I had been in the taxi for five minutes, urging the cabbie to drive faster. I was getting antsy. I needed to get back to Sherlock as soon as possible. I pulled my phone out and dialed a number. It rang four times.
"Carlyle." The voice answered.
"Carlyle, its John Watson. I need your help. It's a long story, but I need some medical supplies. Can you help me? Are you at the base's warehouse?" I asked
"I can be there in ten minutes. I don't know how much help I can be to you though."
"That's fine, just meet me there in ten." Then I hung up.
Carlyle was an old army buddy of mine. He was the secondary medic in our squad, but he is now assigned to a country bound job. Hopefully, he could help me. We stopped in front of 221B Park Lane. I asked the cabbie to wait for me then, I dashed inside. It was then that I realized that Sherlock hadn't told me where the evidence was. I don't know why I started by looking in his bedroom. I felt compelled to look in there, even though I knew that it wasn't in there. Ordinary people hid things in their bedroom and Sherlock was not ordinary.
I still searched his room, starting from the farthest point in the room and working my way to the door. I looked everywhere. In drawers, under the bed, and the first bedside table. I looked up, almost in despair, after finding nothing, when I saw a second bedside table. I walked over there, asking my self why a single man, living by himself, would have two bedside tables. Only one object occupied the table. I picked up the picture of me, from off the table, and stared in astonishment. Sherlock Holmes had kept a picture of me by his bed, every night for the past two years.
I couldn't think about the sentimental value of it now, I had to keep looking. I pulled open the drawer of the table. There was nothing in it, but its weight was oddly disproportionate to an empty drawer. I couldn't understand why the drawer was so heavy. I ran my hand along the bottom of it and checked all the sides. There was nothing there. I ran my hand along the inside of it, when my hand caught something of interest. I couldn't see it, so I ran my hand along it again. I pushed down over the little notch that was there.
The false bottom popped open, showing a stack of manila files. This is indeed what I had been looking for. Pulling the file folder out, I dialed another phone number. It was a number that I hadn't dialed in nearly three years. I opened the file folder to make sure that this was indeed the correct thing I needed. A mechanical voice came over the phone.
"Yes?" It questioned
"Get my Mycroft Holmes." I ordered.
"One moment."
I scooped up the file folders and ran for the cab, giving him the address for the Army Base's warehouse.
"Mycroft Holmes can not be reached at this time." A real woman answered.
"I don't care what meeting you have to drag him out of. You tell him John Watson's on the phone and the matter with which I wish to speak with him about is of high national security."
"Sir, I..."
"I don't care what you can and can't do. Get him on the phone!" I shouted.
I was put on hold once again. I reached forward and pulled the divider shut. I was still on hold when I heard my phone beep. I looked at it, thinking it was Mrs. Hudson. I was surprised to see that it was a text from Carlyle.
"Meet me the dock doors. - Carlyle."
I didn't respond, but instead put the phone back to my ear.
"What the bloody hell do you want, John Watson!" He exclaimed.
"Mycroft, If I could provide you with information showing that Richard Brook never existed, could you clear Sherlock's name?" I asked quickly.
"This is what I was pulled from my meeting for?!"
"Mycroft, I would explain but I don't have time. Just answer my damn question."
I could hear a sigh of exasperation from Mycroft's end.
"Technically, It might. It would all depend on how clear cut and incriminating the evidence would be."
With that answer, I hung up the phone and jumped out of the cab. I had arrived at my destination, grabbed the files, paid the cabbie, and ran to the dock doors. Carlyle was standing there when I arrived.
"Watson, how are you doing?"
"I'm fine. Let's talk inside." I ushered him into the warehouse, looking behind me as I entered. "What I am about to tell you stays between us, alright?" I whispered as soon as we were in the warehouse. Carlyle nodded his head yes. "Long story short, someone I know has been hurt. They can't go to the hospital and I need to help him."
"What do you need?" Carlyle asked. I gave him a look of surprise at his answer. "What do you need?" He asked again.
"I..." My phone rang, interrupting me. It was . "Yes, Mrs. Hudson?" I answered, holding up a finger to Carlyle.
"John, it's Sherlock. He's complaining that it's cold and that his chest hurts on his left side."
"Let me talk to him."
There was silence.
"John." Sherlock moaned in pain.
"I need you to tell me exactly what is happening."
"The left side of my chest hurts every time I breathe. It feels like I'm breathing through a straw. And how cold do you keep this flat? It's like blood Antarctica in here."
"Everything will be fine. I will be there in less than fifteen minutes. Hand me back to Mrs. Hudson."
More silence.
"Yes, John?"
