Returning to the Past (For You)
-)-(-
Wincing as the pain from his most recent minor injury made itself known, John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and former army surgeon, wondered what the hell he was going to do now. It was just days after learning that James Moriarty's body had been found on the roof of St. Barts and days since he had seen his flatmate take a header off of the roof of the same building. Sitting in the flat on Baker's street was too much for his concussed mind, and he started to pace, gently running his fingers over the violin that somberly sat in the corner.
Choking back a sob, John headed out, glad that there weren't any reporters waiting to mob him this time around like all the other times before. Taking his time, he eventually made it to a dingy alley, purchasing a phone from some man for a ridiculous price, and placed a call to a good friend.
"General McAvers speaking," the voice that answered was rough from too many cigars, but that only added to the man's charm.
"General, it's John Watson calling. I was wondering if you could do me a favor," John asked, keeping his head down so that there were fewer chances that he would be recognized, even if it was from Mycroft. The upgraded surveillance that the older Holmes brother had placed on him didn't do much good, as he often found himself slipping under the radar.
"Three Continents! How are you? I heard about that flatmate of yours, and let me tell you, the line that this Katty person was spinning sounded even ridiculous to my twelve year old, and the kid doesn't even pay attention to the news," Xavier McAvers' son, Brent, was more into science, specifically animal science, so it said a lot when the boy thought that Kitty Riley's tale was quite the tall one. "What can I do for you?"
"I want to re-enlist. I can't stay here and be hounded for who knows how long for still believing in Sherlock," John fought back another whimper as he thought about his friend, still unable to believe that he was gone. It seemed that every time he closed his eyes, he was seeing grey eyes blankly staring into some middle distance and the blood creating a grotesque halo around dark curls. Even now, he could still remember the way the blood felt on his skin as it dried, hands prying him away from the scene and into a hospital room where he remained comatose until he barely heard a member of Scotland Yard scornfully say that he was glad that Sherlock was dead. He had snapped back into his military state of mind, landed a punch on the man's face before walking out of the hospital. No one had bothered him since, no one from the Yard anyways, and if he was stopped, it didn't take much for them to leave him alone. "I need to get away."
"I'll arrange it. You make sure that you're ready and at the airfield in two days," McAvers promised.
Agreeing to be there on time, John hung up and headed back to the flat, intending to pack up in secret. It hurt him to think that he would be leaving Mrs. Martha Hudson alone so soon after the death of one of her favorite tenants, but he couldn't stand to be in the city anymore, and if this is what it took for him to regain his life, then he would take it.
It was surreal to not hear or smell anything bizarre in the flat, he thought as he made his way up the stairs, his finger tracing the zygomatic arches of the skull that sat on the fireplace mantel. Knowing that he had a limited time to get ready, he stumbled up the stairs to his room and grabbed his old military duffel, frowning when he noticed the acid burns that marked one side of the bag. The material wasn't compromised, and it did give the bag character, so he decided to ignore it, wondering when Sherlock had used the bag as one of his experiments. Shrugging away what could have been a painful memory, John sat on his bed and grasped for the cookie tin that he had hidden under his bed within easy reach. He discarded his old army photos, planning to replace them with pictures of the flat and of the people closest to him, so that he knew what he had to look forward to when he got back. It didn't take him long to finish upstairs, and he headed down, slowly stopping in front of the closed door that he was afraid to open.
A quick turn of the knob, and he was inside, burying his memories so that they wouldn't cloud his vision. Sneaking quietly, as if Sherlock wasn't dead and could come walking in at any second, John opened the closet door, his hands slipping over the silk shirts that were inside, eventually coming across the woolen object that he was planning to take with him. The coat was heavy, a sign of the high quality clothing that Sherlock always wore, and he was glad that Molly Hooper, the M.E. that he still considered to be a friend, and the only pathologist brave enough to perform Sherlock's autopsy, had the coat cleaned and passed it over to him. He wasn't going to wear it while in a warzone, but whenever he got back to London; he was planning on having something to keep him warm, in deference to the changes of weather. Folding the coat gently, he tucked it in his bag before reverently closing the door and heading for the sitting room, sitting in his chair.
The room hadn't changed; it was still cluttered with papers and half solved theories about crimes that had been in the international section of the papers. The sight of the simple smiley face drawn with yellow spray paint on the wall, littered with bullet holes, brought pangs of sadness, and he opened his laptop, planning on posting one last blog before leaving to check into a motel near the base. He opened his blog site, ignoring the fact that he had left the comments enabled and started typing.
Sorry about the wait. The fact that Sherlock died trying to tell me that he was a fake was too much for me, even though I knew that he was the real thing. I have news for anyone still reading; I am leaving for Afghanistan once more. I cannot, in good conscience, stay in a city that has betrayed both Sherlock and myself. I am not suicidal; I am only leaving so that I may help others.
Thank you for reading, and following, my posts. I hope that you can understand why I believe that Sherlock wasn't a fraud; after living with him, you learn to pick up his technique, something that has helped me in the medical field. I am not a freak, as some of the Yarders had called him, but I know where he was coming from.
I know that Moriarty was real. The man did, after all, strap me with enough explosives to take out a building, because he was bored and wanted to play a game with Sherlock. For those loyal followers of mine, search for the truth. Moriarty did leave a trail somewhere, so have fun discrediting Kitty's tall tale. I encourage you to try.
I Believe in Sherlock Holmes.
Posting the entry, John wrote out a quick note, leaving it on the door stoop. Grabbing his bag and the tin with its new pictures, he left the flat, hailing a cab to take him to the base. He trusted McAvers to get him his job back, so he didn't worry.
As the streets of London dwindled to suburban population, John allowed the civilian he had become to fade into the back of his mind, the soldier taking its place. It was time to head back to war.
-)-(-
Raz frowned when he found the door to the flat closed. It had taken him a bit to make his way down to Baker street when he had heard the news, and though he and the doctor had gotten off to a rocky start, he wanted to express his sympathies. Raising his hand to knock, the door downstairs opened.
"John! I found your cookies, dearie," the sweet voice of Mrs. Hudson drifted up the short flight of stairs.
Turning to head back down, something white caught Raz's eye. Picking it up, he found it to be a note. As he was opening it, the elderly landlady finished her climb up the stairs.
"Oh, hello," Mrs. Hudson said, startled to find such an oddly dressed youngster standing at the closed door, holding a piece of paper. "May I ask who you are?"
"I'm an old friend of Sherlock's, and of the doctor's," Raz replied, skimming the contents of the note. "Mrs. Hudson, I don't think that the doctor will be able to eat your cookies; he's gone."
"Gone? Gone where?" Mrs Hudson couldn't help but worry about the living one of her two boys. She accepted the note, covering her mouth when she felt as if she might scream or cry out. Dropping the paper, she fumbled for her keys and opened the door to the flat, hurrying through as fast as her hip would allow.
