Sherlock fic: What Friends Do, Part 4
I think it's time we heard from everybody's favorite amateur consulting detective.
Title: What Friends Do, Part 4 of 7
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Lestrade
Rating: PG
Warnings: Spoilers for episode 3 of the BBC modern-day Sherlock series.
Summary: One more take on a contemporary "Final Problem". Events take place immediately after the so-called end of episode 3, "The Great Game." Part 1 is here.
What
Friends Do, part 4
Sherlock woke to the overriding grip
of pain. It hammered at him, pulsed through him, ground into his brain. He
couldn't breathe. There was a stabbing pain in his side for every breath he attempted.
Whatever was grinding into his back was so heavy, he could scarcely breathe at
all.
My ribs are shattered, he thought, followed by a wave of
fear. The heavy thing across his back had numbed everything below the waist. He
could hardly feel his legs, couldn't tell if they were crushed or free. He
could determine almost nothing about his situation due to the loud ringing in
his ears and the pitch blackness in which he lay. The air was close and foul
with dust. But beneath him lay something soft-something incongruently soft in
the midst of all this jagged discomfort.
The thing spoke, its voice barely a
whisper. "Sherlock?"
John. The recent past fell suddenly into
place- the confrontation with Moriarty, his decision to set off the bomb, his
attempt to fling himself on top of John for what meager protection he might
give in the split second before the bomb went off. He wasn't sure, but he
thought one of the snipers may have hit him as he dived for the relative
sanctuary of the changing cabin. He found the fact that he couldn't really ascertain
whether or not he'd been shot mildly alarming.
"It's all right," John
told him. Silly John, ever the optimist. Sherlock knew his current situation
wasn't "all right"- might never be "all right" again. But John
apparently had his wits, and his voice told Sherlock all he needed to know-
that he might be under tremendous strain at the moment, but he was basically
well and whole. He had survived the blast. Against all odds, they had both
lived, although in what shape remained to be seen.
And... Moriarty. If they had
survived, it stood that reason that he might have, also. If so, he must be nearby.
Sherlock tried to focus on that, to focus on anything at all, but found himself
drifting. It was tremendously difficult to concentrate on the brief conversation
the well-meaning John tried to conduct with him. After several false starts, he
decided to communicate the preoccupation that was turning out to be uppermost
in his mind.
"I think my back is
broken."
John hadn't had much to say to that.
Who would? Released from the need to converse, Sherlock lay and tallied up his
hurts. He could feel something trickling down his sides. As it was unlikely to
be water, he concluded it must be blood. He had a splitting headache that
probably indicated a concussion. He tried to decide if he'd been blinded. But
no, the blind person should be blown up after they'd been blinded, not
before. Like the old woman. He realized he was thinking nonsense, but he
couldn't bring himself to care. It was hot under the pile of rubble, the air
acrid and stuffy. So why did Sherlock feel a chill?
I'm bleeding to death, he thought. These lapses; the
fading out. His life was draining away. The reflection wasn't interesting
enough to keep him awake. He couldn't summon the energy even to respond to John's
anxious inquiries. Poor John. He would be all right. The man had survived a
war, after all. He'd get through this. The world went still.
And broke open, in a sudden rush of
noise and light. At first he thought Moriarty and his gang were coming after
him with chain saws. Then he realized it was someone else. A lot of someones.
As he blinked at the watery shadows against the angled light, he discerned the bulky
uniforms of what could only be rescue workers digging their way down to him,
and the familiar calls of police officers at a crime scene. The fantastic noise
was the motor of some enormous engine; the clamor beat painfully against his dulled
ears after the quiet of his temporary entombment.
A leg in a padded uniform and thick,
shin-high boot stepped down next to his head. "Mr. Holmes?" The voice
was mildly surprising. It belonged to a woman. The faintness of her voice made
her seem farther away than he knew she must be. He was mildly grateful that his
hearing was off; the noise of the scene otherwise might have been unbearable.
Apparently his answer was too long
in coming, for she switched her target. "Dr. Watson, how are you?"
"Much better, now that I can
breathe." His chest worked hard under Sherlock, straining for air. He
didn't feel all right. Latent blast injuries; regrettable, but not
surprising.
"Just sit tight. We'll have
this beam off you in no time."