"Mrs. Hudson, wrap him in another blanket and continue to keep him awake. I'll be there soon." I hung up and turned to Carlyle. "I'm going to need bandages, blood, multiple saline solutions, oxygen tanks, blood bags, a heart monitor, an AED, and an assortment of tools."
Carlyle turned around and began to run toward a row of shelves. I followed him as he turned down the aisle.
"Here we go." He said, more to himself than to me, as he began pulling large crates out of the warehouse shelves.
Within minutes, there were nine large crates piled on a pallet mover with three oxygen tanks. Carlyle began to make his way out of the warehouse.
"We'll put them in my truck and I'll take you to your friend."
When we arrived at his truck, I threw the file folder into the passenger seat and returned to unload the crates. We moved quickly and in under five minutes, we were heading back toward Baker Street. Carlyle tried to ask me questions, but I didn't answer. I felt that it would have been bad for Sherlock if I told Carlyle. Sherlock was suppose to be dead and no one needed to know that he was alive.
Carlyle slammed on the brakes as we arrived. I made my way up the stairs to the flat with five large crates in my arms and the three oxygen tanks. I dropped the crates to open the flat door. When the door swung open, I could easily see that Sherlock's condition had worsen within the twenty minutes that I was gone.
From the door, I could hear Sherlock's ragged breathing and I could see him shivering, despite the sweat that was pouring down his face. I moved next to Sherlock as Carlyle shoved the crates in the room. I took Sherlock's wrist in my hand, taking his pulse. It hammered under my fingers like the wings of a humming bird.
"He's slipping into shock. Carlyle, hand me a saline solution and 100 cc's of blood." I ordered.
Carlyle threw the items to me and I caught them in the air. I quickly set them up. It took me less than a second to find a vein in Sherlock's arm.
"Sherlock, you are going to feel a little pinch." I informed him.
"It's so cold." he muttered as I slid the needle into his arm.
His voice sounded ragged and his breathing just seemed to get worse.
"I know, Sherlock, I know." I looked up at Carlyle. "We need to move the furniture away from the wall and put Sherlock over there." I said, standing up and motioning to the couch.
Carlyle moved to one side while I grabbed the other and we moved it quickly. Then we proceeded to carefully move Sherlock to the empty space.
"Okay." I muttered to myself as I secured the bags to the wall. "Carlyle, I need you to hand me some anesthetic."
"We don't have any." He replied.
"What do you mean that we don't have any?"
"There isn't any in here."
"What the bloody hell?!" I shouted.
"John." Sherlock called in a whisper. "There is some chloroform underneath the sink."
"Carlyle, go under the sink. You'll see a large container of a clear liquid. Mrs. Hudson, help him a grab a cloth of some sort." The two took off into the kitchen as I turned back to Sherlock.
I tore the blanket off of him and propped his feet up on a crate.
"Sherlock, tell me how Chloroform works." I said as I cut the shirt away from his body.
"It should work like a regular anthe-"
"I need the finer points of how it works. What do I need to do?"
"You need to soak the cloth in the liquid. A few minutes before you operate, you will need to knock me out. When you-"
Then he seized in pain, gasping for air. The heart monitor, which I had attached to Sherlock's chest, began to go crazy.
"I need you to calm down, Sherlock. I know it hurts but I will get it fixed. I think the bullet pierced your lung."
Sherlock's eyes stayed shut tight as pain wrecked havoc through his body.
"Sherlock, can you keep directing me? What do I need to do after I knock you out?"
"When you start the operation, you will need to give me oxygen. Start it at a low PSI, somewhere between five and fifteen. If you see me start to stir, you will need to knock me out again. When you've finished, turn the PSI up. The oxygen will counteract the Chloroform if you turn it up to any number between fifty and seventy" He answered, through gritted teeth, as I began to set up.
Carlyle and came up behind me with the Chloroform as I began to double check my setup.
"Carlyle, go scrub up. I'm going to need you on this." Carlyle went back into the kitchen.
I began soaking the cloth when I felt Sherlock grab my hand. I turned to him as his weak grip tightened slightly. He was losing strength quickly, I could see it in his eyes, but he wouldn't let go. It was as if I were his life line.
"Everything will be fine, Sherlock." I comforted.
"I know, I trust you."
"That's great because I don't trust myself." I thought.
"I have total faith in you." Sherlock said weakly.
"I've got to put you under now, Sherlock. I'll be here when you wake up, I promise." I told him as I rung most of the liquid out of the rag.
"You can do this, John." He encouraged as I brought the rag near his face.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock." I whispered as I put the rag over his mouth and nose.
He held my hand till his eyes closed, which was the almost at the same time that his hand went limp in mine. I gently laid it down next to his unconscious form.
"let's go, Carlyle. We don't have much time."