Raz followed the landlady inside, doing his own quick search, stopping as he noticed the opened laptop sitting on the cleared kitchen table. Touching the mouse so that the screen saver deactivated, he sighed as he read the most recent post on the doctor's blog; it had been updated not more than an hour ago, and already there were a couple hundred comments in answer to the post, most promising to tear Kitty Riley 's story, and her reputation, to shreds. As he read, an idea began to form in his head; something to help prove to the public that Sherlock was real, and so was Moriarty.
"He's gone back to war," he whispered as the weight of the words sunk in.
-)-(-
Xavier McAvers frowned when he saw John walked through the gate, his bag thrown over his shoulder. The man looked worn and haggard, dark circles accentuating his eyes, and not in a good way. He knew that the younger man wasn't doing well, but this wasn't what he expected: John looked to be on the verge of falling to the ground and dying.
"TC! I have your papers set up and you'll be leaving after your evaluation, which is tomorrow. You'll be back in the middle of it by the end of the week," McAvers said, lowering his arm after he saw the flinch that shook the entire man's body. "Meanwhile, you're staying at home: Brent wants you to go over the human anatomy with him for his test in a couple of days."
John knew better than to argue with the man who was giving him a half-arsed purpose to keep on living. He needed something to do, and he had to get away from London at the same time, if only for his sanity. Nodding, he followed the other man into the base offices and filled out some paperwork that needed to be done, saying the he was agreeing to head back into the service. As he was signing, he noticed that there was an extra paper in the bundle compared to the last time.
"What's this?" he asked.
"There's a unit that needs a doctor. They're based in Kandahar, but they don't follow regular patrol schedules like the others. In fact, these men are more of a rapid response team, and they answer to only a specific number of personnel; and I checked on them for you. There is no Holmes on that list," McAvers replied. "I figured that you didn't want to be put under a man that would remind you about your flatmate."
If there was one thing John liked about the General, it was that once he was told something by those he trusted, he believed in them. He remembered having called one day, if only to complain about how no one listened to him when he told people that he and Sherlock were not romantically engaged, but that he was the man's moral compass. He listened when others wouldn't.
"Thank you," he said, signing the form that was giving him the position of field medic for the team. Silently, he handed the forms back to his current superior, watching with interest as they were given to a young woman to be filed and entered in the system. His status would soon change to active, and then within the next day he would be gone.
-)-(-
Mycroft Holmes stared at the file on his desk, the words blurring into an unintelligible mess that had him violently closing the file and shoving it away from him. With his brother dead, he felt as if he hadn't had the time to properly tell the younger man what he truly felt about his sibling; that he was proud for him to have fought on the side of good. Resisting the urge to find a bottle of well-aged scotch, he startled when his assistant walked in with her phone in her hands.
"We have a problem sir," she announced.
"What kind of problem are we speaking about, Jacille?" Mycroft asked.
"John Watson has gone, sir," she replied. "He posted on his blog earlier today, and has created an uproar with his followers."
Quickly typing in the address on his computer, Mycroft frowned as he read the post, and the ensuing comments. There were already more than a thousand, and some were repeaters, or arguing points. "Where has he gone?" he demanded.
"Unknown, sir. Our surveillance wasn't as secure on him as we thought, and by the time we had sent someone to the flat, he was long gone. The landlady seemed truly upset that he had left," Jacille reported. "We are looking through his file, and waiting for an update as soon as possible."
"Don't bother stopping him, Jacille. He won't take kindly to it, and I would prefer to not be in his firing line should he find out that I am still keeping tabs on him," Mycroft ordered, watching as her delicate fingers flew across the small keyboard of the phone. His orders would be followed out without question, and even though he hated the idea that he had to leave John Watson alone so that he could get on with his life, he felt that it was for the best, no matter the outcome.
-)-(-
Four days later, the plane hit tarmac, the signal to the passengers on board that they had to be soldiers now. After spending three days living with McAvers and his family, John felt relieved that he wouldn't be near anything that would remind him of the life he had led in London. Feeling the soldier take over, he disembarked from the plane, heading to the field commanders tent, where he introduced himself, and was given instructions as to where he could find his new team.
The desert seemed familiar, yet so different. It was amazing that one of the many places he had been to was always changing, from war or from nature, but it was the same. Stretches of sand, warm from the sun's rays filled his view. He knew that the villages that were spread out through the province were under constant threat, and that the villagers lived hard lives, but he found that most would only settle for only one kind of peace; to be left alone. Still, there were the exceptions. He smiled when he saw a bunch of kids, ranging from early adolescent to mid-teens, run by, and chasing a soccer ball.
At least they were happy, John thought as he reached his new tent, knocking on one of the posts by the flap opening. "Hello?" he called.
"Come in!" a voice answered him.
Following the sound, John found himself almost face to face with the broad frame of a dark skinned Caucasian. The man was short, no higher than he, but he made up for his short stature with a powerful physique.
"You must be our new doctor," the man spoke, sounding like thunder rumbling in the distance. "Morris Creed. Most people call me Sure Shot, or SS for short."
"Let me guess, sharpshooter?" John ventured, though he could tell that the man was a sniper, and not by the nickname. There were calluses on Creed's palms, and all in the wrong place for either handguns or assault weapons, and he could see a slight weakening in his left shoulder from where the rifle had slammed repeatedly into the area.
Instead on answering, Creed gave the doctor a grin, waving him further inside. "This is your bunk," he said, pointing to a cot that was more in the middle of the tent. "You can leave your stuff here while we go and find the others. They want to meet you and see what you can do."
Shrugging away the dark feeling that came to him when he recognized that obvious order for a meet and greet, John gently placed his things on the bunk, intending to come back soon to put them away. He silently followed the sharpshooter, making no noise as he walked. When they finally came across a group of four men, John ghosted over to the nearby shadow of a tent, glad to see that no one had noticed him, and sat down.
"SS, do you need something?" A voice asked. The speaker stepped forward, revealing his short dark hair and hazel eyes. His skin was colored, but too pale; indicating that this man didn't get enough sun – which was ridiculous considering their location – or it was a genetic quirk that had him unable to get a proper tan.
"I just came to show the doc around, Cap," Creed reported.
"Really? Where is the man, SS?" a woman spoke up, this one's features marking her from a clear oriental descent.
Whirling, Creed's eyes popped open when he realized that John wasn't behind him. "He was right behind me," he said, trying to pinpoint John. "Okay, I give up, doc! You can come out now."
John complied, taking his time to melt back into the sunlight, startling his new team as they realized that there was something special about their new doctor. Secretly, John was glad that he could still surprise people, even though he felt as if he was as transparent as he thought he was. "Captain John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," he reported. "Most people call me Three Continents."
"Steve Evans; my nickname is Cap, or Captain," the first man to have spoken introduced himself, extending a hand that John accepted.
"Captain America, right?"
