Nguyen didn't look at all like John had expected. Maybe his voice – grave and authoritative from his years of military service – had just seemed so much older on the phone, belying the youthful smoothness of his calm features, but that couldn't be all it was. Something kept tickling at the fringes of John's consciousness. The man had a hard edge to him – of course, most people in his position would – but with Nguyen in particular, it was accompanied by a sense of some latent thrumming just beneath his skin, an electric current concealed by a placid exterior. It left John ill at ease, and as they walked through the door, he found himself unconsciously gleaning through the details of the ascetic office, searching for a glimpse of some neglected truth.

Though long out of practice, John had developed better observational skills than most (still nothing compared to – naggedalittlevoice in the back of his mind before he quickly crushed it down), but Nguyen's office was utterly devoid of personality, providing John no insight into the strange feeling that he was unable to shake.

"Excuse me," came a voice, and both men turned. A young woman, military bearing, was standing in the doorway. "There's a phone call for you, sir. Very important."

Nguyen nodded. "Thank you, private," he said, and excused himself to take the call, instructing John to have a seat. The door clicked shut behind him. Alone in the office now, John pulled out the chair to sit, and that was when his heart stopped.

He jumped back in shock, nearly upsetting the chair. Catching it reflexively with his right hand, he leaned forward upon it to steady himself. This put him in the perfect position to stare, unbelieving, down at the pale face of the dead man who was crouched beneath the table. John could hear his pulse echoing in his ears and the world wavered around him. Everything was unfolding slowly, as if he were trying to move underwater.

"John!" hissed lips that John had last seen fallen open and slack and lifeless. "John, there's no time to explain, but I need you to do as I say."

"You – how can you –" John sputtered. The world threatened to buckle beneath his feet and he gripped the back of the chair tightly with both hands.

"John, please listen." John blinked twice and shook his head in disbelief. "John, it is imperative that you do exactly as I say. You are in significant danger. Breathe in deeply," (John followed the order without thinking) "and breathe out. Good, once more. In..."

The rhythmic whoosh of air into his lungs did nothing to answer any of the thousand questions pounding through John's brain, but it did make him feel somewhat steadier on his feet. He heard footsteps from the corridor, and in a burst of inspiration, he quickly whirled around to face the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to wipe the shock off his face, and lifted one hand to his chin in a contemplative pose.

John turned toward the door when he heard Nguyen enter, and answered his surprised expression with a very passable imitation of a man who had not just found his dead best friend hiding underneath a table in the office of an army recruiter.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said casually. "I was just admiring your..." Drawing a wide arc with his hand, John turned back toward the wall to see that (somewhat unsurprisingly) it held no artwork whatsoever; the picture frame that his mind had registered as such actually housed a diploma. He twisted his head toward the window, which looked out upon the building adjacent to this one and the few meters of dreary alleyway that separated them. "Just stretching my legs a bit," he finished lamely.

Nguyen nodded, clearly filing this interaction away for later reference (John reflected that this kind of unbalanced behaviour was sure to stand out in his notes on their meeting) and set a stack of papers down on the table.

"Very well, Dr. Watson. Have a seat," he invited.

John was very careful as he adjusted the chair and sat down. He rested his palms on the table's surface, crossing his thumbs and uncrossing them again before deciding to fold his hands and leave them in his lap in case they started trembling. Stupid, he could hear Sherlock's voice saying. You've just been informed that you are in danger; this is the one situation in which you can be certain your hands will not shake. His mouth was impossibly dry. He cleared his throat but no words were forthcoming. The conversation he had come here to have was now the furthest thing from his mind.

Nguyen met John's eyes across the table. "I assume you've taken some time to review the –" There was a knock at the door and the young woman from before entered, carrying a tray of tea. She set a cup before each of them. "Thank you, private; that will be all," he said distractedly. "Now, there were some topics which, due to their sensitive nature, we were unable to cover fully in the documents. I intend to brief you on these matters today."

It was then that John felt a hand on his knee. Just a brush, a gentle warning designed not to startle him into giving himself away, but still it was all he could do not to react, to look under the table and confirm the sight that had so shocked his eyes only moments ago. But he focused his attention on Nguyen and tried to nod in the right places as he felt Sherlock reach up and pluck his right hand out of his lap, tugging it quietly under the tabletop and turning his palm upwards in the shadows. The recruiter continued his explanation of some acts of resistance ("minor dust-ups, really") that had been flaring up near the base recently, adding cream and sugar to his tea and beginning to stir.

