Sorry about the long wait! Exams and such. I wouldn't expect anything more until after Tuesday, but then I am DONE, and will probably end up having a complete writing binge, so I hope that's ok ;)
In the meantime, enjoy chapter 7...
Oh, and it's probably time to remind you that I do not own 'Sherlock' or any characters in it etc etc. That is the privilege of the BBC, Stephen Moffat & Mark Gatiss.
Sherlock slowly unwinds his arms from his torso and brushes the unwelcome moisture from his lashes. He was rather unprepared for the surge of emotions that flooded him when John had entered the chapel, and feels a little ashamed at his reaction. Attributes like clinging and snivelling are not things he has ever deemed worthwhile human behaviour, and yet he had found himself hanging around the doctor's neck, doing just that.
He draws himself up, brushing the remnants of emotion to one side, and looks sideways; where he can hear the steady breathing of their captor. The man is surprised at Sherlock's compliance, he can tell – his eyes marginally widened, his mouth hanging open a fraction through his smile, beyond the realm of conscious intent.
Sherlock inches a smile onto his own features to match that of the man beside him. It's lopsided, more a leer than a smile, self-satisfied and arrogant. The gun in Mr Smith's grip is laid aside as they make eye contact, and he grasps Sherlock's hand with the newly freed fingers. His grip is slightly too firm; Sherlock can feel his own fingers being crushed together. Nonetheless, he is unsurprised to find the skin is smooth as opposed to rough – this man is not one for working with his hands; the only abuse they get is being wrapped around a pen or the trigger of a gun.
His hand is released, and Sherlock flexes his fingers slightly in discomfort. He gives the taller man a curt, businesslike nod, and makes his way over to the third occupant of the deserted chapel. As he does so, he lets that treacherous needle drop from his left hand; hearing it clatter as it hits the stone, and bounce, twice, before coming to a rest. The noise is amplified by the structure of the room, and with the noise comes a lurching pain in Sherlock's stomach. He swallows hard, and pushes the feeling away.
Already, the victim's breathing is very shallow, his temperature decreased slightly. Sherlock suspects bruising from the impact with the floor, but in this light he has no way of confirming such a thing. Also, the victim's brows are furrowed slightly; and perhaps it's the detective's imagination, his own guilt playing on his senses, but he thinks he can detect betrayal in the man's features. The pain in his stomach intensifies and twists.
Sherlock shuts his eyes for a moment, and tries to collect himself. He pushes away the pain in his stomach – merely a by-product of psychological pain, not physical, not real – and concentrates hard on the facts. The data.
Would caring about John help save him? Well, he'd do well not to make that mistake, then.
His cold logic back in place, Sherlock opens his eyes, and resumes squinting at the body through the gloom. The victim is still alive, blatantly, but if his breathing, pulse and temperature continue to deteriorate at this rate, he'll be dead within four hours. Maybe less – the effect is annoyingly inconsistent: varying from person to person. Nonetheless, Sherlock allows himself the briefest of smiles: he seems to have calculated effectively.
Examination complete, he turns again to face Virginia's father, his mind calculating, planning, re-planning.
"Reckon I can take this from here," he comments. He is careful to sound offhand, using slang he would usually avoid to put the other man at ease. He jerks a thumb behind him at John, indicating the body sprawled on the floor.
"Is he dead?" There's a certain trepidation and suspicion in the response that Sherlock is not pleased to detect. He shrugs, and grimaces.
"As good as."
Mr Smith rolls his weight onto his left leg, and contemplates Sherlock's shape through the darkness. Hard to tell at this range, but Sherlock can almost sense the doubt in his face. Unperturbed, he strides towards him, clapping an authoritative hand onto the larger man's shoulder. He lets his natural confidence and arrogance show, nonetheless keeping the adopted slang and gruff manner.
"Let me take this one off your hands," he says, removing the hand from the shoulder. "You can trust me." He raises his eyebrows significantly, and gives a little smirk, tipping his head in the direction of his flatmate. He lets a small chuckle escape his throat too, remorseless.
He has not ever felt so disgusted with himself.
The other man considers him a few seconds longer; but he does eventually seem to reason that the pros far outweigh the cons, and gives a single, curt nod.
"Good man," Sherlock tells him, beyond thankful at humanity's unfailing capacity to trust people, even when all the evidence suggested it to be a bad idea.
Oh God. He realises he's just managed to describe John. The pain in his abdomen returns with renewed strength, and this time he doesn't bother trying to repress it. He feels sick.
He and Mr Smith remain eyeball to eyeball for a few seconds longer. Then, Sherlock blinks, and starts to turn away, only to leap, in one fluid motion, past the bigger man. He lands with a faint thud on the balls of his feet, and picks the abandoned weapon from the floor, turning it, immediately, on its owner.
Sherlock almost growls in frustration at the stunned expression on the killer's face. Was everyone so stupid? This one might have done his research, and he clearly had contacts in high places, but at heart he was just the same as everyone else. An idiot. Just a particularly violent one.
Nonetheless, it is still with certain satisfaction that Sherlock notes the change in the man's demeanour as soon as he is the one at gunpoint. His breathing rate increases significantly, and Sherlock can see a thin film of sweat glinting on his forehead through the dark. His hands are trembling slightly too. Apparently, when he is on the receiving end of the violence, he rather loses his domineering personality.
