A/N: Oh, were you wondering where the angst was? Here it is. :)
Don't be obvious, I'm never going to own this, no no no no no.
"Oh, God," Lestrade moaned, and he broke into a jog. John Watson's shouts reached him before any sight of him did. "Bloody -- what the hell were they doing out here? I told him to stay out of it -"
John's shouts for help were drill-sergeant-crisp but intermittent, as though he were busy with other things in the spaces of what Lestrade heard as silence. As the detective inspector finally spotted him and his companion on the ground fifty meters away, and he began to run in earnest, flashing his torch quickly across the grassy, uneven ground.
"HEL-ohthankgod," John said when he craned his neck around and saw Lestrade. Sherlock was lying on his back before the kneeling doctor, eyes closed. Lestrade's eyes followed the dim lines of John's arms to see the doctor's hands, knuckles white, gripping the unconscious detective's arm just below the shoulder. "He's bleeding out. I need help. Give me your belt."
Lestrade didn't hesitate. He watched silently as the rest of his team arrived and the doctor cinched the belt around Sherlock's upper arm. Sherlock grunted as the belt tightened, but did not open his eyes.
"Is he -"
"He needs a hospital. I assume you have a car. Nearby." John was looking at him now, with a deadly serious, I-don't-care-how-you-do-it-get-a-car-now expression, and Lestrade suddenly remembered. Army doctor. Shot in action. No fucking around.
Right.
"Of course, but no ambulance -" He was already texting one of his men to drive a car off the road towards them.
"It's just his damn arm, keep it raised above his head, tourniquet should help. Help me." John had bent down as soon as Lestrade had started speaking, and was now trying to lift Sherlock into a sitting position.
"What's wrong with the freak?"
Lestrade inhaled to reprimand Anderson, but John was faster. In the space of a heartbeat Anderson was flat on his back, hands over his face, blood seeping down his chin. To his credit, he hadn't yelled when John's fist connected with his probably-now-broken nose. Donovan was immediately at his side.
"Do. Not. Talk. Again." Lestrade heard the doctor's voice crack for the first time that evening, and he moved to diffuse the tension, but again he was too late. John was already back to Sherlock, cupping his hands underneath his arms and pulling him up. "C'mon, mate," he said. "Easy does it... there. Somebody get his other side."
No one needed telling twice; Thomas and Greyson both stepped forward and supported Sherlock's back and right side. John had lifted his left arm gently to a horizontal position, and then he barked, "Where?"
A police car pulled up in the grass and a door swung open. John didn't look at him again as he guided the semiconscious genius into the car and told the driver to get them to the nearest hospital in five minutes. The driver looked at Lestrade, who nodded quickly, and the car drove off, back towards the road.
Lestrade watched the taillights disappear and then turned his attention back to his team. His eyes scanned the ground; with a torch he could see the dark earth where Sherlock had lain, the sparse grass glinting wetly. He swallowed.
"Right." He glanced around at the members of the police force who had been, yet again, just a little too slow for Sherlock Holmes. "Somebody get Anderson cleaned up. You two, we need..." He shook his head and focused. "Organize a search; the ground's soft, the gunman's footprints should be around here somewhere. We should also try to figure out what the hell they were doing here in the first place, so look for any clues on the Gatsby case."
"D'you think he'll die?"
The question had come from Sally, and he could tell from her face that she wasn't asking about Anderson.
"I don't know; that's not our job now. Focus, people," he ordered the group.
Godspeed, Dr. Watson, he thought