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English
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Published:
2022-12-02
Updated:
2022-12-02
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2,540
Chapters:
1/?
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5
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45
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Highland retreat

Summary:

Short story of Sherlock and John in search of a criminal in the Scottish Highlands. As usual things dont go to plan. But dont worry, John is a good doctor and protector.

Notes:

I am here. I often disappear for many months but appreciate anyone who follows me, sorry for my lack of posting. Life is hectic, but then again, when isn't it? I wrote most of this earlier in the year and I have some time off in January, so I am posting this in the hope that it spurs me into the idea of finishing it during some annual leave. Writing sooths my soul and I need plenty of it. I miss it.

Merry bloody Christmas all. ; )

Ps. Bothy is a shelter made for hikers, its a safe house to use a shelter or overnight stay, often found in remote loctions.

Chapter Text

“Tell me again why we are here Sherlock?” John huffed as he nearly reached the top of the steep incline they had been walking. He sure wasn’t as fit as he used to be in the army, too many coffees in the morning and beers with Lestrade, he really should hit the gym again.

“Pollen.” the detectives exasperated voice replied over the wind which blew suddenly, “I told you John, I need pollen and soil samples from local to here, there are some rare specimens only available in this area. Sorbus pseudofennica to be exact – a rare Arran tree, native to the isle of Arran but also in some remote parts of Scotland and selected horticultural collections. I assume our suspect has obtained some bark somehow, but I also need samples of the soil to compare against the footprints on scene too.”

“Can’t your pals at Kew Gardens give you some samples? Did we really need go hiking all the way up here for them?”

“I thought we could do with a little holiday up here in the Scottish Highlands, get the city out our lungs and enjoy some time together.” A fake grin spread across the younger man’s face.

“Are you using again?” John grumbled in jest.

“Perfectly sober John, high on life” the detective marched on, the doctor trailing slowly behind.

John eyed the darkening sky with concern, “do you think that weather front is coming in, it’s looking a bit threatening?”

“Probably, but there’s a bothy only a mile down the track if we need shelter,” Sherlock waved his hand mindless in a random direction, not even taking note of the grey clouds. He bent down and opened a couple of small tubes and began scraping away at the dirt with a small knife.

The doctor folded his arms in annoyance as he waited for the man to take his samples. He watched as Sherlock meticulously collected dirt from several locations dotted around the pathway, carefully spooning small piles of dark soil into tubes. He then busied about taking cuttings and bark samples from a couple of trees overhanging the pathway. Finally, the blogger could stand it no longer.

“No really now, why here?” A spot of what felt like hail hit John’s cheek and he looked skyward again.

“I believe our prime suspect, Matterson, is local to this area, not on record of course, up here he goes by a different name. He did a great job of covering his Scottish accent but not good enough. No surprise Lestrade didn’t pick up on it. If I am correct, he frequents this area often and hunts the wildlife for practice. Wildlife crime isn’t easy to prosecute, people get away with trophy shooting, stealing eggs and capturing endangered species but this man is doing it on mass and globally too. Being paid quite the price for his services. I believe our victims found this out when he happened upon the man committing a crime at various locations across the world, I suspect there are many more murders than we first imagined. Matterson is a trained and seasoned shooter, he probably spends a lot of time shooting wildlife for practice, and perhaps humans for fun, if that’s what you call it.”

“So we’ve come to his hunting ground to goad him?” John cried. “Someone you class as a seasoned shooter?” suddenly the soldiers own gun felt a little heavier on his waistline, he gently felt for the solid metal companion.

“Don’t be ridiculous John, he’s not even in the country right now.” Sherlock stood up, stashing his new samples in his shoulder bag with smile. “He left for Vietnam this morning, his flight was scheduled for 2.47pm from Heathrow terminal 4.” He looked at his watch, “should be well across Europe by now.”

“You know Lestrade issued a travel ban on him right? Until all enquiries have been concluded.” John felt another two drops of hale hit him.

“What clever boy that inspector is, I’ve taught him well to listen to my hunches” Sherlock gleamed, “That’s perfect then, we can head over to the suspects place in the morning and confront him in person.”

“He’s a bloody psychopath Sherlock!” John near shouted, “You cannot be serious. This man has shot at least 3 people in a bloody massacre. There is no way I am letting you near his home, let alone spend another minute up here. Lets go!”

