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Louisa has had a shitty fucking day.
The hot water had gone out in her flat this morning, which she hadn’t realized until she’d stepped into the shower. Her toast had burned, and of course, that’d been the last of her bread. She’d been cut off in traffic no fewer than three times on her way into work, and just as she’d stepped into the courtyard the sky had opened up. All this before she’d even been on the clock, and having to work at Slough House on its own constitutes a shitty day.
After work, she’d parked her car at home, changed out of clothes that had never quite lost the sensation of being damp from the rain, and walked, raincoat on, to the pub near her flat.
A generous plate of chips–too greasy–and two vodka sodas–strong, unpleasant tasting but effective–later, her mood has at least not gotten worse. She’s going to go home, get into her pajamas, and curl up with a tub of ice cream and whatever shitty reality show happens to be on.
Only when she gets back to her complex, there’s a body curled up by the gate, nearly invisible. Or, not a body, because body implies dead, and she can see the lumpy figure moving with regular breaths.
Great.
This is just what she needs, some drunk passed out directly in her path. Part of her wants to walk right inside and forget about this. Let someone else deal with it.
But, for better or worse, she’s an MI5 agent, and there’s a person on the ground outside of her flat. It’s kind of her problem.
“Hey,” she says, poking the person with her toe. They’re in head-to-toe black, hood up, and she can’t actually see any of them.
The person groans. It’s a low sound, and it’s pained.
So great.
She crouches down, wonders briefly whether she should call Lamb, or perhaps 999, and then puts a hand out, roughly at the person’s side, and jostles them hard.
Two things happen almost at once. She pulls her hand away, because it’s wet, which would be normal due to the rain but is abnormal because it’s also warm. In the dim glow from a streetlight, she sees that it’s blood.
Shit.
And then the person rolls over so she can see their face, and oh.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
It’s River.
It’s River, and he’s bleeding and half-unconscious outside of her flat.
Louisa’s knees hit the ground and she reaches out an uncertain hand. She touches his shoulder. “River?”
“Hm. L’isa?” His voice is uncoordinated, slurred from blood loss, and Louisa wonders how long he’s been out here. She’d only been at the pub for an hour and a half, two hours at most, and she thinks one of her neighbors would have done something if he’d been here that long.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s me. What happened to you?”
“F…there was a fight.”
“Okay. Okay. Um, I’m gonna call 999, alright?”
He doesn’t protest, which is worrying. Usually, he’d fight tooth and nail to avoid being taken to hospital.
Louisa reaches into her pocket with a hand that’s covered in blood and trembling a little. She grabs her phone and dials.
“999, what’s your emergency?”
Louisa rattles off her address, River’s basic details. The person at the other end asks for information about the situation, and Louisa realizes that she actually knows very little.
“He said there was a fight. Hold on.” She directs her attention to River. “River, how were you hurt? Stabbed? Shot?”
“Um,” River responds. “I don’...really remember.”
“He doesn’t remember. He’s bleeding quite a lot, though. Just hurry, okay?”
“Paramedics will be there shortly. Keep him awake. If you can find a wound, apply pressure.”
Louisa hangs up, shines her phone’s flashlight at River. His black clothes don’t help her identify the source of the blood, but eventually she locates a tear in his t-shirt, beneath his jacket. There’s what looks to be a stab wound there, deep and jagged and bleeding a lot, and she wriggles out of her own jacket and shoves it, balled up, against his side.
River groans softly, twists like he’s trying to get away, but he’s too weak to do much more than mildly inconvenience her.
“Stop that,” she says. “I have to slow the bleeding.”
“Hurts.”
“I know. But I have to.”
His eyes are slipping closed and something cold and sickening washes over her.
She cannot lose someone else she cares about. She cannot.
She slaps him across the face, leaving a streak of his own blood across too-pale skin.
River blinks his eyes back open. He looks up at her, and she reads the what the fuck was that for? on his face even though he doesn’t make a sound.
“Don’t pass out on me.”
“‘Kay.”
He does, in fact, manage to remain awake until the ambulance arrives. Louisa is shunted to the side as the paramedics work. She sinks to the ground, sitting on the curb. Her hands are still shaking and still covered in his blood. She wipes them against the asphalt but the blood remains.
“He’s ready for transport. Would you like to come to the hospital with him?”
Louisa nods, stands, follows the paramedic silently to the back of the ambulance. River is there, hooked up to a machine, shirt off, gauze pads on his torso in multiple spots. He’s pale as death and covered in blood and his eyes are closed, but he’s clearly alive. The machine is beeping steadily, so he must be.
He must be.
Still. She reaches out, grabs his wrist, feels for his pulse, needing, somehow, to confirm what the machine says. She lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding when she feels his heartbeat there, thready but present.
He’s alive.
She focuses on that small point of contact, that small victory, the entire way to the hospital. He’ll be okay.
They’ll be okay.