SHERLOCK I, II, III & IV • #wattys2016

United

John pulled Sherlock to his feet. “You’re not blind, all right? We’ve just got to get you to the hospital before it has its affect.” Bearing Sherlock’s weight against his smaller frame, John stumbled out of the club. The surrounding inspectors aided him, asking him how they could help.

“Can’t leave the cycles here,” Sherlock panted. He winced at the burning sensation eating through the flesh outlining his watering eyes. “If they come back, they’ve got evidence. Take them back to the lot, John, I’ll be all right.”

Before the two could talk any further, a paramedic team broke them apart. “Please, step back, sir.” One medic ordered John as they helped Sherlock into the back of the ambulance.

“Wait, here, I’m his friend. Please, phone me with the hospital address.” John handed the medic his phone number. “Please, phone me.”

“We will, sir, thank you.” The medic rushed off and jumped into the driver’s seat. The wailer was flipped on and the large white and orange van zoomed out of sight.

Breathing in strenuous gasps, John planted his hands on his knees and bent over. His heart pulsed faster than he could breathe and it wasn’t long before he had to take a seat on the pavement. Making a fist with his hand, he pressed it against his burning chest and squinted.

“You all right, sir?” an inspector asked, placing a soft hand on John’s shoulder.

“I’m good, thank you. I’m just—catching my breath.” John exhaled and found it easier to breathe. “Wait, um, sir?”

The inspector stopped from removing his protective gear and gave John a listening ear. “Yes?”

“Did you find anything in that room?”

“Only blood smears from the floor, sir.”

John drew his brows together and looked up at the sky. Only? Did that mean that the killers were good at cleaning up their crime scene? John remembered waking up from being knocked on the back of the head and finding a barely conscious Alana clawing at his hands. How could there just be blood smears? What about the obvious? Fingerprints. What about markings left on doorways and the walls? There had to be more evidence than what had just been shared with him.

For the following half hour, John phoned a tow-truck to take Sherlock’s motorcycle back the lot while he rode his hotel. It was a quiet ride back to the hotel; John enjoyed every bit of it.  With the warm air kissing his cheeks and the smooth pavement gliding beneath the motorcycle’s wheels made the evening quite romantic. It was a moment where John wished he had Alana.

It wasn’t long before he turned into the parking lot, parked the bike, and strolled into the hotel. The air conditioners blasted his face, flipping the little bit of brown hair he had. John widened his eyes and smoothed the back of his hair, a bit irritated at the unexpected cold air. Glancing at his watch, he wondered if he should phone Sherlock, or wait for the hospital to call him first. Lost in thought, he swiped his card, opened his door, and was greeted by a hand over his mouth and an arm hooked around his throat.

He was pushed to the ground and a hissing whisper resounded in his ear. “Don’t move. Close the door.”

John held back the smile – he knew who it was – and kicked the door shut. When he heard the lock click, he twisted from the arms and his hands found the soft, round face. “Are you all right? Alana, how did you get out? You got shot?”

His wife placed her hands on top of his and through stifled sobs, she replied, “Oh, John, their place! It was frightening! They…they—,”

John held her shivering face still and said through a jaw so tight, he was sure to break it, “Did they hurt you? What did they do?”

“I don’t know!” Alana shouted before crumpling into John’s arms.