Chapter 5

There was no response, and they kept searching, paying particular attention to the boundaries of the greenbelt, on the lookout for anything that might indicate their quarry had left the area. If had wandered beyond the copse, he could be anywhere by now. Lestrade's mind flashed back to a scene from that American movie with Tommy Lee Jones and Harrison Ford that his ex-wife had loved so much – average foot-speed over uneven ground barring injury is four miles an hour. So, not anywhere then, but far enough to make finding him a major undertaking. They needed more people… and better weather, damn it.

"You really think he's hiding in here somewhere," Williams asked, turning in a slow circle and looking around at all the ground they'd already covered.

"I somehow doubt that one of Moriarty's crew is wandering around naked in the rain."

"But why would Dr. Watson hide? I get why'd he'd run away at first, but you've been calling to him for a solid thirty minutes. If he was hiding, surely he'd have come out by now."

"Not necessarily," Lestrade countered. "He was abducted from his home, so emotionally traumatised. He's just been in a serious motor accident, so probably physically traumatised as well, and if he really is naked, I don't want to think about what else he may have been through."

"Still, if he was well enough to run from the accident, then he should be well enough to ask for help."

"And he's an Afghani war veteran who was badly injured in an ambush and subsequently invalided home."

"Shit," Williams said, coming to a stop and looking up at the DI with a particularly focused expression. "You're thinking PTSD."

"I'm thinking he may not be able to tell friend from foe right now," Lestrade replied, the beam of his torch pausing on the small opening of an old stone culvert that they'd passed by twice before. It was narrow and half-filled with water, but it was just possible… The DI leaned down to look at the opening more closely. Was that blood on the edge of one of the stones? The shot that came whizzing past his head was all the answer he needed.

"Son of bitch!" Williams cried, pointing her own sidearm at the opening even as Lestrade dropped flat on the muddy ground before the opening, instinctively covering his head with his hands despite the ballistic helmet the SFOs had forced on him. The helmet jerked sideways on his head, pulling uncomfortably at his chin and bending his neck awkwardly as he face-planted on the muddy ground. He could hear Williams sending an urgent call for backup even as he began to inch sideways, trying to get out of the line of fire. There were no more shots, but a voice he barely recognised rang out from the depths of the culvert, echoes bouncing off the stone.

"Vaysa! Ye aampool meezanamet!"

Once he was certain he'd moved far enough out of the potential danger zone, Lestrade ripped off the begrimed helmet. "Dr. Watson, it's Detective Inspector Lestrade! Can you hear me?"

"Man ra tanha bohzarid! Man doctoRam! Man ra tanha bohzarid!"

"Dr. Watson, please, I'm here to help you."

"Lutfan, man ra tanha bohzarid!"

"That's Watson, right?" Williams hissed, crouching down beside him. Lestrade nodded, and she focused her torch on the opening again. "What's he saying?"

"I don't sodding know! I don't even know what language he's speaking. It sounds Middle Eastern."

"Guessing you were right about the PTSD being a problem then," she noted dryly.

"Yeah, well, right now I wish I was bloody wrong." They both flinched as a second shot echoed from within the culvert, followed by the muffled sounds of splashing. Far less muffled was the approach of Williams' team double-timing it to their position.

"Status!" Chief barked as he dropped down beside them. Lestrade tuned them out as Williams explained, straining for any more sounds from inside the culvert. The drainage tunnel was full of icy rainwater and the witness had claimed that John was naked. He'd been in there for more than thirty minutes at a minimum. They had to get him out. They had to get him out now. Cursing himself for a fool, Lestrade began to strip off all of his gear except his torch, starting with the holster and ending with the ballistic vest. He'd never be able to squeeze through the opening wearing that thing anyway. After a moment's thought, he dropped battery-pack powered headset and his mobile as well. The water would ruin both anyway. Then, dropping back to his stomach, he began to inch forward. He'd gone no more than a foot, when Chief latched onto the back of his shirt and hauled him up short.

"What do you think you're doing, Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Waving the white flag."

"You'll get shot."

"He's a crack marksman. If he wanted to kill me, I'd already be dead."

"You can't know that."

Lestrade hesitated, but only to find the right words. In the end, they were simple enough. "Yes. I can."

"Detective – "

"Look! You brought me for a reason. You were told to bring me along for a reason. If you lot try and drag him out of that hole, someone will get shot. He fires in panic down there and he could be killed by one of his own ricochets. Let me do my job."

Chief gazed at him abstractly for several long seconds, then he nodded as if response to some further statement. Lestrade wondered just what the man was hearing over his own com. Grimacing, Chief said, "Just don't get killed, Lestrade. I have enough dead people on my hands tonight."

Lestrade nodded and began to crawl forward again. When he reached the edge of the opening, he called out. "Dr. Watson, it's Detective Inspector Lestrade. I'm coming in."

