I Won't Leave You- A Sherlock Fanfiction

Chapter Three- And So It Begins

        Sherlock watched the ambulance drive away, then turned to the street. He waited in the rain for a cab to drive by.
        It wasn't long before one came. He climbed in for the third time that day. "Bart's Hospital."
        The cabbie nodded and the cab pulled away from the road. Sherlock tapped his fingers impatiently on top of his knee, wishing the cabbie would hurry up and drive faster. John could have been dying right then, and the darned cabbie was driving 30 kph. He considered jumping out and running, but even the slow cab was probably faster than that.
        Finally, the cab reached the hospital. Sherlock tossed the cabbie his money hurriedly, not bothering to take his change. He ran across the hospital's parking lot, splashing through puddles, until he reached the doors.
        He pushed the doors open, emerging into the main lobby. He crossed the room to the receptionist's desk.
        The receptionist looked up. "How may I help you?"
        "Do you know where John Watson is?"
        The receptionist checked her computer. "He's about to go into surgery. You can't see him right now."
        Sherlock stared intently, not blinking. "Surgery? Why?"
        "His lung was punctured slightly. They have to go in and fix it."
        Sherlock swore. "I wanted to talk to him. When will he be ready to see visitors?"
        "Tomorrow afternoon. He'll need some rest after the surgery."
        Sherlock nodded slowly, steepling his fingers in front of his face. He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a few moments. "Fine. Fine. I'll go home." He turned around abruptly and exited the hospital.
        The rain had gotten even worse. The wind whipped through the trees, making them dance. Sherlock's trench coat was flapping around him. It wasn't much help against the rain, which soaked him through. He didn't care, though. He no longer cared about anything. Except John.
        Sherlock looked inside his wallet. He had given the last of his money to the cab driver who had dropped him off at the hospital. Jamming his wallet back into his pocket in frustration, he began walking towards Baker Street.
        He could barely see through the torrent of rain, but he knew London like the back of his hand. He knew every turn, and had confidence that he wouldn't get lost. He wished he didn't have that confidence. Getting lost could be interesting. Having to force yourself to think something knew, having to convince yourself that you could get out of the situation while living with the fear that you might not. It sounded a bit like a case. The corner of his mouth quirked upward slightly.
        It fell as quickly as it went up. How could he smile, knowing John was injured? What was really frustrating was that he had a case, but no means of investigating it. He needed to hear what John had to say. Did he see the attacker? Were there any strange sounds? Voices? Was it more than one person? He wouldn't know until he could speak with John. He kicked a signpost in agitation. He had to wait. "I hate waiting," he whispered under his breath. In his mind, he heard, Too bad. You'll just have to wait like the rest of us. "Shut up, John." Realizing he was talking to no one, he continued walking towards 221B Baker Street.
        It was a long time before he reached the flat. He pushed open the door and entered the hallway inside. He hung his coat up by the door and ran a hand through his drenched hair. There was already a puddle of water on the floor. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be pleased.
        Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock realized that she might know something about what happened to John. Surely she would have heard something?
        "Mrs. Hudson!" he shouted. "Are you home?"
        There was the sound of footsteps, and she emerged out of her flat. "Yes, dear?" She looked around. "Where's John? He's always following you everywhere," she commented.
        "He's at the hospital. He's been stabbed."
        "Stabbed! What happened?"
        "I was hoping that you knew." Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his face again, letting out a long breath. "Were you home about an hour and a half ago?"
        "No, dear. I just got back a few minutes ago."
        Sherlock sighed again. Without another word, he bounded up the stairs to the flat he shared with John, leaving a worried-looking Mrs. Hudson at the foot of the steps. He opened the door and walked into the flat.
       The couch was still covered in John's blood. It was everywhere: on the floor, on the wall(?), there was even some in the kitchen from where Sherlock had touched the oven dial with his bloody hands. He turned back to the wall. How could the blood get on the wall? Looking closer, he could tell that it was a handprint smeared in both directions. John's hand, or someone else's? It was too smeared to be able to tell the exact size.
        It suddenly occurred to him that he hadn't called the police. He fumbled for his phone with wet fingers. Hoping the rain hadn't seeped into its casing, he turned it on. Its screen lit up without a problem. Good. He sent a text to Lestrade.

John's been stabbed. -SH

It was barely a moment before he got a reply.

