I am working on this... 3a/? TRIGGERS: rape, violence, it's not going to be pleasant
anonymous
October 3 2010, 12:42:13 UTC
Stupid character limit!
Even as his mind spun, trying to take in the scene, Lestrade was turning, trying to stop Sherlock before he came in, trying to stop him from the pain of seeing his brother…
But he was too late.
Sherlock had stopped stock still, just inside the room, looking if possible even paler than before, staring at his brother with horror plainly visible on his face. John was standing just behind him, looking nauseous.
“Sherlock…”
At the sound of his name Sherlock seemed to come to, suddenly looking away from the broken man.
“Sherlock…” Lestrade tried again, but Sherlock ignored him, pushing past to move into the room itself. He didn’t spare a second glance for his brother.
“Have your men touched anything? Don’t let them touch anything.”
John threw a confused and slightly worried glance over to where Sherlock appeared to be now examining a pile of old rubble in one corner. He looked from Sherlock to Mycroft and then back to Sherlock again. Lestrade just shrugged. Pursing his lips John turned his attention to Mycroft once more, moving over to where the man was lying, switching into ‘doctor mode’, murmuring, “Hush Mycroft… it’s alright… we’re here now… Sherlock’s here now… you’re ok… you’re going to be ok…”
Lestrade turned away. From what he had seen already of the man’s injuries and the blood pooling under him, none of that was true. If Lestrade’s suspicions about what had been done to Mycroft were true, it was quite possible that he would never be ‘ok’ again.
“Lestrade!” John was still speaking quietly - trying not to frighten Mycroft, Lestrade assumed - but his voice was laced with force, “He needs an ambulance now!”
“One is on its way. Sally, you’ve done your first aid training - can you give John a hand.”
“KEEP HER AWAY FROM HIM!” Sherlock’s shout startled them all. Lestrade intended to overrule him - after all, if she could help his brother what did the petty squabbling between her and him matter now… but Sherlock looked so fierce and yet so… vulnerable… that Lestrade couldn’t do it. Trying to clamp down on the nausea he was feeling, he said, “Never mind Sally. I’ll do it.”
“But sir?” Sally didn’t finish but Lestrade knew what it was she was asking and hated that she felt she had to. She was the only one who knew about…
“I’ll manage. You carry on as you are. Make sure we don’t miss anything and make sure we do it right. When we find these bastards I want to make sure there is no way they can weasel out of charges on a technicality.”
Gritting his teeth, Lestrade moved to John, crouching down beside him.
“What do you need me to do?”
John threw him a puzzled glance, but then said, “Can you press here, hard? He’s lost a lot of blood. We need to stop him losing any more.”
Lestrade took over from John, pressing down hard on Mycroft’s shoulder, trying to ignore the whimpers of pain from the man beneath him, not looking anywhere except the wound itself. Out of the corner of his eye he could just about see John moving around, checking for more injuries. A sudden hiss from the doctor, accompanied by the man underneath him flinching made him look up involuntarily.
“Lestrade…” John trailed off, apparently unwilling to say any more, but he caught Lestrade’s eye and slowly, deliberately looked down, Lestrade’s gaze following until he saw the mess of blood over the man’s thighs. So he had been right in his suspicions then. Bile started to rise in his throat. He couldn’t do this after all. He was going to be sick. He just couldn’t…
Thankfully the paramedics rushing through the door turned into just enough distraction for him to hold back the retching - for the moment anyway. He let one take over at Mycroft’s shoulder as John told the other what injuries he had found so far.
Even as his mind spun, trying to take in the scene, Lestrade was turning, trying to stop Sherlock before he came in, trying to stop him from the pain of seeing his brother…
But he was too late.
Sherlock had stopped stock still, just inside the room, looking if possible even paler than before, staring at his brother with horror plainly visible on his face. John was standing just behind him, looking nauseous.
“Sherlock…”
At the sound of his name Sherlock seemed to come to, suddenly looking away from the broken man.
“Sherlock…” Lestrade tried again, but Sherlock ignored him, pushing past to move into the room itself. He didn’t spare a second glance for his brother.
“Have your men touched anything? Don’t let them touch anything.”
John threw a confused and slightly worried glance over to where Sherlock appeared to be now examining a pile of old rubble in one corner. He looked from Sherlock to Mycroft and then back to Sherlock again. Lestrade just shrugged. Pursing his lips John turned his attention to Mycroft once more, moving over to where the man was lying, switching into ‘doctor mode’, murmuring, “Hush Mycroft… it’s alright… we’re here now… Sherlock’s here now… you’re ok… you’re going to be ok…”
Lestrade turned away. From what he had seen already of the man’s injuries and the blood pooling under him, none of that was true. If Lestrade’s suspicions about what had been done to Mycroft were true, it was quite possible that he would never be ‘ok’ again.
“Lestrade!” John was still speaking quietly - trying not to frighten Mycroft, Lestrade assumed - but his voice was laced with force, “He needs an ambulance now!”
“One is on its way. Sally, you’ve done your first aid training - can you give John a hand.”
“KEEP HER AWAY FROM HIM!” Sherlock’s shout startled them all. Lestrade intended to overrule him - after all, if she could help his brother what did the petty squabbling between her and him matter now… but Sherlock looked so fierce and yet so… vulnerable… that Lestrade couldn’t do it. Trying to clamp down on the nausea he was feeling, he said, “Never mind Sally. I’ll do it.”
“But sir?” Sally didn’t finish but Lestrade knew what it was she was asking and hated that she felt she had to. She was the only one who knew about…
“I’ll manage. You carry on as you are. Make sure we don’t miss anything and make sure we do it right. When we find these bastards I want to make sure there is no way they can weasel out of charges on a technicality.”
Gritting his teeth, Lestrade moved to John, crouching down beside him.
“What do you need me to do?”
John threw him a puzzled glance, but then said, “Can you press here, hard? He’s lost a lot of blood. We need to stop him losing any more.”
Lestrade took over from John, pressing down hard on Mycroft’s shoulder, trying to ignore the whimpers of pain from the man beneath him, not looking anywhere except the wound itself. Out of the corner of his eye he could just about see John moving around, checking for more injuries. A sudden hiss from the doctor, accompanied by the man underneath him flinching made him look up involuntarily.
“Lestrade…” John trailed off, apparently unwilling to say any more, but he caught Lestrade’s eye and slowly, deliberately looked down, Lestrade’s gaze following until he saw the mess of blood over the man’s thighs. So he had been right in his suspicions then. Bile started to rise in his throat. He couldn’t do this after all. He was going to be sick. He just couldn’t…
Thankfully the paramedics rushing through the door turned into just enough distraction for him to hold back the retching - for the moment anyway. He let one take over at Mycroft’s shoulder as John told the other what injuries he had found so far.
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