Sherlock heard the clink of chains
and the terse instructions of the rescue workers. He had no energy to follow
the conversation. Instead, he focused on the boot in front of him. Rubber
alloy. Fire and water resistant. Well-worn. Recent patch on the left side, an
older one on the right. The wearer had been doing this work for a while. He
couldn’t decide if he found that comforting or not.
The tone of the motor changed, and
suddenly the weight lifted off. The shift was so unexpected, Sherlock cried
out.
"Careful!" John cried,
even as a voice shouted from above, "Watch it!"
Lestrade. How interesting. Of all
the places he had to be at this scene, Lestrade was supervising Sherlock's
rescue. Sherlock couldn't follow the thought further, because his abused chest
expanded as the weight came away, revealing the full extent of his injuries in sparks
of wonderful agony. His distressed back crackled with nerves.
The woman's hand was on his
shoulder, rubbing soothingly. "Easy, Mr. Holmes. Just lie still."
Sherlock wanted to point out that
lying still was about the only thing he could accomplish at the moment, but
answering was too much trouble. Instead, he thought about Lestrade, taking time
out from his investigation to attend to him. The inspector was probably the
only person in the world, apart from John, who harbored a somewhat friendly
feeling toward Sherlock. And they'd worked together a long time, which might
count for something. Perhaps it would even be enough to sway him.
Lestrade. Yes. He could use that.
However, to get Lestrade to do his
bidding, he must remain conscious. That seemed unlikely, the moment the rescue
team tried to shift him onto a backboard. In his damaged state, it was almost
more than he could take. He had decided some time ago not to cry out- a
resolution that was scuttled the moment they started to move him. The entire process
was agony, from the initial lifting to the inevitable pulling and repositioning.
They sandwiched him between boards, then painstakingly flipped him over. White
streaks seared across his vision. His brain whirled; the world spun. Then he
realized that the world was at least swaying; they had placed him in some kind
of wire basket that was connected to a hoist, and were lifting him straight up
out of the rubble. He could see the workers gathered round, intermixed with
police investigators, all their faces keenly watching his progress. There was
Lestrade, looking grim. He couldn't see John.
The hoist swung him round toward the
edge of the building. The glaring of harsh lights softened; turning his head,
Sherlock could see the ambulances standing just beyond the periphery of
devastation, their emergency lights turning silently, sweeping the darkness.
The vehicles gave him the impression of patient horses hitched to the rack,
ready to go but standing calmly by, tails switching as they waited. Sherlock
nearly laughed at the metaphor; winced instead. He decided to concentrate on
his breathing. It had become a marvelously complicated exercise, not at all the
dull act it used to be. Well, that could be an improvement, eh? If Moriarty could
teach him to appreciate the beauty of breathing?
Hands reached up to greet the basket
as it lowered. The jostling sent spikes of pain through him. He bit his lip as
they transferred him, still lashed to the backboard, to a gurney. They began
cutting away his clothing, exposing his arms for the pressure cuff and
inevitable IVs.
"Lestrade," he whispered
to the nearest attendant, who was swabbing his arm.
The man leaned closer. "What
was that?"
"DI Lestrade." Sherlock
licked his lips. "Bring him. I have... information."
The man reached for the IV. "Denny,
will you see to that?"
Sherlock lay back, counting the
lashes of pain that swept through his body in response to every move. Were the
attendants so rough, or was he simply in such dreadful shape?
Someone placed a plastic mask over
his nose and mouth. Surprised, Sherlock grunted a protest-but of course no one
was listening to him. They nestled something between his feet-the oxygen tank,
he supposed-before they began wheeling him toward the ambulance.
"Hold on a moment!" called
a voice from behind.
Sherlock closed his eyes in relief.
Lestrade jogged up, slightly winded.
"I won't keep you," he said, apparently to the attendants. Then he
leaned closer. "Sherlock, you have something? About the bomber?"
Sherlock attempted a nod. He hated
this mask; how was he supposed to speak through it?
Lestrade came to the same
conclusion. "Can we take that off him, just for a minute?"
"It's really not wise," countered
one of the attendants.
"You can talk at
hospital," said another. "We shouldn't keep him."
Sherlock reached out to touch Lestrade's
sleeve. They had strapped his arm down so he wouldn't dislodge the IV, but if he
stretched, he could just do it. He tugged at the material.
"It's important," Lestrade
said.
The first attendant said,
"Climb in. You can talk in the back."
They began bustling Sherlock once
more toward the ambulance. Lestrade turned to shout over a shoulder.
"Ryan! I'm going to hospital with Sherlock. Ring if you need me."
