A/N: This story follows immediately on the action of 'Gambit', which I posted almost a year and a half ago. I knew there was more to the story, and hoped it would let me tell it eventually. So. Welcome to 'eventually' :D If you've not read Gambit, I recommend you start there, as this fic drops you right into the middle of the conversation started there.

This chapter is also a birthday gift fic for GhyllWyne - happy birthday, Ghyll! Hope you like it!

With thanks to kate221b and J_Baillier for letting me pick their brains for medical things, and 7percentsolution for eyeballs on the drafts :)

John Watson was not a betting man. Oh, he enjoyed a game of cards, or darts, and followed rugby and footie. He never placed bets, though, no matter how attractive the stakes.

It wasn't just alcohol addiction that had killed his Da. That was the end of it, but not the beginning.

John's dad had liked a flutter on the horses, and he turned to drink when he lost, which was more often than not. The family lived at the edge of poverty, in a state of constant anxiety regarding both the condition of their finances, and the near certainty that his Da would be arriving home drunk.

He was an angry drunk. Guilty, and resentful, depressed, and bitter. Unpredictably violent. Until the day he didn't come home, having wrapped the family car around a tree on his way home from the pub, his blood alcohol level more than three times the legal limit.

No, John Watson was not a betting man. He never put up so much as a fiver on a game. He knew that way lay ruin.

But that didn't mean that John wasn't a gambling man. Not by any means. He gambled frequently, and enjoyed it. Savored the rush of calculating the risks, and then beating the odds. Enjoyed the burn of adrenaline. But he never gambled with anything as base as money.

When John Watson gambled, it was for much larger stakes. To save lives, he risked his own. He'd done it time and again in Afghanistan, and more than a few times since returning to London and falling into the orbit of a mad consulting detective. John always hoped to come out the other side alive and able to gamble again, but he went in to each situation ready to forfeit his life if required.

The stakes involved the operation Irene proposed were a bit different. This time, he didn't quite care to come out alive if the game couldn't be won. The life he was now living wasn't worth preserving.

John was a muddled mess. His head was filled with doubts, his heart was filled with hurt, and the blood in his veins absolutely sang with joy and excitement.

There would be anger later, he knew. But for now, the doubt didn't matter, and the hurt could be pushed aside. He stood a bit straighter, letting the calm of the battlefield fall over him. This was familiar territory. This was home. All that was missing was Sherlock at his side. John aimed to change that – if only so he could kill the bastard himself afterward.

They had a week, she said. At the most.

A week in which to plan and execute a rescue mission from God only knew where. And to do so without being followed, by friend or foe. Or Mycroft.

Planning took time. Far more time than the few minutes John had before he needed to be heading back to the office for afternoon appointments.

"Call in sick," Irene said with a shrug, curling into the armchair Mrs Norton had vacated after her appointment with John.

"I can't just bugger off work at the drop of a hat, Irene."

"I thought that was your modus operandi where Sherlock was concerned," Irene replied with a smirk, reaching for her teacup.

John couldn't argue the point, and found that he was torn between glaring at her, and grinning madly. As far as Sherlock was concerned, the Work came first, not just for the detective, but for his assistant-cum-blogger as well. John's other commitments were brushed aside, with only token protest. Because, really, Sherlock might be a bloody irritating git, but he was also fun. Far more fun than locum work to be sure, and, if John were honest, also more fun than his dates tended to be. Even the ones Sherlock didn't sabotage to come fetch a phone from three feet away from where the lazy git was sitting.

God, John missed him.

In the end, he rose from his seat and moved across the room, as far from where Irene sat as he could get. He turned away from her, pretending privacy even as he felt her gaze on his back. Dialing the phone, he cleared his throat a few times and tried to sag into the feeling of illness he hoped to project across the call.

The new receptionist made sympathetic noises about the nausea that he said he hoped was due to the dodgy Chinese leftovers he'd had for breakfast, rather than the stomach flu they'd been treating at the clinic all week. She agreed that she hoped his illness was the shorter-lived food poisoning, but told him to take the time he needed to be fully recovered when he returned.

"Right, I will. Give Roger a call, or Amy. They should be able to fill in."

"I'll take care of it, John. You just get some rest and get well. When you get back I'll take you out for coffee to celebrate your return to good health."

"Mary ..." John began, a clear demurral in his tone.

"I won't badger you when you're feeling ill, John. But I will keep asking. I hope eventually you'll say yes," came the response.

"Yeah. Maybe," John answered.

"Go on, then. Go take care of you. I've got you covered."

"Thanks, Mary."

When he turned around he caught the speculative look Irene was giving him. He refused to acknowledge it. If he had to work with her to save Sherlock, fine. He could do that. He didn't have to like it, but he could do it. Either way, he did not have to talk to her at all about his personal life or the perky blond who seemed determined to revive it, whether he wanted her to or not.

Glancing away for a minute, John drew a deep breath. He knew what the stakes were. It was time to find out what hand awaited him.

"All right, then. Deal me in."