John (or Ioannes, as he tried to remind himself continuously) double checks his knapsack for the provisions and equipment necessary for the climb. Nodding to himself he shoulders the pack with a wistful thought, 'Harry would have loved...' Forcefully he stops that line of thought and plasters a pleasant demeanour on.

Cultivating his fake Greek-accented english he rounds the corner of the taverna to see the guest he's taking up the mountain. "Ah, here we are 'kupia', ready for your adventure?"

The woman in her early forties gives him a tiny smile, "Yes, I'm excited to see what the higher portions of Mount Dikti have to offer!"

"Vaì kalà, shall we be getting on then?" he shoulders a satchel as well as another bottle of water. Trying to immerse himself into his cover persona. Ioannes, the washed out military grunt who helps his cousin with the tours in and around the Diktaean Cavern.

Petros, a very kind man, had a brother stationed on Cypres at the same time as John. Phaeton (the brother) had always been very proud of the fact that his family came from the cradle of civilisation, both Minoan and the origin of the gods. He frequently told John stories about his brother who worked as a guide for the local land mark caverns. Often saying they should head down there on leave, but John always went back to England to see his ailing mother.

Some years later, out of the blue, John received notice of Phaeton's passing through Petros. Apparently the brothers had often talked, through the years, of the troubled young Englishman with the sick mother. Petros related that his brother had taken a fatal wound in a freak accident during a riot. He went on to express Phaeton's high opinion of John and repeated his younger brother's offer to put-up John if he ever decided to visit.

'I wonder if Phaeton ever thought I'd be seeking asylum with his brother some day... Probably, he was almost as bad as Sherlock.'

That thought burns through him like acid and he actually stumbles kicking loose some rock on the trail. Covering his lack of observance by turning around to converse with the woman he's guiding, he tries to keep his expression from revealing any of the inner turmoil in his heart, and tugs his cap down low over his eyes.

"Petros told me your name, but sadly my memory isn't all that it should be."

She smiles, "My name is Mary, Mary Morstan, and you are my capable guide Ioannes, younger cousin to Petros."

John nods, "Yes I am, but what is a lovely lady like yourself doing traveling about, like this, without a man to protect her?" Inwardly John is cringing, he would never say something so horribly sexist to a modern woman, but things are different here. Not that the men are sexist, really, more chivalry is still quite strong, and John knows to emulate the common cultural gaffs that Mary has probably heard dozens of times already on her trip.

Mary, wry smirk on her face, none the less answers his question, "My father was stationed in India, and my mother died while I was a toddler; so as I was educated in the UK, one can imagine I traveled a lot between the two on my own."

Nodding emphatically along with her, John turns and begins climbing again, Well that's lovely, he's half alienated the person he has to spend three nights with, up on a mountain no less, brilliant.

"You do that out loud you know?"

John freezes, for a moment his brain cannot separate the teasing jovial tone Mary employes from the memory of Sherlock dispassionately stating the obvious. All he can do is drop his head and pretend to be suppressing laughter. Without turning he replies, trying to imbue the words with carefree emotions that just aren't there.

"Yeah well, Petros always says I'm not really fit for cultured company, that I fit out here and no where else. Maybe he's right." As John rounds a switchback in the trail he's caught by Mary's eyes. Not because she is looking at him full of pity, but acceptance and understanding.

He finishes the climb silently.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

John is dreaming, of that he is certain, but that is all he knows. He feels as though he is being drug through a shallow, but very fast flowing rivulet of dark fetid water that has an oily film on the surface. He recognises the chaotic jumble as his memories, but every time he 'breaks the surface' within the dream he looses himself to a memory.

Horrible screeching easily recognisable as Harry devolves into moans, then a broken whispered voice breaks through, "Jonny? Dear god Jonny, run... I'm so..." Her voice is suddenly cut short, Jim's hands clenching impossibly tight, robbing her of any ability to speak, let alone breathe.

John sits bolt upright, sweat pouring down off his face, breath whistling through his aching throat, as though he's been heaving it in for ages already. After a few minutes his eyes focus on the fire, then the fact that he isn't alone, and lastly that Mary is watching him from the depths of her sleeping bag. "Sorry." is all he manages to croak out.

Popping her head and shoulders out of the warmth she props herself up on the cold stony ground, "Please don't feel you need to apologise for things that are torturing you, I was awake already so you didn't disturb me at all." John happily takes the diversion, "Why were you awake already?"

"I'll tell you, if you tell me what woke you." her almost flirtatious tone belied by her eyes that seem to be tracking his reactions. John feels an anxious fluttering in his stomach as he is once again reminded of Sherlock's appraising looks.

Not that John doesn't think about his past love often, if not every day, but it isn't usually in comparison to another person. Calming himself further before answering he stares into the fire.
"I saw a lot of action a while back and somehow I'm the only one left. My dreams are all a horrible jumble of war and fighting for my life, it's... horrible."

Mary settles back into her sleeping bag, pulling the ties tight to hold the warmth in, "I left someone back home, and sometimes I'm not sure I should have."

John rolls himself back up in a ball facing the fire, "That's where I have you beat, my dear, I know I shouldn't have left him behind." Closing his eyes and rolling away he pretends to have fallen asleep when her confused voice asks him, "Who?"

xxxxxxxxxxxx

In the morning they both behave as though the conversation had never taken place. There was no awkward moment of pretending it didn't mean anything, just the silent agreement, of two adults, that what they said was all that could be, and it was a significant turning point for each of them.

Mary took reels and reels of photos off the upper trails, beautiful vistas and charmingly delappitated windmills, and the two of them relaxed significantly as their trip went on.

Text MSGs

10/09/12 19:44Rob: Boss, she's gone up the mountain with a questionable guide. Can you get a grunt to check him out? Ioannes Kostas?

14/09/12 8:05Jim: WHERE ARE THEY? NOW!

14/09/12 8:07Rob: Still on the mountain boss, GPS tag on my phone is approximate, I'm staying at their home base at the taverna.

14/09/12 8:07Jim: start up the mountain, do NOT engage, but make sure they are STILL THERE. I'll be there in a few hours.

14/09/12 8:08Rob: Your coming here? I', going up right now.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Notes: 'kupia' (pronounced kyira) is Greek for 'lady'.

vaì kalà (pronounced nai kala) is 'yeah right'.