"Georgie? Georgie, where are you?" Called Rupert, wiping his hands clean. He dropped Sherlock to the floor and headed out the door. She met him on the stairs, worry on her face.
"I can hear the police," she whispered.
"Shit. They're not supposed to find us yet!" Exclaimed Rupert.
"I can't do this anymore Rupe. Not with a baby on the way. I'll do my time and all that, but I'm not going to be an accessory to what you're doing!" Snapped Georgina.
"Stupid bitch! Who do you love more, Giles or me?" Snarled Rupert. Georgina started crying, and Rupert slapped her.
"God, I knew it would be a mistake to shag you. I did it to spite Giles, not because I loved you!" Rupert heard the sirens coming closer, and knew he had to act fast.
"You do whatever you have to do; I'm getting out of here." Rupert travelled down the stairs digging in his pocket for the syringe he knew he had there.
Time to finish this.
He flung the door open, Sherlock barely moving from the floor.
"You bastard. Brought the police to find me! I can't bury you anymore, but I can sure as hell send you into hypoglycemic shock," snarled Rupert. He pulled out the syringe and plunged it into Sherlock's abdomen, distributing the insulin there. He patted Sherlock's cheek, and stood up, dusting off his hands.
"It was fun playing with you Sherlock. I'll tell my brother you said hello." Rupert waltzed up the stairs, whistling as he went. Sherlock moaned, sparks of pain shooting up through his brain, wrapping around until he couldn't think anymore. Every thought was like a bar of soap, falling away from him.
He could hear the police as they arrived...
Shots fired...
He could hear footsteps...
Save me John.
"Greg? Greg, I need you to call an ambulance, stat!" Yelled John, taking the last two steps in one stride before entering the basement. The sight that greeted him was horrific, and it took all his training to pull himself together, and focus on his patient. Greg sprinted down the stairs, and stopped dead in his tracks as his eyes landed on the prone figure lying on the floor.
"Shit." John ignored him, checking over Sherlock.
"Sherlock, can you hear me?" Asked John. Sherlock's eyes opened a little, then closed again, his body relaxing.
"I think he's uncons..."
"He's seizing! Roll him into recovery," ordered John, being mindful of the damage he could see.
"Christ, how is he supposed to make it through this?" Asked Greg, holding Sherlock carefully.
"The same way we've made it through everything else. One step at a time," replied John, distracted. Sherlock relaxed, the throes of the seizure over. Greg glanced up as Donovan stopped in her tracks on the stairs.
"Shit. Um, we've got Rupert in custody with Georgina. Anderson says ambulance is five minutes out," she said softly.
"When they get here, send them straight down," ordered Greg. He glanced at John, who was taking stock of Sherlock's injuries.
"Broken leg, possibly in need of pinning. Multiple lacerations of varying depths, most requiring stitches. The burns on his arms concern me; they look like they're infected, but I can't tell. Query broken wrists, I can't determine, but they're severely bruised. I hate to think what his mental psyche is like," commented John. Greg finally realised that Sherlock was naked, and moved to pull his jacket off.
"What are you doing?" Asked John.
"He's naked," replied Greg awkwardly.
"You could cause him more pain putting that jacket on his sensitive skin. Once the paramedics get here, they'll dose him with morphine, and then we'll focus on helping him," said John softly. Sherlock started shivering, whimpering a little.
"Is he cold?" Asked Greg. John glanced around the room, and his eyes fell upon the syringe on the floor.
"Shit. No, he's suffering hypoglycaemic shock. I need that ambulance here now."
"He's in hypoglycaemic shock!"
"Glucose injection is prepped and ready."
"He's in V-Fib!"
"Grab the crash cart!"
"Charging!"
"Clear!"
"Sinus rhythm restored."
"We need to get him into surgery. Now."
Mycroft stepped out of his chauffer driven car, and tapped his umbrella on the damp pavement. It had been raining, and he was quite glad it had stopped, even if it was only briefly. He stepped inside Bart's, walking over to the nurse at the desk.
