The Worst Miracle
Another fall.
John actually laughed. He was hysterical, of course, and later he hated himself for it, blushing with shame at the memory, but at that moment, all he could think was, 'You bugger. You did it again.' Then his doctor's instincts kicked in and he raced downstairs, taking a shortcut by jumping over the side of the stairs.
"Sherlock!" He scrambled up the heap of rubble, praying that his friend had not fallen onto some razor-sharp piece of metal, but it was impossible to tell without moving him.
"Sherlock," His breath was suddenly gone and his voice was breaking as his hands frantically searched for a pulse in the neck.
"Don't do this to me, don't–" Sudden nausea welling up, he broke off, but his fingers dug into the skin of that pale throat, demanding to find a heartbeat.
And there it was – a pulse, strong and steady. "Thank God," John muttered, almost sinking down with relief. He went on to check the blood-covered face, terrified to find the skull split open, but it was just a long gash on the side of Sherlock's head extending all the way down to his throat. He had probably grazed it during the fall – there were plenty of wires and rods sticking out everywhere. Blood was gushing out of the ripped skin with every heartbeat, drenching the curls. Sherlock had landed on top of the heap and was lying on his back, his head dangling down, the blood now streaming all over his face, getting into his eyes and mouth and nose.
John let his breath out in a huff, only now realizing he had been holding it. "Jesus, Sherlock," he wheezed, "please be all right. Mostly, at least. Okay? There's only so much I can take."
He carefully checked his friend's ribcage and abdomen and then hurriedly made sure the long limbs weren't broken. He didn't find anything too worrying, but still, he dreaded to turn the body over, scared to find some shard embedded in the back, piercing vital organs and shattering the spine.
Just then, soldiers burst in, boots grinding on dust and weapons at the ready, yelling and pointing guns at him – John held up his hands and closed his eyes for a moment, suppressing his suddenly flaring anger. This was utter madness.
He forced his voice to be calm and clear. "My name is John Watson, I'm a doctor and definitely not the sniper you're hunting. Now stop pointing those guns at me and get someone who's in charge. And most of all, get an ambulance and some paramedics!"
One of the soldiers climbed up the heap. "Sir!" He called, "I'm sorry, Sir," he turned around and gave the command to stand down. "Do you need help, Sir?"
"Get the ambulance," John snarled, too shaken to bother with formalities. "And get Mycroft Holmes, if he's around."
"He is, Sir," the soldier confirmed. "We're supposed to notify him instantly when we find you."
"Then by all means do so," John snapped, focusing on Sherlock again. "There's a woman on the upper floor, where you exploded that stun grenade – she also needs medical care immediately, so get that bloody ambulance here, now!"
"Yes, Sir, right away, sir!" The man barked a string of orders, and turning back to John, he asked, "Sir, can I help you with him?" He eyed the bloodied figure suspiciously, reaching for the unconscious man's shoulder.
"Don't touch him," John warned, "he might have injured his back. Get me a first aid kit."
John was gently feeling under Sherlock's back for injuries when Sherlock's eyelids suddenly fluttered; he jerked violently, his body shaken by a coughing fit.
John grabbed him by the shoulders, holding him down. "Sherlock, can you hear me? Stay calm, stay on your back, don't move, okay?"
Sherlock coughed again, a liquid rattle in his throat – and suddenly there was blood bubbling on his lips. John all but panicked, fearing a punctured lung; he felt his professionalism slip away, simply because this was Sherlock and he was terrified to see the miracle slide from his fingers, until he realised that the blood did not come from the lungs: it was only the blood streaming over Sherlock's face and into his mouth and nose, and all he had to do was staunch the wound. Simple. He felt like an idiot for panicking.
John's mind switched back to professional and he tore open the first aid kit the soldier had handed him. He ripped out some gauze and pressed it against the head wound, but it was drenched immediately, so he took more gauze to wipe away the blood from Sherlock's face since it kept him from breathing properly. It was a well-meant gesture; but it triggered a terrifying reaction.
Without warning, Sherlock lashed out, sending the soldier kneeling next to him tumbling down the rubble; in a flash, he rose, his hands closing around John's throat, instantly tightening into a murderous grip.
John gasped in surprise and tried to protest, but only a choking sound came out of his mouth. He felt himself being yanked down and thrown onto his back with the full weight of Sherlock landing on top of him, knees digging painfully into his thighs. John's instincts finally kicked in, and he tried to fend off the attack, but his arms were heavy as lead, his vision started to blur and his head filled with white noise. Madly, his last thought was, 'No back injury then. I hope they don't shoot him …' Then he blacked out.
He came round to his mind nagging SherlockMarySherlock and he was wide awake in an instant. He hadn't been unconscious for more than a few seconds and found himself on his feet even before his vision fully cleared.
Sherlock was gone.
Cursing, John stumbled down the rubble and grabbed the nearest soldier, who was for some reason kneeling on the floor, nursing a bleeding nose. "Where is he?" John shouted.
The soldier looked at him as if he were speaking Chinese.
"The man who fell!" John yelled.
"Out," the soldier wheezed, pointing through a gaping hole in the wall. "Gone. He's mad," he added with a distinct note of respect in his voice.