"Ne!"

"Dr. Watson, I'm unarmed and I just want to help you. I'm coming in. Please don't shoot. It's Lestrade. Greg Lestrade. Do you understand?"

There was no response but no gunshots either. Heart pounding and doubting his own sanity, Lestrade began to squeeze his way through the narrow entrance to the culvert. Once inside, the space opened up slightly, and he was able to walk forward on his knees, water lapping around his freezing thighs. The drain angled downward perceptibly, the runoff from the storm flowing past him, carrying leaves and oil and litter with it. He swept the beam of his torch back and forth, watching for obstructions and dangers. Because he was so focused on the water and what might be hiding beneath it ready to trip him up, Lestrade didn't realise he found his quarry until Dr. Watson spoke.

"Vaysa!"

The DI forced himself to raise his head slowly, avoiding sudden movements. He left the torch shining on the water. Dr. Watson might panic if he was suddenly blinded by light and Lestrade really, really didn't want to get his fool self shot. Besides, though it was dark inside the culvert, it was also a small space and the reflected light from the torch was more than enough for him to get a pretty good at his newest police consultant. So he looked.

Crap.

The pistol pointed squarely at Lestrade's chest was bad, the way the hands holding that pistol shook was worse, and yet neither of those were what really worried him. Gemma Whitsock had been dead right. The little doctor was completely starkers and looked frozen clear through to his bones. There was something shiny on him, too… a nice, shiny pair of handcuffs. The pistol was matte black, so Lestrade doubted that it was the weapon she'd seen glinting in the headlights; it had to have been the handcuffs, though they were now caked with mud and what Lestrade feared was drying blood. It was hard to tell without getting a closer look, something he sincerely doubted that Dr. Watson would allow. The doctor had managed to get himself up out of the runoff by climbing up onto some large, gnarled tree roots that had broken their way through the stone of the ancient drainage tunnel. He was stretched out on these on his stomach, elbows propped in front of him, holding the pistol – which he'd presumably appropriated from Moriarty's gang of thugs – in hands so cold that the nails had begun to go blue. The rest of his skin was pale and waxen where it wasn't covered in mud, and the DI wondered just how many bruises lurked beneath the filth. Lestrade was shivering with the cold, but the other man wasn't shaking at all except for his hands. He was almost unnaturally still, barely seeming to breathe.

"Dr. Watson, do you know who I am?" Lestrade asked, shuffling a step closer on his aching knees, careful to keep his hands visible and his manner non-threatening.

The other man just stared at him for a moment, eyes wide and dark, irises barely showing at all. He licked his lips, then said, "You're not Afghani. You're English, aren't you?"

"That's right," Lestrade said encouragingly. "I'm a police officer. Detective Inspector Lestrade. You've been in an accident and I'm here to help you."

"An accident?"

"Yes. You've got a large knot on the side of your head, and you seem to be a little confused."

"I am not confused!" Dr. Watson growled, hands tightening visibly on the grip of the pistol – which only made them shake even more.

"You're a doctor. Tell me, what are the signs of hypothermia?"

"Hypothermia…"

"Please, Dr. Watson, it's important. What are the signs of hypothermia?"

"Cold. Excess shivering or no shivering at all. Change in skin tone. Confusion. Lethargy. Muscles weakness. Joint pain. Loss of coordi… coordi… bugger!"

"Are you experiencing any of those, Dr. Watson?" Lestrade pressed gently, taking another tentative step forward.

"I'm not… I don't…"

"It's forty degrees outside. It's probably colder in here. You're soaking wet, na—" No, the DI thought, probably better not to mention the naked thing or the cuffs or the pistol. Keep it calm. "You're pressed up against a stone wall, and you're not shivering, Dr. Watson. What does all that mean?"

The doctor frowned, blinking rapidly. "Onset of moderate to severe hypothermia," he answered after a moment. "Could lead to loss of consciousness, violent outbursts… death," he whispered the last as he lowered his head to his forearms, the pistol dangling from clearly numb fingers.

"Let me help you." Lestrade urged, reaching forward. It was a mistake. Dr. Watson's head snapped up, and he scrambled backward, slipping off the roots and landing in the icy water. Lestrade dove after him, terrified that the smaller man might actually drown in his current condition. Again he was wrong. Far from drowning, Dr. Watson came up spitting water and epithets with equal verve, still clutching the bloody sidearm and pissed as hell.

"Get back!" he shouted. "Stay the fuck away from me."