It's very easy to resist, the negative far outweighing the positive, but Sherlock does experience temptation: the gun loaded in his hand, the man who tried to make him murder John Watson – who might yet succeed, in fact – standing in front of him, at his mercy. He moves closer to the despised man, careful to keep the gun pointed directly at his head the entire time.
"Show me where my phone is. Now."
His orders are obeyed without question, the device pushed into his hand with clammy fingers. Sherlock is disgusted at the man's spinelessness. He wants Mr Smith to be the one laying on the floor, struggling for breath, every heartbeat an effort, not John. Not the man who could look down the barrel of a gun, grit his teeth and stand his ground; not the man who was prepared to be blown up for his friends; and not the man capable of living with Sherlock Holmes every day, of coping with every single thing Sherlock asked of him, and some that he didn't.
He didn't want John Watson to be lying as if dead on the floor of a derelict chapel, and he didn't want to have been the one who put him there.
He notes, vaguely, that his clinical manner has evaporated again, John having regained an identity outside that of 'the victim', and that he himself has started to display remarkable amounts of humanity.
John has that effect.
The gun stays trained on Mr Smith the entire duration that Sherlock remains inside the building, dropping only briefly from the target when he gathers his flatmate up into his arms, and begins to stagger towards the exit. His progress is slower than he'd like; and the situation is not helped by the fact that it is exceedingly hard to walk backwards carrying a fully grown man, whilst simultaneously attempting to aim a gun. Nonetheless, he makes it to the sopping wood of the doors, and barges through, sending little splinters of oak in all directions.
Night has fallen outside, and Sherlock gratefully deposits John onto the back seat of the unlocked car outside. From his journey here, he knows that even if he were to procure the keys to the vehicle, it could take up to an hour to drive John to the hospital, and he'd rather he was seen to sooner. Sherlock presses a long-fingered hand to the doctor's forehead. It's much cooler than he'd like. With a frown, he removes the hand again, unconsciously trailing his fingers across the skin for a little longer than necessary. It's soft to the touch, but he can feel the little grooves of anxiety engraved into his forehead. Under the harsh lights of the car, the betrayal in John's face is thrown into sharp relief, and it bothers Sherlock a lot more than he'd like, though he will concede the expression not to be unfounded, given the apparent situation.
He turns his attention away from the man lying lifeless on the brushed nylon of the car seat, focussing it instead on the little glowing oblong of his phone screen.
He calls Lestrade first. He's very blunt, more so than usual, disregarding the Inspector's objections; informing him of the location, and telling him in no uncertain terms that it was of the utmost importance and his presence was expected immediately – and hanging up without further elaboration.
The second call is for an ambulance. He finds himself infuriated by the cool, calm voice of the operator, determined, apparently, to speak as slowly as possible. The woman seemed unable to comprehend that she worked for the emergency services, and thus, callers generally wanted assistance as fast as possible. He stabs the end call button viciously, scowling and cursing. It's not a habit he indulges in regularly; but with John so ill, and the incompetence of London's emergency services thrown into blinding clarity, he feels the language is not unwarranted.
The least incompetent of the two, Detective Inspector Lestrade, arrives first in a blaze of flashing blue. Although his use is limited in a situation such as this, Sherlock's glad to see him, glad that he gets a moment of normalcy and sanity before the bustling and unfamiliar paramedics start interfering. Lestrade has brought only two other men: two, Sherlock is grateful to note, that he does not recognise. The DI rushes over to Sherlock immediately upon arrival, his face concerned. The two other policemen follow more slowly, allowing him and Lestrade a moment's privacy. Unusually, it's the older man that initiates the conversation.
"Are you alright?"
Considering his manner over the phone, Sherlock is surprised at the degree of gentleness and concern in Lestrade's tone. It's even more of a shock to find that he can't answer. He shifts his gaze to the man laying in the car, then looks back at Lestrade. The man seems to understand, and puts a steadying hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He asks no questions about the younger man's unconventional attire, either, and Sherlock feels his gratitude towards him intensify.
"Your serial killer's in there," Sherlock tells him, indicating the chapel behind them. Lestrade nods, and motions to the two policemen hovering uncomfortably behind him. They're both armed, Sherlock notes. Good, but probably unnecessary. He couldn't imagine the man so easily dominated putting up much of a fight against the police.
Lestrade is prudent enough to continue not to ask any questions – at present, anyway, Sherlock can see he's dying to get some answers – and the pair sit companionably in silence; until that silence is broken by the screaming ambulance flashing into view. Sherlock jumps to his feet, and Lestrade follows suit, going to help his two colleagues push Mr Smith, unwillingly, into the back of the police car. He's proving more resistant than Sherlock had thought, and when he catches sight of the detective, pale and quiet, he howls.
"I trusted you!" he screams, as he's bundled out of sight. Sherlock presses his lips together, torn between despair and amusement. He allows himself a small snicker.
"Your loss," he murmurs, inaudible to all but himself. His mind turns to John, and the amusement evaporates as swiftly as it had arrived.