"Yeah, just because my name is a play on the actor and his character, these clowns decided that it would make a good call name for me," Evans laughed. "So, introductions then. You know Creed, and this is Blade. His real name is Bill Henderson."
Bill was an African American, his Californian accent strong as he spoke. "We decided to stick with names from the Marvel universe, especially when the other two joined up," he said. "We're all nerds at heart, except for Creed; he came to us with his name already."
"I can see that," John replied.
A large man offered his hand next, his blond hair cut in a shaggy military style. "Ian Goodwin, aka Thor," Ian's voice was loud, despite the fact that he was talking in a low tone. The man's hulking six foot three frame made John feel tiny, but he felt safe around the giant.
"Most people call me Elektra, but I let only my team call me by my real name, Savannah Ryan," the oriental John had noticed earlier spoke up, extending her hand to the doctor, which he took. She then used his hand against him, pulling him violently towards her slim frame, a knife in her other hand.
John ducked under the arm, knocking the blade away while sweeping Savannah's legs out from under her. As she was falling, he was already reaching up to grab her by the wrists to toss her properly on the ground. Savannah registered her angle of descent, and adjusted for it, slipping by John to grab him by the neck. Her grip was crushing, but John wiggled out of it, using his body mass to pin her to the ground and hold the knife that he had picked from her body firmly over her carotid artery. Savannah stilled, knowing that she was beaten and that from the pressure that was being exerted on her neck, she would have been dead within a minute had the doctor actually slashed down.
John got to his feet and helped the woman get up, flipping the knife around so that the hilt was pointed at her. It had been a while since he had such a scuffle, and he was glad to see that neither his training nor his skills that he had picked up in London had left him.
"Nice moves, doc. It's not very often that we get to see Savannah knocked on her ass, however shapely it is," Steve said. From Savannah's dark look, John could tell that it was a running theme with the group to mock the woman about her body, but that they knew where to stop before risking the chance of a severe injury.
That night, John sat awake, looking through the tin that he had filled with pictures, trying to remember the fun times, and not the bad. He was smiling at the memory of the first incident with Moriarty, about how Sherlock had taken the bomb vest off of him, about his first, true emotional outburst back at the flat. The detective had been so scared to have nearly lost his blogger that night that they had snuggled on John's bed in order to relieve his fears. He suspected that it was his landlady who had taken the picture, but he couldn't be sure.
"And people said that you didn't have emotions," John murmured quietly to the picture, tucking the image of Sherlock back in the tin, making sure to not crease the paper.
"Someone important to you?" Henderson made sure that his voice wouldn't carry and wake the others in the tent.
"He was my brother," John answered, putting the tin away and turning the light off.
"He died?"
"No, he killed himself, to save me apparently," John replied, shifting on his cot to find a comfortable position that wouldn't kill his back in the morning.
-)-(-
It was easy to find a rhythm as time went on. John found himself looking forward to each mission, if only to keep him from going insane with boredom. After their first mission together, John shared his entire story, since being sent back home the first time after he was shot. Steve found himself intrigued by Sherlock's deductive methods, and eventually found himself comparing the detective's methods to war time experience; after spending so many hours in a place where many of the locals wanted you dead just for not believing in the same religion as them, you found yourself relying on your gut more often than not. Savannah, on the other hand, wanted to take the next plane to London and find some of the people who had discredited Sherlock and give them a piece of her mind. She had performed her own little investigation and had found evidence, or rather, the lack of, about Richard Brooks' existence.
McAvers had received word from John, thanking him for getting him back in the service. Though it wasn't what he had been looking for, it was more than enough for the doctor to find a purpose to keep on living. So, when word reached him two years and three months after John had re-entered the service that the response team had gone missing during the middle of an op, and that the lithe figure of their combat expert, Savannah Ryan, had been found, unconscious and bleeding, or that Bill "Blade" Henderson had been found tortured to death, he started to panic. He organized missions to try and find the team, but all eight of them had resulted in nothing being found. The ninth had resulted in some intelligence that was important to the search, and the tenth found the team in trouble.
-)-(-
John bobbed his head to the music that rocked from the speakers, his eyes scanning the landscape in a continuous arc. He didn't want to be caught with his proverbial pants down. They needed to get to the next village by nightfall so that they could meet with their contact without being harassed by the villagers who did not trust the soldiers.
"John, help me out here!" Creed pleaded, ducking under Savannah's wild swing. He had pissed off the woman by commenting about how they used to be confined to the house, doing "woman's work" and was currently paying for it.
"Sorry, you stepped into this pile, and I have no inclination to help you out. All you had to do was click on your brain-mouth filter instead," John grinned as Savannah's boot found its home in Creed's family jewels. Despite the cup that the man wore, he found himself cross-eyed in pain, the other men in the truck wincing in sympathetic pain as well.
The village, which they happened upon just after sunset, was quiet. The villagers had bedded down for the night for their early start in the morning. Sneaking silently around the huts, the team easily found their contact; he was a man wearing the most ridiculously colored polo shirt smoking a cigarette in the northeast quadrant.
An exchange of code phrases confirmed that this was their man. John watched as Steve took the offered contents of an envelope when he noticed the red dot of a laser skim the back of Steve's head.
"Ambush!" he called out, wincing at the sound of a large bore weapon firing. Their contact jerked and fell, as if he was a marionette who had just had his strings cut. In the village, there were no sounds of panic, except for the animals confined in their pens.
Men wearing faded clothing appeared from the sands, brandishing weapons that were so old, that some of them would have been considered as antiques. They surrounded the team, striking Savannah down when she sliced the throat of one of the men. They dragged her limp body into the town, securing her wrists to the fence posts of an abandoned pen.
Bill struggled as he was tied down, cursing the men for all he was worth. A blow to the head silenced him long enough for him to realize that they were separating the group up. He was with Savannah and the others were being taken away, more than likely to a more secure camp. The camp became a legitimate possibility when he heard the stuttering engine of an old truck start up.
Turning his head as a dark shadow loomed in his vision, Bill screamed out when the sharp cold burn of steel penetrated his flesh, drawing a long line of pain on his leg. His cries echoed strangely around him as he was slowly cut to pieces, his blood staining the sands red around him.
-)-(-
Ian opened his eyes, taking his time to adjust to the low lighting. His head felt as if it was about to burst apart. Staggering to his feet, he found that he was bound at the ankle with a large iron manacle to what he found to be the cold wall of a cave. In the near dark of what he assumed to be a blocked off area of a rather large cave, he could just barely make out two other forms lying on the ground. He couldn't reach them as the chain tethering him was too short, so he settled for calling out, trying to figure out who was with him.
An undeterminable amount of time later, Ian was rewarded with movement. One of the other figures moved, grumbling out a curse that Ian easily identified as Creed. Almost on the heels of Creed's mumblings, Steve woke up, his lean form shooting straight into a sitting position. Ian frowned, searching the darkness for the other member of the team that had been brought with them. "Where's the doc?" he asked.