"Dr. Watson, please – " Lestrade broke off as the other man turned and retreated further down the drainage tunnel. He couldn't go far, though. When he'd fallen, Lestrade had shone his torch down the tunnel and had gotten a clear, unmistakable glimpse of the grate that stopped the larger bits of debris from washing through the culvert and into the main sewer. There was nowhere for the doctor to go but back out the way they'd come. The trick was convincing him to cooperate. Sedation was right out. The man had a head injury, God only knew what other injuries and he was sick with the cold. Not liking it, but knowing it had to be done, Lestrade turned and hurried back to the opening of the culvert, leaving the doctor behind in the darkness.

As soon as he reached the small opening, he squeezed back through. Hands immediately caught at him and pulled him upright and out of the growing pool of water at the base of the drain. "Well?" Chief demanded.

"I found him. He's injured, confused and going into shock."

"Paramedics – "

"Will get shot!" Lestrade interjected, already annoyed with the interruptions. "I think he vaguely recognises me. You send anybody else in there, and there'll be a bloody brawl. So, here's what you're going to do. You're going to get me two thermal blankets, wrapped in plastic if you can manage it. You're going to get me some kind of clothing he can put on, and you're going to get me something to keep him hydrated. I'm going back in there in two minutes. That's how long you've got." The Chief didn't hesitate. He nodded at Williams, and the sergeant began rattling off his commands to some other member of the team.

"You think you can get him to come out?" Chief demanded.

"No, I don't. So the next thing you're going to do is send one of your people to pick up Sherlock Holmes."

"The man was injured," Chief protested, sounding completely taken aback by the request.

"The man was drugged," Lestrade countered. He'd seen Sherlock overdose before, and he knew how the hyperactive genius' body reacted to both opioids and the Naloxone that counteracted them. By now, he'd be fine – if a bit wrung out – and completely climbing the walls from a combination of enforced inactivity and worry over his flatmate. As for the back brace, that was supposed to come off in a couple of days anyway. Not that Lestrade was about to explain any of that to some unnamed SFO. "Just get him here," Lestrade instructed, "and get him here fast. Damn the speed limits."

Chief turned and walked away, and the DI could only hope that he was doing as he'd asked. He waited, shivering in his water-logged clothing, until one of the SFOs came running over with a stack of fabric in his hands and a carrier bag that looked like a soft-sided lunch pail. Lestrade took the bag and draped it over his shoulder, but he shook his head when the SFO tried to hand him the fabric. "Wait until I'm back through, then hand me the blankets through the opening. Try not to get them in the water, if you can help it."

"Yes, sir," the man said instantly, making Lestrade raise in eyebrows in mild amusement. What his team would think if they could see him barking orders at a bunch of SFOs who acted like the next thing to a military unit, he couldn't imagine. No, actually, he could. Good all around that neither Donovan nor Anderson were in the middle of this mess. He'd never hear the end of it.

He wriggled back through the opening, more than a touch alarmed by how much higher the water was now than the first time he'd gone through. Then, he yelled to the waiting SFO and clutched at the pile of fabric as it was shoved through the narrow opening above the water line. Clutching the bundle tightly, though trying not to get it up against his own damp clothing, Lestrade splashed back through the tunnel. He didn't bother trying to be quiet. The last thing he wanted to do was surprise Dr. Watson. Knowing where he was headed and what to expect made this trip much faster than the first one had been. He found the little doctor back on his root outcropping, but the gun wasn't visible. Still, that didn't mean that Dr. Watson didn't have it anymore. It could be under him, beside him or lost in the water – no way to know.

Lestrade slid to a halt a few feet from his wary colleague. "Me again," he said simply, earning a glare and a snort from the doctor. Leaning over, the DI shoved the barrel of the torch into a crack in the wall. It angled the beam of the torch upward, reflecting light back at them from the grimy, vaulted stone roof of the culvert. Then, smiling and trying not to seem as anxious as he felt, Lestrade inched forward. "I've brought you something to help you stay warm."

"Not cold," Dr. Watson muttered, his words almost unintelligible, and the DI's anxiety ratcheted upwards.

"No, but you should be. Hypothermia. Remember?"

"No…"

"A blanket won't hurt you, either way," Lestrade urged. "A blanket can't hurt you." Carefully juggling the bundles, Lestrade pulled one bright orange shock blanket from the pile and balanced it on his hand, careful to keep it from trailing in the water. "Please, Dr. Watson. Please, wrap this around you."

The man eyed him suspiciously for what felt like ages, but then he reached one begrimed hand forward and snatched at the blanket, but his fingers were clumsy and he couldn't seem to grasp it. He became instantly angry and slapped at the bundle, nearly knocking it out of Lestrade's grip and into the water. "Shit," Lestrade hissed, only barely managing to hold onto his burdens. Then, taking a deep breath, he said, "Look, Dr. Watson, I'm just going to come drape this around you."

"Vaysa!" John yelled, relapsing into whatever delusion had initially gripped his mind. "Ne!"

