“You aren't going to die,” John said. “You're going to be fine. So long as you keep still and let me work. Stop being morbid.”
There was too much blood to find the source. It was pouring out, draining from Sherlock's face and leaving his skin an eerie grey, and his hands ice cold. John ripped open Sherlock's jacket, buttons popping off. He could tell where he'd been hit now, but it was still hard to make out the exact wound. From the way it was pumping out, John guess the bullet had nicked an artery. It didn't look like a through-and-through, but John didn't want to roll Sherlock to look for an exit wound to make sure. The pressure from the floor would be stemming any bleeding somewhat, anyway.
“You sound... calm,” Sherlock said. His voice was weak. “Must be bad. You always...always sound calm when you're scared.”
“That's good, Sherlock, keep deducing,” John encouraged. “Keep talking to me. Just don't move around too much.” He turned briefly to yell over his shoulder. “Someone get me something to raise his legs!”
Mycroft arrived a few moments later, sliding a couple of pillows from one of the couches in the lobby under Sherlock's feet, and kneeling down beside him. “Was that actually meant for you or for me, I wonder?” he asked.
“Me, I think,” Sherlock said. "And shooting at John... was an afterthought."
“I agree,” Mycroft said. A bit of worry had crept into his studiously calm voice now. “You were the main target. Ambulance is on its way, and I've phoned your inspector. I've sent someone up to find the sniper. The roof on the right, do you think?”
“Yes... judging from... angle,” Sherlock said.
John finally found the hole, and stuck another bag over it, then used Sherlock's scarf to apply firm pressure. Sherlock groaned, but John couldn't afford to be gentle. The bullet had definitely hit an artery—maybe the right subclavian, somewhere along his upper rib. John hoped it hadn't hit the lung as well. It was hard to tell if Sherlock's panting was from shock, or because was finding it hard to get air. At least it wasn't near his heart.
“Thirsty,” Sherlock said.
“I know,” John said. “It's the shock. I can't give you anything to drink, sorry.”
“I'm not... in shock,” Sherlock said.
“Loosen his belt,” John ordered Mycroft. “And put your coat over him. We need to keep him warm.”
“I'm not... cold,” Sherlock said, through chattering teeth. The fingers on one of his hands danced restlessly. John used that hand to monitor his pulse, and keep him still. Sherlock grabbed John's wrist, in a sort of instinctive movement. His grip was weak.
Mycroft followed John's orders. Then he put his hand on the top of Sherlock's head, pressing down the curls in a sort of ruffling motion. It was a practised movement, as though he'd done it many times before. It made John picture them as children, big brother comforting little one. Or maybe a father comforting a child. Sherlock didn't even complain.
“I thought the violas were off,” Mycroft said, conversationally.
“It was... was a... cello,” Sherlock replied, in a matching, if weakened tone. “The one with the... the...”
“Alcholic husband?” Mycroft suggested.
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “Probably... no time... to tune it up. She... was late because... her child... er...”
“Her husband missed picking up her child, yes,” Mycroft said.
Mycroft kept this conversation going, Sherlock's deductions growing more and more incoherent, and Mycroft managing to pick them up and carry on. John wasn't sure if Sherlock knew who was he speaking to any more, or what he was saying.
John kept pressure on Sherlock's chest, and monitored his vitals. There was nothing much else to do. Sherlock was agitated and anxious, and kept asking for water.
The ambulance arrived and the security detail escorted the paramedics in.
“GSW to upper right chest, profuse bleeding—suspected damage to artery, pressure applied for the last five minutes,” John rattled off to the first one he saw. “Patient is in hypovolemic shock, tachycardic, tachypnoeic, slow capillary response, decreased level of consciousness.” He took a breath and added, “I'm a doctor.”
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Part the Second
Date: 2013-02-25 04:21 pm (UTC)There was too much blood to find the source. It was pouring out, draining from Sherlock's face and leaving his skin an eerie grey, and his hands ice cold. John ripped open Sherlock's jacket, buttons popping off. He could tell where he'd been hit now, but it was still hard to make out the exact wound. From the way it was pumping out, John guess the bullet had nicked an artery. It didn't look like a through-and-through, but John didn't want to roll Sherlock to look for an exit wound to make sure. The pressure from the floor would be stemming any bleeding somewhat, anyway.
“You sound... calm,” Sherlock said. His voice was weak. “Must be bad. You always...always sound calm when you're scared.”
“That's good, Sherlock, keep deducing,” John encouraged. “Keep talking to me. Just don't move around too much.” He turned briefly to yell over his shoulder. “Someone get me something to raise his legs!”
Mycroft arrived a few moments later, sliding a couple of pillows from one of the couches in the lobby under Sherlock's feet, and kneeling down beside him. “Was that actually meant for you or for me, I wonder?” he asked.
“Me, I think,” Sherlock said. "And shooting at John... was an afterthought."
“I agree,” Mycroft said. A bit of worry had crept into his studiously calm voice now. “You were the main target. Ambulance is on its way, and I've phoned your inspector. I've sent someone up to find the sniper. The roof on the right, do you think?”
“Yes... judging from... angle,” Sherlock said.
John finally found the hole, and stuck another bag over it, then used Sherlock's scarf to apply firm pressure. Sherlock groaned, but John couldn't afford to be gentle. The bullet had definitely hit an artery—maybe the right subclavian, somewhere along his upper rib. John hoped it hadn't hit the lung as well. It was hard to tell if Sherlock's panting was from shock, or because was finding it hard to get air. At least it wasn't near his heart.
“Thirsty,” Sherlock said.
“I know,” John said. “It's the shock. I can't give you anything to drink, sorry.”
“I'm not... in shock,” Sherlock said.
“Loosen his belt,” John ordered Mycroft. “And put your coat over him. We need to keep him warm.”
“I'm not... cold,” Sherlock said, through chattering teeth. The fingers on one of his hands danced restlessly. John used that hand to monitor his pulse, and keep him still. Sherlock grabbed John's wrist, in a sort of instinctive movement. His grip was weak.
Mycroft followed John's orders. Then he put his hand on the top of Sherlock's head, pressing down the curls in a sort of ruffling motion. It was a practised movement, as though he'd done it many times before. It made John picture them as children, big brother comforting little one. Or maybe a father comforting a child. Sherlock didn't even complain.
“I thought the violas were off,” Mycroft said, conversationally.
“It was... was a... cello,” Sherlock replied, in a matching, if weakened tone. “The one with the... the...”
“Alcholic husband?” Mycroft suggested.
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “Probably... no time... to tune it up. She... was late because... her child... er...”
“Her husband missed picking up her child, yes,” Mycroft said.
Mycroft kept this conversation going, Sherlock's deductions growing more and more incoherent, and Mycroft managing to pick them up and carry on. John wasn't sure if Sherlock knew who was he speaking to any more, or what he was saying.
John kept pressure on Sherlock's chest, and monitored his vitals. There was nothing much else to do. Sherlock was agitated and anxious, and kept asking for water.
The ambulance arrived and the security detail escorted the paramedics in.
“GSW to upper right chest, profuse bleeding—suspected damage to artery, pressure applied for the last five minutes,” John rattled off to the first one he saw. “Patient is in hypovolemic shock, tachycardic, tachypnoeic, slow capillary response, decreased level of consciousness.” He took a breath and added, “I'm a doctor.”