Impact analysis – An analysis of the hazards and environment, that aims to determine the most likely and the most dangerous scenarios for the hazard to progress. These are critical in forming a proactive action plan and response.
Chapter 3He became aware of noise. It was more than the roar of the river that seemed to have settled.
He opened his eyes. For a moment brief panic took hold before he realised that it was dark and that he had been lying here for at least a few hours. He was cold, felt numb and the pain was a distant ache that threatened to erupt the moment he'd move.
He felt strangely warm at the same time. Inside his head Molly was going on about the dangers of hypothermia. He couldn't be bothered to listen anymore as she perfectly listed each of his symptoms and confidently declared that he had reached the threshold for Moderate Hypothermia.
He closed his eyes. Inside his mind palace he watched dispassionately as she upended a white board, starting to log all his injuries in big, bold, black letters on the body chart before her.
Cause of death was pleasantly still blank.
The bark was loud, just above him and hurt his ears.
He grunted. Willed his eyes open to find a lolling tongue barely visible in the ambient light from the full moon, right in front of his face. He stared at the dog. Tried to make sense of it all as his brain sluggishly informed him that he was not alone anymore.
He heard a shout and then there was another answering bark from the dog.
"Good dog." The voice was distorted. Sounded foreign in his ears and he understood the words with difficulty. Molly studiously started writing something on the white board and for a moment he was confused as his reality wavered between what was going on in the mind palace and the here and now of lying half-naked on the shore of the river that had spit him out after bashing him black and blue.
He squinted at the sudden light that was shining on his face. An ear-piercing whistle later and he was roughly slapped, the hand calloused and hard against cheeks deadened by cold.
"You awake, laddie?"
He didn't feel like answering. Didn't feel like much, so he closed his eyes against the hurt of the light, even though it wasn't shining on his face anymore.
"Sherlock?"
He blinked against his name. Licked lips that felt dry and in the end managed a brief yes. He faded away again and when he managed to return to consciousness, he was on a backboard being carried by four men. A blanket covered him, the straps cinched tight and held him in place. He gritted teeth against the pain.
"Blair, he's awake."
"Ay, good." An older man stepped up into his view, grey beard thick against the man's chest. Bright green eyes met his. "Your friend and his daughter are safe, laddie. You'll see them soon enough."
John. Good.
When he woke again, their shoes were crunching on gravel. He kept his eyes closed against the sudden flare of light as they entered a house. He was hustled across the room and from somewhere he thought he heard John's voice when he was settled on a bed, still on the board. The straps were loosened, jarring his body slightly and eliciting a weak whimper. A voice advised caution, the words heavy and coming through a fog of pain induced hearing loss.
His eyes were blurry and he could barely make out the difference between the hovering blobs of colour that permeated his blanket that had been covering him moved, warm packs were placed on his groin, the heat almost burning against the icy feel of skin long deadened by cold. Deft hands started to remove his coat and he couldn't help the whimper when they touched his dislocated shoulder and broken arm. He could feel the bones grating on his forearm even as stiffened shoulder muscles resisted.
He screamed.
A raw, unfettered cry of utter agony.
A hand settled on his forehead, gently carding through his hair. His senses overwhelmed, he felt tears form to his dismay.
"Sherlock. Can you hear me?"
He was barely cognizant against the onslaught of his body's pain receptors. Something tugged against his Belstaff – more careful now; a snipping sound that he faintly recognised as scissors. The only thought that registered was that he had at least another packed away somewhere, although he wasn't sure where exactly that was. Molly wiped a symptom from the white board. She replaced it with another word. He would've been alarmed if he could've mustered the energy to care.
She underlined the word three times. Turned to him, her ponytail swishing in the air.
Mummy isn't going to be pleased, Sherlock.
He turned. His brother was behind his desk, leaning over it. Hands flattened on folders that are strewn haphazardly across the desk.
You're positively dying, little brother.
No, I'm not.
Yes, you are.
Another heat pack joined him under the comforting feel of a blanket and a duvet was placed on top of it, covering his legs.
"Sherlock."
He opened his eyes for John. Ignored his brother and Molly in his mind palace. He could barely see his friend, the blurriness of his vision irritating as hell so he closed his eyes again. They removed his coat and shirt after they had cut them to pieces. His limbs not his own, barely moving under their ministrations. The fact that he was near naked under the blanket at this stage didn't bother him.
