Warning: Rated M for Violence and swearing
Beautiful Cover Art by anyrei1 can be viewed by Googling anyrei/tumblr.
Chapter 35
"…no it's not, because I'm an officer of the law, Sherlock. And The next time I catch you breaking and entering, I'll have you arrested," said Lestrade who had been on a rant for seven and a half minutes. Sherlock was timing the rant but not listening to it at all.
It was tedious. John knew how to get angry properly.
If he had to say something idiotic, he said it once. He didn't keep repeating stupid things over and over and over...and over.
For instance, Lestrade had claimed to be an officer of the law no fewer than three times during this rant. Nine times so far this afternoon.
As if a genius like Sherlock would forget that Lestrade worked for Scotland Yard, when this fact was clearly important to The Work.
And John's outbursts were shorter. He yelled whatever idiotic thing came to his little mind, and then it was done. Lestrade was now pushing nine minutes on this particular harangue. It was quite annoying.
"Oh shut up now, Lestrade," said the younger man finally. "I need to think."
Sherlock did not pay attention as the detective inspector's face turned red and his eyes bulged out.
In the blissful quiet that followed, the consulting detective used his tablet to skim through the realty listings, which the consulting detective had acquired from the realty office after breaking and entering behind the back of An Officer of the Law.
There were five rentals that looked promising. Supposedly, they were a long-term rentals to families, but that didn't fool Sherlock. Surely He was certain that he'd find James Moriarty, and more importantly, John Watson at one of these properties.
It was unfortunate, yet hardly surprising, that Moran's great-aunt had already scarpered off to Spain. She probably hadn't known anything important anyway. Sherlock had contacted several of her co-workers and found them to be worse than useless. And he had told them so, each and every one of them.
The sun was low in the sky, which meant that they'd have to investigate most of the houses in the dark, which was fine…benefical even, if more breaking and entering was needed. Yes, it was probably for the best, Sherlock reassured himself. They drove up to the first house on the list. A child ran around the front of the house, followed by another shrieking with inane laughter.
The curtains were open, the telly was on, an overstuffed office worker loosened his tie and...
"No, no, no! Not this house. Drive on, Lestrade," ordered the genius in disgust. The first house was erased from his tablet. His fingers drummed anxiously against the car door.
"Turn left," ordered the consulting detective.
This was fine. There were four more properties to investigate, John was certainly in one of them. He'd find John soon and everything would be fine…
Sherlock's phone pinged with another text alert. No doubt it was Mycroft again, nagging like an old woman. Sherlock raised the phone to view the latest in a string of irritatingly inane messages.
It was his EMIT app.
EMIT was on-line. The GPS device was transmitting John's location…twelve miles south and east…
"What is it?" asked the DI. His dark eyes anxiously scanned between the road and the man next to him. Somehow Sherlock had become even more pale and was he trembling? "Sherlock? What?"
With slightly shaking fingers, Sherlock enlarged the map.
"Turn…No! Go straight 3.7 kilometers, then left," said Sherlock.
"Yeah. Alright, but what…"
"Just do it!"
Lestrade sighed, keeping his eyes on the odometer.
"What is…" began Lestrade again.
"John!" snapped the lanky burnet, who was hunched over his phone. "The tracker is broadcasting. I know where John is."
Greg gripped the wheel tightly and picked up speed. They drove in tense silence.
"Turn left," ordered Sherlock tersely.
"You need to notify Mycroft," said Lestrade.
"Oh, he already knows," replied Sherlock with a bitter smile and narrowed eyes. "He's following EMIT on his own. I would imagine he has deployed his drones already."
"Yeah. Maybe, that explains why my phone keeps vibrating," muttered the detective inspector.
"You can ignore them. They are vastly unimportant. He's been sending them to me as well," said Sherlock. "I delete them."
Sherlock glanced at the orange sky stained with crimson streaks. It might have reminded Sherlock Holmes of blood, if he had been a less pragmatic man. Fortunately, he was a man of reason and logic, so he did not think the blood-red sky was an omen.
