Fanfic - Sherlock, "Vendetta", Part 2
Here's more of the current "Sherlock" plot bunny. At the moment I think it takes place between "The Blind Banker" and "The Great Game". so no spoiler issues for series 2-3.
Start from the beginning here.
Sherlock stormed down the hall to the makeshift reception area, ignoring the chaos around him as doctors and nurses tried to triage the injured. His rapid-fire brain calculated at least seventy-five casualties and almost certainly death for those who had been within a few yards of the bomb.
He felt Lestrade’s hand on his arm. “Sherlock, there’s Molly!”
Molly was lying on a stretcher, unconscious. There was a chart at her feet; judging from the entry, the intern three stretchers down the line had just checked her vitals. Concussion was almost guaranteed and she was on the list for X-rays because of a suspected fracture to the collarbone. Sherlock knelt next to her and took her hand. It was cold, colder than it should have been even accounting for the normal post-trauma dip in a patient’s core temperature.
Lestrade had been speaking to a nurse and came back to lean over them. “The blast damaged the electric supply. They’ve activated generators, but most of the power is going to keep life support up - no heat right now. More generators are on the way, but it’s going to take time.”
Sherlock pulled off his greatcoat and tucked it around Molly. The residual heat from his body would help her stabilize and he could manage for a while. “Give me a moment.” He pulled out his mobile and his thumbs began flying across the keypad.
Bart’s explosion probably worse than initial reports suggest. Backup needed to restore electricity, manpower needed to shift patients elsewhere. Short-term heating a priority -SH
“I’ve just alerted Mycroft. That should speed things up.”
Lestrade checked his watch. “If you’ll be all right for a bit, I’ll liaise with whoever’s here, see what they’ve learned. I may have to leave and come back - I need to at least make an appearance at Dame Hillandale’s wake.”
Sherlock’s head snapped up. “Dame Hillandale? The Honourable Mrs Justice Eunice Hillandale?”
“Yes, hadn’t you heard? She died last week with an overdose of some sedative she was taking.”
His instincts were now screaming at him that something was very, very wrong. He waved Lestrade off and sat next to Molly, careful not to jostle her. He leaned forward, elbows on knees and fingers to temples, and began to sort the threads.
Finnegan, D.I. at Scotland Yard...Hillandale, magistrate for the Crown Court...two noted officials in law enforcement dead within a week of one another...not a whiff of corruption around either of them…factor in Molly...where would she have crossed paths with them...Finnegan the first red flag...he came to Bart’s about a case nine months ago...Molly did an autopsy for him...Hatley...the Hatley trial!
Sherlock jerked into awareness, sweeping the area for Lestrade. The inspector had been speaking to a uniformed officer, and was jotting something down in a notebook. Sherlock was next to him in a few quick strides.
“I’ve got it! The Hatley trial!”
“The what? What are you on about?”
“Finnegan, Hillandale, the attack on Molly, it all fits.”
“Wait, how was Molly attacked?”
“She texted me just before the bomb went off, thanking me for sending her flowers. I didn’t-”
“Of course you didn’t,” Lestrade snarked.
“There must have been a bomb in the vase.” Sherlock began ticking off on his fingers. “Molly provided medical evidence at the Hatley trial, Finnegan was the lead investigator, Hillandale was the presiding judge. What about the prosecutor, Ellison Davies, or the friend who turned Queen’s evidence?”
Lestrade simply stared at him for a moment before recovering from the rapid-fire onslaught of Sherlock’s immense memory. “How do you…how long ago was this?”
“Nine months. January. Surely you remember? The press made such a scandal of it, not that they had to work very hard at it. Isabella Hatley, society belle, found responsible for the death of a poor, anonymous young man through drugs and erotic asphyxiation. Hillandale made an example of her with a ten-year sentence, of course, being such a battle-axe against drugs.”
Lestrade nodded as the pieces began to come together. “Yes, yes. And Hatley managed to kill herself in prison in August.”
“Start with Hatley’s family. Either someone is a natural handyman, has done a lot of research, or has hired a very clever hit man or two.” He was about to go on when he heard his name and turned around. Molly was stirring, one hand fingering his coat.
He dropped to her side and took the hand, pleased that she was a little warmer. “I’m here, Molly.”
She blinked and tried to focus on him. “Card from the florist...on my desk...”
“Good girl. Anything else? Very quickly, as you need to rest and one of these doctors is sure to scold me for bothering you.”
“Pot was heavy.”
“A potted plant, not a vase? That would make it easier to conceal a bomb. Anything else?”
Molly began shaking her head, then stopped with a wince. “Check for me...”
“Check what?”
“Shoulder. Is it broken?”
Very carefully, Sherlock pulled down his coat, shifted her jumper, and unbuttoned her blouse far enough to bare her collarbone. He traced the ridge of it, careful to keep just the right amount of pressure, and noted the lack of a bump or tenting of the flesh that would signal a clavicle fracture. And while she hissed at the pressure, she gave no sudden reaction of severe pain in any one location. He buttoned her blouse back and straightened her clothing.
“Hairline fracture at worst, I think.”
She nodded. “Thank you. Should have realized right away.”
“Realized what?”
“The flowers. You’ll see when you read it.”
He saw her eyelids flutter as her energy flagged. He tucked his coat back around her. “Rest, Molly. Lestrade’s here and I’ll be right back.” He rose to find a way around the madhouse to the morgue in order to retrieve that note.