Sherlock gripped John's hand firmly and squeezed. Then John felt the tickle of Sherlock's index finger tracing across his palm, drawing a vertical line across his hypothenor muscles and then a semi-circle over the pad of his thumb. Bold, clear strokes. An uppercase letter 'D.' John could practically feel Sherlock's anxious impatience to see whether he had understood. He couldn't squeeze Sherlock's hand and still leave his palm open for writing, so he settled for wiggling his fingers in a come-hither motion against Sherlock's palm. Twice for yes, once for no – that was what they had decided upon, if John remembered correctly (and he had all faith that he did; he might not have anything resembling a Memory Palace in which to file away important information, but if Sherlock had asked him to remember it, no matter how long ago, it certainly remained safe).

Then, the writing came fast and firm and decisive. The D again, a wide circle, N, and T, and then Sherlock pressed his middle three fingers firmly into the center of John's palm – a stop. A new word, then. Another D, followed by the curves of an R, a vertical line, N and K and another press of three fingers.

DONT. DRINK.

All right. Once again, he scrunched his fingers against Sherlock's palm to indicate his understanding, and John could have sworn that he felt the tension rush out of Sherlock's arm, if only for a second. His long fingers were soon tracing another frantic message for John to decipher.

D, line, D, press, U, press, S, line, G, N.

Without thinking, John answered with a shake of his head, then froze, guilty. But Nguyen had put on a pair of spectacles to read the finer points aloud, and with his attention directed at the papers before him, he didn't appear to have noticed anything amiss. For the sake of appearances, John would be sure to do his best to stay on the same page of the contract, but even if he failed, even if he didn't come off as particularly bright or keen or responsible, what could it matter? He no longer needed to be chosen for this mission. If this really was happening, if Sherlock Holmes was alive, John could be certain that he did not plan on getting himself shipped back off to Afghanistan.

John scritched his fingers once for no, and make no mistake, Sherlock did relax this time.

G, circle, circle, D.

The ghost of a smile played across John's lips.

"...but I suppose that will hardly be out of the ordinary for you, Dr. Watson," Nguyen remarked with a wry grin of his own, looking down his glasses at John.

"Heh, no. Not at all." John cleared his throat and flipped to the next page when Nguyen did, following the words with his eyes and letting the droning voice wash over him. Sherlock's fingers rested on his palm, still but very warm – so much warmer than when John had last... but thinking about that filled his ears with a dizzying roar. Because John had watched as Sherlock fell, he had been knocked to the ground himself, and when he had fought his way to his feet and to Sherlock's side, his friend's eyes had been empty and the skin beneath John's fingers had been still.

John blinked twice, hard, and swallowed the lump in his throat. His hand moved quickly, before he could think about what he was doing, sliding and rotating in one smooth motion until his index and middle fingers rested on Sherlock's radial artery. He was used to taking his patient's pulses, and so it was by instinct that he began to count the beats of Sherlock's, still counting even as he felt the rest of the world slip away around him, nullified by the all-important thrum of life beneath his fingers. Blinking wasn't doing him much good anymore; John lowered his gaze toward the papers before him (knowing his face was probably much too close now) and allowed the text to blur before his eyes.

He felt the press of something against his knee. Solid, rounded bone – Sherlock's forehead? John gritted his teeth against the strange rush of emotion, and Sherlock pulled his wrist out of John's grip, shifting, rearranging until they were holding hands – not John's hand in his, but palm to palm, gripping firmly like two schoolchildren waiting to cross the street. John laced their fingers together and held tightly. He could still feel Sherlock's pulse throbbing in the spaces between their fingers (or maybe it was his own). They sat quietly like that and John felt a cool serenity descend upon him, soothing and calming his racing heart.

Rubbing his fingertips gently over Sherlock's knuckles, John asked Nguyen a simple question about the contract. As the recruiter turned back a few pages to give John a direct quote in answer, Sherlock responded by squeezing John's hand tightly – a little too tightly, crushing his fingers. John tapped frantically on the back of Sherlock's hand to indicate his pain and Sherlock loosened his grip. When John thanked Nguyen for his clarification, his voice was steady. Normal. Nguyen nodded and went on with his explanation.

Then, Sherlock pulled back slightly, just enough for his thumb to rest against John's palm. The angle was different and the movements more awkward as he began to write.

J, circle, H, N.

No particular message, no vital information to communicate – just his name, plain and plaintive. John squeezed gently and rubbed his thumb along the outer edge of Sherlock's index finger, stopping to rest in the web of his thumb. They were still for a moment before Sherlock began to write again, slow and deliberate.

F, circle, R, G, line, V – John jerked suddenly, pulling his hand away, desperate to stop the movement of Sherlock's fingers. This was too much, it was too raw, and Sherlock could not expect him to keep his composure, to remain calm if they were going to have this conversation now.