A faint "Right!" came from
the distance, followed by another voice-weaker, but far more insistent.
"I'm perfectly well," it
argued. "I can sit up for ten minutes in an ambulance."
"Doctor," explained
another voice patiently, "you've just had a building fall on you. You're
going to stay on that stretcher until we can get some pictures taken of your
insides."
"My insides are fine. I want to
see Sherlock."
"You'll see him in
hospital."
"Look, he's right there. Just
wheel me over. Who's the doctor here, anyway?"
Sherlock cracked a smile. John was
so predictable. The thought created a sudden surge of sadness, which speared
him as painfully as any of the physical jostling did.
The gurney on which he rested became
briefly airborne, then the front wheels crashed back as the attendants lifted it
into the ambulance. Some people climbed in alongside. Sherlock didn't have to
wonder, because one of them said, "Right here, Inspector. You can sit near
the front."
"Thank you."
Lestrade climbed in, and the rear
doors closed. Even as the Scotland Yarder scrambled into his position near
Sherlock's head, the driver turned on the siren and started forward. The
attendants did their medical things-taking readings and prodding him gently,
muttering their findings to headquarters. Sherlock ignored them, concentrating
on Lestrade's progress.
The inspector seated himself with a
grunt. There was some rustling of cloth as he settled himself, then he leaned
forward. "Sherlock? Are you awake?"
Sherlock blinked his shut eyes to
answer yes, then set about trying to open them. It was an arduous
process. They felt gummed together.
"Can we get that mask
off?" Lestrade inquired.
"Keep it short," said the
nearest attendant. "He's not breathing well. There are internal
injuries."
"I'll be careful."
The mask came off-and straightaway
Sherlock felt the thinness of the air. It was hard to take a breath. His lips
parted, but all that came out was a wheeze.
Lestrade cleared his throat.
"Look, Sherlock. I know you're trying to help, but we can do this later,
when it's not so painful for you to talk."
"Now," Sherlock breathed
in a cracked voice.
"All right." Lestrade
hunched down, so his ear was almost at Sherlock's lips. "I'm
listening."
"You have to... fix it for me."
"Fix what?"
"Make them... think." He
shivered. "They all have to think..."
"Think what?"
"My brother... can fix it. Mycroft.
Number in... my mobile."
"Well, that's news. Who the
devil is this brother of yours, and what's he supposed to fix? Sherlock, you're
not making any sense."
"Don't tell... John. Him, most
of all."
"Don't tell him what?
Honestly, Sherlock, we can do this later, when you're clearer-"
Urgency made Sherlock open his eyes.
It was a start to see Lestrade's face so close to his, but also a relief.
Occupied with their various diversions, none of the others could hear.
Sherlock stretched his fingers in Lestrade's
direction, straining toward him in a plea. "You must make them
believe. Only you... can do it."
"Believe what? Sherlock-"
"Dead." The word brought Lestrade
up short. Sherlock licked his lips again. So dry; why couldn't he feel them? "They
must... all think... I'm dead."
Lestrade stared. "Why?"
"John, most of all. Only...
way..."
Lestrade snorted. "This is
ridiculous. You're going to hospital, Sherlock. Dozens of people will
see you. Everyone there will know-"
Sherlock's strained harder to touch
him. "They can't. Only way to... stop the murders."
"Murders?"
"Before they start. Mycroft... can
fix it. Help... help him."
Lestrade pressed, in a low voice,
"What murders?"
"You. John..." A shudder
took Sherlock's body. "Mrs. Hudson. Anyone close to me. He'll kill you... kill
you all."
Lestrade paused. "He told you
that?"
Sherlock nodded.
"All right. I consider myself
warned."
Sherlock could manage it now; he reached
the inspector's coat. He gripped the material, drawing a surprised look from Lestrade.
"There's no need for him to do it," Sherlock gasped, "if I'm
dead."
"I see." Lestrade pondered
a moment. Then, to Sherlock's surprise, he loosened Sherlock's grip on his
coat, and patted his hand companionably. "I'll see what I can do. Medic?
Let's get that mask back on him."
The mask went back into place; it
was marginally easier to breathe. Sherlock drank it in, relaxing through sheer
exhaustion, now that his message was delivered. His eyes slid closed.
When Lestrade spoke again, his voice
seemed to come from miles away. "You're a good man, Sherlock Holmes."
Even as Sherlock wondered why
Lestrade was telling him this, the world went black.
