see chapter 1 for disclaimers
"Duck!"
When a slightly taller man of similar build pulled John to the concrete path running haphazardly through the space between terraced houses, he briefly pondered how the hell this had happened. Then there was a series of very loud bangs, a sudden bright light and then everything went black.
"Alright, the guy's gone round to the back streets, probably trying to lay low, get under the radar. He's armed, so if he does try and pull one on you, just duck behind something and keep him in your sights. As long as he's in front of you and you're behind something, chances are he can't shoot you..."
"Pointless," Sherlock muttered, staring at Lestrade as he briefed the other officers Superintendant Marshall had assigned to catching the serial sniper. He'd left a trail of clues so obvious Sherlock wasn't really needed but Lestrade had called him in anyway, partially because he hadn't given Sherlock a case since Chenekova's murder had ended in success for them and a small (okay, blown-out-of-proportions) disagreement, but also because there were one or two things that threw a spanner in the works. Sherlock had confirmed the odd things to be a hoax as the murderer tried to throw the police off his scent, informed Lestrade he had been right the first time, asked why he had bothered wasting Sherlock's time and then demanded to be involved in bringing him in.
"It's routine, Sherlock, leave him alone. Just because he doesn't feel the need to have you play nanny for him..." John had to admit, he'd been enjoying ribbing Sherlock about Lestrade's tantrum over who cares for who, even though he shouldn't use Lestrade's - issues? Probably not the right word but he couldn't think of anything better - issues against the detective.
"It's time-wasting," Sherlock hissed back: Lestrade was coming over, checking his own Browning was loaded as he walked. He rolled his shoulder continually as he did: clearly it was still as bad as it had been twenty four days ago. Sherlock shot the DI a criticising look, which he stubbornly ignored.
"There's no point me asking you to partner up with someone, is there?" Sherlock simply scoffed, obviously wondering why Lestrade had bothered asking in the first place. "In that case, look after yourself, meet back here at two and try not to get shot." Sherlock scoffed again, considering the advice a clear waste of time before walking off into an alleyway between two buildings, his coat and his hair swallowed up almost immediately.
It made a shiver crawl down John's spine.
"I'm hoping you're feeling more sensible than that insane flatmate of yours," Lestrade muttered, not in a better mood now than he had been when John had last seen him. If anything he was worse: not as grumpy but wearier. He didn't normally look it but the man was getting on a bit. It struck him then that he didn't actually know how old Lestrade was, and with the man wound so tightly, he decided against asking and risk pissing him off.
"All the time, considering how incapable of being sensible Sherlock is," John replied, sending Lestrade a slight smile. He returned it weakly.
"Sorry about being such an arse at the Chenekova case. Pulled something in my back and it aches and itches. Been driving me crazy," he murmured, by way of explanation.
"I could take a look, if you don't want to go to a GP," John offered, more than a little concerned for the DI he counted as a close friend. If he'd had those symptoms for so long, it was unlikely that it was a pulled muscle: a trapped nerve more likely or something worse. They'd gotten closer after Sherlock 'died' but his return had estranged them slightly.
Greg laughed and shook his head. "Thanks for the offer, and yeah GPs bug me, but I've had aches like this before and they tend to clear up within the month. I don't want to bother you."
John didn't feel any better, knowing this was a recurring problem. He was tempted to insist, remind Greg that he never felt it a waste of time but Greg would only get insulted and annoyed that his decision wasn't being respected.
"Let's go," murmured Lestrade and took the lead into yet another dark alley. Clearly the council had forsaken this area because even though they passed six streetlight within five minutes, only one was actually functional.
Then a bullet smashed into the brick beside John's head and both men immediately bolted for the nearest cover, reflexes automatically taking over.
Lestrade had been closer to a perpendicular alley and darted inside, returning fire only twice, not confident enough in his ability to hit something with that range and light. John had been forced behind a huge bin, unable to stand up without risking having his head blown off. It was frustrating to say the least.
The shots stopped but both men stayed put for a few minutes until they were certain they were alone in the alley now. Then Lestrade darted from the alley, spry considering how tired he'd looked earlier, and pulled John to his feet.
"Bonsoir, messieurs!" A high-pitched French man was squealing from in front of them and the shadow of him raised a huge semi-automatic, the kind Lestrade rarely, if ever, saw and the kind John acutely remembered from Afghanistan. He didn't fire though and John took the opportunity, hitting him square in the shoulder.
That was no help.
"Duck!"
Suddenly Lestrade was on top of him, forcing him to the ground so that the second bullet meant for his head went right over. By 'right over', that meant it ploughed straight into Lestrade's shoulder.
The DI was thrown from John's back and landed hard a few feet away, lost to a sudden blinding light from the streetlight, which chose that moment to start working properly. John couldn't see a thing but he could still hear and he was sure he recognised the sound of cloth tearing. Then the light flickered out again and they were plunged into darkness.
