Chapter 15
"So can you tell me exactly what happened when he attacked you?" John asked.
He was interviewing the last of the three women, and although their stories had kept his thoughts away from his disappointment earlier that day, they certainly hadn't made him feel happy. Anthony Harris turned out to be more than a brute, and indeed it wouldn't be difficult for Sherlock to prove that he was unfit as a father.
The woman swallowed. "I still don't understand how you found me. I've never told the police any of this," she answered in a broken voice. It was hard to gain Martha Nobbs' confidence after what had happened, even after John had been talking to her for almost half an hour in the café.
"I know, but I'm here to help," John answered patiently. "We're trying to make sure that he doesn't make more victims and that he can't harm his own children."
"Alright." She sighed and collected her courage. "We'd met at the pub. He'd been trying to chat up me and my friend but we turned him down. He left and we forgot about him. But then, when I was walking home, he attacked me. I was a bit drunk and I stumbled and lost a shoe, and the next thing I felt was that he hit me on the head with my own shoe and dragged me away. I don't have to tell you what happened once we were alone in an alleyway." She looked at her hands, beaten.
"I'm so sorry, Martha," John said. He said goodbye and wished her strength for a long while, before he texted to Sherlock what he had found out while he was walking out. It was almost evening, and of course communication had been one-sided again. Sherlock had probably read everything, but John didn't have a clue where the other man was. He took a cab home, hoping he would find him there.
Sherlock groaned as he more sensed than heard his phone buzzing somewhere near. He tried reaching for it, but at the first attempt at movement, pain like burning knives shot up his arm and shoulder making him scream.
Once home, it turned out that Sherlock wasn't there. John sighed and decided to try calling. At least the chance was a little bigger that Sherlock would hear that, and maybe some day he would understand that he had to pick up when John called, to prevent him from getting worried, wouldn't he?
Giving up on his right arm, Sherlock tried moving the left. It wasn't nearly as bad, but the muscles working sent stabs of sharp pain down through his ribs making him gasp.
John sighed and threw his phone down in the sofa after two attempts at calling. He made dinner and put Sherlock's plate in the fridge - after all he had said that he would be gone for most of the day, so it was no use waiting for him. Flicking through channels on the telly, he sent another text, just to bother Sherlock.
His head was aching, and when he tried opening his eyes, everything was a blur. His phone kept buzzing, and he focused on the sound, fighting off the looming darkness.
John had actually drifted off for a short nap, and he frowned as he woke up and saw the clock. After going to put his plate in the sink, he started wondering if he could join Sherlock somewhere, but once again he had no idea where in London the detective could be. He sent him another text. If Sherlock always was like this, he'd never know if something serious was going on with him, he thought, annoyed, while chewing on the inside of his cheek.
Sherlock gave in and surrendered to painless oblivion for a while.
John felt like an idiot when he was texting Lestrade and Mycroft again about Sherlock's whereabouts after his shower. At first they both didn't answer for fifteen minutes, and then suddenly their answer was there at almost exactly the same time, but neither knew where Sherlock was and Mycroft had added that he didn't feel like going to look for him; he'd show up, just like always.
Sherlock heard voices. He fought his way back to consciousness. He tried calling out, but his throat was burning and it was little more than a croak.
John sat in the middle of the bed, his arms around his knees. It was getting late and he wanted some sleep, but on the other hand he - well, he wanted Sherlock. Not even in the erotic way. Something was starting to feel wrong, but chances were that he was just being silly and that Sherlock was just being the same inconsiderate idiot as always. He tried calling him again, without success, and put his phone on the bedside table. He laid himself down on his back, but he couldn't catch any sleep.
A warm hand touched his cheek and Sherlock forced his eyes open. A concerned but unfamiliar face hovered above him. "Oh my God. What happened to you?" Someone was asking.
After tossing and turning for quite some time, more or less convinced that he wouldn't see Sherlock again that day, John got up again. The telly was still crap and he couldn't focus on reading because he was too annoyed by boredom and a ridiculous... partner, who felt too important to be distracted for long enough to let him know where he was and if he had any intention of coming home.
Sherlock whimpered in pain as he was carefully eased onto the stretcher and an oxygen mask was placed over his mouth and nose. He wanted to tell someone to get his phone, which he knew lay only a little way off, but he could not formulate any words. When he tried to gesture, the pain increased and a gentle but firm hand took hold of his wrist. "Take it easy there. You'll be alright."
Huffing to no-one, John went to bed, and after some time finally fell into a light sleep, full of strange short dream fragments.
Lights were sweeping past Sherlock, voices tuning themselves in and out. "Fractured right ulna," someone was saying. "Possible dislocation... ribs cracked... bent... get an x-ray... split eyebrow and lip..." Sherlock groaned, wanting the voice to go away. "Definitely concussed..." another voice added, and then it all went away for a while.
It was a little past three in the morning and John jolted awake again. The feeling that something was wrong was creeping over him more than ever, and an almost-nightmare about Afghanistan hadn't helped things. He shook his head and got himself some water, before lying down again.
He was in a soft bed and someone was spewing out information in a manner that absurdly reminded him of himself when explaining a crime scene. The pain had significantly lessened, which he suspected had something to do with the IV he could feel in his left hand.
"Bruises and petechial hemorrhage point to strangulation, so there will most likely be some damage to the larynx. Also suspected trauma to the spleen and kidneys," the voice droned. "I think we can safely assume that this was an assault. Call in the Met."
Sherlock heartily agreed with the last bit, as he slipped into unconsciousness again.
John had finally dozed off to some sleep of better quality, when the phone started ringing. "Bloody hell, Sherlock," he muttered into the pillow, before throwing a quick glance at the clock. "Really, I'm going to-" A look at the screen told him that it wasn't Sherlock calling, but Lestrade. For a moment he stopped breathing, then quickly pressed the phone against his ear, filled with fear.
"Hello."
"John. It's Sherlock. He's hurt." Lestrade's voice was shaking with the shock he had just suffered when recognising the battered victim in the hospital bed.
John's heart was hammering in his chest. "Where is he? Will he be okay?" He jumped from the bed and started pulling on his trousers, phone still in one hand.
"Christ John, I don't know," Lestrade admitted. "He's at the A&E at the Royal, but I think they're moving him to intensive care."
John bit his lip and tried not to panic. "I'm on my way. Could you - can you send a car? It's quicker than getting a cab at this hour and - God, I need to see him."
"It's already on its way." Lestrade drew in a sharp breath. "Look, John. I have to get back in there..."
"Yeah. Yeah, that's fine." He hardly heard himself speaking. "Thank you, Greg."
"John..." he hesitated. "Just get here..."
John put away his phone and got dressed in a haze. God, Lestrade had sounded as if he should hurry to even say goodbye to Sherlock... No, he couldn't think like that, things couldn't be that bad. Of course Sherlock was stronger. He had to be.