His heart beat wildly and he fought to calm himself against a flare of anger – for Sherlock disappearing and playing dead while John suffered on alone, and for his showing up now, derailing the situation in his infuriatingly controlling way and nearly forcing John to give himself away. But it was Sherlock and he was John's best friend and he was alive, for God's sake, and John could picture the chastened expression on his face perfectly, and he soon reached out in apology or maybe reassurance. Sherlock took his hand and John squeezed. When Sherlock squeezed back, John felt himself relax.

It was then, however, that John noticed Nguyen looking at him rather oddly. John raised his eyebrows and spread his lips into an almost-smile where the corners of his mouth didn't quite turn up and his teeth remained hidden. It was his 'sorry for the lunatic' smile, and as he felt it work its way across his face, he realized how much time had passed since he last used it. And for another realization fast on the tails of the first, it dawned on him how in this particular situation, the only lunatic he could be referring to was himself.

But Nguyen, to his credit, took this departure from normal behaviour rather gracefully, acting as if nothing had happened. "Now, I believe that I have explained the situation quite thoroughly," he said, "and if you don't have any pressing questions, I would like to move on and discuss the details of the arrangement we expect to make."

John felt Sherlock's body tense against his leg, the shaky stillness before a clap of thunder. "No, let's move along," he answered. "That's what I came here for, after all."

Sherlock's fingers began to move urgently across his palm, writing with vengeful purpose.

"Now, you may be wondering (D) why it is that we need (circle) to fill this position so urgently (N)," Nguyen said, looking down at John over his glasses. "It's hardly conventional (T) "to call up someone (press) who's been invalidated home, as surely you know."

John nodded.

"But what we're (T) looking for is... (R) at the risk of sounding theatrical, (U) a very specific set of skills (S). Medical and surgical knowledge (T) is the top priority, as it says (press) in the documents (H), but the operation would certainly (line) benefit from the experience you gained (M) in the RNF."

Sherlock pressed his fingers forcefully into John's palm, emphasizing his point, and John squeezed yes, okay, okay. Sherlock pressed once more for good measure.

"Ah, yes, thank you," John replied, nodding his assent, and Nguyen continued. "Another reason that your name was put forward," he said, with a hint of a smile, "is that the commanding officer is a tremendous fan of your blog. And so am – well, I should say I was as well." He raised his eyebrows. "While we are on the subject... may I offer my condolences."

Under the table, Sherlock squeezed his hand pitifully. John was struck by the absurdity of the situation and he had to fight back the urge to laugh out loud. If Nguyen had enjoyed the stories of their past adventures so much, what might he have to say about the one that was currently unfolding beneath his desk? John bit his tongue and cleared his throat.

"Thank you," he said, keeping his voice soft and low. "But that was all a long time ago." He ran his thumb gently over the ridge of Sherlock's knuckles.

"Nonetheless..." Nguyen began, and the word hung in the air awkwardly. John gave a solemn nod, and Nguyen began speaking again. "In any case, Dr. Watson, those are the reasons why we decided to contact you, despite your being out of the service for so long. And now that you have an understanding of the background, I hope that I can begin to explain the situation."

He paused and looked John in the eye as if to confirm that the gravity and secrecy of the situation were understood. "There is mounting evidence to suggest that the insurgents have begun testing a new biological weapon."

Sherlock jerked indignantly and began to scrawl furiously on John's palm again. L, line, E, S. He pressed his fingers deeply into the center of John's palm and then wrote the word again for good measure.

"Although we do not believe the... condition that this weapon induces to be contagious, its symptoms are severe and rather alarming. That is why, as I have already emphasized, surgical experience – particularly in the field of amputation – is absolutely essential. I also believe that your ability to collect intelligence would prove very valuable to this mission; you are aware, I am sure of the unique position medics hold in gaining the trust of the locals. Your previous experience in Afghanistan would have taught you as much."

John nodded.

"The sensitivity of this operation means that it is absolutely imperative that the team can maintain complete calm under extremely dangerous conditions." Nguyen raised his eyebrow at John pointedly, almost as if the word 'danger' was something he expected John to write down. "Of course, we will take every possible precaution to ensure the safety of the team, but I must inform you that it will not..." he smiled wryly, "be dull."

Sherlock's fingers were still moving frantically against his palm. John had caught a few words, but it was going too fast and he had to tune him out for the most part. He tried a few times to stop the frenzied writing, to communicate to Sherlock that he understood that Nguyen was lying – and how dense did Sherlock think he was? – and even to flip their hands so he could ask the questions, but Sherlock was obstinate in his ticklish messages, almost all of which were too fast for John to read. This was just like him. John realized he had given in, fallen back into the frustrating position of letting Sherlock drive – a familiar role that, to his surprise, made him feel almost comfortable.

