Sherlock Fanfic: Officers On Site (JWP 2015 #10)
Title: Officers On Site
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Postings: AO3
Rating/Content: PG13, implied violence, open-ended, inaccurate police procedures, POV Lestrade.
Warnings: Blood.
Word Count: 1250
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Created for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #10: What’s All This Then? So I started writing this and realised it could kind of be a continuation of Found at the Scene so.... I guess that's what it is.
Summary: Officers at the last known location of Doctor Watson are now investigating his disappearance and gathering evidence of criminal activity. Consultant also present.
Officers On Site
"Shut up! Everyone, be quiet! Stop moving, don't even breathe!"
Lestrade grimaced at the familiar demand but was more inclined to cut Sherlock extra slack given the situation. "Pass the word, Donovan; everyone still and silent as possible."
Donovan clenched her jaw in frustration but carried out the order. Greg knew she'd have words for Sherlock about sending his friend into danger, but for now she was holding her opinions to herself in favour of getting Doctor Watson found safely. Lestrade kept his eyes on Sherlock.
The man vibrated with tension as the sparse sounds of PC's and DC's combing the building got briefly louder, commands being relayed through the comms channels. After a few seconds it was quiet enough to hear the creaking of Sherlock's leather gloves, stretching across his tightly clenched fists.
Lestrade's instinct was to reassure him that they'd find John. It was a big building, lots of floors and industrial equipment, but there was an entire squad called out. They'd go through every inch of the building, find him or find evidence to show where he'd been taken - Greg stifled the brief flash of 'or buried' that passes through his mind - and set everything to rights. Or as right as it was possible to be, once they found out what condition the drug dealers had left John in. Or where. Or how many piec- Christ, Greg. Stay objective! Pushing despairing personal worry away, Lestrade swallowed hard.
Sherlock hissed sharply, a hand snapping palm out to block Lestrade's face. His eyes were clenched tight shut, and his head was tilted, listening.
Lestrade tried not to breathe. Quiet rustlings and mutterings of over a dozen officers trying to be silent but itching with the need to get on with searching the site for evidence and finding the missing doctor carried through the building; Lestrade could see Sherlock registering and dismissing each extraneous noise, baring of his teeth in desperate frustration.
John's tough, Greg wanted to say to Sherlock, He'll be fine. But even in his own head it didn't ring true.
Eyes popping open, Sherlock raised a hand - coat fabric shifting, adding to the hushed noises of the squad - pointing up and sweeping in an arc towards the west of the building.
Lestrade opened his mouth to ask, but stopped himself when he heard the faint sound of dripping. Plock. Plock. Plock.
A leaky pipe? He shook his head and shrugged in confusion at Sherlock.
With a silent snarl Sherlock rolled his eyes and whispered, "The dripping. It's not water."
"Not wa-?" A stab of shock went through Lestrade; his gaze shot up towards the ceiling with fast-dawning horror. "Blood." Christ. John.
Lestrade didn't remember much detail from the last First Aid refresher he'd had, but if that dripping was John losing enough blood to make even that much sound, at that rate, they couldn't afford the time needed for a thorough, methodical search. The abandoned complex was a rat-maze; Stairs that lead to sections that didn't connect to each other directly, offices suspended among gantries.... The twenty officers they had simultaneously weren't enough and were far too many. John was in deep trouble right now, and any blind alleys they went up could cost the man his life, if he wasn't dead already. Clenching his teeth against making a sound of any sort, Lestrade looked back at Sherlock.
With his hands cupped around his ears, Sherlock was scanning the ceiling, sweeping slowly back and forth, tension pinching between his brows as he concentrated.
A PC somewhere in the north end of the building coughed.
Sherlock's frustrated roar was overwhelming after the silence. "OUT! ALL OF YOU OUT!" he bellowed.
"Right!" Lestrade echoed, backing Sherlock's plan, as far as he'd guessed at least. "Everyone clear out!"
Shouts went up all over the building as the confused officers began heading to the exits. Sergeant Donovan stared aghast at Lestrade. "But what about Doctor Wats-"
"Just pass the word and clear the area, yourself and me included." Lestrade said quietly, half an eye back towards Sherlock and half an ear straining to catch any hint of that horrible dripping under the chaos of uniformed men and women clearing the site. "I think I understand what he's doing for once."
"What, really?" Donovan said. Flatly, but not mockingly.
"I'll explain when we're outside."
Donovan raised an eyebrow, but turned to leave with him.
"No!" Sherlock strode up and grabbed them each by the arms. "Not you. I need you, both of you. Please. I need your ears."
Lestrade was confused, but shot a warning look at Donovan in case she took that golden opening about Sherlock needing ears and snarked about it. Now was not the time. However Donovan looked more irritated than snarky, and even that passed quickly for a grim attentiveness Lestrade knew well. "How?" was all she said to Sherlock.
