The Pianist

XXIX

She felt a sharp pain, as if someone jabbing her with a hot poker. Moments later it felt like somebody had smacked her in the shoulder. However, through her white dress she could quickly see it turn red. A ring rang through her ears, and she looked up at Sherlock who was already moving, his eyes on her.  She sagged lower on her knees and shut her eyes. 

She could see Sherlock grab for the first man's pistol. Pulling it out of his grip, Sherlock held the silencer end and smashed the butt across the mans face, causing him to drop to the ground unconciousness. Next to hear, she heard another man falling to the ground, Irene standing over him as she looked up. She could see Irene's lips move, but she couldn't actually hear them. 

But all she could focus on was the excruciating pain radiating from her shoulder, pulsing with each beat of her frantic heart. Every movement sent waves of agony coursing through her, threatening to overwhelm all her senses. The room spun around her in a dizzying whirl as she struggled to stay on her knees, the world titling dangerously on its axis.

In the midst of the chaos going on in her head, Sherlock's figure loomed before her, a beacon of strength and reassurance in the swirling storm. With a sense of urgency that cut through the turmoil, he rushed to her side, his voice a distant murmur against the cacophony of noise.

"Lauraine," his voice was urgent, laced with concern and determination, "Are you alright?"

She was happy to be able to hear him again, though his voice was distant. She tried to respond, to reassure him that she was fine, but her words were lost in a haze of pain and panic. Every breath felt like a struggle, the sharp sting of agony radiating from her injured shoulder threatening to overwhelm her.

Sherlock's touch was gentle yet firm as he examined the wound, his fingers probing the torn flesh with careful precision. Each movement sent waves of agony crashing over her, threatening to drag her under into a sea of darkness.

Through the haze of pain, she clung desperately to Sherlock's presence, his steady presence a lifeline in the storm. With each fleeting touch, she felt a flicker of hope amidst the despair, a reminder that she was not alone in this harrowing ordeal.

But the pain persisted, a relentless onslaught that refused to be ignored. With every heartbeat, it echoed through her body like a relentless drumbeat, a constant reminder of the danger they faced.

As Sherlock worked to staunch the bleeding and stabilize her injury, she felt a sense of gratitude wash over her, a silent acknowledgment of his unwavering determination to protect her at any cost. And in that fleeting moment of respite, amidst the chaos and uncertainty, she found solace in the steadfast presence of the man who had become her anchor in a sea of turmoil.

As she looked towards Irene as Sherlock sat her back straight up against the couch, his hand trying to stelp the bleeding, Irene walked over to the windowstill, putting her feet up on the edge of it and taking hold of a cold hanging from the ledge. "The- the keycode. W-what w-was it?" She tried to ask, her voice hoarse and struggling with every word.

Irene looked down at Shelrock, who was gazing down at her while she was barely conscious but still trying in vain to stay present. Irene turned to Sherlock. "Shall I tell her?"

Sherlock just shook his head, but said nothing, his eyes remaining on her. She looked up at Irene, as she could vaguely hear her say. "My measurements." And with that, she pushed her feat against the edge of the windowstill and toppled backwards out of the window, still holding what looked like a cord.

Sherlock didn't react to Irene, he kept his eyes fixed on her as she still tried vainly to keep present. "Come on Lauraine, you can do it."

She could in fact not do it.