“You go, I’ll be right behind, I just need to see if the other species of Arran tree is here.” Sherlock pointed toward a further treeline a few yards down the pathway.

The doctor cocked his head in question, raising a brow he recrossed his arms. “Be bloody quick, because this hail is about to start and you’ll catch your death in the cold if you don’t.”

“Yes mother.” Sherlock teased, as he pottered on just further up the incline again, no more than a few yards ahead.

It was then, momentarily, John Watson thought he heard a thunderclap, but alas, his military background kicked in. The gunshot resonated across the valley and to his horror, his companion went down before his eyes.

“Sherlock!!” Instinctively the doctor threw himself to the ground, just as a second shot sounded. The familiar sound of a bullet striking the ground a few feet ahead of him told him enough to know that the second shot was for him. The shooter was behind them, further down the valley and using a sniper rifle from the sound of the discharge, not close range.

“Sherlock talk to me!?” John bellowed from the ground, remaining still, and grasping for his own gun.

This time a thunderclap did sound, causing John to flinch down further. The hail threatening to fall began its sudden and violent cascade then, adding what felt like hundreds of bullets striking the earth and the soldiers body.

John remained still for another moment, with any hope the shooter believed them both to be hits, both down, and both not moving. They may just have lucked out with the weather right now. He swallowed back the rising bile threatening to escape his throat before shouting again.

“Sherlock!”

There was no movement, no reply to his calls and he kicked off the ground throwing himself towards his friend. Seconds later and he was at the detective’s prone form. Sherlock was face down in the dirt, splayed forward in motion. Any hopes that his friend was also playing dead was scuppered when he noted the crimson staining surrounding his upper back.

“Shit!” John crashed to his knees, pressing two fingers on the unconscious detective’s neck. A wave of instant relief rolled through him when a regular constant thump pulsed under his digits.

Alive.

“Sherlock?” He pinched his friends ear lobe.

The younger man groaned in response to the stimulus, a low deep and forced vocalisation of pain which only served to squeeze the doctor’s insides in an icy grip. He gently placed two fingers into the ripped coat on his friends back and with some force managed to rip it open further along with his shirt and jacket.

“W..gh!” Sherlocks eyes flew open and he gurled out in a moan.

“Stay still.” John squinted at the wound, the darkened clouds and hail hammering down made it all but impossible to see anything of much use but he was pretty sure the bullet hole was off centre, missing his friends spine by mere centimetres.

“Can you move?” he asked.

“Which is it?” Sherlock inhaled sharply, his voice shuddered and slurred but he tried to hide it, “one minute you tell me to stay still, the next you want me to move, which is it?”

John’s voice took a clipped and regimented tone. “The bullet missed your spine, but I don’t know yet if it’s punctured your lung or any major vessels and I need to check for an exit wound. Right now, the shooter is across the valley, sniper rifle by the sounds of it, quarter mile off I’d say. But visualisation is poor with this weather, and I need to get us to cover now before the weather subsides and he gets a clear shot at us. So can you move?”

“Probably…” And with that, a cry of agony left the detectives lips. He pushed his legs up under himself and pitched forwards, his right arm all but useless and left one not faring much better. John grasped his middle, helping the pair of them half crawl, half roll into the nearby long heathers before coming to a stop. He pulled his friend's coat around Sherlock's hips, in a bid to shield him from the weather. The man’s face was screwed tightly in pain, the ashen shade of it made John’s stomach twist in anguish. Blood loss could be a real concern right now.

"What is this?" Sherlock cried, turning his head skyward against the weather, his voice seemed somewhat delirious and confused.

"It's hailing." John replied quickly. "Now sit forward slightly would you, I need to see this wound again."

"Hailing?" Sherlock let out a momentary hiss of breath through his teeth before silencing again, he swallowed hard against a wave of nausea overcoming him.

“How’s your breathing? Any pain?” John frowned, the wound was still oozing a fair bit, but by the level of flow it seemed unlikely his friend would bleed to death right now. Unless of course, there was internal bleeding. The thought only threatened to crumble the soldiers hardened exterior.

“Fine.” The detective replied, in such a breathless manner that it only served to heighten the doctor’s worry.