***************************
Part 3
Feedback always welcome!
Start from the beginning here.
Sherlock stormed down the hall to the makeshift reception area, ignoring the chaos around him as doctors and nurses tried to triage the injured. His rapid-fire brain calculated at least seventy-five casualties and almost certainly death for those who had been within a few yards of the bomb.
He felt Lestrade’s hand on his arm. “Sherlock, there’s Molly!”
Molly was lying on a stretcher, unconscious. There was a chart at her feet; judging from the entry, the intern three stretchers down the line had just checked her vitals. Concussion was almost guaranteed and she was on the list for X-rays because of a suspected fracture to the collarbone. Sherlock knelt next to her and took her hand. It was cold, colder than it should have been even accounting for the normal post-trauma dip in a patient’s core temperature.
Lestrade had been speaking to a nurse and came back to lean over them. “The blast damaged the electric supply. They’ve activated generators, but most of the power is going to keep life support up - no heat right now. More generators are on the way, but it’s going to take time.”
Sherlock pulled off his greatcoat and tucked it around Molly. The residual heat from his body would help her stabilize and he could manage for a while. “Give me a moment.” He pulled out his mobile and his thumbs began flying across the keypad.
Bart’s explosion probably worse than initial reports suggest. Backup needed to restore electricity, manpower needed to shift patients elsewhere. Short-term heating a priority -SH
“I’ve just alerted Mycroft. That should speed things up.”
Lestrade checked his watch. “If you’ll be all right for a bit, I’ll liaise with whoever’s here, see what they’ve learned. I may have to leave and come back - I need to at least make an appearance at Dame Hillandale’s wake.”
Sherlock’s head snapped up. “Dame Hillandale? The Honourable Mrs Justice Eunice Hillandale?”
“Yes, hadn’t you heard? She died last week with an overdose of some sedative she was taking.”
His instincts were now screaming at him that something was very, very wrong. He waved Lestrade off and sat next to Molly, careful not to jostle her. He leaned forward, elbows on knees and fingers to temples, and began to sort the threads.
Finnegan, D.I. at Scotland Yard...Hillandale, magistrate for the Crown Court...two noted officials in law enforcement dead within a week of one another...not a whiff of corruption around either of them…factor in Molly...where would she have crossed paths with them...Finnegan the first red flag...he came to Bart’s about a case nine months ago...Molly did an autopsy for him...Hatley...the Hatley trial!
Sherlock jerked into awareness, sweeping the area for Lestrade. The inspector had been speaking to a uniformed officer, and was jotting something down in a notebook. Sherlock was next to him in a few quick strides.
“I’ve got it! The Hatley trial!”
“The what? What are you on about?”
“Finnegan, Hillandale, the attack on Molly, it all fits.”
“Wait, how was Molly attacked?”
“She texted me just before the bomb went off, thanking me for sending her flowers. I didn’t-”
“Of course you didn’t,” Lestrade snarked.
“There must have been a bomb in the vase.” Sherlock began ticking off on his fingers. “Molly provided medical evidence at the Hatley trial, Finnegan was the lead investigator, Hillandale was the presiding judge. What about the prosecutor, Ellison Davies, or the friend who turned Queen’s evidence?”
Lestrade simply stared at him for a moment before recovering from the rapid-fire onslaught of Sherlock’s immense memory. “How do you…how long ago was this?”
“Nine months. January. Surely you remember? The press made such a scandal of it, not that they had to work very hard at it. Isabella Hatley, society belle, found responsible for the death of a poor, anonymous young man through drugs and erotic asphyxiation. Hillandale made an example of her with a ten-year sentence, of course, being such a battle-axe against drugs.”
Lestrade nodded as the pieces began to come together. “Yes, yes. And Hatley managed to kill herself in prison in August.”
“Start with Hatley’s family. Either someone is a natural handyman, has done a lot of research, or has hired a very clever hit man or two.” He was about to go on when he heard his name and turned around. Molly was stirring, one hand fingering his coat.
He dropped to her side and took the hand, pleased that she was a little warmer. “I’m here, Molly.”
She blinked and tried to focus on him. “Card from the florist...on my desk...”
“Good girl. Anything else? Very quickly, as you need to rest and one of these doctors is sure to scold me for bothering you.”
“Pot was heavy.”
“A potted plant, not a vase? That would make it easier to conceal a bomb. Anything else?”
Molly began shaking her head, then stopped with a wince. “Check for me...”
“Check what?”
“Shoulder. Is it broken?”
Very carefully, Sherlock pulled down his coat, shifted her jumper, and unbuttoned her blouse far enough to bare her collarbone. He traced the ridge of it, careful to keep just the right amount of pressure, and noted the lack of a bump or tenting of the flesh that would signal a clavicle fracture. And while she hissed at the pressure, she gave no sudden reaction of severe pain in any one location. He buttoned her blouse back and straightened her clothing.
“Hairline fracture at worst, I think.”
She nodded. “Thank you. Should have realized right away.”
“Realized what?”
“The flowers. You’ll see when you read it.”
He saw her eyelids flutter as her energy flagged. He tucked his coat back around her. “Rest, Molly. Lestrade’s here and I’ll be right back.” He rose to find a way around the madhouse to the morgue in order to retrieve that note.
***************************
Part 3
Feedback always welcome!