Continued in Part 5
Title: What Friends Do, Part 4 of 7
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Lestrade
Rating: PG
Warnings: Spoilers for episode 3 of the BBC modern-day Sherlock series.
Summary: One more take on a contemporary "Final Problem". Events take place immediately after the so-called end of episode 3, "The Great Game." Part 1 is here.
What
Friends Do, part 4
Sherlock woke to the overriding grip
of pain. It hammered at him, pulsed through him, ground into his brain. He
couldn't breathe. There was a stabbing pain in his side for every breath he attempted.
Whatever was grinding into his back was so heavy, he could scarcely breathe at
all.
My ribs are shattered, he thought, followed by a wave of
fear. The heavy thing across his back had numbed everything below the waist. He
could hardly feel his legs, couldn't tell if they were crushed or free. He
could determine almost nothing about his situation due to the loud ringing in
his ears and the pitch blackness in which he lay. The air was close and foul
with dust. But beneath him lay something soft-something incongruently soft in
the midst of all this jagged discomfort.
The thing spoke, its voice barely a
whisper. "Sherlock?"
John. The recent past fell suddenly into
place- the confrontation with Moriarty, his decision to set off the bomb, his
attempt to fling himself on top of John for what meager protection he might
give in the split second before the bomb went off. He wasn't sure, but he
thought one of the snipers may have hit him as he dived for the relative
sanctuary of the changing cabin. He found the fact that he couldn't really ascertain
whether or not he'd been shot mildly alarming.
"It's all right," John
told him. Silly John, ever the optimist. Sherlock knew his current situation
wasn't "all right"- might never be "all right" again. But John
apparently had his wits, and his voice told Sherlock all he needed to know-
that he might be under tremendous strain at the moment, but he was basically
well and whole. He had survived the blast. Against all odds, they had both
lived, although in what shape remained to be seen.
And... Moriarty. If they had
survived, it stood that reason that he might have, also. If so, he must be nearby.
Sherlock tried to focus on that, to focus on anything at all, but found himself
drifting. It was tremendously difficult to concentrate on the brief conversation
the well-meaning John tried to conduct with him. After several false starts, he
decided to communicate the preoccupation that was turning out to be uppermost
in his mind.
"I think my back is
broken."
John hadn't had much to say to that.
Who would? Released from the need to converse, Sherlock lay and tallied up his
hurts. He could feel something trickling down his sides. As it was unlikely to
be water, he concluded it must be blood. He had a splitting headache that
probably indicated a concussion. He tried to decide if he'd been blinded. But
no, the blind person should be blown up after they'd been blinded, not
before. Like the old woman. He realized he was thinking nonsense, but he
couldn't bring himself to care. It was hot under the pile of rubble, the air
acrid and stuffy. So why did Sherlock feel a chill?
I'm bleeding to death, he thought. These lapses; the
fading out. His life was draining away. The reflection wasn't interesting
enough to keep him awake. He couldn't summon the energy even to respond to John's
anxious inquiries. Poor John. He would be all right. The man had survived a
war, after all. He'd get through this. The world went still.
And broke open, in a sudden rush of
noise and light. At first he thought Moriarty and his gang were coming after
him with chain saws. Then he realized it was someone else. A lot of someones.
As he blinked at the watery shadows against the angled light, he discerned the bulky
uniforms of what could only be rescue workers digging their way down to him,
and the familiar calls of police officers at a crime scene. The fantastic noise
was the motor of some enormous engine; the clamor beat painfully against his dulled
ears after the quiet of his temporary entombment.
A leg in a padded uniform and thick,
shin-high boot stepped down next to his head. "Mr. Holmes?" The voice
was mildly surprising. It belonged to a woman. The faintness of her voice made
her seem farther away than he knew she must be. He was mildly grateful that his
hearing was off; the noise of the scene otherwise might have been unbearable.
Apparently his answer was too long
in coming, for she switched her target. "Dr. Watson, how are you?"
"Much better, now that I can
breathe." His chest worked hard under Sherlock, straining for air. He
didn't feel all right. Latent blast injuries; regrettable, but not
surprising.
"Just sit tight. We'll have
this beam off you in no time."
Sherlock heard the clink of chains
and the terse instructions of the rescue workers. He had no energy to follow
the conversation. Instead, he focused on the boot in front of him. Rubber
alloy. Fire and water resistant. Well-worn. Recent patch on the left side, an
older one on the right. The wearer had been doing this work for a while. He
couldn’t decide if he found that comforting or not.
