capt_facepalm

Author: Capt_Facepalm
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John H. Watson, Inspector Lestrade, assorted baddies
Summary: Inspector Lestrade is frustrated with a case and turns to Sherlock Holmes, and his friend, Dr. Watson, for assistance. And then things go wrong.
Warnings: Violence; no slash
Word Count: 1120
Author's Notes:

First attempt at a multi-chaptered story
Beta supplied by the long-suffering, and gracious med_cat .

.oOOo.

Chapter One

Sherlock Holmes had, on rare occasion, the opportunity to judge, first-hand, John Watson’s competence in the field of medicine. He saw the evidence of his friend’s dedication in the exhaustion to which he drove himself with his volunteer work at the clinic for destitutes. His compassion was clear in the way he nursed Mrs Hudson through last winter’s influenza outbreak, in how he tended to Holmes’ own burns when a chemical experiment yielded unexpected results, and in how he treated the medical needs of Holmes’ own company of Baker Street Irregulars.

The detective also believed the rumours that Watson’s military service as an army surgeon had been defined by competence and valour. However, Watson’s own reluctance to speak of such matters surpassed modesty and approached something more akin to dread, so Holmes let it be. He did not find it necessary to distinguish between London doctor and army surgeon. In the end, he concluded that John Watson was a good doctor, as far as that went, and proceeded to fill his brain attic with other, far more interesting facts.

However, he distinction between the dedicated doctor and the army surgeon was made clear in the actions immediately following the gunshots which felled Inspector Lestrade.

.oOOo.

Oily residue coated the skylights with the grime of London air, reducing the quality of afternoon light in the empty warehouse. Second storey windows only allowed daylight through sections where the filthy glass had been broken. In addition to being dark, the interior was damp due to rain from the previous night. Remnants of broken, empty crates were piled inside, near the door.

Lestrade silently bade Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson to remain near the door as he entered the warehouse and examined its utter lack of contents. Holmes pointed to the floor, indicating to Watson the faint traces of a second set of footprints. The doctor raised a inquisitive eyebrow but the detective only smiled and rolled his eyes: Scotland Yard's finest was about to overlook another obvious clue.

“Another false lead, I’m afraid,” the inspector called out in frustration as he strode back towards them, “I’m sorry to have brought… ”

The sound of the rifle’s report still echoed around the vast chamber and Lestrade had yet to fall before Watson was already in full stride towards him. Holmes’ own instincts caused him to dive for cover, bitterly cursing the doctor for running straight into the line of fire.

From his position behind the empty crate, Holmes strained his hearing to determine the assassin’s location. Another shot rang out and the second bullet’s impact drove the inspector to the floor before the doctor could reach him. With the inspector down, the only remaining target was Watson. Holmes had seen the muzzle flash from the shadowy rafters and returned fire with his revolver. He was rewarded with a shriek and the sight of the fleeing figure losing his footing and falling to the floor.

“Holmes?” The doctor was calling to him, but the detective was sprinting in the opposite direction, having to find the gunman and neutralise any threat he posed.

A moment later he found what he was looking for: the assassin lay gasping in a twisted heap on the stone floor, his rifle near his side.

“Who sent you?” Holmes demanded, shaking the dying man as the dimming eyes ridiculed him with silent laughter. The gunman’s body would furnish more clues in death than its former owner would in life. Aside from the traumatic internal injuries sustained from his recent fall, the young man's body was in good physical condition. There was something of a military air about him and there was an unfamiliar tattoo visible on the inside of his left wrist.

“Holmes!” Watson shouted again; this time more insistent. The detective reluctantly left the assassin’s body, and its wealth of information, and hastened to join Watson and Lestrade.

Watson had stripped to his shirtsleeves; his coat partially covered the inspector. Both men were smeared with blood. Lestrade was ashen as he looked up at the doctor, mumbling words that the detective could not hear. Watson ordered Holmes to go for help as his hands worked steadily to stem the blood flow.

Holmes returned a few minutes later to find the doctor cradling the stricken man against him as Lestrade struggled to speak.

“It’s going to be all right, Giles,” Watson calmly reassured him, “I know it hurts, but ‘tis not as bad as it looks. I should know. I’ve seen far worse.” Holmes was surprised at the relief he himself felt at those soothing words. Yet, blood was already showing through the makeshift bandages around the inspector’s chest. The doctor leaned in closer to hear Lestrade’s response and anxiously looked up at Holmes.

“The cabbie waited,” reported the slightly winded Holmes. “The brougham is still outside.”

“Right. Help me get him to the cab. St. Thomas’s is his best bet.”

Lestrade groaned in protest and clutched Watson’s wrist with such a grip that the doctor winced with pain. “Promise, John! Swear it…” he rasped with all the strength he had left.

“Yes! Giles, I promise! You have my word.”

Watson wrapped Lestrade in his coat and used it to raise him so that his head and shoulder were elevated, Holmes then took the inspector by his knees, and the two of them rushed the wounded man to the waiting cab with more haste than caution.

The doctor helped settle the now unconscious inspector in Holmes' arms in the cab, and rechecked the state of his bandages.

“Holmes, you have to take care of the inspector. Keep his head elevated. Apply pressure to his chest. Not too much or he may stop breathing. He has to see a surgeon immediately on arrival at the hospital. Above all else, do not trust anyone from Scotland Yard.

”The meeting today was an ambush. Lestrade is convinced that since he survived it, another attempt will be made on his life. His case notes are in this notebook,” he said handing over the bloody item, while checking the inspector’s pulse.”

“Watson, he hasn’t survived it yet. He needs a doctor. He needs you.”

“I have done all I can for him. He needs a hospital now,” said the doctor with a hint of frustration.

"Doctor, you have to go with him. I need to examine the assassin," pleaded Holmes.

“Sorry, old boy. You will have to go with him and protect him. Lestrade has charged me with a different mission, and as much as I regret it, I have given him my word. I will fill you in as soon as I can.”

With those parting words, Watson stepped out of the brougham and gave the directions to the cabbie.

.oOOo.

Next Chapter...

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