"I don't know. He was with us in the truck, but then they knocked us out," Steve replied.
Just as Creed was about to make a comment, the door opened. It's creaking wood and ancient hinges did not hide the pained yelp that came from the being that was tossed in, legs bound with heavy chain. The door slammed closed, sealing all four in the darkness.
"TC? Is that you?" Steve asked, concerned for the doctor.
"Yeah," John's voice was full of pain as he tried to find a position that wouldn't aggravate his injuries. He had fought back when they had tried to drug him, resulting in severe bruising all over his torso. When he had awoken hours earlier from his enforced nap, he had been told to take care of the injured men or one of his team would die. Not wanting to watch as a friend died because of him, he had treated the wounded, and, once done, he had launched himself at the man who he figured was in charge. He was caught before he could get his hands around the man's throat and had been beaten for his troubles.
"Do you have any idea what they want?" Ian asked.
"Not really. They wanted me to patch up their wounded, but when I tried to go for the top man, they caught me and beat me," John answered. His mental assessment of the rest of the team had him feeling a bit optimistic, but he knew that it wouldn't last. Sooner or later, something would happen, and they would be too weak to do a damn thing about it.
It was impossible to know how much time had passed when they were sitting in the dark, but as they had fallen asleep twice, they assumed that they had been held captive for at least three days. The team had been given next to no food and water since their arrival, and they were unable to fight back when the insurgents came to get them. Ian was separated from the group and tied down to a chair, a video camera set up to catch everything.
No one spoke the dialect that was being used, and the team watched in horror as a machete was produced. Its edge was quicksilver bright compared to the tarnished blade, and was more than adequate for the job as Ian was decapitated. They barely registered the camera being panned towards them, catching their reactions. More words were said before the remaining three were ushered back to their cell and chained.
"He had a wife and son," Steve said as he came out of his stupor, trying to keep the image of Ian's head being put on display like a trophy out of his mind.
John nodded, curling up against the wall, needing the psychological comfort of having something protecting his backside. He lost himself in the memories that he had of Sherlock, trying to block out what he had just seen. Eventually, his thoughts turned to the other two missing members of his team. "I think that Savannah and Bill are dead, too. They would have brought them out too see the execution with us," he told the others.
Creed nodded in the dark, speaking aloud when he remembered where he was. "I agree with the doc. We were separated from them early on," he said.
Those words put the three men on edge as they tried to think of ways to escape before they were all killed.
-)-(-
Rough hands woke John up from a semi peaceful slumber. He had no energy to fight back as he was dragged to another room. Once he was secured to the wall, he was left alone. Adrenaline flushed his body, making him more alert than he had been since they had been captured. When the door did open hours later, he keenly watched the men who entered, trying to determine what they wanted this time.
"Your people have no interest in negotiating your release," one of the men spoke out loud.
John ignored that little bit of information. "How long have I been here?" he croaked out, cursing the fact that he hadn't had anything to drink in the last possible two days.
"You have been in our company for eight days, doctor," the man replied. "You may call me Kareem."
"Why?"
"You have information I need, doctor. It would be easier if you just told me what I wanted to know, and your suffering will end," Kareem answered. "Now, tell me, where is your base?"
John gathered what little saliva he had in his mouth and spat, smirking when the glob landed on Kareem's face. He wasn't going to say a damn thing, no matter what happened to him, and he was planning on making things very frustrating for the man.
The blows came at random intervals after he had been blindfolded. He jerked and cried out at the pain, but he did not say anything about the base or anything else that Kareem wanted to know. He judged the days passing by the lack of fists hitting his body for hours on end; he had been in this room for four days from what he could tell. On the morning of the fifth day, the door opened, the sound of multiple footsteps entering the room telling John that something big was happening. He was unchained from the wall and the blindfold was removed from his face and seated in a chair. His lower body was bound to the chair while his arms were stretched in front of him and strapped down to a somewhat small table. When Kareem entered, carrying the same blade that had decapitated Ian, John snarled, and lurched towards the man, despite his bonds. His head snapped to the side, the force of the blow causing his lip to bleed.
"You are making things very difficult, doctor. Perhaps we should resort to stronger methods to convince you to tell us what we want to know," Kareem threatened.
Just as he was about to continue, the door opened, hinges violently protesting their abuse. A young man, barely out of his twenties rushed in, carrying a hurried conversation in hushed tones with Kareem. Orders were barked out shortly after, Kareem's men rushing out of the room to do their master's bidding.
"I am sorry, doctor. It seems as if we will not have time to finish our conversation. But, I will not allow you to tell the others what I want to know," Kareem said, raising the machete so that the blade would kill John with one swing. A commotion at the door startled the man as he was in mid swing, the sharp edge driving through flesh and bone to lodge in wood.
Steve barreled through the door, having escaped from his own executioners. His borrowed pistol barked two times, killing Kareem where he stood. Hunched over, he gasped for breath; the run between the rooms was a long one that he had cut down considerably.
"Cap, I need help," Steve looked up, never hearing such a tone from the doctor before. It was a worrying mix of calm and fear. Looking up, he cursed, ripping off Kareem's coat and string belt, using them to stop the flow of blood from John's arm, trying to stop the bile from rising at the sight of the severed limb. The machete blade had cleanly cut through John's forearm, leaving his hand separated from the rest of his body.
Already the amount of blood lost was taking a toll on John's weakened body. His head was lolling from side to side, eyes fluttering closed, only to open blearily a second later. Securing the makeshift tourniquet, Steve looked up at the slight rustling he heard at the door. Palming his pistol, he took aim, waiting to see who was on the other side, ready to defend himself and John if it came down to it.
-)-(-
McAvers worriedly bit at his lip, wondering why it was taking so long for news from the mission to reach him. The wait was excruciatingly long, and it was killing him. As he was about to get up and pace around his office once more, his computer beeped at him, alerting him to an incoming video transmission. Clicking to accept, he waited to hear the news.
"We found them, sir. Evans and Watson are alive. We found Creed's body higher in the hills; he had been killed a few days ago," a soldier reported.
"Are the survivors all right?" McAvers demanded.
"Evans will be fine after an extended stay in the hospital. Watson, on the other hand, has a longer road for recovery. Prior to our assault, his arm had been amputated. It doesn't look as if we'll be able to attach it to the stump," the soldier replied.
"Thank you for getting them out," McAvers said, and disconnected the link. He leaned back in his chair, burying his face in his hands. There was no way that the two remaining members of the best rescue team in the forces would remain on duty, not with all of the trauma that they had endured. As sad as it was, he would have to let them go, but he would make sure that they received a healthy recompense in exchange. He just hoped that John would be fine; returning to a civilian life where the issue of Sherlock Holmes being the real deal or not was probably asking too much for the soldier, but he knew that Steve "Captain" Evans would keep an eye on his teammate.