"I'm looking for my brother; Sherlock Holmes," said Mycroft formally.
"He's still in surgery. There's a waiting room at the end of the hall," answered the nurse, pointing down the corridor. Mycroft marched down the passage and found Greg and John in the waiting room, John's hands covered in dry blood.
"What happened?" Asked Mycroft.
"He's been tortured," answered Greg. John seemed unable to answer, and Greg briefly entertained the idea that maybe the good doctor had gone into shock.
"How bad?"
"He's been in surgery for six hours," whispered John.
"Prognosis?"
"Unsure." The three men looked up as the surgeon walked in, pulling his scrub cap off.
"You all here for Sherlock?" He asked, voice clearly weary.
"I'm his brother, but you can tell all of us," commanded Mycroft. The surgeon took a seat, resting his elbows on his knees.
"I'm Doctor Christian Shaw. I'm the head trauma surgeon on Sherlock's case. We also have an orthopaedic specialist, and soon to be added to the team will be an occupational therapist, physiotherapist, counsellor, as well as an endocrinologist. For now, we've stabilised him and moved him to ICU," started Christian.
"What's his prognosis?" Asked John.
"It was long surgery; ortho specialist has pinned together Sherlock's right leg. Both the tibia and fibula are broken, and we may later insert steel rods. Unfortunately we had to cut the surgery short as his respiration rate dropped suddenly, so for now he's got external pinning. The burns on his arms have been cleaned and dressed, and all lacerations were stitched closed. His wrists were x-rayed in theatre, and the ortho specialist has determined that his right wrist is fractured, and his left was dislocated. His blood sugar was quite low, and our endocrinologist will be working closely with you to make sure that he suffers no lasting effects," said Christian, rattling off the facts. He suddenly glanced down, fiddling with the cap in his hands.
"What?" Asked Mycroft, clearly not happy with the surgeon's silence. Christian ran a shaking hand through his hair.
"Sherlock was raped," he added quietly.
"Oh God," whispered Lestrade, covering his mouth.
"No. Oh no, anything but that," whimpered John. Mycroft was silent, and John could feel the anger radiating off him in waves.
"Can we see him?" Asked John.
"Of course. Room 112," said Christian. He stood up, and led the three men down a floor.
Nothing could have prepared them for this.
Sherlock lay prone on the bed, the upper half of his body uncovered, arms propped up on a pillow each, dressings evident on his back.
"Oh…" whispered Greg.
"No ventilator?" Asked John, curious.
"No, but we are monitoring him on full oxygen flow. We'd prefer not to have to intubate him, and he appears to be coping at the moment. He is on strict supervision," added Christian. Sherlock shifted a little, and his eyes opened wide, the world of pain becoming a reality. Mycroft was beside his bed in seconds, stepping into the role of big brother and protector with an ease John couldn't recall seeing.
"Shh 'Lock, you're okay," comforted Mycroft.
"Hurts. My, it hurts," gasped Sherlock. Christian was beside his bed in seconds, already adjusting the morphine pump next to the bed.
"He's burnt off the anaesthetic much faster than anticipated," commented Christian.
"Doesn't surprise me," said John quietly.
"You'll be okay 'Lock. I'll look after you," said Mycroft softly. He carded a hand through Sherlock's dark curls, trying to reassure the younger Holmes.
"John! John, please, John," cried Sherlock.
"I'm right here Sherlock," said John, crossing the room to stand next to Sherlock's bed, touching his cool fingers with his own warmer ones.
"John. John," whispered Sherlock, the pain finally loosening its grasp.
"I'm still here Sherlock. I always will be." Sherlock relaxed for a moment, before his back arched, muscles tightening, air crushed out of his lungs. Monitors started beeping, and John found himself being pushed out of the room with Mycroft as nurses and doctors flooded in.
"'Lock?"
"Sherlock!"