John gently unbuttoned his friend’s shirt, peeling the fabric back in search of an exit wound, the younger man flinched away from the doctor’s probing hands. “I’m sorry Sherlock.” He knew all too well how much the man repelled human contact, but he needed to check. There was no sign of any bloody wound. He wasn’t sure if this made him more or less concerned. Exit wound meant clean through, potentially less internal damage, but higher chance of catastrophic external haemorrhage and an ugly exit wound were the metal blasts its way out the flesh. Then again, no exit wound means potentially more internal injury, some bullets explode on impact, sending shards of mental around the body, reeking havoc on the internal organs, fracturing bone, tendons and vessels, leading to silent and deadly internal bleeding. John felt his own pulse begin to rise.

“Cold” Sherlock shivered violently, snapping the doctor out of his spiralling thoughts. John frowned at his friend’s subdued demeanour. He suspected he was in more pain than he was letting on.

The doctor pulled out his phone to send for aid. "Weathers come in, looks like we are in for it for a while. Damn!" he stared at his phone screen, finding no phone signal. "Why the fuck did you bring us somewhere there was no phone signal?"

"Try mine" the detective exhaled a long and slow breath in a bid to ground himself against the pain.
The doctor gently placed his hand into the detectives coat, bringing out the iphone before cursing again. "Nothing!"

“Fuck!” he allowed himself a moment of anger before taking a deep breath. “How far to the shelter?”

“Mile… ish” Sherlocks lower arm raised slightly and John could help but note the slight tremor in his hand as he pointed down the track. “Right at the cops of trees, following the hedgerow east until you reach the gate.”

“Right.” John stood quickly, “lets go. Now”

“Can I not wait here?” Sherlock already looked somewhat defeated. “Or at least can I have some of that morphine you carry around on you?”

The doctor swallowed back the anxiety, it did not bode well his friend was already admitting to feeling pain.

He had a decision to make.

With only approximately one, at most two doses available he needed to consider how long they might be here without official medical support and aid. No mountain rescue would be here for a while, the nearest roadway was several miles off, and no aerial support available in this weather. And that was when he could even get hold of them.

“You cock!” was all he could manage.

“Well?” Sherlock half frowned, half pouted but his face struggled to hide the pain already beginning to take over his body.

“Not yet.” John finally replied after a short pause, he bit his lower lip in remorse. “I’m sorry. Just hold on for a bit would you. I have no idea how long we’re going to be stuck out here.”

“Fine.” Sherlock growled, and then let out a stifled cry as he struggled to pull himself to his feet, John grasped him gently around the waist to avoid him tipping back and into the heather again. He swayed for a moment, taking two steps forward before holding a finger out to the doctor as a sign to stop. He then dipped sideways and vomited on the grass.

“I’m sorry.” Was all John could muster in apology.

The detective did not reply, he shakily pulled himself back into an upright position, gulped back and wiped his chin before striding out at a surprisingly quick pace.

“Hey, take it easy.” John lost his grip on the younger man and struggled to keep up for a second, not expecting the quick pace.

“I don’t need morphine John, so let’s go. Perhaps the bothy will have a few teabags so we can have a cuppa whilst we wait for the storm to pass.” His voice quivered but he strode out with purpose.

“Don’t to be prick Sherlock!” he blurted quickly, “I’m withholding pain relief with good reason, there’s no need to take it personally. Adrenalin is a stronger analgesia than you know.” If John didn’t know any better he would have given his friend more than a full dose there and then, but something told him to wait. His military training was fighting his emotional response hard, the internal turmoil was near unbearable.

They walked in silence for some minutes, the hail not letting up. The small balls of frozen ice coming down in droves coated the pathway and vegetation in a fine sprinkling of white. London rarely experienced any kind of extreme weather like this, Oxford Street would have been at a standstill if it ever did. John hoped to God that they weren’t being followed by the shooter, and that the weather would work in their favour, that Matterson would not be waiting at the shelter when they arrived to finish them off. He fondled his gun again, this time taking it out and clicking the safety off.

After several minutes Sherlock began to stumble a little, he stopped next to a large tree, his breathes suddenly heavy and fast. John’s guilt doubled. “I’m sorry.” Was all could muster.

The detectives silence only proved to increase his internal worry. The younger man braced himself for a second before pushing off again into the hail which was slowly turning to a heavy rain.

“Let’s just get into shelter and I’ll sort you something out okay.” John continued, pushing on into the storm with his best friend.