The tone of the motor changed, and
suddenly the weight lifted off. The shift was so unexpected, Sherlock cried
out.
"Careful!" John cried,
even as a voice shouted from above, "Watch it!"
Lestrade. How interesting. Of all
the places he had to be at this scene, Lestrade was supervising Sherlock's
rescue. Sherlock couldn't follow the thought further, because his abused chest
expanded as the weight came away, revealing the full extent of his injuries in sparks
of wonderful agony. His distressed back crackled with nerves.
The woman's hand was on his
shoulder, rubbing soothingly. "Easy, Mr. Holmes. Just lie still."
Sherlock wanted to point out that
lying still was about the only thing he could accomplish at the moment, but
answering was too much trouble. Instead, he thought about Lestrade, taking time
out from his investigation to attend to him. The inspector was probably the
only person in the world, apart from John, who harbored a somewhat friendly
feeling toward Sherlock. And they'd worked together a long time, which might
count for something. Perhaps it would even be enough to sway him.
Lestrade. Yes. He could use that.
However, to get Lestrade to do his
bidding, he must remain conscious. That seemed unlikely, the moment the rescue
team tried to shift him onto a backboard. In his damaged state, it was almost
more than he could take. He had decided some time ago not to cry out- a
resolution that was scuttled the moment they started to move him. The entire process
was agony, from the initial lifting to the inevitable pulling and repositioning.
They sandwiched him between boards, then painstakingly flipped him over. White
streaks seared across his vision. His brain whirled; the world spun. Then he
realized that the world was at least swaying; they had placed him in some kind
of wire basket that was connected to a hoist, and were lifting him straight up
out of the rubble. He could see the workers gathered round, intermixed with
police investigators, all their faces keenly watching his progress. There was
Lestrade, looking grim. He couldn't see John.
The hoist swung him round toward the
edge of the building. The glaring of harsh lights softened; turning his head,
Sherlock could see the ambulances standing just beyond the periphery of
devastation, their emergency lights turning silently, sweeping the darkness.
The vehicles gave him the impression of patient horses hitched to the rack,
ready to go but standing calmly by, tails switching as they waited. Sherlock
nearly laughed at the metaphor; winced instead. He decided to concentrate on
his breathing. It had become a marvelously complicated exercise, not at all the
dull act it used to be. Well, that could be an improvement, eh? If Moriarty could
teach him to appreciate the beauty of breathing?
Hands reached up to greet the basket
as it lowered. The jostling sent spikes of pain through him. He bit his lip as
they transferred him, still lashed to the backboard, to a gurney. They began
cutting away his clothing, exposing his arms for the pressure cuff and
inevitable IVs.
"Lestrade," he whispered
to the nearest attendant, who was swabbing his arm.
The man leaned closer. "What
was that?"
"DI Lestrade." Sherlock
licked his lips. "Bring him. I have... information."
The man reached for the IV. "Denny,
will you see to that?"
Sherlock lay back, counting the
lashes of pain that swept through his body in response to every move. Were the
attendants so rough, or was he simply in such dreadful shape?
Someone placed a plastic mask over
his nose and mouth. Surprised, Sherlock grunted a protest-but of course no one
was listening to him. They nestled something between his feet-the oxygen tank,
he supposed-before they began wheeling him toward the ambulance.
"Hold on a moment!" called
a voice from behind.
Sherlock closed his eyes in relief.
Lestrade jogged up, slightly winded.
"I won't keep you," he said, apparently to the attendants. Then he
leaned closer. "Sherlock, you have something? About the bomber?"
Sherlock attempted a nod. He hated
this mask; how was he supposed to speak through it?
Lestrade came to the same
conclusion. "Can we take that off him, just for a minute?"
"It's really not wise," countered
one of the attendants.
"You can talk at
hospital," said another. "We shouldn't keep him."
Sherlock reached out to touch Lestrade's
sleeve. They had strapped his arm down so he wouldn't dislodge the IV, but if he
stretched, he could just do it. He tugged at the material.
"It's important," Lestrade
said.
The first attendant said,
"Climb in. You can talk in the back."
They began bustling Sherlock once
more toward the ambulance. Lestrade turned to shout over a shoulder.
"Ryan! I'm going to hospital with Sherlock. Ring if you need me."
