For John Watson

[howdull]

[Sherlock is still finding pieces of the melted laptop in the carpet.

It had actually been quite an ingenious booby trap to be devised by a fourteen year old boy with only household chemicals to work with but, as Sherlock surmised, rather overkill to keep his mother from finding his extensive porn collection. Not one of their more illustrious cases, but it had been quite entertaining to watch both the boy and mother's faces as he revealed that he did know the how and why. He lost interest after the mother started shouting and John started shouting and the whole thing turned tedious.

He rather thinks John won't actually be doing a full write-up of this one on his blog.

It's been two days since their last case and he's beginning to get more than a little antsy. Lestrade has sent him nothing, just a boring hit and run that he refused to even leave the flat for, and nobody interesting has appeared through the blog. Said blog he is currently scrolling through on John's laptop, having borrowed it again.

He did ask, it's not his fault John hadn't been in the room at the time.]

Bored, John.

[He doesn't even know if his flatmate is even in, but that's hardly a necessity for him to actually speak to John. Frustrated, he throws the laptop across the room to hit the wall, where it summarily breaks. Which is where he can be found whenever John appears, sulking amidst pieces of laptop, both from the melted one of their last case and John's poor broken one.]

Comments

[jumpthegun]

[John knows this is standard procedure, but he has other things to be doing.]

I fell down the stairs at home.

[He raises an arm, wincing, and lets his finger hover over the points that feel the most pain. He honestly doesn't know which ones are broken. Sherlock might have gotten a look at his chart, but John had been more keen to escape.]

I'm a doctor. Really, I understand this is your job, but I know what I'm talking about when I say it'll be fine, son.

[howdull]

[The paramedic didn't exactly appreciate being called son, but he had been called worse things in the duration of his career. So he just smiled a tight, polite smile and gestured to John's shirt.]

If you can slip your shirt off then I'll have a quick look, make sure everything is still ticking along. I'm sure it is, you being a doctor and all, but I'm sure you appreciate that I have to check.

[Doctors always were the worst patients.]

While you're doing that, why don't you tell me your name and date of birth?

[jumpthegun]

[Bloody hell. John smiles back, blinking a few times. He unbuttons the front of his shirt, but doesn't take it off.]

Mycroft Holmes, 1st of April, 1966.

[howdull]

April Fool baby, hm, Dr. Holmes?

[The words are half distracted as his main attention is taken by the discoloured bruising on his patient's torso. Frowning, he gently moves to tug the shirt the rest of the way off.]

Looks pretty nasty, any trouble breathing? Any nausea or dizziness?

[jumpthegun]

Well, I've been called a fool.

[One who is hanging onto his shirt. There is nausea and dizziness from the pain.]

Nothing like that, no. I'm a bit cold, if you wouldn't mind just checking over the shirt. Lost my coat.

[howdull]

Don't you worry, Dr Holmes, this ambulance is well heated you'll be fine for a few minutes without a shirt and I promise to give it right back.

[He isn't an idiot and he wants to get a proper look because he's pretty sure Mycroft is hiding something from him.]

I'm going to have to ask you to take it off for me.

[jumpthegun]

I'm going to have to refuse, Mister...?

[howdull]

Thomas Miobi, Doctor. And why do you feel like you have to refuse?

[jumpthegun]

[Because.]

I have an embarrassing tattoo. Really don't like people seeing it. Be a mate.

[He's clearly lying at this point and isn't even going to bother to put together something reasonable-sounding.]

[howdull]

[Yeah, no. He looks a little more stern.]

If I feel like you might be endangering your own health, you know that I'm entitled to have you detained for 72 hours under the mental health act.

[Usually used for suicide risks, but was sometimes used to help treat patients who otherwise would refuse to their own detriment like drunks or addicts.]

[jumpthegun]

[Goddamn it. John glares at Thomas for a long moment before grimacing and removing his shirt the rest of the way.]

There was an explosion at my flat. I've got burns. They've already been treated for.

[Sort of. He was in a hospital for a given period of time.]

[howdull]

An explosion and a shooting? Sounds like a rough time, but you can tell the police about it when we get to the hospital. But for now those burns look angry and I don't like the look of those ribs, I'm going to give you something for your pain and then do a proper examination.

[He gathered up a small bottle and syringe from one of the many drawers in the sides of the ambulance.]

Do you have any allergies, Dr. Holmes?

[jumpthegun]

Most sedatives.

[Now he's just being difficult, but he's eyeing that syringe in a way that clearly indicates the mutinous thoughts running through his head. If he weren't in pain, as is, he thinks he could probably take the EMT down. But as things stand...]

[howdull]

That's not possible considering the wide variety of ingredients, so why don't you try again with an honest answer?