A transport was arranged the following week with a few medical personnel keeping watch over John's condition or Steve's developing PTSD. John had rambled a bit during the flight, offering Steve a place to stay if his landlady hadn't rented out her flats. Mrs. Hudson, John knew, was keeping 221B for him when he got back - though she didn't know that he was on his way back to London for good this time - and that she had been speaking about renovating 221C for another renter. Steve agreed, not comfortable with letting his only conscious teammate wander the city alone. Savannah, they had learned while in medical, was in a coma, and if there was nothing that the doctors could do, they would respect her wishes and disconnect her from life support and let her go.
Eventually, the two were allowed to visit Savannah as she lay unresponsive in her private room. Steve sat down in one of the seats, handing over the chart that lay at the end of the bed at John's request. "What does it say?" he asked the doctor.
"She's completely unresponsive to outside stimuli, and her brain activity hasn't improved at all since they started monitoring her," John replied. "They're taking her off of life support today."
Cursing under his breath, Steve looked away, absorbing every detail that he could of Savannah's lax face, wanting to remember the sassy woman as well as he could. He didn't want to forget her, and silently promised himself that he would watch over the last living member of his team until he couldn't any more.
-)-(-
Mrs. Hudson showed up the day before Savannah's funeral, carrying with her a couple changes of clothes for the two men who would be living at the flat, bravely ignoring the sight of John's arm ending inches below his elbow. She shared the news that 221C had been completely redone, and was ready for Steve to move in whenever he wished. She made a point of driving home the fact that she would feel better if there were two men in the building to help stop vandals; it had become a serious issue in London, especially at Baker Street where youngsters would paint the walls of her building, proclaiming that Moriarty, or rather, Rich Brooks had been falsely accused. Besides, she reasoned, there were certain members of the Homeless Network that wanted John back.
The funeral was a beautifully simple ceremony, honoring Savannah and her brave and dedicated service in the armed forces. There weren't that many mourners standing by the casket, and as per Savannah's instructions, she was buried with her parents, having lost them in a car crash when she was only fourteen.
McAvers had kindly arranged for a car and driver to bring the two remaining men of the team to London, and to help them with what little baggage they had before leaving. It would be a final nail in the coffin for the two, knowing that there was no way that they would be able to go back to serving their country, but they had been told that they had done more than enough.
Mrs. Hudson had spent the entire morning cooking up batches of biscuits, knowing how much John and the Network loved them. She had told Raz when the young man had shown up that morning, as was his ritual that John was coming back from Afghanistan and that if any one of the Network wanted to come and greet him back, that they could. She would be making enough biscuits for them as well. When mid-afternoon rolled around, there was a small gathering of maybe thirty members of the Network waiting nearby. The homeless waited until the car had disgorged its two occupants and the driver, and until Mrs. Hudson had run out to embrace her favorite doctor to show up at the front door of 221.
John started at the sight of so many members of Sherlock's Network coming to welcome him home. Calming down, he smiled and exchanged pleasantries with the few that he personally knew, introducing Steve to them as a whole, and to pass the word onto the others that Steve was to be contacted in some manner if anything happened to him on the streets.
During the reunion, the soldiers' bags had been left at the front door with reassurances that there would be plenty of help to bring them inside. As Mrs. Hudson wandered back inside with a few of the homeless, a couple of police cars screeched up, scattering people as they avoided the vehicles.
"Get these people out of my sight!" the familiar and hated voice of Sergeant Sally Donovan reached John's ears seconds before he saw her. Ducking his head, he listened as his landlady reamed out the sergeant for causing such a ruckus. With voices rising and tempers flaring, John did the only thing he could think of; he raised his own voice to be heard above the others.
"Stand down!" he ordered, marching forward and letting Steve flank him on his wounded side, hiding the disfigured limb from sight. "Who are you, sergeant, to ruin a perfectly good welcome home party? Is it not enough that you accused Sherlock of kidnapping and of being a fraud, and to some extent, accusing me of being a liar that you have to show up unannounced?"
"Hello, Watson," Sally sneered. She had not expected to see the freak's friend show up after almost two and a half years of being gone, but here he was. The chief superintendent would have to be informed.
"You know, that sounded very disrespectful," Steve commented, turning his burning gaze on the policewoman.
"No, she's just upset that her make out session was interrupted," John stated. "Your partner there has a lipstick stain the same shade as yours on his neck. Your hair is a little more ruffled than your usual decorum, and he's a little excited. What happened to Anderson? Was he not enough for you?"
"Huh, that's true. I wonder what her superiors think about fraternization within the same precinct?" Steve wondered. "And, you know, maybe we should go to her chief and ask about what happens to the cops when they're the ones disturbing the peace."
Sally paled at the implications, knowing that things could go very bad for her if the truth came out. As it was, she was already on thin enough ice for having looked over some of the more important pieces of evidence regarding Sherlock's innocence, especially after his suicide. Just as she was opening her mouth to apologize, another squad car pulled up, its lights and sirens mercifully silent.
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade stepped out of his car, taking note of the scattered homeless people and the nearly tangible tension between his subordinate and, to his surprise, John Watson.
"Inspector!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed in slight surprise. "Will you get that woman away from my property? I have biscuits to distribute and I have to get John and his friend settled down to rest. They didn't come back from the war healthy, you know."
Lestrade cringed at Martha's chastising tone; he knew that there were repercussions if the older woman was not obeyed. "Donovan, you and your patrol friends get out of here. I thought that it was made clear that you were to avoid those closest to Sherlock unless you wanted the force of the government on our heads."
Sally winced before turning and heading to her own car. As she was pulling away, she wondered why she had never seen a glimpse of John's right side.
John sighed, knees weakening as his frustration leaked out of his body. Stumbling back to sit on the front steps of 221, he carded his fingers through his hair in an exhausted gesture. Looking up as a bottle of water entered his vision; he smiled and nodded tightly at Raz, a silent gesture of appreciation. "Do you mind?" he asked, hating the fact that he would have to adapt to the fact that he was missing a hand. He took a sip from the bottle once the seal had been cracked open, sighing as the liquid trickled down his throat.
Staring at John's disfigured form; Lestrade couldn't help but think about what had possibly happened to the other man while in a warzone. He also thought about the fact that if Sherlock hadn't died and if he hadn't pushed John away, things would have been different. "What happened, John?" he gently asked, feeling anger rise up at himself at asking the question.
"I was captured by the enemy, Greg," John answered. "They don't exactly play by the rules."
"Come on, TC, you need to rest," Steve ordered, his words punctuated by the doctor's grimace as phantom pain shot up his arm. "You were told to avoid stress, and your little encounter here didn't do you any good."
"Hen," John muttered, mustering up the energy to make the trek up the flight of stairs so that he would be in his flat, unconsciously avoiding the creaky step. He missed the strange but familiar feeling of 221B, and he wondered what Martha had done to the place while he was away. Opening the door, he found himself nearly face to face with Mycroft as the sole surviving Holmes riffled through a folder as he sat on the couch.
