Title: What Nobody Sees
Summary: Hostage situation. Boring right? Not when your flat mate is the hostage.
Warnings: I know very little about the British Society and wording, so you'll forgive me if I'm just another ignorant American too poor to visit the actual place this story is going on in and can only Google places, buildings and procedures.
Author Note: Uh oh… Wah found a new Fandom, by way of accident really. I blame my college friends and a lot of free time. I like John Watson and my friend and I were greatly annoyed to find that the BBC TV show made him kind of… dumb. So, in this story I'm giving Mr. Watson balls of steel and a medical mind. Don't really know where I'm going with this one, but if you'd like you may hang on for the ride.
The chime of a phone pulls his attention away from his experiment, eyes narrowing a fraction at the sound before a sigh of exasperation accompanies an eye roll. It wouldn't take a genius to notice that the great Sherlock Holmes the world's only consulting detective is annoyed with the interruption. Within the span of a second the chime goes off again, signaling two texts waiting. Cursing to himself the detective stands and rips the rubber gloves off before digging through his coat's pocket and flipping open the phone. Activating the messages Sherlock rolls his eyes as Lestrade's number scrolls across.
Bank robbery in progress, come quickly. Followed by the second message belaying the address of the robbery, the DI having thought an in progress robbery enough to entice him to leave his current experiment. With nimble efficiency the detective shoots the DI back another message hoping briefly that he will be able to make his disinterest evident.
Boring, even you should be able to figure out why a man would want to rob a bank. No one is dead or dying.
With a satisfied smirk the young man places the phone on the table and spins on his heel, grabbing two new gloves. He's about to pull on the fresh set and return to his experiment when the sleek black phone chimes again, the vibration setting the liquid in the beakers quivering. With an exasperated snarl Sherlock flips open the phone and activate the message, ready to give Lestrade a electronic tongue lashing when his eyes widen at the body of the DI's last message.
John Watson is inside, the robber is keeping hostages
The phone is closed with a metallic click and Sherlock is moving in quickly, donning his jacket and scarf. Mind whirling with thoughts of his flat mate and the reasons behind a person taking hostages in a bank while he races down the steps, his heavy steps causing Mrs. Hudson to question his running about.
"I will be back late Mrs. Hudson!" he shouts and practically leaps out the door only to throw it back open, his words echoing in the small apartment.
"And don't watch the news!" he shouts before slamming the door behind him. Out on the street the detective hails a cab, bribing the driver with a generous tip is he can get him to the address as quickly as possible. Thoughts whirl around in his mind as he struggles to pick out the key facts, any reasons why his flat mate would be in such a situation.
He gasps, fingers coming together in front of his chin.
Today was the third of the month.
John's pension check had arrived. That's why he was at the bank and currently stuck in the middle of a robbery.
John Watson wasn't having a good day. When he arrived home an hour before the flat was in a mess, neglected due to a case and John's own work schedule. Sherlock was nowhere to be found and there was a half a gallon of curdled milk in the fridge and no tea bags. The post had arrived earlier and was strewn across the kitchen table, including his military pension check, the only good thing to happen to him. Having made a list and signed the back of his check the former soldier quickly left the apartment, heading for the bank he usually used. Once inside he had to hold back a groan at the line, one made up of elderly social security pensioners and grumbling shop owners trying to cash in their daily haul.
And the gun waving, screaming mad man isn't making it any better.
The bank floor is cold, the chill already seeping through his jacket and into his bad shoulder making the already compromised joint ache terribly. Around him the other unfortunate patrons are a mess. An elderly husband clutches onto his wife, his thin frame trying to protect hers as the robber walks amongst his victims, his eyes hard behind the thick lenses. John scans the other people, his medical eye taking over as he watches the reactions of those around him.
The overweight middle aged man is breathing heavily, his bulk making it difficult for his lungs to expand.
The elderly woman with the oxygen container is shaking uncontrollably, her breathing uneven and hoarse, and her husband hovering anxiously beside her.
The woman trying to silence her baby in the corner, tears streaking down her face in long trails as the infant wails, picking up on her distress.
John could go on like this for hours, watching the other patrons, cataloging their medical issues into where they would each fall on an importance scale. He may not be as quick as his flat mate or have the uncanny ability to pick out the tiniest details and draw outrageous conclusions from them, but he knows his job and knows how fragile the human body is when pressed into a stressful situation.
"Edith?" one of the elderly men croak, his words frantic as his wife with the oxygen canister slumps over, her mouth gaping like a fish as she struggles to breath. John tenses, his eyes shooting back to where the gun man is ranting, the gun held in trembling hands.
"Edith! My god, somebody…" he trails off, his liver spotted hands gripping the woman's thin shoulders. John pushes himself up off the floor, knowing he's just drawn the attention of the mad man but not caring as he drops down in front of the elderly man and his wife.
"It's alright, I'm a doctor." He tries to reassure the older man and turns to assess the woman's condition. His fingers gently roll up a cuff on her sweater and he begins to mentally count off, focus solely on his patient.
"I said on the floor!" The gun man screams, his shadow falling over the elderly woman and John. John glares at the man from over his shoulder, restraining a snort at the sight of the weapon. It's not the first time John's had a gun pointed at him, not the first time he's performed a life saving procedure within the cross hairs of a gun that could kill him. It's not the first time he's faced death down while doing his job and he'll be damned if some unstable lunatic will keep him from doing his job now.
"It's alright, just need to increase her oxygen; the stress of the situation is causing her to need more air that's all. Hold onto her hand and talk to her, keep her calm." John tells the elderly man clutching his wife's hand, turning to the canister and adjusting the valve. The gun man snarls and kicks out with a booted foot, catching the former military surgeon on his bad shoulder. John gives a snarling cry and slumps to the floor, his body trembling not just from pain but anger.
"You're a big man, kicking people around with a gun in your hand… scaring old ladies." He snarls, tone even with the undertones of annoyance and anger. Something flashes in the gun man's eyes and he opens his mouth, spittle flying out as he waves the gun menacingly.
"You've got a smart mouth, but I can do something about it." Within a second the gun is pointed towards the elderly woman and her husband, the older man throwing his thin body in front of his wife, his jaw tight but eyes wide.
It's a tense moment, none of them moving.
Only the cries of the baby and quiet sobbing of the other hostages.
Then John's phone goes off in his pocket.
Author Note: Hmm.. keep going? Scrap it? Review and let me know. Have a good day and thanks for reading!