Disclaimer: I own Andromeda Holmes, John Watson Junior and a new character introduced in this chapter, but, sadly, none of the others. :(
Please, if you somewhat like this fanfic and have other Sherlock'd friends that like Fanfics, could you recommend it to them? I want to spread the word about this fanfic, because most of the people I know and have had read it love it. So yeah. Thanks! 3 4 3
WARNING!: Grotesque descriptions of blood and wounds. For those of you that are squeamish I will put a little mark like this: before the paragraph with blood in it.
Chapter Four
Saint Anne's Hospital
The vintage violin clattered to the floor, it's neck smashing from the body.
The strings rolled back to the pegboard.
The gunshot had jarred through the eardrums of those on Baker's Street. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson sighed heavily as they watched Sherlock sprint out the flat, both used to that kind of thing. Blogger John's head snapped up, prepared and daring the sniper to come at him. His hand brushed the handgun in his belt.
Only he realised the true reason Sherlock had bolted outside.
He didn't see the detective grab for his overcoat, because he knew Andromeda had it. If he recalled Andy had it, he must have been thinking about her. Or the gunshot had something to do with her.
"Shit."
"What is it-?" John interrupted his landlady.
"Call an ambulance, quickly."
"But why?"
"DO IT!" John didn't apologise for screaming at the woman and followed Sherlock.
A slim body lay hidden underneath blood and trench coat. Sherlock flipped it over onto its back, and saw the glassy blue eyes move to look pitifully at him before glazing over, still gazing into his.
No tears wet her eyes, Sherlock noticed, could she be used to pain?
The snow began turning a sickening crimson. Andromeda's pulse was checked, and the door could be heard opening again.
"Oh my, God," John murmured. "Move," he told Sherlock.
The detective turned to look at his partner in crime. He moved quickly to the other side of the woman, knowing time wasn't on their side.
John knelt, his expert hands shifting the coat aside and unbuttoning her deep purple dress shirt. Blood soaked both that and the coat beneath her.
"Shit, shit, shit," was entirely what the doctor said as he saw the wound. It was on her left side. He collected clean snow in his hand and used it to gingerly wash away the blood, but more kept coming.
Sherlock noticed this and stripped his shirt quickly, his artist's hands barely touching each button as they gave way. His well-formed abdomen and chest showed prominently.
John was in a zone of sorts. He always was when there was a sick human being before him. He focused on the task and nothing else, unless it helped. At that moment, Sherlock's shirt was one of the things that would help. He snatched it and pressed it to the wound.
Mrs. Hudson and the DI exited the house; the landlady had one of Sherlock's shirts in her trembling hands. Sherlock came and took it from her, holding both of her hands in his for a moment and then raising a finger to his angular lips to shush her. Lestrade looked over, an iPhone at his ear, and wondered what the secret was.
"Sherlock!" the man, now fully clothed, walked over to John. "I can't carry her." But Sherlock was already on it. He slipped his arms under her; one supporting her neck and the other under her knees. He cradled her gently, and then strode into the flat, Lestrade holding the door open.
Sherlock lost his calm.
Not her.
Why Andromeda?
Why always people he cared about?
Who?
Moriarty.
Wasn't he dead?
Obviously not.
A chronological recollection of the events from Sherlock's point of view after he set Andromeda down on the sofa under the gunshot and paint destroyed wall:
Screeching of sirens and brakes.
Lestrade shouting into his phone.
Thumping of feet up the stairs.
John making him sit in his armchair.
Him refusing.
Doctors coming for the body.
"She's not dead yet!"
No one else would touch this girl.
NO ONE.
Carrying a woman to the ambulance.
Her head lolling back in his arms.
"No.
"LIVE.
"Please."
They won't let me in the ambulance. Damn them she's my-
Everything going black.
"Mmmh, cosy bed. Warm."
"Sherlock, you're mumbling in your sleep again."
"Huh?" The man woke in his room, John at the door.
"And since when do you care about Andromeda?"
"I can't tell you."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both." The words were shot at John, implying the conversation was over.
John couldn't put it down, "Sherlock, you said you've never met this woman before, but you obviously have-." Icy blue eyes stopped him from speaking. The blond took the risk and kept going, "Come on! I need to know!"
"YES!" The tall man turned over his shoulder to look at him. "I've met her before! Now leave!" The murderous look was back in the blue eyes, the one that sends chills down spines of anyone who dares stare into them. John quickly left the room, but then poked his head back.
"You want to go visit her in the hospital?" he asked meekly.
Sherlock was almost shuddering with anger, but he managed to cool himself enough to nod yes and get out of bed. But, when he tried to exit, John blocked the doorway. "You're going in that?" he said, looking at Sherlock's outfit. John swore he wore the same jammies every night; the white V-neck that was loose, but not so baggy that you couldn't see the outline of his lean muscles underneath and the black and blue plaid pajama pants. Maybe he just wasn't observant enough.