"Triangulation. Echoes, corners; I need two more points of reference so we can locate the sound and find him. Lestrade, you've heard the dripping. Donovan, you're likely to have similar hearing acuity as Lestrade and most Met officers, but you are most capable of moving silently and remaining focused when the situation demands."
Lestrade watched Donovan accept Sherlock's assessment with a surprised yet conflicted nod.
"Also," Sherlock's voice dropped and intensified, teeth clenched. "You also both know John. That faint dripping sound is John bleeding to death somewhere in this building, and we cannot waste any more time with a random search by uniformed pachyderms."
Lestrade nodded. Donovan's eyes widened at the new information about John, but she simply nodded as well. She signed off the radio with a request for an ambulance and total silence, then flicked it off.
John's a good bloke. If we can't find him in time... He looked at Sherlock, who was gripping his own hair with frustration and the beginnings of something like rage. Lestrade wanted to reassure him they'd find John, that he'd be alright, but that would cost time John didn't have, and could cost Sherlock some of the cold efficient focus he was struggling to maintain.
Lestrade closed his eyes and opened them again. Yes. Objectivity, Detective Inspector. John needs your objectivity now too. He pulled in a slow deep breath and forced himself to look around. Mentally he cataloged random items around the wide open room while they waited for the noise of the other officers to clear; using neutral information to force his head away from 'my good friend/my friend's best friend is dying slowly right now and all we can do is wait' and towards 'a victim of GBH is somewhere in this building and needs immediate assistance.' Take the emotions, take the personal connections, stuff them in a box. Open it later in the pub; preferably with John there, safe and whole.
When Lestrade looked back to Sherlock, the man met his gaze and nodded, understanding, finding some grounding point of his own. Donovan watched them both, expression cool and determined, tense around the mouth.
The rattles and rustles of the search group leaving finally dropped to nothing. Lestrade met Donovan's eye. He tapped his own chest and pointed north, then pointed at his Sergeant and south, then looked to Sherlock. He'll want to head west, to be closest to where he heard the sound, and we can give him reference points that will lead him straight to it.
Sherlock nodded, pointed west, then tapped his ears. First we listen.
They stood together in the abandoned warehouse in a tight little circle, heads bowed, ears straining to pick up the slightest sounds of John Watson's life draining away.
-.-.-
(That's it... John'll still be fine, really...)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Postings: AO3
Rating/Content: PG13, implied violence, open-ended, inaccurate police procedures, POV Lestrade.
Warnings: Blood.
Word Count: 1250
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Created for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #10: What’s All This Then? So I started writing this and realised it could kind of be a continuation of Found at the Scene so.... I guess that's what it is.
Summary: Officers at the last known location of Doctor Watson are now investigating his disappearance and gathering evidence of criminal activity. Consultant also present.
Officers On Site
"Shut up! Everyone, be quiet! Stop moving, don't even breathe!"
Lestrade grimaced at the familiar demand but was more inclined to cut Sherlock extra slack given the situation. "Pass the word, Donovan; everyone still and silent as possible."
Donovan clenched her jaw in frustration but carried out the order. Greg knew she'd have words for Sherlock about sending his friend into danger, but for now she was holding her opinions to herself in favour of getting Doctor Watson found safely. Lestrade kept his eyes on Sherlock.
The man vibrated with tension as the sparse sounds of PC's and DC's combing the building got briefly louder, commands being relayed through the comms channels. After a few seconds it was quiet enough to hear the creaking of Sherlock's leather gloves, stretching across his tightly clenched fists.
Lestrade's instinct was to reassure him that they'd find John. It was a big building, lots of floors and industrial equipment, but there was an entire squad called out. They'd go through every inch of the building, find him or find evidence to show where he'd been taken - Greg stifled the brief flash of 'or buried' that passes through his mind - and set everything to rights. Or as right as it was possible to be, once they found out what condition the drug dealers had left John in. Or where. Or how many piec- Christ, Greg. Stay objective! Pushing despairing personal worry away, Lestrade swallowed hard.
Sherlock hissed sharply, a hand snapping palm out to block Lestrade's face. His eyes were clenched tight shut, and his head was tilted, listening.
Lestrade tried not to breathe. Quiet rustlings and mutterings of over a dozen officers trying to be silent but itching with the need to get on with searching the site for evidence and finding the missing doctor carried through the building; Lestrade could see Sherlock registering and dismissing each extraneous noise, baring of his teeth in desperate frustration.
John's tough, Greg wanted to say to Sherlock, He'll be fine. But even in his own head it didn't ring true.
Eyes popping open, Sherlock raised a hand - coat fabric shifting, adding to the hushed noises of the squad - pointing up and sweeping in an arc towards the west of the building.