"Welcome home, Dr. Watson," he intoned, his peripheral vision picking up the fact that a member of his brother's Network was setting the doctor's bags down by the stairs before taking his leave. Turning his full attention to the returned soldier, Mycroft was surprised when he noticed Sherlock's famous coat hanging off of the man's shoulders. He vaguely wondered when the material had been hemmed up to accommodate John's smaller size, but he pushed all irrelevant thoughts away. "I am sorry to see that you won't be able to serve your country any longer. When my surveillance picked you up coming back into the country, it was a shock to discover that you had been wounded in service."
"Piss off, Mycroft. You had better not have placed any more of your equipment in here; I won't be as gentle as Sherlock was when he found and destroyed them," John said, popping one of the painkillers he had been prescribed from his military doctor. "Is there anything you needed, or were you on your way out?"
"No, there is nothing I need. I merely came to see how you were doing, doctor. Good day," with those final words, Mycroft swept from the room, his ever present umbrella tapping in a harmonious pattern as he descended the stairs. He entered a waiting dark colored car, ordering his people to upgrade the doctor's surveillance and to include his teammate as well. Even though Sherlock was gone, he would protect the doctor to the best of his abilities.
Steve cocked his head at the retreating figure. "That was interesting," he muttered before stripping the heavy wool coat off of John's shoulders and ordering the man to bed. How he found himself playing mother to a stubborn doctor, he didn't know, and he didn't care to find out.
Unable and unwilling to head up the stairs to his old bedroom to rest, John slowly made his way to Sherlock's room. He noticed that it was clean and that there was nothing strewn about the room like there had been before he left for war, and that the décor hadn't changed in all of that time. The bed was very inviting and he stripped off his clothes as best as he could with the use of his one hand. Letting the cool pillow cradle his head, he drifted off, waking sporadically to make trips to the bathroom and to take the pills that Steve had laid out for him.
His head seemed as if it was full of cotton when he wandered into the kitchen the next morning, startling Raz from his position at the stove where he was putting the kettle on to boil.
"Doc, don't you make any noise?" he asked, thankful that the little water he had spilled wasn't hot.
"Sorry, Raz. I found myself doing this for a while after coming back the first time," John apologized. "I'll try to remember to make some noise that next time I wake up."
Raz shrugged it off. He didn't blame the doctor for sneaking around in his own flat. "Thank you," he replied, turning to grab a couple of tea cups from the cupboard.
"What are you doing here, Raz?" John asked as he sat down.
"Your landlady lets us come and go as we please. She cooks us biscuits and small meals that all we have to do is reheat," Raz explained. "She was a little lonely after you left and told me to spread the message that the door was open among the Network."
"Thanks for keeping her company. I'm sorry that I left suddenly, but I needed to get out of town for a while," John felt the severe need to apologize to his landlady; even though he knew that his words wouldn't need to be said. Mrs. Hudson was one of the most understanding people he had ever met. "You can tell the Network that the offer still stands. Just warn them about my habits and my promise to try and break them, okay?"
"Sure thing, Doc. Now, may I ask you a question?" at John's nod, Raz continued. "What are you going to do about the whole Sherlock issue now that you're back?"
"What issue? You forget, Raz, I've been in a warzone the last two and a half years. I'm lucky if I can get a letter through, let alone receive news," John chided.
"Yeah, forgot about that, Doc. Sorry," Raz felt like he was blushing from embarrassment. "Not long after you left, there was a full investigation done about Sherlock; whether or not he was a fraud or not and all of those things. Around that time, there were taggers all over the city, painting buildings and proclaiming that Moriarty was Rich Brook. We retaliated with "Believe in Sherlock" and "Moriarty was real" among others. We made the news for about a week before we were warned to leave it alone and to not tag any more buildings."
John absorbed the information. "Thank you for standing up for Sherlock when I couldn't," he said, turning when he heard the stairs creak as someone made their way up. One of the Network's older members poked her head in, her graying hair covered by a freshly laundered wool hat. "Hello, Amelia. It's good to see you again." John was fond of the older woman; her motherly tendencies reminded him a lot of Mrs. Hudson and his own mother, and he was always willing to accept the hug that she would offer him whenever they saw each other in the street.
"Hey, doc John. We missed you when you were gone," she gave him one of her hugs, seeing the darkness that lurked behind the pain and confusion in his eyes. "I'm sorry that you got hurt while you were away." She said, pointedly avoiding looking at his arm, and the lack of a hand.
"It's okay. I'll survive," John was quick to assure the older woman that he would be fine, especially if he was going to be around the remains of Sherlock's creations, like the Network. As he was picking up the toast that Raz had smeared with jam, as per Amelia's instructions, the door opened and Steve walked in, his eyes focused on the paper in his hands as he ate one of Martha's many leftover biscuits.
"Hey, TC, you're on the first page," the captain told his equal, sliding the bundle across the kitchen table.
Famous Blogger Returns to London after Years of Service
Captain John Watson was spotted in London after twenty eight months since his flatmate's death; Sherlock Holmes, the genuine consulting detective. The army captain had re-enlisted in the army following Sherlock's fall, but no one was keen to answer where he was stationed.
Captain Watson was first seen leaving the airport and hailing a cab with an unknown military man. They drove directly to his flat on Baker Street, where he was mobbed by the homeless that he had helped before leaving. A confrontation with members of New Scotland Yard soon followed, prompting the arrival of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, who sent the others packing in a timely fashion.
Unfortunately, Watson's time abroad left him with more scars when he returned than when he left. He was seen with his right arm partially amputated, ending just below his elbow. See page 3 for more information.
John shrugged, tossing the paper away. "It was nice while the quiet lasted," he muttered.
"You really didn't expect for it to last very long, did you?" Steve asked.
"Whenever there's anything related to Sherlock or John, the media goes into a frenzy, especially since he died," Raz informed the other captain, knowing how well the insanity seemed to someone who wasn't in the know. "We just deal with it the best that we can, and the Network usually informs others about where the reporters are hiding. We'll be busy protecting the doc from the worst of it."
Raz's words proved to be true. The reporters swarmed 221 Baker Street, circling like sharks scenting blood in the water. The Network was a blessing, discreetly informing John about the locations that he would be better off avoiding for any particular day. Of course, there were times when the reporters would catch up to him, and he would just give them a jaunty little wave before disappearing into the crowd or around a corner. He didn't blame the Network for failing to inform him sometimes: even they couldn't completely predict their movements. Sometimes, Steve would be with him as they avoided the vultures, and John would often catch the other man staring at him with wide eyed wonder as he realized all of the crazy things that Sherlock had taught John before his death, or how well John navigated their crazy routes, something that he was learning and appreciating.
