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. In this chapter, the plot thickens. (Plot? Really?)
Warnings: Rambling plot development; no slash
Word Count: 1290
Author's Notes:

First attempt at a multi-chaptered story ~ this is Chapter Two
Thanks again to long-suffering, and gracious med_cat who braves my atrocious grammar and inconsistent spelling to provide beta support.
Thanks also to baileyhix (Bartimus Crotchety) for generous advice in both writing style and character content.

.oOOo.

Chapter Two

The brougham clattered and swung, lurching wildly through the afternoon streets of London on its mission of mercy. The driver focused on reaching St. Thomas's Hospital with grim determination, knowing that time was short.

Most often, Sherlock Holmes regarded the human race with disdain. His lifetime experience to date supported his conclusions that, given as a whole, people were, by nature, petty, obtuse, and selfish. And biologically, they were fragile and extremely messy when perforated, such as the wounded policeman in his arms. Offering succour to the sick and injured was Doctor Watson's area of expertise, definitely not his own. Inspector Lestrade had taken two bullets in the back from the assassin in the warehouse. Watson’s quick action in binding his wounds was extraordinary, but that alone would not save the inspector's life. He needed immediate surgery.

Lestrade lay unconscious since they left the warehouse. Watson had improvised bandages from the inspector’s clothing, and from some of his own clothing as well. However, the tight bandaging could not completely staunch the flow of blood which seeped through, coating the inspector’s chest with crimson. Holmes was helpless and could do nothing except keep Lestrade from sliding to the floor as the cab careened about the city. The ride seemed to take forever.

Their cabbie yelled at the other carriages to clear the road then drew the cab to a full stop, hopped down, and flung open the brougham’s door.

“We’re here, Mister Holmes. Just wait. I’ll run inside and get more help!”

In the relative calm that settled in once the motion of the carriage ceased, Holmes checked Lestrade’s pulse again. The inspector still lived but the detective knew that time was running out. As Holmes shifted the Yarder so he could apply more pressure to his chest, Lestrade regained consciousness and tried to speak. Instead of words, he coughed blood, and only made inarticulate noises.

An instant later the cabbie returned with two other men and a stretcher. Lestrade, frightened, grasped Holmes’ hand, and would not let go as he was borne swiftly into the hospital’s operating theatre.

Lestrade was desperate to tell Holmes something but could not speak. He made a frantic gesture and the detective’s mind struggled to interpret the meaning. With sudden insight, he showed the inspector the bloody notebook. Lestrade sighed, nodded, his eyes rolled upward as he passed again into unconsciousness.

A surgeon arrived, out of breath, followed by two other hospital staff members.

“Tell me what happened,” he said as he began to remove the bandaging.

“He was struck by two bullets, fired from a rifle, some twenty yards away. The gunman was in an upper loft,” Holmes supplied, “This man is a police inspector, if it makes any difference.”

“It doesn’t,” replied the surgeon, still examining Lestrade, “but thank you for letting me know, just the same.”

The surgeon efficiently probed the entry and exit wounds as his colleagues prepared the room and the various instruments for surgery. Holmes retrieved Watson’s coat which had slipped to the floor.

“Who tended these wounds?” enquired the surgeon.

“A colleague of mine; a retired army surgeon,” replied Holmes.

“Remarkable. By rights, this man should be dead. You brought him in just in time, but if he has a family, they ought to be notified,” the surgeon added, looking the detective in the eye.

“I will send word,” Holmes promised, as he was ushered out of the room. But not until he had more definite information, he added to himself.

Holmes paused to gaze out of the small window in the sitting room. When he turned to face the other occupants, a little girl of perhaps ten years was pointing at his hands, and whispering excitedly to her mother. The detective looked down to see what had brought on this attention. His hands were both stained with drying blood. He mumbled an apology and went to seek out a place to wash up.

The detective decided that spending time deciphering Lestrade’s notes would be more productive than merely waiting for news from the operating theatre and sought out a quiet place to study. A secluded alcove with a small window provided both light and solitude. It was easy for him to determine that the inspector’s notes were coded in some sort of phonetic shorthand, but beyond that, he could decipher nothing further.

Checking his pocket watch, Holmes was surprised to see that more than an hour had passed. So far, there had been no word from the surgical staff and he was getting anxious to return to analyse the warehouse and the assassin’s body before the evidence could become contaminated. He cursed Lestrade for falling prey to an ambush. He cursed the surgeon for not sending word on their progress. But most of all, he cursed Watson for not being there in his stead.

He returned to the notebook and found a sketch of an odd circular emblem. It appeared to match the assassin’s strange tattoo. Clearly, Lestrade had encountered it sometime earlier in his investigation. Holmes racked his mind trying to remember the details of the assassin and the crime scene when he was greeted by an unexpected voice.

“Allo, Mister Holmes,” the young man said, “How’s the inspector?”

“Wiggins, what are you doing here?” asked the detective, astonished to see the captain of his Baker Street Irregulars, leaning in the doorway, looking wary and uncomfortable.

“Doctor Watson sent me. He wants word on the inspector and he wants his coat and such. I’m to meet him at Paddington Station by six o’clock. He seemed really worried and says the police is all crooked. I think he means to leave the city.”

Holmes stood up and paced back and forth, stopping to peer out the dusty window. Watson, preparing to leave London?

“By the way,” Wiggins continued, “There are two peelers hereabouts and they was looking for you.”

“Did you recognise either of them?”

“No, Mister Holmes. They are strangers to me and I thought I ken all them blokes. They was asking the nurses for you and the Doctor.”

So, someone expected Watson to be here, not knowing that he went in a separate direction. Holmes turned to the bundle on the bench containing Watson’s coat and all its contents. He tucked the notebook into one of the inner pockets, rolled it back into a bundle, and gave it to Wiggins.

“Get this to Doctor Watson. Lestrade is still in surgery. I don’t know what is happening yet, but avoid the police at all costs. Be cautious. Warn the doctor to be discreet too. Tell him that the notebook is the key. This is shaping up to be dangerous. He will need his revolver.”

“I do believe he already knows that, Mister Holmes,” said Wiggins, patting the bundle knowingly, “And don't worry yerself. Avoiding the police is my partic'lar specialty,” he added as he turned and left.

Holmes turned again the window to contemplate the facts of the situation. It was not long before he heard the purposeful approach of two men and turned to face the newcomers.

“Mister Holmes, I am Inspector Baird, and this is Inspector Rushton. I’m sorry, but we have have been asked to bring you in for questioning,” said the larger of the two men, briefly flashing Scotland Yard identification.

“I assure you I did not shoot Inspector Lestrade,” replied Holmes.

“We'll see about that later. Right now, you are being arrested for arson concerning the warehouse currently ablaze in Riverside. You were witnessed leaving the premises just before the fire began.”

All the evidence was being destroyed. Whoever was responsible was covering their tracks.

“But first, can you tell me where I can find Dr. Watson?” the big inspector asked menacingly.

Not only covering their tracks but tying up loose ends as well, Holmes realised.

.oOOo.

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Link to Chapter Three