[jumpthegun]

The world of medicine is wide and varied for allergies. [John raises his brows defiantly, in spite of feeling wretched and... sort of wanting the drug. He holds that for a moment before sighing in irritation.]

I don't have any allergies.

[howdull]

[Why couldn't he have been working on the gunshot victim? At least he was unconscious. Thomas sighs and preps the needle before taking his patient's arm.]

You're going to feel a sharp scratch in a moment.

[He doesn't wait much beyond that, getting the morphine into him. With any luck it'll knock him out.]

[jumpthegun]

[The comforting numbness of narcotics flood through him fairly quickly.]

I need to call the police. Mind if I do that now?

[Except what was the dosage on that? John's brows knit together as he feels his head swimming more with induced dizziness than what was there from the pain.]

Bloody hell. I need... the Alphabet Woman is still out there! I have to call... Lestrade. She has Sherlock.

[He shakes his head, but it's like trying to swim against the current in a river. John just doesn't have the energy for it anymore. He slips into unconsciousness.]

[howdull]

[Atta boy, sleep now.

Thomas doesn't usually like drugging his patients without their consent, but sometimes it's necessary and this is definitely one of those times. He gets his patient readmitted as soon as they get to the hospital, his partners taking Jake up to surgery, and he's processed to a high priority ward due to the state he's in.

Whenever he finally wakes up it will be to the comforting buzz of morphine, fresh sheets, and Lestrade looking tired while reading a stack of case files.]

[jumpthegun]

Mm... [John blinks himself awake to see Lestrade sitting there. Well, that's... convenient. If embarrassing.] What time is it? We don't have much time.

[howdull]

[His head snaps up.]

Jesus, John. You told me they discharged you before, you bloody idiot. You've been out about thirty hours, they kept you sedated to give your back a chance to heal up a little.

[jumpthegun]

Thirty... Jesus Christ! [John's eyes widen and he starts to push himself up.] The clue. She was sending the clue by post... Jake...

My phone. I need my phone.

[Thirty hours is far too long. He's going to murder that EMT.]

[howdull]

Oi, don't do this. Stay there and tell me from the start what's going on, this isn't the time for you and Sherlock to be hiding the pieces from me.

[He can help, but only if someone tells him what the hell is going on.]

[jumpthegun]

[John runs and hand through his hair, but settles for a moment. Lestrade is the one with the most resources next to Mycroft, and John's sort of burned that bridge.]

The woman who killed Harry, who blew up the flat, she kidnapped Sherlock yesterday. The day before yesterday. The day it all happened. She's using alphabet letters as her call sign for destroying my life. A is for Alcoholic. B is for Baker Street. C is for Consulting Detective. She wants to take everything from me because I apparently ruined her life.

I'd never met her until the other day. I think... she must be the wife of one of my men over in Afghanistan. Somerset accent, but rough. Not sure she if she went to college. She's good with technology, though. Or knows people who are. She was able to hack the CCTV footage covering Baker Street and fill in with an episode of EastEnders when it would've shown her there.

I was meant to meet her at the Starbucks on Oxford Street the other day and didn't have any way to get there in time from where Sherlock's brother drove me out to. Convinced a kid - Jake. There was a kid who came in with me. Is he all right? She shot him through the stomach and told me I had 11 minutes and 15 seconds to sort him out.

He wasn't supposed to be involved, he was just going to drop me off. I don't even know how she's... she must be tracking my phone. She's hacked it somehow.

[howdull]

[It's one of the benefits and pitfalls of working with Sherlock Holmes that Lestrade doesn't even question if this far-fetched story is at all true. He just curses under his breath when he hears Sherlock has been taken, this has just become a much higher priority. The man might be a colossal dick, but Lestrade has become somehow fond of him in the time they've been working together.

Right, so Harry is dead, they know that, he's been processing that scene. Similar to the bombing at Baker Street, but how it all fits together is new to him. He rubs a hand over his face and then squares his shoulders, getting ready to deal with all of it.]

If I send a sketch artist over, you think you could describe her well enough to get an E-Fit to send out? We've got the bullet from your driver friend and we're processing that now, and the car has been impounded for evidence. We'll collect your phone, send someone over to wherever you were staying to look for any post, and work this together. We're not going to let some psycho hurt Sherlock, alright?

[He gets to his feet and gathers up a pad and pen.]

Before the artist gets here, you think you could make a list of any men that you might not have-- well, saved, who had a spouse back home that you can remember?

[jumpthegun]

I need my phone. I can't stay here. I can do the list and your sketch, but then I've got to go.

[He can practically feel the minutes ticking away while he's lying abed in another bloody hospital gown. It occurs that Lestrade hasn't answered his other question.]

And what happened to Jake? Is he alive?