The height difference between the two men was astonishing, and Sherlock had to look down to meet John's eyes and say, "Problem?" The response was a simple shake of the head. "Good."
(WARNING: THIS IS THE MAIN BLOOD PART. But it'd be a bad thing to skip soo...)
"Breathe! Come on woman! It's a simple bullet wound, you'll live!"
Murmurs from across the room, "From her medical files, apparently she's been through much worse."
"You think? The bullet barely missed her vital organs! What is worse?"
A shuffling of papers, "Oh my lord… Poor girl."
"Who does that to a child?"
"Psychos?"
"Moriarty…"
"Don't say that name. Its owner is dead."
"There are rumours that…" the petite woman speaking was cut off by frantic beeping of the heart rate monitor.
"Maeve! I need you over here now!" The frail-framed woman hurried over to the doctors surrounding the bed.
Black hair splayed across the pillow and eyes rolled back in her head so you could only see the whites. Andromeda's breathing was ragged and fast. If you could hear only that, you would think she was scared. In fact, she probably was. She wriggled slightly on the bed and whimpered loudly. Blood leaked from a small hole just below her ribcage. Sharp metal instruments poked and prodded, attempting to remove the shrapnel from the wound. A needle punctured the woman's arm, injecting some sort of sedative drug. Andromeda calmed down almost immediately. Her breathing and heart rate slowed to a normal pace, and then kept slowing.
The shrapnel wasn't the problem anymore.
The blood was.
It drenched the sheets, and the operator's arms. She'd lost too much. Gauze galore was applied to the wound, but was quickly soiled.
When the blood only leaked a slow drizzle, a needle and organic thread was brought out and the two shredded pieces of skin surrounding the hole were carefully pulled together. After that, gauze and then bandages were wound around Andromeda's midsection.
The bleeding had stopped. So had her heart.
Lestrade drove John, his nephew and Sherlock in his police car with his sirens on, so that he could drive at breakneck speeds without getting ticketed. The road was mostly empty, which was helpful. Sergeant Donavan sat in the passenger's seat, giving the rest of the company updates on Andromeda's condition.
"Oh my god." The frizzy haired woman covered her mouth as she peered at her phone, which gave out a ghostly white light in the otherwise dark car.
"What is it?" John sat forward and put his hand on the back of her seat, trying to see what the text said.
Sherlock tried to not look frantic, but it was his eyes that gave him away. The pupils were already dilated in the dark, but even when Sally gave him the phone to read the message and the screen lit his face up, they remained that way.
The car stopped abruptly in front of St. Anne's causing everyone inside to lurch forward. Sherlock dropped the phone and was gone before anyone could speak. His leather-gloved hands hit the glass double doors of the hospital, and he strode into the lobby, the strong, cleansed hospital smell attacking his scent glands. He didn't even bother to check in with the clerk, who was calling after him, but John caught the door and assured the woman it was okay.
Sherlock was already in the elevator when his flat mate caught up. The doors began to slide closed, and the taller man didn't even bother to catch them for John. He was in too much of a hurry.
The elevator dinged and Sherlock slid through the metal doors. He knew these halls all too well. He found the door he was looking for, (coincidentally room number 221 on flight B) and placed his hand on the bar handle, but a nurse stopped him.
"Sir, you can't go in," the redhead murmured into her mask as if she were frightened of Sherlock.
"Give me one bloody good reason why not!" He raised his voice slightly and pulled the door open.
"Sir!" the nurse trotted in after him, but there was no stopping the man now. She shed her mask.
Andromeda's eyes were closed, but the way her dark hair exploded over the clean, white pillow gave her a wild look. Her hands were folded over her abdomen and the doctors were still monitoring her heart rate, which was going somewhat steadily. Her bed was up against the far wall of a fairly small room, a life support system and monitors beeped beside her, and Sherlock's shoes squeaked against the checked tile.
"Not dead," Sherlock mumbled, outraged. "She's not DEAD?" he said, louder so that the man tending to Andy turned to look at him.
The doctor glanced at the redhead nurse in the doorway, who shrugged and mouthed "detective" at him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, did you want her to be?"
"Who texted Sergeant Donavan saying she was?" his voice had gone high pitched. His quick thoughts told him it was the nurse. "Whom do you work for?" he demanded. John skidded in on the Consulting Detective standing over the ginger nurse, his murderous eyes boring into her.
"Sherlock!" he cried, but the ebony haired man did not budge.
"I don't know what you are talking about," she stood up to the tall man in a way John wished he could. "I don't even own a phone!"