He heard a drawn intake of breath. It sounded like John, who was moving deft fingers gently over his torso. Tallying the cost of surviving the river and debris that had been determined to batter him senseless. He didn't need to open his eyes to know it was a mess. Molly's white board glaringly obvious in his mind palace, each injury neatly listed on the body chart. He ticked them off as John found them. Molly slapped his hand away from the white board. In no uncertain tones, told him that it wasn't his job to work the board. That he was supposed to lay still and get warm.
He felt the welcome sting of a needle and then the familiar feel of morphine flooded his system.
He sighed in relief.
Distantly he felt John move his dislocated arm but this time the agony was contained by the drug's effectiveness. He felt more than heard the pop as his arm went back into its socket. He shivered as a heat pack was removed to be replaced by another. This time they were added not only to his groin but also packed against his sides while his arm was stabilised. Wrapped and splinted. The blanket and duvet returned and then lifted, showcasing the injuries to his legs. He didn't feel the hands on his legs as they were gently palpitated. Apparently satisfied, the blankets and duvet returned to cover him after he felt thick woollen sock slide over his left foot. He dimly felt the sock on his right foot but the feel of it was subdued at best, a numbness he didn't want to consider the source of.
"Mack's gone off to find a signal. The helicopter won't be able to come before tomorrow in any case. Too many hills."
The voice was unfamiliar. He heard John grunt in response but he was too tired to care.
"Sherlock, come one mate. I know you want to sleep but can you open your eyes for me."
He barely responded. He just didn't seem to find energy to provide John with the action he required from him and he heard a worried murmur from John. John tapped his cheeks and he moaned in response. Another heat pack was replaced and he heard a beep of a thermometer.
"Still too low." John's voice, sounding worried.
"He'll heat up. We've done this before. If we do it too fast, he can go into cardiac arrest."
"I know…" John's voice faded out.
His head was gently lifted and then he felt a thick woollen beanie slip over his head. It covered his ears, and he let out a gentle sigh at the feeling of warmth it brought even as another shiver shook his body. He grimaced as his back twinged and suddenly it felt uncomfortable lying the way he was. He groaned. Tried to shift but found that his right arm was stuck on his chest. He had no leverage with just his left arm and no strength.
He couldn't get out more than a pitiful moan. Mycroft told him to man up and do better at communicating his needs. Molly told him it's important that he tell. He gave Mycroft the finger. Told him that he wasn't dead yet and Molly scribbled furiously on the white board, circling an area on his back in big red circles.
"Sherlock?"
"Back." He managed to finally utter. Grimaced. Breathed through another shiver, that seemed to violently shake his body. Molly held onto the whiteboard as it rattled on the floor. He focused on breathing afterwards. On not moving at all. Somewhere in that moment grey edged into black. He stirred and came awake when a hand was slapping his cheek.
"Can you open your eyes for me, mate."
A muscle spasm rippled across his back. Even against the morphine that flooded his system, the pain was immense.
"John…please." He managed. Gritted his teeth and even with John's entreaty, he couldn't manage more than a sliver of open eyes before slamming them shut again.
"All together now."
He must've lost time for the next minute he was aware of the cold, his body shivering as he was carefully manoeuvred by multiple hands. John's sure hands were on his back, palpitating his muscles. He hissed at a particular bad spot. John made a distressing noise.
"Bloody hell. How did we miss that?"
"John." He managed to breathe.
"Shit!"
He barely registered the word from his friend. Aware that he needed the heat again. That he was getting cold, his body sending another violent shiver that started in his chest, rippling down to his feet.
"Okay, put him down carefully."
"The helicopter…"
"If Andrew was flying…maybe."
"Can you find out?"
"Och, aye."
He heard footsteps hurry away. John's hand was gentle on his forehead.
"Sophie?" He managed, remembering the chase and the little girl in his lap in the van.
"Safe, Sherlock. Sleeping. Barely a scratch."
He somehow managed a chuckle. "How?"
"Grace, laddie." A woman's voice piped up as another heat pack exchange happened efficiently. He was starting to feel more cognisant but fatigue was dragging him back into the depths of a total blackout.
"Sherlock."