-)-(-
As Sherlock's third anniversary slowly approached, John felt even more uncomfortable every time he stepped outside. To him, it felt as if someone was following him everywhere he went, and it unnerved him immensely that he could only catch glimpses of his followers out of the corner of his eye. The Network was on high alert, especially when he noted the fact that the little string he left tied to the coat rack that was located beside the door was caught in the door jamb and the door, telling him that there had been someone in the flat and that it hadn't been any one of the Network as they had been all outside that day.
He had reluctantly spoken to Lestrade about his findings, sighing out loud when the Inspector said that he couldn't do anything without any concrete proof, but that he would keep an eye out for anything suspicious. Still, even with his senses on high alert nearly twenty-four seven; John couldn't come up with any solid proof that there was something wrong and it bothered him more than the fact that the press was still chasing after him.
His proof finally appeared when he caught someone snooping in the flat one day when he and Steve were on their way inside. The man bowled them both over, and Steve took off in pursuit while Martha helped the struggling man back to his feet while he was nursing a sore head from where it had smacked against the pavement of the sidewalk. They called Lestrade, informing him that he needed to send a crew of crime scene technicians to find out who had been in the flat and possibly discover what they had been searching for in the first place.
The first police cars showed up about the time that Steve returned, his face contrite at the fact that he hadn't been able to catch the perpetrator. Still, even knowing the fact that he had lost that particular battle, he was happy to inform both John and Lestrade that just before he had lost sight of the man, he was limping from a spill that he had taken while turning a corner at a full sprint. It wasn't much to go on, but at least there was something to look for on the nearby street cameras.
It was once all of the technicians had left that Mycroft's dark car rolled up and parked in front of the building, disgorging the politician who carried a deep frown on his face.
"John, it's good to see that you weren't harmed during this latest episode," he stated.
"What do you mean by "latest episode," Mycroft? You know something big, don't you?" John almost snarled at the elder Holmes brother.
"My men have prevented multiple attempts on your person, John. I felt it prudent to keep the information from you until now. Unfortunately, no one has the vaguest idea who they are working for," Mycroft sounded a bit upset at that. Clearly, his interrogators weren't getting the results he wanted.
"Thank you for the information, Mr. Holmes. John and I will be on high alert until something pans out," Steve said, watching as the man walked out of the flat and as John snuggled in the coat that had belonged to Sherlock. Once the man was truly gone did he turn to John, eyebrow raised in question. "So, who do you know that hates you so much to try and take you out multiple times?"
"The only person I can think of is Moriarty, but to my understanding, he's dead. They found his body on the roof of Barts," John answered. "If it's his syndicate, there must have been one person that he trusted the most, a close right hand if you will. The only problem is that I cannot think of who it would be."
The information was passed around, from Mycroft all the way down to the Network as they continued to keep an eye on John the best that they could. Even Mycroft's secret sources were informed as he passed along the message that John was to be kept from harm, no matter the cost.
-)-(-
Watching from the shadows of the partially renovated building across the street, dark eyes narrowed in annoyance as the mark escaped his death. He would have to dirty his hands once again and show what he meant when he wanted something done, that it was to be done right. Not that he cared; he loved getting his hands dirty and feeling the warmth of lifeblood spill across his digits in a beautiful masterpiece of art. He would return after accomplishing the task he had set for himself, and then he would take care of his target. He would show everyone that there was a new shark in the waters, and that he wasn't to be trifled with.
-)-(-
Coffee and around the clock guards did nothing to help prevent the attack that came a few days later. They were alerted when terrified screams in the streets from random passerby's echoed around them as armed men made their way down the street to the flat. Grabbing his gun, John turned to Steve, who had also armed up.
"Are you ready?" he asked, receiving a nod in response. Together, the two soldiers waited as gunfire erupted around them, bullets tearing through bodies, leaving bloody damage in their wake.
"It's just like Afghanistan all over again," Steve muttered as he stared out of the window at all of the bodies, alive and dead, that littered the street. He could vaguely hear the sound of sirens coming, the sound faint to his ears as the local police responded to the overflow of calls on the emergency line.
"Only this is a populated area. It's only going to get worse, and the public outcry is something that the government won't ignore," John answered as a distressed cry from inside the building had him up and running for the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson!" He hollered, easily recognizing her voice and the danger that she perceived herself to be in. When he received no response, he silently made his way down the stairs, Steve covering him from above as his spotter.
He came across her body just outside of her flat. Blood covered her hair from a large gash, and he could see that she was still breathing. With a quick gesture of his head, he indicated that Steve make his way down and check on her while he cleared out the rest of the building. It had gone quiet outside, and he found himself holding his breath subconsciously. When he found nothing, John turned back; only to start when he saw Steve on the floor next to their landlady, and standing beside him was the one person in the world he wouldn't have believed to have survived what had happened to him in the war.
"Hello, Moran," John spoke quietly, refusing to show his fear to the one man who had sold out his entre unit to the Taliban.
"Watson-it has been a while, has it not?" Colonel Sebastian Moran was a large man, and very dangerous. Even the most committed jihadists avoided the man when they encountered each other.
"It has, not that I'm complaining or anything," John shrugged in indifference, his gun held unwavering at Moran's head.
"Oh, come now. You don't still hold a grudge against me, do you?"
John scoffed. "Of course I do, Moran. You're the reason I got shot and invalidated in the first place. I can't let you take credit for my life after that particular incident, but it still gets to me that a decorated soldier decided to turn traitor for only a few pounds more than what he was already getting," he said, mentally scanning Moran for any type of weakness that he could exploit. He found none, which meant that he would have to fight it out.
"I did not turn traitor, Watson. I only accepted the next big opportunity that was offered to me. That you got shot was just coincidence. Besides, I rather like my new position as the soon to be head of the new crime syndicate of all of London," Moran stated. He gestured with his gun, obviously tired of all of the chit chat. "Put your weapon down if you will. I won't hesitate to put a bullet in this man's head." As John complied, he tossed two sets of handcuffs to the former soldier. "Now, tie them up. You and I have some unfinished business to attend to."
Once finished, John straightened, only to receive a backhand to his mouth. As he lay on the ground, spitting out the blood that swelled in his mouth, he found himself partially restrained as he was gagged with what felt and tasted like Mrs. Hudson's good apron that had been ripped to shreds. He fought back when he saw the strips reaching around to encircle his eyes, twisting his body and using his legs to throw Moran off of him. John had no time to remove the gag from his face, immediately ducking under the wild swing aimed his way. Instead, he retaliated, throwing his entire body weight behind one punch.
Moran staggered back only two steps. He shook off the effects of the hit before hauling John to his feet and wrapping a large, meaty hand around the smaller man's throat with a wicked grin that promised a painful end. His eyes crossed in pain as a foot found its home in his groin and as the amputated arm struck him on the nose. Eyes watering, he threw John out the door and into the drizzle that fell from cloudy skies.