"Can't you drive faster, Lestrade?" he bit off. He glared at the map as if it had insulted him. The signal was coming from the address of the third house on his list. He should have felt vindicated, because he would have tracked down this location on his own. Instead, he felt…anxiety and longing… and fear. He didn't like these feelings. Fortunately, he could block them, delete them, bury them deep in his mind palace.
"Will you drive faster!," he yelled. Then he added, "Please." Sherlock Holmes rationally reviewed the likely scenarios which awaited him at this isolated country cottage. Of course he was a bit concerned but he was no longer nervous or agitated. The consulting detective's fingers drummed in concert with his rapidly beating heart, belying his calm façade.
Sherlock's harsh, grating please was so unexpected and so painful, that Lestrade wordlessly complied. He accelerated dangerously; at least he had his flashing emergency lights, to warn other vehicles. The detective inspector wondered how long it would be before local law enforcement intervened.
His car sped down the road, which was bathed in blood-red light from the setting sun. Lestrade felt it was a bad omen and shivered.
They pulled into the gate with all lights off, so that Moriarty and his gang would not be alerted. The house was dark, the front door was wide open. EMIT's signal was not coming from the house but rather to the south-east. The consulting detective flew out of the car as it slowed.
The place looked deserted, and there were casualties, at least two.
Lestrade jumped out and cautiously headed toward the open door, not waiting for Mycroft's team. They were inbound on helicopters. Mycroft was going all out now.
"Not the house," said Sherlock. "The signal is coming from…from that way. Over by the trees."
Greg Lestrade only ran to the house faster, he'd seen the a body on the steps. The man was blond and…thank God, …not John. The detective inspector remembered to breathe. But the man was very dead, nonetheless, thought Lestrade. The body was already cooling. Lestrade turned the body over and noted the single bullet wound to the head.
"Dammit, Lestrade," snapped Sherlock. "This way, John is not in the house."
"Yeah, well we don't know if anyone else is in there."
"Precisely and we don't have time to investigate it now. John is out there, and if he's not signaling us, it could mean there's a gunman nearby."
Or it could mean that John is wounded or tied up or dead supplied Sherlock's mind unhelpfully. Sherlock kicked at the dead woman to be sure she wasn't a danger, then he continued on.
"Look, will you not do that?" Lestrade groaned, as he headed toward the body. "It's disrespectful. Christ, she was shot in the head too."
"She was armed too, just like the other one. It's a gun I've never seen before. I guess maybe it's a Sig Sauer, but somethings off with it. And...it's been fired. The other ones gun was ready but hadn't been fired." muttered Lestrade to Sherlock's distant back. "D'you really think there's another gunman around? Sherlock?"
"Shut up, Lestrade," said Sherlock, entering the small copse of trees. "He's here. He's in here somewhere. John? John, if you can hear me say something."
Sherlock turned on his torch, not concerned about whether it made him a target or not. His light swept around. Hidden in the brush, he saw a plaid shirt and blond hair and found the bloody remains of his soldier.
"John!" Sherlock ran a few steps and dropped next to the body. He grabbed a shoulder and turned the blond, a gun dropped out of John's lifeless hands, which were cuffed together. The soldier's wrists were chafed and red, the right wrist was bleeding even now.
Sherlock's mind had all but shut down. Now it whirred back on-line, observing, cataloging, analyzing the data stream. First and foremost, bleeding indicated circulation and that meant a heartbeat. Second, now that Sherlock had bothered to check, John was clearly breathing. Third, John had sustained a head wound and it wasn't bleeding... because it was crusted over (no doubt the head wound was older, sustained earlier in the day or even last night). None of these wounds explained the amount of blood that had soaked the ground, seeping into Sherlock's trousers…Ah, a bullet wound, right lower leg, causing significant blood loss due to neglect of the wound, which now explains John's lack of response and his cold clammy skin. Assessment, severe blood loss leading to shock, concomitant head trauma. Both could prove fatal…
"Lestrade, call for an ambu…"
"I already have. They're on the way," said Lestrade who shined his torch down on John's pale face.