He frowned at John's voice. It was the voice he used when speaking to kids or the infirm.
"Back still sore." He managed to say between the chattering of his teeth. For some insane reason, Mycroft offered him a lolly pop and a - very well done, Sherlock - compliment. Molly wrote down two numbers on the board. Even he knew enough that his blood pressure wasn't doing so great. It was hard focusing on anything that was going on outside and inside of his body.
The blankets moved over his feet. Something sharp prodded him in his left foot and he shifted his foot against the feel of it. An impossible time later, John's hand was back. This time grasping his left hand. He managed a small squeeze when he was asked. John's breathing seemed different somehow. A tap against his cheek later and he finally relented. Opened his eyes to slits again at the pinch of another needle on his left arm. He just about managed to make out the bag that was hanging by his side and the blob that seemed to be John was hovering over his face.
One of the men was compressing the bag, forcing the liquid to flow faster. Molly piped up about blood volume and bleeding internally and the real danger of shock. He heard the beep of a thermometer.
"33 degrees."
"Getting up there now." The Scottish accent is thick and almost unintelligible. For some reason Molly seemed pleased. Took one more symptom off the board.
"Hey sleepy head." John gave him a quick smile. All he saw was a flash of white against the vague blob of skin and he closed his eyes without any more thought. John was speaking again to someone else, his hand a comforting pressure on Sherlock's forehead. He leaned into it slightly. Tried to relax through the shivers that seemed to be starting up with a vengeance.
"Babinski's reflex was positive in his right foot." John was saying to someone.
"Considering the injury, that makes sense."
"I don't think we can wait."
"We have no choice for now laddie. He's stable and as long as that piece of wood doesn't move…"
He frowned. Wasn't sure he understood. He dimly recalled being hit in the back. The numbing feeling soon after. Molly's big red circle on the body chart was winking in and out, highlighting the seriousness of the injury he couldn't see but feel.
He must've fallen asleep again because the next time he woke, it was because John was insistently tapping on his cheek again.
"Sherlock. You're going for a bit of a ride, mate. Sophie is joining us even though she isn't happy about being woken."
He didn't know why his friend had bothered to wake him for that. He had been comfortably away in his mind palace. Molly was lecturing him about the effects of shock and trauma on the body and he had not been inclined to return to John's worried gaze.
"Fine." He managed to say.
He was starting to warm up. Felt reasonably comfortable. He wasn't in the mood to be disturbed even though Molly inside his head was telling him that this was a bit not good. Straps went over his body, restricting his movement. He felt cocooned in, the blankets still in place with the beany. A presence moved in and as he squinted upwards, saw the saline bag being held up by a man he didn't know. He was jostled unexpectedly and he groaned against the flare in his back. Sophie's voice piped up sleepily and he heard John reassure her.
He drifted off again. Molly was insistent that he consider the effects of shock. That hypothermia had literally been a lifesaver, constricting blood vessels and stopped him from bleeding out. That he needed to watch himself.
Somewhere inside his head he heard a thump-thump sound that permeated everything inside him. His mind palace vibrated with it, the walls contracting against the bass. He wasn't at the house anymore. Instead, when he managed to open his eyes, he was looking up at stars. It seemed incongruent against the early afternoon thunderstorm they had experienced. The clouds gone. The sky clear.
It felt like a lifetime ago.
He was moving again. The only reason he knew this was the stars that changed position. And then he slammed his eyes shut against the sudden glare of light that danced over his eyelids.
"Sherlock?"
The voice wasn't John's. He heard Sophie excitedly talking. John explaining something to her. It was hard to follow the words as another onslaught of light hit his eyeballs and he protested. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded weak.
"Hey mate. Comfortable?"
He frowned at that. Of course he wasn't. Couldn't they see the obvious. Beeping started softly. Something was placed over his face and he tried to swipe at it only to realise belatedly that his left hand was tied down. His right hand and arm are useless. In fact, he was as immovable as he could be. A moment of panic had his eyes flare open and the beeping increased.
"Calm down, Sherlock."
John was in his face. Hand on his head, comforting over the beanie. "We can't have you moving, okay. An hour trip and then you'll get all the good stuff. Promise."
He managed a nod. The beeping slowed down and then he fell asleep again against the background white noise of the helicopter's blades.