"Oh, don't give me that. Do not play games with me, I've found I am way too good at them. Every one like you has a mobile." Sherlock pushed himself off of the wall behind the small nurse and whipped around to pace the room. Andromeda lay ever so still in her cot, the only thing showing life signs were her monitors.
"Everyone like me, sir?" the nurse, whose nametag read "Maeve M.", said, as she brushed her coat off as if she could dislodge any germs Sherlock would have left from leaning over her.
"Yes, a person as sneaky and badly disguised as you, Misses 'M.'" Sherlock, too, had read her tag. "You aren't who you say you are."
'Why was he delaying his show of deductions?' the little woman thought. 'He's so goddamn sexy when he does that. Oh, maybe he knows…'
"Sir, I think you are in shock. Please, sit down somewhere."
"Stop LYING!" Sherlock stormed towards her and she backed against the wall again. Andromeda squirmed in her sleep; reacting to the loud noises she hated so much. "I can tell, oh I am so good at knowing when people are lying." He stopped advancing and worked on pulling his gloves off, finger by finger. "They normally will shift their eyes about, but first downwards and to the right. My dear nurse, that is what you have been doing, could you stop being so obvious?"
A pale, freckled hand slid into a large pocket in its white overcoat, surreptitiously fishing for the iPhone that lay there. Maeve shoved her other hand into her pocket to cover it.
There was a long silence, in which John Junior showed at the door and then Andromeda's side, John Senior squirmed at his place beside the doorway, the nurse (knowing where every button on the keyboard was without looking) texted for help, the other doctors left the room and Sherlock stuffed his gloves into his pocket.
The older John and Sherlock shared a look. John blinked once, shut the door and grabbed the nurse's right arm. "The phone, please," he whispered into her ear. Her eyes mocked surprise.
"How did you know it was me, Sherlock?" she said with pretend innocence.
"I didn't, John misinterpreted my signal," came the reply, calm and smooth. John gave him the eye. "But thank you for that information. Would you be so kind as to tell me who you are, or who your employer is?" Silence. "Ah, I didn't think so. The phone then." John held his hand out, palm up, for the woman to put the phone into. Reluctantly, she did, and John tossed it to Sherlock. "It's a good thing I know who you are, then!"
"Who am I Mr. Holmes?"
"Maeve M." he answered sarcastically.
"No, no," she smiled, and it wasn't a very nice smile. John knew he had seen that look on a killer before. "If you are as intelligent as Sally tells me, you know what my surname is." But she was talking to air, because Sherlock was engrossed in guessing the pass-code to the phone.
Young John still sat at Andromeda's bedside, murmuring words of praise and comfort while stroking her hand.
John Senior rolled his eyes, "Sherlock!" a dark head snapped to attention, the gray eyes finding the deep blue ones. "Time to go, Lestrade's still waiting in the car."
"Alright," he said, pocketing the mobile.
"You too, nephew."
John gave his uncle a pleading look, then stood, placing Andy's hand back on the bed. He then walked to stand outside of the room with the other John.
Sherlock gave the nurse one last look before stepping towards the door.
"Wait," she stopped him. "Have you guessed yet? And tell me truthfully."
"No," he answered, not looking at her.
"Shall I tell you?" the nurse's nimble fingers fumbled something in her pocket, at which Sherlock looked at.
The nurse didn't wait for an answer. The corridor was empty, and for some reason, Andromeda hadn't been placed in IC, so the lights were being flipped off for the night. Maeve moved with dangerous accuracy.
She threw the pen at one of the machines beside Andromeda. It malfunctioned, shutting her life support system down. The female sociopath began to cough, and then stopped being able to breathe. Her heart rate monitor went wild; it's beeping echoing throughout the entire floor.
Sherlock's eyes widened, having had no time to predict her move. The Johns had gone down to the car.
A door slammed in the corridor, 'Good, medics' Sherlock thought, as he rushed to attempt to fix the monitors. He was wrong. A large black man in bodyguard dress approached him from the doorway and grabbed hold of the detective's shirt from behind.
As he was being pulled out of the mess of doctors and buff bodyguards, he heard the female's voice call with a more prominent Irish accent than she had had before, "Mister Holmes!" She leaned against the door and watched him struggle against the bodyguard as he was carried down to the elevator. He was reaching for the room, maybe to choke her, possibly to try and save Andromeda. "I don't have an employer," she smiled. "Only a husband."
As the metal doors of the elevator closed, Sherlock heard two things. The first of which was the steady drone of a heart monitor without a living occupant. The other was the voice of a man. The voice that said only two words, but the pitch still went higher at the most inappropriate points. It had a faint Irish accent, much like the one Maeve had when she hid her real voice. This was a voice of a man Sherlock knew he never should have heard again. This was the voice of Jim Moriarty.
"Hello, Sherlock."