There was violent French swearing from somewhere down the alley: the man had dropped his gun out of shock and was having a hard time trying to find it. John used the noise to cover for him crawling towards where he'd seen Lestrade fall before the light came on. The first thing his hand touched was shredded cloth: a breast pocket, with a phone still in it. Then there was something warm and runny: blood from the bullet wound. Then something that should not have been there.
Feathers.
They weren't just small feathers either: the ones John had his hand on were probably not much shorter than he was. He followed them up and found they didn't belong to a bird. Instead they belonged to the body lying unconscious in the alley with a bullet in his shoulder.
Lestrade had wings.
"Putain!" The Frenchman was shouting now, probably still swearing by his tone of voice and there were sounds of flesh hitting flesh and flesh hitting concrete. John could hear Sergeant Donovan's distinctive voice, hard-edged with nerves, worry and righteous anger, as she read the Frenchman his rights and cuffed him.
Then someone was crouched down beside John, pulling him off Lestrade's prone form. He didn't register the fact that it was Sherlock until the younger man pulled off his coat and covered the DI with it: luckily it was large enough that all feathers were hidden from sight.
Behind them, there was suddenly an explosion of shouting. John turned sharply and had to duck yet again to avoid having both his eyes shot through. The Frenchman had kicked Donovan's legs out from underneath her and dived for his semi-automatic, brought it up and sprayed their direction with bullets. Sherlock had to flatten himself on the floor, in a puddle to his obvious distaste, but the noise brought Lestrade round and he raised himself just far enough that the coat fell off him slightly and a bullet clipped the joint between wing and back.
The DI screamed.
The Frenchman fell with a bullet between the eyes, courtesy of one very pissed off consulting detective.
The doctor immediately took off his own jacket, noticing blankly that Sherlock had pinched his Browning, and applied pressure to the bullet wound. Luckily said bullet wasn't still in his flesh: it was imbedded in the wall instead, but Lestrade was getting paler and paler. John knew he needed a hospital but with the wings...
"221B," Lestrade muttered. "Before they notice..." They of course meant the Sergeants and Constables gathered around the dead Frenchman, who had yet to spot the three men skulking in the darkened parts of the alley. Sherlock of course realised immediately that the flat was the only real hope of sanctuary for them at the moment and immediately moved to help Lestrade to his feet, making sure the coat stayed around his shoulders, as much for warmth (Lestrade's shirt was in tatters in a puddle) as for protection, and keeping to his right. John retrieved the shredded shirt as well as Lestrade's phone and followed them away.
They took a cab back to 221B, hoping that Donovan hadn't noticed Lestrade's disappearance yet. The man in question was currently sat forward on the seat with his left arm dangling grotesquely (bone broken, John noted) and looking vaguely like he might either throw up or faint sometime in the next few minutes. Sherlock was texting rapidly, though John couldn't fathom who to, but every thirty seconds precisely he looked up and assessed the DI's condition. As the frown got progressively deeper, so Lestrade got fainter and paler and 221B got closer.
Finally they turned onto Baker Street and Sherlock leaned forward to speak to the cabbie, something John couldn't hear over Lestrade's hushed profanities, but the man nodded and turned around, so that Lestrade's side was closer to the front door. John made another mental note, this one to ask Sherlock when he'd developed the ability to give a shit that someone was hurt.
Then again, Sherlock had always had a soft spot for Lestrade, one John had never truly noticed or felt the need to question before.
Luckily Mrs Hudson was in bed, seeing as it was going on three in the morning, so she didn't notice Sherlock and John practically carrying Lestrade up the stairs. Normally they would have deposited him on the sofa but Sherlock instead guided them into his bedroom, where it was tidier and Lestrade would have more room to spread his wings. Now quite literally.
While John nipped out to get his medical bag, Sherlock helped Lestrade to lie down on his front, with his broken arm out of the way and his wings spread in the most comfortable position Sherlock could remember. The DI was so out of it with pain that all he did was moan quietly in response. The consulting detective tried to get any other response but Lestrade was practically dead to the world.
"John? He's unresponsive, you need to hurry!" It was a testimony to how concerned he was for Lestrade that Sherlock only slightly raised his voice, rather than bellowing as he usually did when calling for his flatmate. Lestrade still managed to produce another moan as the loud noise made his head throb.
John darted into the room, surprisingly light on his feet considering his broad rugby build and the medical bag he was carrying and shooed Sherlock off the bed. He simply pulled his desk chair as close to the bed as the doctor would allow and watched Lestrade carefully. John had only ever seen such an expression of concern a few times, most of which had been in his direction, the most recent at his panic attack when Sherlock had appeared on his doorstep.
No, not going to think about that now, he told himself very firmly. The man is injured and has wings and I am not jealous he's got Sherlock's attention.
Sorry for the delay but honestly this was quick for me! Oops.
Did anyone actually get the hint? A synonym for serious is 'grave' and a grave is a resting place: Rupert Graves! No? Yeah...
R&R please!
jack-damian