It was seven AM when Sherlock awoke again, not peacefully as he had the previous night but this time with a violent start and audible choking gasps. John moved to the couch beside him to lay a soothing hand on his forehead, “It’s alright, relax, it’s normal; it will take a while for your nervous system to settle down after the overdose. You can expect something similar to PTSD for a short while, but it won’t last.”
The soothing hand was batted away in annoyance. “And…what about you...doctor?” Sherlock demanded between gasps, “Your PTSD? How long will…it last…untreated as it is?” he bit out the accusation between dragging in lungful’s of air and glaring at John.
“Never mind what I might have, Sherlock, you’re the patient here! Now, start breathing from your abdomen, not your mouth and you’ll feel a lot better!” John pressed firmly on Sherlock’s belly to force him to start breathing properly.
It was in the midst of this slight scuffle that there was a soft knock on the door and a voice that sounded like the cook’s from the kitchen called a cheerful, “G’morning to you. Ere’s your breakfast.”
“What is it with you and food?!” Sherlock looked at John and exclaimed irritably. “I suffered a drug overdose! Not starvation!”
“I didn’t order food! Put your head down and don’t move!”
Even as he growled this order, John turned to the door and reached to pull an automatic pistol from behind his back. Glancing to ensure Sherlock had obeyed and was motionless and low on the couch cushions, he moved to position himself close along one side of the hall before the door and called, “Hang on, hang on! I’m coming.” He then darted silently across the hall to wedge in adjacent to the handle side of the closed door. He reached carefully to turn the door handle; touching it with a slight rattle and as he did so, without notice, two gun shots were fired through the door, at man height, and it was shoved violently open.
John was ready with his pistol. In one practised motion he brought the barrel down against their attacker’s temple as he pushed through the doorway, and pulled the trigger. The man was dead before he hit the ground. Without hesitation, John stepped over the body to glance quickly into the outside hallway. Seeing no one, he withdrew again and bent to drag the body of the man he’d just shot, into the room and close the door.
He bent to look at his victim briefly. “Not QAT, not one of the other two either. An independent.”
For the first time since the incident began he looked at Sherlock and said, “I’m sorry but we can’t stay here now, we have to leave immediately. They never work alone; where there’s one, there’s always more.”
Sherlock didn’t respond. He was staring a John with an oddly perplexed expression pulling at his face. It was as though his facial muscles were so unused to forming themselves into that particular expression that they didn’t know how to do it and had commenced fighting with one another over it.
“What? Are you hurt? What?” John questioned.
Sherlock roused himself and stammered awkwardly, “Ah, no…I’m fine, I’m fine…ah…and you...er...? Are you alright?”
“John. John Watson. Yes, of course. I’m sorry you had to witness that. I didn’t think…I’m sorry.” It was John’s turn to sound awkward.
Startled, Sherlock answered, “No! No, you mistake me John, it’s…it’s fine. You saved my life…ah…thank you.”
John gave a bitter laugh. “No, Sherlock, I’ve risked your life. Risked it terribly... So don’t thank me, please!”
He replaced his pistol at his back. "Now, we must get out of here."
Fill: Apprehension 11
The soothing hand was batted away in annoyance. “And…what about you...doctor?” Sherlock demanded between gasps, “Your PTSD? How long will…it last…untreated as it is?” he bit out the accusation between dragging in lungful’s of air and glaring at John.
“Never mind what I might have, Sherlock, you’re the patient here! Now, start breathing from your abdomen, not your mouth and you’ll feel a lot better!” John pressed firmly on Sherlock’s belly to force him to start breathing properly.
It was in the midst of this slight scuffle that there was a soft knock on the door and a voice that sounded like the cook’s from the kitchen called a cheerful, “G’morning to you. Ere’s your breakfast.”
“What is it with you and food?!” Sherlock looked at John and exclaimed irritably. “I suffered a drug overdose! Not starvation!”
“I didn’t order food! Put your head down and don’t move!”
Even as he growled this order, John turned to the door and reached to pull an automatic pistol from behind his back. Glancing to ensure Sherlock had obeyed and was motionless and low on the couch cushions, he moved to position himself close along one side of the hall before the door and called, “Hang on, hang on! I’m coming.” He then darted silently across the hall to wedge in adjacent to the handle side of the closed door. He reached carefully to turn the door handle; touching it with a slight rattle and as he did so, without notice, two gun shots were fired through the door, at man height, and it was shoved violently open.
John was ready with his pistol. In one practised motion he brought the barrel down against their attacker’s temple as he pushed through the doorway, and pulled the trigger. The man was dead before he hit the ground. Without hesitation, John stepped over the body to glance quickly into the outside hallway. Seeing no one, he withdrew again and bent to drag the body of the man he’d just shot, into the room and close the door.
He bent to look at his victim briefly. “Not QAT, not one of the other two either. An independent.”
For the first time since the incident began he looked at Sherlock and said, “I’m sorry but we can’t stay here now, we have to leave immediately. They never work alone; where there’s one, there’s always more.”
Sherlock didn’t respond. He was staring a John with an oddly perplexed expression pulling at his face. It was as though his facial muscles were so unused to forming themselves into that particular expression that they didn’t know how to do it and had commenced fighting with one another over it.
“What? Are you hurt? What?” John questioned.
Sherlock roused himself and stammered awkwardly, “Ah, no…I’m fine, I’m fine…ah…and you...er...? Are you alright?”
“John. John Watson. Yes, of course. I’m sorry you had to witness that. I didn’t think…I’m sorry.” It was John’s turn to sound awkward.
Startled, Sherlock answered, “No! No, you mistake me John, it’s…it’s fine. You saved my life…ah…thank you.”
John gave a bitter laugh. “No, Sherlock, I’ve risked your life. Risked it terribly... So don’t thank me, please!”
He replaced his pistol at his back. "Now, we must get out of here."