Tyger, Tyger: Chapter Two
Title: Nine Little Words
Fandom: BBC/Sherlock
Wordcount: 576
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sherlock, John, Ensemble
Pairing(s): Eventual Sherlock/John and Lestrade/Mycroft
Genre: Angst, H/C, Mystery
Warning(s): Spoilers for TGG, violence, language
Disclaimer: I do not own the Sherlock Holmes characters in this incarnation or any other.
Summary: Moriarty is down but not out. Now Sherlock's friends and family must gather together to play an even more sadistic and twisted game against a deadly predator.
A/N: For some reason, the Harry voice in my head sounds suspiciously like a young Jackie Tyler
***
Gregory Lestrade had been on the job for a long time, and had seen a lot of things. He had faced off against a mad bomber holding a tour bus full of small children hostage. He’d been dangled over the side of a 10 story building by a would-be cat-burglar. He had taken on a katana-wielding psychopath armed with nothing but a wooden board. He’d overseen cases involving everything from axe-murderers to occult rituals.
But nothing was quite as terrifying as the nine words that appeared on that little screen.
Welcome to Round Two. This time, everyone can play.
“You!” He shouted at the nurse. “Who dropped this off? Did you see him?”
“What is it?” she asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Did you seen him?” He demanded again.
“No,” she said, wringing her hands nervously. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t really paying attention, I‘ve been working odd hours all week. He was wearing a grey hooded jacket, that’s all I can remember. I’m sorry.”
“Right, what’s your name?”
“K-Kathy.”
“Kathy, I need you to stay here for a moment. Donovan, get a statement.”
“And where are you going?” the Sergeant asked.
“To have a little chat with our friend downstairs.”
“I’m coming with you,” John said.
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
Something in John’s face told Lestrade that arguing would be useless, and that nothing short of a sedative and restraints would keep the doctor in bed.
“John? What’s all the shouting about?” John’s sister came running in, a doctor hot on her heels.
“Later Harry,” John carefully began to haul himself upright. Nurse Kathy and the doctor tried to stop him, but he simply shrugged them off.
“Just what do you think you’re doing? Get back in bed!” Harry yelled. “You just got blown up you stupid git!”
“Not now Harry.”
“Goddamnit John wi-”
“HARRY!”
The two siblings glared at each other in silence.
“I’m a doctor,” he insisted, “I know what I’m doing. My injuries aren’t serious. Now would someone mind getting me some bloody pants?”
Finally, the doctor acquiesced and disconnected John from his IV, complaining about his fellow practitioners and what sort of patients they made the whole time.
The two of them probably made for a rather comic image as they strode determinedly down the hallway. John in scrubs and a bathrobe, gauze wrapped around his head and covered in bruises and scratches, and Lestrade with his hair sticking everywhere and rumpled suit that he’d worn for two days straight, and both still covered in soot and dirt from the explosion site. Any other day, he might have laughed, but not today.
Lestrade jammed his finger impatiently on the elevator button, bloody thing seemed to be taking forever.
When the doors finally did open, he rushed in without looking, only to bounce off a rather solid chest. He glanced up in surprise to find a very tall (taller than Sherlock even, how often did that happen?) and strangely familiar looking man in a very expensive suit glaring down his nose at him.
He opened his mouth to (apologize? Tell the man to move? He wasn’t really sure) but John beat him to it.
“Mycroft! Where the hell have you been?”
“Doctor Watson,” the man said, “I see you have come out of this relatively unscathed. Now if you don’t mind, could you please tell me just what exactly has happened to my brother?”
Brother? Who’s… Oh hell.
There were two of them.