if_inconvenient | (no subject)

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Sherlock is perfectly confident in his ability to take on a vampire in hand-to-hand combat and survive, unless the vampire in question has significant training. That's one vampire.

He is also perfectly confident in his ability to take on any number of them at a distance with his laser in hand, at a distance being the operative phrase.

The situation he finds himself in, when he tracks down the lair of the conspirators at last, transpires to be somewhat chancier. There is little margin for error, and at the end of what is unquestionably the most violent fifteen minutes of his life, he is lying on a richly carpeted floor surrounded by clouds of dust and wishing there were two of him so he could delegate the job of calling Peter Beardsley to the other one. Surely Tony could have cooked up an extra while he was at it.

No, that is not a productive train of thought. Coughing hoarsely, he drags himself to his feet and finds a telephone.

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"He'd appreciate it," Peter says. "Hates having his time wasted."

That and Peter's sent him out a good two hours after finally sending him home. Connolly understands, but Peter isn't the only member of security at the Chandler compound who's had a long few days.

"Far be it from me to waste any, then."

He deduces from the cirumstances and the way Peter says it that he is, indeed, taking precious minutes out of an already overburdened schedule. With that in mind, he gets to his feet again and goes looking for the bathroom, taking the cordless phone along. Those bite marks aren't going to disinfect themselves, after all.

It's partly for the same reasoning as before - Sherlock has met Connolly - but also because, yeah, Peter can't spare any of the men he's got on duty.

"He'll have a first aid kit on him," Peter says. "He's trained on how to use it. All my men are."

And if it's necessary to take Sherlock to the hospital, Connolly will do that, too. Peter thinks not mentioning that would be the wisest course, though.

"That is good to know, but I believe I am adequately supplied," he says, cradling the phone against his shoulder as he starts going through the medicine cabinet.

These were classy vampires. They had a house.

"Tell it to Connolly."

He's the one who'll actually be laying eyes on the damage. Though it is encouraging that, from the sounds of it, Sherlock is able to walk around on his own.

Dryly: "Connolly can see for himself."

Those sounds are also beginning to imply that Sherlock is able to give himself rudimentary medical attention. Another good sign.

"He will in about - thirty seconds."

Which is also about when Peter will be hanging up the phone. Not before.

"Perfect timing. I do admire the way you run your organisation," he says absently as he deals one-handed with gauze and medical tape.

"If I didn't have it right by now, I wouldn't deserve to be the one running it."

There are the sounds of a car outside the vampire house, followed shortly thereafter by someone casually breaking and entering.

"That is either Connolly or a burglar with the luck of the century," he says, setting the roll of tape down on the counter and listening closely. "Ah—Connolly it is." Before Peter can hang up, he adds, "Do get some sleep before I have to drug you, lock you in your bedroom, and do your job myself for twelve hours."

A voice calls,

"Sherlock?" Connolly is not bothering with stealth in the event that there are any bad guys left, because: vampires. Not much point in trying to sneak around enemies who can hear your heartbeat.

Peter hears him and says,

"All right. Play nice." And then he hangs up.

"Upstairs," he answers, emerging from the bathroom and tossing the phone onto the bed. "The house is empty save for us, I can personally certify. I'll come down."

When he does, his t-shirt is ripped open at the collar and scorched all down the front. A bandage, untidy but functional, covers part of the left side of his neck where it meets his shoulder. He smells of blood and ash, both of which are smeared here and there on his clothing; there are bruises darkening on his cheek and both arms.

Connolly flicks a look over him, assessing all that damage as well as the way he moves.

"Anything broken?" he asks, just to be sure.

Sherlock is not intentionally concealing his bruised ribs, but as a point of pride he refuses to let them impair his movement. It only shows as a slight wince when he turns a certain way or breathes too deeply—like he did just now.

"No. Ribs a little bruised, as I have just reminded myself."

There's a possibility of internal bleeding, with the way vampires can hit, but it doesn't look like he took a blow to the head or anything that should get immediate medical attention.

"Okay," he says. "Come on, then, let's get you home."

"Lead on," he says agreeably.

He is still a little subdued, for Sherlock, but perhaps Connolly doesn't know him well enough to recognize that.

He doesn't, no, but the fact that Mr Beardsley was concerned enough about Sherlock's injuries to want him escorted home speaks volumes to Connolly in and of itself.

He leads the way to the car, attention split between the area around them and Sherlock himself, in case some injury that hasn't been obvious until now makes itself known.

If he has any further injuries, they're subtle enough to remain unnoticed as Sherlock gets into the car. He's even starting to smile.

Connolly makes certain Sherlock is safely in the car before getting in himself.

"An entire nest by yourself?" he asks as he eases out of the driveway. "Really?"

He sounds like he can't decide whether to disapprove or high five.

"The ultraviolet laser is a powerful tool, but I believe I have just discovered its limitations." He lifts a hand to touch the bandage at his neck.

"Looks like."

Connolly flips on his radio to let Peter know that he's gotten Sherlock out safely. "- and it doesn't look like the hospital trip will be necessary, sir, I'll be taking him straight home."

"Good," Peter says (a bit dry, since he knows Sherlock will be listening, too), "makes life easier for everyone. Take yourself home after."

"Yes, sir."

"Sorry to drag you out of bed," says Sherlock, shortly thereafter.

(He decided not to give Peter any trouble about that putative hospital trip. It made perfect sense, after all.)

"Don't worry about it," Connolly says easily. "We're all on call right now. I wasn't even off-duty long enough to wind down from my shift."

"Hmm." He looks more closely. "Ah, yes, so I see."

Damn, he really is off his game. There was no evidence to directly contradict the reasonable assumption that Connolly was trying to sleep when Peter called him, but Sherlock should have noticed that there was no evidence in support of it, either. And an interrupted nap leaves traces.

Connolly glances at him. He knows from conversation with Mr Beardsley to take the Sherlock Holmes thing seriously, but he hadn't experienced it for himself yet.

He refrains from asking, though. Just because the kid doesn't need the hospital doesn't mean he's in good shape.