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The Prey	By : amandalee Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3756 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: The authors do not claim ownership to Sherlock or any of its characters, and we make no money from writing this.

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Chapter 28
A little over two hours passed before the long-awaited ambulance finally arrived to pick up their patient. In the meantime, Jedidiah Granger and his eldest son, Nehemiah, moved the severely wounded, naked man onto a faded green tarp and carried him to their front porch.
They weren't able to understand much of the man's intermittent ravings during the periods of time he was actually conscious, although Mabel, Jed's wife, remarked at some point that he spoke what sounded like "English" English. Jed himself was doubtful. What would an Englishman be doing in these parts of West Virginia?
The few times John had been lucid enough to understand the voices around him, he heard someone mention that paramedics were on their way. How would they get here again? Where the hell was he? Where was Sherlock? Was he even alive?
Stretches of time were lost to his brain thanks to the bouts of unconsciousness. The last time he was conscious on the local's porch, he could hear a familiar sound... the repetitive cacophony that he just couldn't place in the fog of his delirium... until he actually saw the maker of the sound hovering over the house.
Helicopter. What for?
Right. He was almost dead. His brain was barely working. He felt time moving like molasses. The progress of the paramedics could not seem to go any slower.
John glanced to his right, toward the yard of the family who had saved him. Their property did not have enough open space for the aircraft to land. The paramedics would have to walk - or rather run - the rest of the way. Hopefully they did not have far to go.
John suspected he had passed out once again, because in the length of time he took to blink, he noticed he was being moved, albeit very carefully.
"Hold still, sir," someone said above him. Paramedic? He opened his eyes and saw the blur of a blue shirt before closing them again from the dizzy sensation that washed over him.
"Did you get a name from him?" a voice asked.
The man who dragged him from the riverbank answered. "I dunno, all I got was Sherlock. Izzat even a name?"
"Sherlock?"
John's face twisted in confusion, baffled at the voices. For a moment he forgot their exchange and writhed at the sound of his friend's name. Was Sherlock nearby? Had they been rescued? No, of course not. John Watson was still in some redneck's yard, carried by paramedics, while Sherlock was likely getting raped or eaten.
"Can you hear me, sir?"
John only moaned.
The paramedics had obviously decided to quit trying to get any information out of him, because the next thing John noticed was being lifted and placed on a stretcher - one could probably not even work a gurney on ground such as this - and carried toward the helicopter. The deafening sound of the rotors slicing through the air filled his ears, and for a moment John imagined the paramedics throwing him against the rotor blades and laughing as parts of his dismembered corpse were strewn about.
No. These were good people. Not everyone in these woods was a sadistic freak. He was safe now. …but Sherlock wasn't.
The noise abated once the paramedics entered the helicopter with their patient. John kept his eyes closed for the most part, picking up a few words here and there, mostly medical jargon which he knew quite well. An oxygen mask was placed over his face, and he felt one of the paramedics searching for a suitable vein on his arm - the left one - to insert an IV catheter.
"BP 80 over 40, this man's lost a lot of blood," a male voice said, and another one responded.
"Shotgun wound in the right shoulder, some smaller puncture wounds on his lower torso. Found on the riverbank, so he's likely been in the river. He's hypothermic and appears to have respiratory problems, no foreign objects lodged in his airways. Possible infection, appears lucid at times, but is unresponsive to speech. Pupils react normally to light, so there's no present suspicion of brain damage."
John felt a small sting when the catheter punctured his skin and a cold sensation when the fluid resuscitation, lactated Ringer's solution, most likely, entered his venous system. A moment later everything faded to black.
***
Mycroft Holmes stared at the computer screen as he might stare at an insolent colleague who was not aware to whom he was speaking. Thin white fingers traced the grooves of the armrest of his chair as he sat otherwise unmoving, looking at the glow of the screen.
Sherlock had not updated.
Not that Mycroft was at all surprised, not where his younger brother was concerned. But after John Watson had entered their world, the civil servant had to admit that a few - only a few - improvements had been made. Sherlock had for the most part agreed to keep his brother reassured as to his present condition, whether or not he was taking his medication and where he was located, if Mycroft was so lucky. It was a suitable bargain, as it left Sherlock feeling less intruded upon and mothered, and Mycroft remained satisfied.
The most direct way involved the younger Holmes' personal website. Others might not think much of a banal post with the occasional typo, but Mycroft easily translated, reassured that a pill had been swallowed. And if Sherlock forgot - or likely was not in the mood to update - John would do so for him on his own blog, at least as far as his flatmate's whereabouts were concerned. After all, the doctor hadn't known about Sherlock's medication until recently.
And this was what troubled him about the blank slate of his computer screen window.
Sherlock sometimes slipped up, but John, ever the soldier, was like a clockwork. John had not updated. Not for days. A cold feeling dripped down Mycroft's spine.
The Ice-Man feeling the cold grip of terror? Now there was something.
Mycroft poured himself a generous helping of whiskey and leaned back in his chair, letting the liquor warm his mouth and insides. He tried to convince himself that nothing untoward was going on. Only two days had passed, and his brother and John Watson were on a vacation.
Correction: John Watson and his current beau, Mary Morstan, had been going on a vacation to the Appalachian mountains, and Sherlock had joined them, uninvited, with the promise of a case. A case. In America.
Mycroft, now pleasantly buzzed, snorted at the transparency of the excuse. Sherlock's sole reason for joining Doctor Watson and the Morstan woman had been jealousy, pure and simple. Sherlock was in love with his assistant and abhorred at the idea of John spending quality time with someone else. And John Watson, the fool, had virtually no idea, as he'd demonstrated during their webcam chat a few days back.
To Mycroft it now felt like it happened years in the past. Of all the men Sherlock encountered in his line of 'work', was it absolutely necessary to fall for one with such a lacking intellect?
His whiskey gone, Mycroft shut his computer with a small "click". It was past midnight, and he needed to get some sleep. First thing tomorrow morning, he would arrange for someone to call the nudist colony - Avalon, was it? - and have them ask question regarding their British guests.
Knowing that sleep would be hard-earned, Mycroft went to his medicine cabinet before bed to get a sleeping pill. At the moment he was too dejected to heed the obvious warning not to take the pills combined with alcohol.
No sooner had he readied the pill in his palm with intent to swallow that his mobile rang. He instinctively picked up, replacing the capsule into its bottle.
His caller ID identified Anthea as being on the other line. Contacting him after midnight for any reason had to be a serious event. His thoughts of Sherlock and John's strange absence still fresh in his mind, he fought his hands from trembling as he picked up the phone.
"Yes?"
Predicting the phone conversation made the reality no less terrifying. Most others who might have seen Mycroft at present would think him the unequivocal picture of apathy, and at almost any other time, the presumption would have likely been true. Were Sherlock present, however, the signs would have been clear as day. Mycroft's stillness was as great as the panic which scrambled through every corner of his brain. He swallowed away the dryness and found himself unable to sufficiently wet his throat.
"Yes, I see. Very good."
Anthea had already arranged a flight for immediate travel over the Atlantic Ocean. Ever reliable, she had made all the arrangements; not that Mycroft was incapable of making them himself, even in situations worse than this, but having a trustworthy PA certainly made things easier.
Still mostly dressed, he threw his jacket and belt back on and found himself readjusting his tie in the mirror and smoothing down some askew hairs on an arched eyebrow. Avoiding his own gaze in the reflection, he straightened his spine and brusquely walked out of the bathroom as though ready to trot off to work, desperate to ignore the wooziness of the alcohol sloshing in his stomach.
TBC...
- 27
- 28
- 29
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The Prey