Lestrade opened his mouth to ask, but stopped himself when he heard the faint sound of dripping. Plock. Plock. Plock.
A leaky pipe? He shook his head and shrugged in confusion at Sherlock.
With a silent snarl Sherlock rolled his eyes and whispered, "The dripping. It's not water."
"Not wa-?" A stab of shock went through Lestrade; his gaze shot up towards the ceiling with fast-dawning horror. "Blood." Christ. John.
Lestrade didn't remember much detail from the last First Aid refresher he'd had, but if that dripping was John losing enough blood to make even that much sound, at that rate, they couldn't afford the time needed for a thorough, methodical search. The abandoned complex was a rat-maze; Stairs that lead to sections that didn't connect to each other directly, offices suspended among gantries.... The twenty officers they had simultaneously weren't enough and were far too many. John was in deep trouble right now, and any blind alleys they went up could cost the man his life, if he wasn't dead already. Clenching his teeth against making a sound of any sort, Lestrade looked back at Sherlock.
With his hands cupped around his ears, Sherlock was scanning the ceiling, sweeping slowly back and forth, tension pinching between his brows as he concentrated.
A PC somewhere in the north end of the building coughed.
Sherlock's frustrated roar was overwhelming after the silence. "OUT! ALL OF YOU OUT!" he bellowed.
"Right!" Lestrade echoed, backing Sherlock's plan, as far as he'd guessed at least. "Everyone clear out!"
Shouts went up all over the building as the confused officers began heading to the exits. Sergeant Donovan stared aghast at Lestrade. "But what about Doctor Wats-"
"Just pass the word and clear the area, yourself and me included." Lestrade said quietly, half an eye back towards Sherlock and half an ear straining to catch any hint of that horrible dripping under the chaos of uniformed men and women clearing the site. "I think I understand what he's doing for once."
"What, really?" Donovan said. Flatly, but not mockingly.
"I'll explain when we're outside."
Donovan raised an eyebrow, but turned to leave with him.
"No!" Sherlock strode up and grabbed them each by the arms. "Not you. I need you, both of you. Please. I need your ears."
Lestrade was confused, but shot a warning look at Donovan in case she took that golden opening about Sherlock needing ears and snarked about it. Now was not the time. However Donovan looked more irritated than snarky, and even that passed quickly for a grim attentiveness Lestrade knew well. "How?" was all she said to Sherlock.
"Triangulation. Echoes, corners; I need two more points of reference so we can locate the sound and find him. Lestrade, you've heard the dripping. Donovan, you're likely to have similar hearing acuity as Lestrade and most Met officers, but you are most capable of moving silently and remaining focused when the situation demands."
Lestrade watched Donovan accept Sherlock's assessment with a surprised yet conflicted nod.
"Also," Sherlock's voice dropped and intensified, teeth clenched. "You also both know John. That faint dripping sound is John bleeding to death somewhere in this building, and we cannot waste any more time with a random search by uniformed pachyderms."
Lestrade nodded. Donovan's eyes widened at the new information about John, but she simply nodded as well. She signed off the radio with a request for an ambulance and total silence, then flicked it off.
John's a good bloke. If we can't find him in time... He looked at Sherlock, who was gripping his own hair with frustration and the beginnings of something like rage. Lestrade wanted to reassure him they'd find John, that he'd be alright, but that would cost time John didn't have, and could cost Sherlock some of the cold efficient focus he was struggling to maintain.
Lestrade closed his eyes and opened them again. Yes. Objectivity, Detective Inspector. John needs your objectivity now too. He pulled in a slow deep breath and forced himself to look around. Mentally he cataloged random items around the wide open room while they waited for the noise of the other officers to clear; using neutral information to force his head away from 'my good friend/my friend's best friend is dying slowly right now and all we can do is wait' and towards 'a victim of GBH is somewhere in this building and needs immediate assistance.' Take the emotions, take the personal connections, stuff them in a box. Open it later in the pub; preferably with John there, safe and whole.
When Lestrade looked back to Sherlock, the man met his gaze and nodded, understanding, finding some grounding point of his own. Donovan watched them both, expression cool and determined, tense around the mouth.
The rattles and rustles of the search group leaving finally dropped to nothing. Lestrade met Donovan's eye. He tapped his own chest and pointed north, then pointed at his Sergeant and south, then looked to Sherlock. He'll want to head west, to be closest to where he heard the sound, and we can give him reference points that will lead him straight to it.
Sherlock nodded, pointed west, then tapped his ears. First we listen.
They stood together in the abandoned warehouse in a tight little circle, heads bowed, ears straining to pick up the slightest sounds of John Watson's life draining away.
-.-.-
(That's it... John'll still be fine, really...)