John snorted, "You bet," only now realising that a second soldier was lying on the ground as well, unconscious, and both their weapons were missing. Sherlock's doing? Raising an eyebrow, he muttered, "So, now you've gone from Spock to Bond, or what?"
He briefly wondered whether that new style included women as well …
John dashed out onto the wasteland, but as soon as he was outside, his footsteps faltered.
"Oh God, no," he muttered. "Sherlock … please, no."
In front of him, a surreal scene was unfolding: Sherlock stood surrounded by soldiers, guns trained at him. Even taller in the floodlights with his face covered in blood, he looked as mad as any terrorist. He was armed with a rifle, which he was sensibly enough not pointing at anyone; instead, he was holding up a hand grenade, ready to pull the pin.
John slowly approached the circle of soldiers, holding up his hands defensively. "Sherlock. Listen to me," he urged, struggling to sound calm. With adrenaline running high, one spark was enough to make either side panic, and Sherlock would be shot down. By the look of him, he intended to set off the grenade first. "Sherlock," he repeated, "the soldiers are Mycroft's men. They are not your enemies. Put your weapons down."
"Sir," a soldier intercepted him.
"No, he knows me, let me talk to him," John demanded. The man stepped back. John licked his lips nervously, carefully phrasing the words in his mind before speaking. "Sherlock, what you're doing is entirely irrational. You're injured, you were unconscious moments ago, and you're acting on instinct." With growing fear John realized that Sherlock wasn't showing any signs of paying attention to him. "Sherlock," he tried again, his voice trembling, "you're not making sense here. Your actions are not logical." He swallowed nervously, racking his brain how to get through to him.
Desperate, he changed tack. "Sherlock! You're being a bloody idiot, for God's sake!"
Sherlock's blood-smeared features first twisted into a frown, and then a scowl.
"You are quite right, Dr. Watson," an annoyingly familiar voice stated, "and I must say it is reassuring to know that at least one person is of sound mind. My brother, clearly, is not."
John groaned: Mycroft.
Sherlock's head snapped in the direction of his brother. "Mycroft," he spat, "I want to go after Moran!"
"I know you do," Mycroft replied serenely. "That's why I ordered them to detain you."
Sherlock reared at the statement. "Let. Me. Go. Now!"
"No." Mycroft calmly passed between the soldiers and stopped in front of his brother, only a few inches away from the towering figure. John was struck by how little they seemed to have in common, the older man the epitome of a refined British gentleman, the younger brother looking like a wild thing from the woods.
"I want to go after Moran," Sherlock hissed. "You're letting him get away!" There was so much hatred in his voice that John flinched.
"And there is nothing you can do about it." Mycroft tried to stare his brother down, but Sherlock did not waver. "For God's sake Sherlock, you would only get yourself killed!" Mycroft snapped, leaning forward impatiently. "We will catch Moran, but not today."
"He'll wreak havoc first!" Sherlock spat.
Mycroft sighed. "Don't you think you yourself have caused enough chaos in one day? Thanks to you, a lot of diplomatic feathers were ruffled. Staging that military operation to get you out of Russia was difficult enough, but running off with enough explosives to blow up Downing Street did upset a lot of people, believe me, brother dear!"
"Necessary," Sherlock snarled, "since your people proved incapable of protecting John. I had to do it myself!"
"Did you really have to break into a high-security arms depot for that? But lying low until my men arrive was certainly not dramatic enough, was it, Sherlock? It had to be a bombshell!"
"I needed to distract Moran," Sherlock snapped. "What would you have suggested I do? Throw potatoes?"
Mycroft huffed in anger, his hand clutching the handle of his umbrella. "You can't just run around blowing up things, for God's sake! What am I supposed to tell the press? That a fuse blew, burning down Battersea Power Station?"
Sherlock tilted his chin up. "You're exaggerating. Battersea still stands; besides I've been blowing up plenty of things recently and no one bothered. That's the joy of being dead."
"That was in other countries, Sherlock!" Mycroft exploded. "This is London!"
"Yes, I already feel welcome." Sherlock folded his arms with the grenade still in his hand, triggering a nervous rustle among the soldiers.
John stood dumbstruck, not understanding half of it, feeling redundant between the two brothers. It was strangely familiar. "Actually, Mycroft," he mused, "I'm quite glad about Sherlock's potatoes. Without them, Moran would have killed me. If you'll excuse me now, I have to look after Mary."
"Why?" Sherlock's voice. Confused, almost petulant.
John froze midstep, blinking. He turned around stiffly, looking at Sherlock. "Because you almost killed her, Sherlock."
Something shifted in Sherlock's eyes, as if a horrible realization hit him, but the look was gone in an instant and John was not sure if he had imagined it.
"You pointed a gun at me," Sherlock stated, his voice expressionless.
John squirmed and looked at his feet. Raising his eyes again, he met Sherlock's inscrutable gaze. "It was the only way to stop you. You weren't listening. And you would have killed her. Right there." Softly, he added, "But I would never have pulled the trigger. Never."
"And how would you have stopped me from choking your wife?" Sherlock asked coldly, deliberately provoking him, John realized.
John pouted, then shrugged. "Clouted you around your silly head, you clot." With that, he walked away, thinking, 'That was the worst miracle ever.'