Rolling to a harsh stop, John wasted no time in getting to his feet and charging Moran as he lumbered through the door, ignoring the silent gasps of the policemen that loitered in the street. Delivering another blow to Moran's face, he crouched and swept his leg in a wide arc, grunting when the move misfired on him and ended with Moran landing on him. Groaning, he was hauled to his feet and as he was slammed against a nearby police car, officers scattering around them like the four winds. Suddenly, he was dropped.
Dazedly looking up, John found that Steve had awoken from his brief stint of unconsciousness and was currently trying to strangle Moran with his still cuffed hands. He wasn't having much luck, but it was enough to slow the giant down long enough for John to pull the gag out of his mouth and to shout for someone to head inside the flat and check on his landlady.
He flinched when he heard the loud sickening sound of bone snapping and the hoarse sound of Steve's scream. Fortunately, the sound gave him a fresh rush of adrenalin and the next thing he knew, he was sitting on top of Moran and was busy trying to turn his face into hamburger while Steve extracted his injured body from the fight. John relaxed, his guard dropping when it seemed that Moran was done for.
Moran took the opportunity presented to him, shoving John off of him before taking off down the street. John followed, blue eyes glinting in anger and bloodlust, his hand snagging a police baton that lay discarded nearby. Seconds later, when he caught up to Moran, he delivered a single blow to the new crime lord's head with the baton before it was wrenched away and his wrist broken. Barely allowing himself the time to scream out in pain, John fell back, using his shoulders and back to propel his legs up, wrapping them around Moran's beefy neck. He gave one single powerful twist, listening with horrid fascination as cervical bones broke with the force. Allowing his body to relax, he dropped the body, tiredly scooting away from the corpse. As he lay there, trying to catch his breath, a familiar figure loomed over him.
"You never cease to surprise me, John. I was suitably impressed at your skill," the deep baritone washed over him.
"Piss off, Sherlock. It is about time you showed up, though," John whispered. At the arched eyebrow, he elaborated. "I kind of figured out a couple of months before I returned home that you had faked your death. The sudden drop in mysterious Moriarty-like crimes was my first clue."
"Impressive. I always knew that you actually had and used your brain," Sherlock Holmes, the recently returned from the dead smiled at his flatmate as helped the smaller man to his feet, taking great care to avoid any injury that his friend had sustained in the fight. Slowly, the two made their way back to 221 Baker Street by using one of the many side streets that would cut their time in half. "I suppose that there is an interesting story as to why your arm is much shorter than when I saw you last."
"It's probably just as interesting as the story of what you were doing during the entire time you had faked your death," John returned, finally taking his first step on Baker Street with Sherlock once again. It felt right, like coming home after a long, extended vacation in a foreign country. It was nice to be away, but even better coming home. He could see Steve being attended on the front steps of the flat, Mrs. Hudson worrying over him as he tried to calm her down. "Lestrade! Send a couple of officers and a coroner a block over would you? I left a bit of a mess on the ground for you to pick up."
"Yes, John, I will," Lestrade replied, doing a classic double take when he realized that John wasn't alone. "What in the bloody hell is going on?"
John couldn't help but smile as the news sunk in that Sherlock was alive as he was pulled away for treatment. It was amusing to see some of the normally loud spoken members of Scotland Yard so quiet as they processed the happening. The smile turned into a grimace when a single thought strayed through his brain. Life was going to be hard over the next couple of weeks when the reporters got wind of such a magnificent resurrection. "Martha! If you see Raz around, tell him that we're going to need more escape routes."
-)-(-
The next few months were full of fun and harassment. Reporters flocked to the flat the very next day after John had killed Moran, demanding the entire story. Once the former soldiers had been released from the hospital, they spent their time telling their respectful tales and occasionally baiting the reporters, watching in delightful glee as Mycroft's security chased them off.
Sherlock had been horrified to hear how John had lost part of his arm, his usually hidden emotions coming out strongly. He muttered threats in various languages for over an hour, much to the amusement of his flatmate and his new friend as they encouraged him with words in languages that he didn't know.
When things eventually calmed down, and after Sherlock had been declared alive and not dead did Lestrade start coming around. The detective inspector was a bit wary at first, not sure what to expect when he stepped back into the flat for the first time since Sherlock had returned. He found himself grinning stupidly at the site of John already tossing one of Sherlock's experiments away, the soldier's voice carrying through the open door where Steve leaned up against the door jamb, watching the fight with open mouth horror and wonder. The next time he dropped by, he arrived with a couple of cold case files that would keep the consulting detective busy for at least a couple of hours with the promise that as soon as there was a body that dropped that would interest the man, he would call.
The much anticipated call arrived not even three days later. With Sherlock in a brand new Belstaff and his customary scarf wrapped around his neck, John and Steve followed him to the scene. As Sherlock and John easily fell back into their old routine, Steve sat back, taking position as their guard. He watched in fascination as deductions flowed from one person to the others and how John's medical prowess helped in determining how the victim was killed and as CTV cameras subtly shifted to keep them in their view. Then, with one smooth movement, the two were off and running. Lestrade was gesturing at him, urging him to follow them, and he did, feeling the familiar burst of adrenaline enter his system.
If this was going to be his life from now on, he thought as he raced after the two figures that were climbing up a fire escape, he had better learn everything he damn well could. He had made a promise to keep John safe and protected back in that cave in Afghanistan, and if he had to compensate for Sherlock and his particular hobby that John had developed a taste for, then he would.
After all, it was going to be an interesting experience, he remarked to himself as he leapt from rooftop to rooftop, following the path that was now laid before him.
-)-(-
I am so sorry for the delay in updates. I just started a job in May of 2012, so that kind of took up my time and then we copied all of the information from the computer tower onto a laptop in September, and since then, everything has gone wacko. My keyboard wouldn't type in question marks and the like – thanks you to my little sister for helping to fix it when she came down just before Christmas - and Word won't open without saying that it can't find my previously saved documents while opening them. Then we lost power from the 22 to the 25 of December and again that weekend. Could things get any worse?
So, here's my first foray into the Sherlock universe. I hope that you liked it, and have possibly reviewed to say so, or not. I wanted to get a post-Reichenbach story out there, and this is what my mind came up with. I figured that John wouldn't have killed himself after Sherlock had jumped, but that he would feel betrayed by those they were helping and would have gone off to do something about it and to keep him busy; thinking about it, of all the other Sherlock fics I have planned, that is exactly what happens.
I apologize for any mistakes regarding the army, or any armed forces. I was aiming for this story to be as authentic as possible, but when you have enough trouble trying to find the sites you need for your information, well, there is only so much a person can do. As a side note, Jacille is said as Jaa-ss-eel. I wanted a real name for "Anthea", and this is what I came up with. I hope that you like it. As for the title of this story, I had written one out for it, but then, as I was writing, one of my favorite songs came on, For You by Keith Urban, and I decided to combine both titles, ending with what I have now.