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Crying. Screaming for mummy. Round and round the garden like a teddy bear.
‘Here, mate, you alright?’
Blinking. Hurting. One step. Two Step.
‘Ambulance is on its way.’
Poking. Touching. Tickle you under there. (punching, kicking…)
‘Sir, can you hear me? Sir?’
Bright lights. Like stars. The earth travels round the sun every 365 and quarter days. It takes eight minutes for the light from the sun to reach earth. The response time for London’s Ambulance Service is eight minutes.
‘Cuts and bruises. Nothing life-threatening. We can’t get any response from him though.’
There are ten pints of blood in the average human body. If you sever the right arteries eight of those can be lost in a matter of minutes. He shakes. Rattles. Rolls… Vomits.
‘You’re okay. The police are on their way.’
Synthetic Orange Blanket. The reason they’re made of synthetic materials is because people claim to be allergic to wool, when in actual fact wool allergies are surprisingly rare. Most people don’t like the scratchy feeling next to their skin. He already has a wool jumper on though.
Shock. Blankets. Sweet warm tea – preferably made by Mrs. Hudson. Landlady. Not housekeeper.
‘John, are you alright?’
John Hamish Watson, M.D. 221B Baker Street.
‘Where’s Sherlock?’
William Scott Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective. World’s only Consulting Detective. Flatmate. Irritating. Wont to leave body parts in fridge. Friend. Family.
‘He’s on his way.’
Lestrade. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade for Scotland Yard. Married. Children.
‘The girl?’
‘She’s fine, John. You saved her life.’ Awkward silence. Surprising how many he sits through when he lives with Sherlock. ‘Stay here, I’ll be back.’
Alone. Flashing lights. Honking horns. Tramping feet. He’s waiting for the bombs to drop. For fists to become fire. For kicks to become killing. He feels sick again.
‘Thank you.’
Teddy Bear. Winnie-the-pooh. Rupert Bear. Paddington. If you go down to the streets today you’re in for a big surprise.
Glass eyes. Worn fur. Well loved. A little rough around the edges. He takes the bear that’s being held out to him.
‘You look lonely.’
He needs a hug. The only thing willing to hug him at this moment in time is a stuffed bear so he clings to it, wishing it were a suitable substitute for human contact. He needs the feel of closed fists to be replaced with those of open palms rubbing soothingly.
‘John?’
Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. Friend. Family.
‘Are you alright?’
Blue eyes. Dark brown hair. Wool coat, comforting beneath his fingers. Warmer than any blanket. John pulls at the collar, tugs at the arms. Sherlock almost stumbles into him. He doesn’t know what to do at first, but he soon gets the message. Pressure exerted on places it already hurts. Teddy bear squashed between them. The stuffing is coming out. Well loved. A little rough around the edges.
‘Come on, let’s go home.’
221B Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes. Home. At six o’clock their mummies and daddies will take them home to bed ‘cause they’re tired little teddy bears.