"I won't grab you, Lestrade promised softly. "I won't hurt you. I'm not even armed. I just want to put this over you. You don't want people to see you like this, do you, Dr. Watson?"

The man blinked at him in confusion, then, to the DI's surprise, he said, "John… my name's John."

"Okay," Lestrade agreed. "John, then. Now, I'm going to wrap this around you, John. My word on it, nothing else."

The doctor nodded, his head drooping with exhaustion, and Lestrade hurried forward as fast as he dared. He quickly spread the first blanket over the smaller man's torso, then unfolded the second and wrapped it around the man's legs and feet. The doctor started to panic, presumably at the sense of constriction, but his movements were slow and clumsy, and there was almost no fight left in him. It was possible that Lestrade could manhandle him out of the culvert on his own. It was also possible that Dr. Watson would produce that pistol out of thin air and one of them would wind up dead. He shook his head. Stick with the plan, Greg, he thought. Just stick with the plan. Once the blankets were tucked as far as the other man as he could manage, Lestrade took the clothing – someone's jacket and a pair of coveralls that had probably come from one of the ambulances – and examined them thoughtfully. There was no way he was going to be able to get the doctor dressed, even if he'd cooperate, so he draped the jacket over the doctor's torso.

"John, lift your head," Lestrade said, his own teeth chattered as the cold seeped into his bones. Dr. Watson wasn't the only one in serious danger of hypothermia. John just gaped at him mutely, and Lestrade gave up on trying to get the coverall under the other man's head. He bundled it around the doctor's feet, which felt icy even to Lestrade's chilled fingers, and then dug into the lunch pail. Two water bottles, a foil-wrapped sandwich and a packet of biscuits. Someone's night-shift lunch from the looks of it. Pulling out a water bottle, Lestrade screwed off the top and held it out. "John, you need to drink some of this."

"Ne."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. He had a funny feeling he could guess what ne meant. "It's just water, John. You need to stay hydrated. Please drink some."

"Surrou… surround… nothing but bloody water in here," the doctor grumbled, and Lestrade couldn't help the small laugh that escaped him.

"Yeah, but this is clean water. Please drink." He kept at it, pestering the other man in as non-threatening a manner as he could until he managed to coax him to take a drink. Then it became a matter of slowing him down. Lestrade was pretty sure that drinking too fast was a bad idea for someone in Dr. Watson's condition. Then, all he could do was metaphorically sit down and wait for backup in the form of the world's only consulting detective.

Lestrade's own legs had passed beyond cold and numb to feeling like daggers were being shoved willy nilly into the muscles when he heard the sound he'd been straining for, someone else splashing down the long tunnel toward him. It was far too soon for it to be Sherlock, though, and Lestrade braced, prepared to have to chivy the intruder back out if Dr. Watson started to panic. He relaxed, however, when he heard a familiar voice calling from the darkness beyond the torch's light.

"John? John! Damn it, Lestrade, where are you?"

"Here," Lestrade called, placing a restraining hand on the doctor's shoulder when he jerked and nearly fell of the narrow root shelf at the sound of his flatmate's voice. Sherlock, still in his night clothes, with the addition of a heavy parka that Lestrade had never seen before, came slogging into view, practically running despite the fact that he was moving about on his knees just as the DI had.

"Of all the asinine, foolish, idiotic things to do," Sherlock groused as he came to a halt beside the detective and near stuporous doctor. "Whatever possessed you to crawl in here?" When there was no response, Sherlock's eyes narrowed and then flashed angrily to Lestrade's face. "He's ill. Why haven't you gotten him out of this hole?"

Grinding his teeth, Lestrade bit down on his first three responses. He settled on the simple truth. "Because he's confused, because he's only just let me get close enough to touch him, and because he's got a bloody pistol, Sherlock!" Lestrade hissed. Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, no doubt at great length, but he never had the opportunity.

"Sherlock!" John cried, sitting up so abruptly that he smacked his head against the wall of the culvert and nearly fell back into the water. Both men caught at him, getting handfuls of blanket and chilly, damp skin. "Sherlock… Moriarty… he's… " The doctor began to shake, great tremors that ran from his feet to his head, and his eyes rolled back, showing only whites.

Lestrade swore even as Sherlock said, matter-of-factly, exactly what he was thinking. "Seizure. We have to get him out of here. Now."

Tbc

Author's Note: Okay, if anyone reading this actually speaks Farsi/Dari/Persian, I beg your indulgence. The only Farsi I know, I learned from one of my students and he mostly taught me swear words and how to count to twenty. Standard stuff. Anyway, finding decent online translators for free for English to Farsi proved to be quite an adventure. So, once again, I crave pardon if my grammar/vocabulary is completely insane. If anyone has any corrections on this, I would be delighted to receive them. Thank you, and remember that reviews are love. Catslyn.