tangled with. People that could cause problems for him and John. Sherlock suspected all three, knowing that a larger group of people was more common to insight fear in an individual unless the offender was a psychotic, satanic serial killer. She was a typical captive: the police can't know or I'll be caught and killed. Blah, blah, blah. Boring, boring, boring. John checked the girl's consciousness; she whimpered, barely aware.
"We need to get her to the clinic," he determined, hoisting the near-emaciated girl into his arms. Despite her height advantage on the doctor, he would be able to carry her. She was underweight and he had carried full grown men and women through the desert heat on no sleep. He took her upstairs to the flat to get her out of the limelight (Mrs. Hudson).
"What about her request not to be taken-" Sherlock began flatly but was cut off by his flatmate, being made to move aside so the doctor could take his cargo up the stairs.
"I don't have the resources to treat her here, Sherlock. I need to take her to a place where I can give her correct, professional care," he explained simply, stressing each word as if he was talking to a simpleton, turning the tables on his resurrected friend for once as he headed up the steps. Sherlock huffed, momentarily unamused at his doctor's antics.
Thankfully for John, his friend had the graciousness to open the door for him and Watson went to set the 'visitor' on the sofa. If he had been paying attention to his flatmate he would have noticed the imperceptible wince at the "defilement" of his beloved couch. John rushed upstairs to put in actual clothes, leaving Sherlock to his own devices.
The consulting detective took this opportunity to examine the alien girl that was occupying his flat more carefully. He sauntered over to his couch and appraised her condition. Lacerations around wrists and ankles. Very fine cuts, appears to be jewelry wire. No shoes, soles of feet heavily damaged; various contributions. Highly concentrated amount of dirt and grime, exposure to dirty London streets… Presumably during escape. Estimated amount of time from accumulative damages and amount of filth: three to four hours. Hypothesis: she escaped around four o'clock this morning. In possession of a necklace, unknown significance to wearer. Formerly sturdy build, possible athlete. Height suggests football or track. Ankles and knees support theory, but hands do not. Unfeminine hands, not inherited from genetics, suggesting she did some sort of physical labor. Tom-boy, not athlete.
Sherlock moved in a little closer and ran his fingers over her sweater that had managed to stay more or less intact and wasn't ripped to shreds, and collected a specimen of the grime that coated her and rubbed it between his fingers in examination. Older than I initially thought… revising earlier hypotheses to minimum of eight days detainment. He noticed a small trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth. On the same side the cheek was swollen and bruised so the consulting detective determined it was not from hemorrhaging from the bullet wound or other such damages. Speaking of which… Sherlock leaned over and reached out to examine said wound when John came back down the stairs in a rush, almost tripping over his own feet on the last step down.
"Well, what are you standing around there for you git? Go hail a cab!" John barked at his flatmate, shooing him out the door. The dark haired man blinked owlishly at the other and then did so after retrieving his infamous scarf and coat.
As the experienced doctor deftly lifted the abused girl from the couch and carried her down the seventeen steps, Mrs. Hudson had roused herself and stood in the hall fretting about what trouble her two boys had dragged into the flat now. She exclaimed in surprise at the sight of the mangled girl in her tenant's arms.
"My goodness John, what on earth is going on?!" she gasped, holding an arthritic hand over her aged heart.
"I'll tell you later Mrs. Hudson, I don't have the time right now! Get the door would you?" just as he asked it the door swung open to a waiting Sherlock who had successfully hailed the much-needed cab.
John loaded the girl into the small, black car at the cautious inquiry of the driver who considered refusing them, but didn't get a good look at his female passenger so did not.
"Sherlock, where are you going?!" Watson called to the other man as Sherlock was heading back to the flat.
"I need to remain here John, it's important," he stated firmly, looking his friend in the eye so he would know he was serious.
"Are you barmy? I need you to come with me!" John contradicted, brow furrowing as he half climbed out of the car. The cabby coughed pressingly but John just absently waved him off. A light, humorless smile touched Sherlock's lips and he walked to the curb gracefully, putting his hand on the door of the car as John backed into the cab. He looked up into Sherlock's piercing gaze as the other towered over him.
"I think you can cope Dr. Watson." He replied in his deep baritone and with that Sherlock closed the door on John, knowing he was right. As for the moment, Sherlock had more imperative matters to attend to.
John huffed in aggravated annoyance and gave the cabby the location of the clinic.
"So, er, what's wrong with yer friend there?" the cabby, a man more on the elderly side, cautiously asked John, not wanting to get wrapped up in something he could have easily avoided by refusing the pair entry to his cab. Watson was slightly wary of the man, considering his first ever case with his partner and John cursed himself internally for not thinking to grab his pistol.
"She's sick," he lied quickly (another thing he picked up from a certain Holmes) though it wasn't exactly a lie. More or less. But it wasn't really like John had much of an option lest he be kicked out and have to find other means of transportation. He didn't really fancy having to carry the girl guerilla-style all the way to the clinic.
"Ah," was the man's uncertain reply. The rest of the ride commenced in an awkward silence.
They arrived at the clinic in a few minutes' time and John paid the cabby, giving him a good tip and quickly got out, not wanting to jostle the girl who had thankfully (or not) remained less than conscious through the cab ride. There was another thirty minutes until opening, so John still had time. He would just have to ask Sarah to cover for him for a bit.
"Good God John, what the hell?!" she exclaimed as he entered. The doctor sighed in frustration, he would get this all morning.
"Not now Sarah, just help me." he said sternly in his Captain voice. She quickly rose and went to follow suit. The two of them opened an unused room and placed the girl on a spare gurney. John immediately began listing things he would need for Sarah to fetch for him. The doctor was in a heightened state of focus, similar to when Sherlock was in his Mind Palace, and would not let anything get in the way of him saving his patient. He was a military man, well trained and adept. Something like that doesn't leave a person just because they have left the establishment that taught it to you. That strong fight and inner fire that was stoked by war would never leave John Hamish Watson. It was one of the main reasons Sherlock loved him.
…..
Sherlock Holmes returned to the flat, brushing Mrs. Hudson off and going up the two flights of stairs to his flatmate's room. Filching the semi-automatic John kept in his bedside table, he concealed the firearm in his cloak and went back downstairs. Sherlock extensively surveyed the surrounding region of Baker Street for the fourth time before exiting the building again, bidding a baffled Mrs. Hudson to back in and lock her door.
The tall thin man set off down the street, deducing a surveillance perimeter of the flat to protect two of the three most important people in the world from the corruption that this stupid, ignorant girl had undoubtedly brought with her. Just when Sherlock thought he had almost outrun the darkest shadows of this battlefield.
*A/N: dun, duh, DUH! Yay for updates! Reviews are cupcakes smothered in jam guys, please submit your input! :D (Lest the possibility that this fic ends up in limbo. Which no one wants to see happen. :/ But it most likely won't because I like this one! :D)