Sherlock clutched his little soldier to his chest. "John, I'm here. John, please…please answer me."
"Right," said Lestrade, taking charge. He tore off his trench coat, and threw in on the ground "Put him down flat…on my coat. We want to keep him warm."
"He's already chilled!"
"We want to keep from getting more chilled then," said Lestrade, gently pulling the limp blond from his boyfriend's arms. "Now cover him with your coat and give me your scarf, so I can try to stop the bleeding."
John moaned softly when Lestrade pushed on the wound.
"You're hurting him!" snarled Sherlock.
"Not on purpose!" snapped the DI, looking up at the pale, wide-eyed detective. "Listen, I think I hear the choppers."
"John doesn't need Mycroft's bloody ninjas. He needs…"
"I bet at least one of those bloody ninjas is a bloody medic, Sherlock. And I hear a siren, the ambulance is close." Lestrade looked at the younger man with compassion. He had never, ever, seen Sherlock this distraught, except maybe when he was coming down off the drugs. Then again, not even then. Sherlock's curls were in wild disorder. His skin was nearly as white as John's and his face…he grimaced as if he were the one in pain. And damn if his eyes weren't teary. Jesus Christ, thought Greg, I never thought I'd see the day when Sherlock bloody Holmes was fighting off tears.
John moaned again and tried to pull his leg away. It was a feeble, pitiful effort. Personally, Lestrade didn't think he could take much more of this before he started crying too.
"Sherlock," said the detective inspector harshly. "Hold his hands. Or, see if you can get those damned handcuffs off. And just talk to him, for God's sake. It's gonna be alright. Tell him, that it's going..."
"Yes, yes fine, thank you. Yes." The arrogant younger man glared at the silver-haired detective. Then he bent over and kissed the unconscious blond's forehead. "I'm here, John," he said gently. "You're safe now." Sherlock began picking the lock on the cuffs. "John, it's me, Sherlock. You're going to be all right. I…"
'Cap'in Sh'lock?" muttered John. His half-opened eyes looked glassy, in the light from the electric torch. "Insurgent's got 'way. Black SUV. Always…"
"Shh, John it's all right," said Sherlock, smiling tremulously.
"It is not all right. Why's it always, always a fuckin' black SUV?" John tried to shout, it ended in a high-pitched wheeze. Red and blue and white lights flashed in front of the house.
"Over here!" yelled Lestrade to the first emergency responders. "Man down. We need medics, now!"
"Black SUV, Cap'in Homes," said John gripping Sherlock's arm with both of his now freed hands. "Side windows and back window shot out… Din't get tags. Sorry. Should ha' gotten the tags. There'll be blood inside. Got one of 'em for sure, at least onct. Hafa get medical…medical…"
"Yes, John the ambulance is just pulling in," said Sherlock, running his hand soothingly across John's forehead and cheek."You'll be fine."
"No. No. Mori-Moria-ty, shot his ear fuckin' off. Colon'l's wounded…look in hospitals. Look in the insurgent held hospitals. Look! They gotta go for medical..."
"John don't worry. Save your…" began Lestrade.
"Shut up, Lestrade," ordered Sherlock. "Yes, Captain Watson, I understand," said Sherlock gently. "I'll send the teams out to search for a black SUV with missing side and back windows and blood stains on the upholstery. We'll send out…more units to scour the A and E's for wounded men matching your prior descriptions."
"Good, yes. Yes, sir. Thank you sir," said John subsiding. He did not loosen his grip on Sherlock's arm even as Sherlock began issuing order's via text.
Then the medics were there, and Lestrade stood aside. Sherlock pulled back a bit, but John wouldn't release Sherlock's arm. Lestrade and one of Mycroft's minions forcibly pulled the younger detective him away as the medics descended on the wounded ex-soldier.
In spite of his oxygen mask, John kept muttering instructions to the medics as they stabilized him. He gave mostly incoherent orders to Sergeant Lestrade and Captain Holmes as well.