A faint "Right!" came from
the distance, followed by another voice-weaker, but far more insistent.
"I'm perfectly well," it
argued. "I can sit up for ten minutes in an ambulance."
"Doctor," explained
another voice patiently, "you've just had a building fall on you. You're
going to stay on that stretcher until we can get some pictures taken of your
insides."
"My insides are fine. I want to
see Sherlock."
"You'll see him in
hospital."
"Look, he's right there. Just
wheel me over. Who's the doctor here, anyway?"
Sherlock cracked a smile. John was
so predictable. The thought created a sudden surge of sadness, which speared
him as painfully as any of the physical jostling did.
The gurney on which he rested became
briefly airborne, then the front wheels crashed back as the attendants lifted it
into the ambulance. Some people climbed in alongside. Sherlock didn't have to
wonder, because one of them said, "Right here, Inspector. You can sit near
the front."
"Thank you."
Lestrade climbed in, and the rear
doors closed. Even as the Scotland Yarder scrambled into his position near
Sherlock's head, the driver turned on the siren and started forward. The
attendants did their medical things-taking readings and prodding him gently,
muttering their findings to headquarters. Sherlock ignored them, concentrating
on Lestrade's progress.
The inspector seated himself with a
grunt. There was some rustling of cloth as he settled himself, then he leaned
forward. "Sherlock? Are you awake?"
Sherlock blinked his shut eyes to
answer yes, then set about trying to open them. It was an arduous
process. They felt gummed together.
"Can we get that mask
off?" Lestrade inquired.
"Keep it short," said the
nearest attendant. "He's not breathing well. There are internal
injuries."
"I'll be careful."
The mask came off-and straightaway
Sherlock felt the thinness of the air. It was hard to take a breath. His lips
parted, but all that came out was a wheeze.
Lestrade cleared his throat.
"Look, Sherlock. I know you're trying to help, but we can do this later,
when it's not so painful for you to talk."
"Now," Sherlock breathed
in a cracked voice.
"All right." Lestrade
hunched down, so his ear was almost at Sherlock's lips. "I'm
listening."
"You have to... fix it for me."
"Fix what?"
"Make them... think." He
shivered. "They all have to think..."
"Think what?"
"My brother... can fix it. Mycroft.
Number in... my mobile."
"Well, that's news. Who the
devil is this brother of yours, and what's he supposed to fix? Sherlock, you're
not making any sense."
"Don't tell... John. Him, most
of all."
"Don't tell him what?
Honestly, Sherlock, we can do this later, when you're clearer-"
Urgency made Sherlock open his eyes.
It was a start to see Lestrade's face so close to his, but also a relief.
Occupied with their various diversions, none of the others could hear.
Sherlock stretched his fingers in Lestrade's
direction, straining toward him in a plea. "You must make them
believe. Only you... can do it."
"Believe what? Sherlock-"
"Dead." The word brought Lestrade
up short. Sherlock licked his lips again. So dry; why couldn't he feel them? "They
must... all think... I'm dead."
Lestrade stared. "Why?"
"John, most of all. Only...
way..."
Lestrade snorted. "This is
ridiculous. You're going to hospital, Sherlock. Dozens of people will
see you. Everyone there will know-"
Sherlock's strained harder to touch
him. "They can't. Only way to... stop the murders."
"Murders?"
"Before they start. Mycroft... can
fix it. Help... help him."
Lestrade pressed, in a low voice,
"What murders?"
"You. John..." A shudder
took Sherlock's body. "Mrs. Hudson. Anyone close to me. He'll kill you... kill
you all."
Lestrade paused. "He told you
that?"
Sherlock nodded.
"All right. I consider myself
warned."
Sherlock could manage it now; he reached
the inspector's coat. He gripped the material, drawing a surprised look from Lestrade.
"There's no need for him to do it," Sherlock gasped, "if I'm
dead."
"I see." Lestrade pondered
a moment. Then, to Sherlock's surprise, he loosened Sherlock's grip on his
coat, and patted his hand companionably. "I'll see what I can do. Medic?
Let's get that mask back on him."
The mask went back into place; it
was marginally easier to breathe. Sherlock drank it in, relaxing through sheer
exhaustion, now that his message was delivered. His eyes slid closed.
When Lestrade spoke again, his voice
seemed to come from miles away. "You're a good man, Sherlock Holmes."
Even as Sherlock wondered why
Lestrade was telling him this, the world went black.
Continued in Part 5