What?!? When? Is he ok? -GL

Stabbed. At Baker Street. This afternoon. He's in the hospital. -SH

Then why are you texting me? -GL

I thought you'd want to check out the crime scene. -SH

On my way. -GH

It took Lestrade less than five minutes to arrive. Sherlock let him in, opening the door into the flat. He pointed at the couch. "That's where John was when I came home."
      "I can tell." Lestrade moved closer to the couch, kneeling down to inspect it. "Did John see the attacker, d'you know?"
        "I don't know. The question wasn't exactly the first thing on my mind."
        "Hmm." Lestrade looked at the blood on the wall. "Well, this is obviously a handprint."
        "Obviously."
        Lestrade looked at him. "You can probably tell more from this than I can. Why did you want me to come? It's not as if I'm a genius that can deduce anything just from looking at it. That's you, by the way."
        Sherlock sighed. "Just wondering. Maybe you could pick something up that I couldn't."
        Lestrade face turned incredulous. "Who are you kidding?"
        Sherlock put his face in his hands. "I really need John." He sniffed softly, looking away.
        Lestrade took a step closer to him. "Hey, it's okay. He'll be fine soon, I'm sure. Those people at the hospital know what they're doing. You can probably see him tomorrow."
        Sherlock inhaled and exhaled slowly to regain control of his emotions. "You're right. Thanks, Gavin."
        "It's Greg," came the automatic response. There was a moment of silence, then both men started laughing.
        "Sorry, Gavin!"
        "It's Greg!" The laughter mounted, and Lestrade had to sit down on the floor.
        The laughter died slowly. Lestrade stood, then looked at Sherlock. "No, really. When will you ever get my name right? Do you honestly forget, or do you do it on purpose?"
        "I'm not even sure anymore. I honestly keep thinking your name is Gavin."
        Lestrade snorted. "Maybe you should just call me Inspector. That would simplify things."
        "Perhaps." The two men stared in silence at the bloody couch, humor forgotten.
        "I honestly don't know what to make of it." Lestrade broke the silence.
        "Nor do I. Why would someone stab John?" Innocent, sweet John?
        "Maybe they're trying to get at you."
        "Why wouldn't they just kill him, then? That would hurt a lot worse."
        "Letting you know they have the ability to do so if they wished? Don't ask me. You're the genius."
        "Hmm." Sherlock walked into the kitchen, inspecting the window. Closed. Undamaged. "They must've come in through the front door. There are no other entrances other than the windows, which are undamaged and haven't been opened recently."
        "John must've left the door unlocked. Question: how did the attacker know that Mrs. Hudson was out? Were they watching to see if she left?"
        "Possibly. It may have been a random guess, but that seems unlikely. This attacker has some sort of plan, I'm sure of it." Sherlock continued searching every inch of the room. He took his magnifying glass off of the table and scanned the ground for footprints. "Ah," he whispered. "Get Anderson."
        "What? Did you find something?"
        Sherlock stood. "Footprints." He grinned.

~~~~~~~~Time Skip Brought to You by the Three-Patch Problem~~~~~~~~~
        
        Fifteen minutes later, and the most irritating of the police crew was standing in the living room with Lestrade and Sherlock.
        "What is it?" he asked, entering the room. "I've got places to be."
        Sherlock shook his head. "Mmm, no, you don't. You have popcorn in your teeth, which suggests you were watching a movie. I know you were at home while doing so because your tie is not on correctly, your belt is not in the usual hole, and one of your shoes is untied. You got dressed in a hurry, so you weren't with anyone of importance, ie., a girlfriend. You would have been wearing something nicer in their presence. So, no, you do not have places to be."
        Anderson sighed in exasperation. "Alright, waddyou need me for?"
        Lestrade shook his head. "You're not very observant for a defender of the law."
        "Waddyou mean?"
        Lestrade gestured towards the blood all over the room.
        "Oh."
        Sherlock rejoined the conversation. "As much as it pains me to say it, I need your help."
~~~~~~~~~~~Author's Note~~~~~~~~~~
Sorry that I totally just ended that on a cliffhanger. Hope you guys liked it! I'd also like to apologize for not explaining everything yet. You'll get some explanations hopefully in the next chapter! I do know what they are, in case you're wondering. There was just no place to put them in this chappie.