Cemetery Road - Chapter 7
Title: Cemetery Road
Author
revwestwood
Rating: Teen (Mild Violence, Medical Situations)
Status: WIP
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson
Spoilers: Through "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Just having a bit of fun.
Summary: "You think that their dying is the worst thing that could happen. Then they stay dead."
Sherlock returns to 221B to take out the last strands of Moriarty's web with John's help, but Sherlock underestimates just how far that web stretched. This time, Sherlock won't fall alone.
Author's Notes: Thanks to my friends who encouraged this whole process. I. owe. you.
Chapter 7
Mycroft Holmes arrives on the scene just minutes after the paramedics and other first responders. His first responders, that is. He doesn’t want Lestrade’s team here. Not yet. Not until he knows what is going on. He spots Sgt. Greyson giving orders to another agent and strides over to him quickly while still maintaining a measured pace in an effort to mask his growing concern. Greyson acknowledges Mycroft and dismisses the other agent with a single nod.
“What is the situation, Sergeant?” Mycroft asks while scanning the chaotic mob. He doesn’t see his brother or John in the crowd. Neither can he pick their voices out of the din. Sherlock should be berating someone by now.
“Still assessing, sir,” Greyson replies. “There’s one John Doe. DOA,” he indicates a place beyond the crowd that Mycroft cannot see. “It appears Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson were attacked by at least one assailant. We are working to secure the area, sir.”
Mycroft glances up to the roof ledges of the adjacent buildings. A helicopter searchlight is sweeping over the rooftops, making the light levels on the tiny street between the council houses even more erratic. No doubt the stairwells and empty apartments are being scoured for snipers by the ops team at this very moment. He feels that familiar, painful pressure build behind his eyes and fights the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.
Since Sherlock’s dramatic death the previous year and his miraculous resurrection eight months later, Mycroft had been working harder than ever to ensure Sherlock and John’s safety as they sought to eliminate the last strands of Moriarty’s criminal network. He told himself that at least this way they had each other to depend on. In some small way that justified the not-inconsiderable fortune he was spending to keep Baker Street under constant, if unobtrusive, guard. Sadly, this was not Baker Street.
“Where are they?” Mycroft asks, slightly softer than he would have liked.
Before Greyson can answer, sirens blare to life, deafening in the claustrophobic street. The unmarked vehicle that doubles as an ambulance and a portable munitions store leaves the tiny street and turns onto the broader main road, building up speed quickly.
Mycroft catches sight of his brother standing alone, without coat or suit jacket, in the vehicle’s wake. He rushes to him. Sherlock is staring at where the ambulance has disappeared around the corner, his eyes strangely vacant, his hands and shirt covered in blood. “Sherlock!” Mycroft gasps, relief and dread threatening to overtake him at once, “What happened?”
Sherlock doesn’t even look at Mycroft, his eyes fixed toward the fading sound of the sirens. “It’s over,” Sherlock finally responds. It is little more than a whisper. “It’s over.”
Mycroft is stunned. What does Sherlock mean? Surely not...
Mycroft’s gaze follows his younger brother’s, piecing together the puzzle and not willing to believe the picture that is forming. This isn’t right. “Why aren’t you riding with him? They had orders to allow that.”
Sherlock’s voice is still distant, dazed. “I was. I was with him, but he...stopped breathing. They said I was in the way.”
Mycroft is at a rare loss for words. “Sherlock, I...”
Sherlock whirls toward him as if only just realizing who is beside him. “Where were you?” he snarls. “Where the hell were you?”
“They arrived nine minutes after you called me. I was here in eleven. Do you have any idea how improbable that sort of response time is? Especially when one is sending ‘everything’?” Mycroft says this calmly, more than familiar with being on the wrong end of Sherlock’s ire.
“Of course I do,” Sherlock hisses. He looks back toward the ambulance’s wake. His voice is softer but contains no less fire as he says, “If he dies alone I will never forgive you.”
“Of course not,” Mycroft replies. “Although we both know it won’t be me who requires it.” He turns away, toward his car. “Come. We will meet them there.”
He starts walking to the black sedan trusting that Sherlock will follow. His mobile rings and he knows before his confirming glance at the caller identification who it will be.
“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft says. “I’m sure you are curious about the commotion at Ferrier Estate.”
“Yeah, a bit,” Lestrade says on the other end. “What the hell is going on over there?”
“I apologize. There wasn’t time for a courtesy call. It will all be handled, Inspector,” Mycroft tells him coolly.
“What will be handled? You’ve got a bloody helicopter over there!”
“Yes, I’m aware.”
“It’s Sherlock, isn’t it? What’s happened now?” Lestrade manages to sound both annoyed and worried in equal measure.
“Yes, it was,” Mycroft confirms. Mycroft quickly looks over his shoulder at Sherlock, who is following but appears to be listening to an animated conversation in his own head, one where he disagrees with all of the speakers. He’s shaking his head side to side in quick jerks. Mycroft is normally embarrassed when his brother behaves like a lunatic, but tonight he only feels concern.
They arrive at the car and Mycroft opens the rear door for Sherlock, who gets in without protest. Mycroft shuts the door and realizes he hasn’t been listening to what Lestrade has been saying. He stands at the boot of the sedan and says, “I’m sorry, Inspector?”
“Tell me what’s happened! Are they all right?”
“Not exactly. No. It’s gotten rather complicated.” Which is the only way Mycroft can think to phrase John is dying, and I might be losing my brother before my very eyes. Again.
Lestrade is silent on his end for a long beat. Then, “What can I do?”
“Thank you, there’s nothing you can-” Mycroft pauses, looking at the slumped shoulders of his brother’s silhouette through the car window.
Mycroft takes a deep breath. He’s never been skilled in this area.
He turns away from the car, watching as his tiny, efficient army swarms the abandoned council houses and grounds, maps the scene, photographs the blood spatter, collects the samples, bags the body.
He takes another breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Actually, Greg,” Mycroft says quietly, “It would be good if you could meet us at the hospital.”