The paramedics didn't question him. They worked quickly, getting Sherlock up on the trolley. John followed, still applying pressure. It was best to keep it constant--even the few seconds it would take to swap with someone else was a few seconds too long by this point.
John went in the ambulance with Sherlock. He was unconscious now. John was surprised he'd managed to keep awake as long as he had. The paramedic got an IV going—wide open for maximum infusion—and put a non-rebreather mask on him. His sats were in his boots, and the paramedic noticed diminished breath sound on the right. She aspirated his lung. His sats rose slightly.
The attending at the A&E was someone John knew from medical school—somebody Campbell; he couldn't remember his first name. He'd been ahead of him; a resident whom John had trained under. He seemed to recognize John, but it wasn't really the time for 'oh hey, what have you been up to for the last fifteen years?'. They just exchanged nods.
John knew Campbell was good, and felt a bit comforted by that. Sherlock was transferred to the bed, and his clothes were cut off. John was still applying pressure.
“All right, you can remove your hand,” Campbell said. John didn't move. “Please, remove your hand.” John couldn't move. “Watson? We're going to take care of him. I promise. You've done a great job. It's our turn now. Move your hand.”
John stopped applying pressure. He was turned and escorted from the room by a nurse. He moved sluggishly, and without purpose. He was led to a curtain to be checked over for shock. He started trembling all over, and he couldn't catch his breath. That zone he entered when he was doing trauma—the high of the moment and fending off death—melted away. Now it was just his best friend, fighting for his life, while John waited, unable to do anything more.
Part the Third
John went in the ambulance with Sherlock. He was unconscious now. John was surprised he'd managed to keep awake as long as he had. The paramedic got an IV going—wide open for maximum infusion—and put a non-rebreather mask on him. His sats were in his boots, and the paramedic noticed diminished breath sound on the right. She aspirated his lung. His sats rose slightly.
The attending at the A&E was someone John knew from medical school—somebody Campbell; he couldn't remember his first name. He'd been ahead of him; a resident whom John had trained under. He seemed to recognize John, but it wasn't really the time for 'oh hey, what have you been up to for the last fifteen years?'. They just exchanged nods.
John knew Campbell was good, and felt a bit comforted by that. Sherlock was transferred to the bed, and his clothes were cut off. John was still applying pressure.
“All right, you can remove your hand,” Campbell said. John didn't move. “Please, remove your hand.” John couldn't move. “Watson? We're going to take care of him. I promise. You've done a great job. It's our turn now. Move your hand.”
John stopped applying pressure. He was turned and escorted from the room by a nurse. He moved sluggishly, and without purpose. He was led to a curtain to be checked over for shock. He started trembling all over, and he couldn't catch his breath. That zone he entered when he was doing trauma—the high of the moment and fending off death—melted away. Now it was just his best friend, fighting for his life, while John waited, unable to do anything more.