Not surprisingly, Sherlock forced his way into the ambulance with John and the medics. Then the ambulance finally sped off with lights and sirens and a two car police escort. Even out here, Mycroft was pulling strings. Lestrade turned to face the bloody battlefield in front of the quiet little country house. The special operations teams had cordoned off the area, keeping the local constabulary at bay.
Other teams had been dispatched to begin the manhunt for the wounded madman and ex-colonel.
The grim-faced local chief constable was heading toward the detective inspector. Lestrade had a sinking feeling that the angry woman recognized him.
He sighed. This was going to generate a great deal of paperwork.
A/N This was sort of a cliff hanger but maybe not as bad as some? Please don't be too mad. The next chapter is in the pipeline.
Thank you to everyone who reads, favorites or follows this story. You are the main reason that I keep writing :D
Special thanks go out to everyone who reviews. I can't tell you how much it means to me. I love your comments, questions, requests, compliments, corrections, con-crit...well just everything! Thanks to the most recent reviewers including: SamuelE8668, birdie7272, dana-san, Head Girl Mione, Erenem, DarkAdarah, Quiet Time, Shadows Concealed in Darkness, Snowphire, sveltewise, TheSherlockianGoddess, 107602 and anyrei1.
***BIFIC***
Previously in our last installment of BIFIC...
"John?" called the WOCD.
He tilted his head and reexamined the evidence with narrowed eyes. Then he opened his eyes, suddenly realizing that open eyes allowed him to see better. This allowed him to see the trail of jam on the floor leading to the bedroom…
Sherlock crept down the hallway and cautiously opened the bedroom door. He was unprepared for the horror within.
His besmirched-with-jam blogger, was held at butter-knifepoint by none other than James Moriarty.
"Well, look who's joined our little party. Hi!" said the consulting criminal (CC).
"Don't you touch him," snarled the WOCD.
The brunette CC immediately began poking John Watson, with a well manicured index finger.. "Look Sherly, I'm touching him. I'm touching him," crowed Moriarty, with each vicious touch. "Ohhh, I think he's put on a little weight, at least seven pounds."
John looked to the floor in shame and resignation and because he thought he might have dropped a pound note there earlier in the day.
"What do you want, Moriarty?" growled Sherlock. His forehead began beading in sweat at the sight of his blogger so helpless against the evil criminal mastermind.
"I came to watch the gay sex," said James, who had discovered the couple's onomatophobias. Sherlock's head snapped back as if he'd been struck.
John, the former soldier was made of stronger stuff. His forehead wrinkled formidably and he clenched his teeth and smiled at the same time, which was very intimidating.
"Make him stop it!" whined the intimidated CC.
"No!" said Sherlock.
"I'm not gay!" yelled John. He grabbed James arm and punched him and twisted his arm and grabbed his throat and swept Jim's legs out from under him-and grabbed the butter knife-all at the same time. "And Sherlock would never have sex."
"You broke my arm," whined Moriarty.
"No it's only sprained. I'm a doctor and I know how to sprain people," said the fierce little doctor.
Sherlock smirked at his enemy's downfall and at his boyfriend, who was being a tiny bit sexy.
"Oh yeah?" said Moriarty, because the author was too tired to come up with any more witty repartee. "Well…gay sex, gay sex, Sherly and Johnny like gay sex!" sang the malevolent CC.
TBC**
List of Uncommonly Used Abbreviations
a/n author's note-let ( not to be confused with A/N which stands for Author's Note)
BFBIC Bonus Fluff Because I Can
BG British Government
WOCD World's Only Consulting Detective
GF Gold fish*
SB Sexy blogger*
CC consulting criminal (not to be confused with closed captioning which is sometimes provided thanks to the generous donations of readers like you)
LaUUA List of Uncommmonly Used Abbreviations-DUH!
*sadly, these abbreviations are not found in this BFBIC
**TBC was not included in the LoUUA because it is a commenly used abbreviation :D