"But unfortunately, Dr. Watson, this is all the information that I can provide you at this time. You will be given a more detailed briefing upon your arrival in Afghanistan. If you have any questions, now is the time to ask... although I cannot promise you that I will be able to answer them."

Under the table, Sherlock seemed to be in a state of near panic. John was doing his best to ignore him and focus on Nguyen, but he caught a bit of a word that looked to be 'Moriarty,' or something very close. He relegated this piece of information to the back of his mind and pressed onward. "Actually, I'm not much for questions," he replied, trying to stall for time, "but there is something that I probably should tell you."

Sherlock suddenly went very still. "By all means," said Nguyen.

"Things are a little bit different than when we spoke on the phone on Friday," John continued, scrambling frantically to construct a decent lie. "You see, a bit of a family emergency has come up, and I'm afraid I may not be able to..."

"I'm sorry," Nguyen interrupted, "Please forgive me for prying, but I was given to understand that family was not a key factor in your decision-making process."

"Yes, well," John stumbled, "it's my sister, Harriet. She's in... well, she's in quite a way, and I'm not sure I'd be comfortable leaving her alone in London right now." Nguyen's eyebrows were raised and John suddenly felt glad that he had decided to go for a lie with a truth at the core; he didn't have much faith in his ability to deceive, especially not feeling as exposed as he did now. "You see, she's always struggled with the bottle, and things have been particularly bad recently..." Here he lowered his eyes and looked back up at Nguyen again.

"If something were to happen to her after I left, I don't think I could forgive myself." Watching Nguyen's eyebrows furrow, John wondered if he was selling it too much, and he backpedaled a little. "But, of course I am still interested in the mission. To be perfectly honest, it sounds almost too good to be true – it's just that I don't think I can leave London while my sister is like this. I can try to encourage her to get help, to get into a program, so she won't be alone, and then maybe I can think about it, but for the time being... I'm sorry, but I just can't give you a 'yes,' right now."

Nguyen narrowed his eyes and gave a little sigh. "I must say, Doctor Watson, I am quite disappointed," he began, removing his wire-framed glasses and setting them on the table. "I was informed that your participation was certain at this point, that signing the contract was little more than a formality.

Sherlock's movements were frantic again, and John tried to focus on what Nguyen was saying as well. He could feel himself grimace with concentration as Sherlock's fingers twisted over his palm, furious and demanding. BE CAREFUL,he was writing, and Nguyen was saying something about a call he would have to make, some higher-ups who would be very unhappy. NO CABS, wrote Sherlock, and that was when it crashed down upon John. He had been so overwhelmed processing the impossible sequence of events that unfolding around him so as not to realize it until now, but there it was.

Sherlock's fingers spelled out GO HOME. Of course, now the meeting was over – he and Nguyen had nothing left to talk about, did they? He was going to have to leave now and Sherlock would not be walking out with him. He squeezed Sherlock's hand desperately, and Sherlock squirmed, struggling to retain his writing surface. Unable to help himself, John clung tighter. Sherlock rapped his knuckles and John gave in.

SOON, wrote Sherlock. OK?

John bit down on his lip for a second and then pressed his tongue hard against the roof of his mouth. He signaled a yes, and Sherlock's grip relaxed for a second, giving John the opportunity to flip his wrist and trace his index finger across Sherlock's palm. If he was in as much danger as Sherlock said he was, then maybe they couldn't make promises, they couldn't be sure they'd see each other again, but John had one thing he had to make clear.

NEVER, he wrote, forming each letter with painstaking precision. "Well, I suppose I'll be waiting for your call," Nguyen said resentfully. DOUBTED, traced John.

"I'll keep you posted as best I can," John assured him. YOU. Sherlock's grip was suddenly so tight that John's fingers cried out in protest but he just squeezed back as best he could. He struggled to keep his voice even, and he spoke carefully and purposefully, making sure to be a little louder than strictly necessary. "Thank you so much for today," he said, running a thumb over Sherlock's knuckles. "I hope you understand how grateful I am... that you found me. That you uh, chose me. For this mission."

John let Sherlock's hand drop and he stood up, pushing his chair out behind him. Nguyen extended his hand and John shook it firmly, fearing suddenly that the warmth or moisture of his palm could give them away, but Nguyen's face was a blank mask of unreadable courtesy.

And to John's great surprise, his hands cooperated as he slowly pushed his chair back in, and his eyes even obeyed him by not lingering on the dark space beneath the table. When he stepped back, his knees bore his weight without buckling or swaying, and although his mind and his heart and the pit of his stomach screamed their refusal with every movement, his numb legs carried him step by step across the small office, where Nguyen closed the door behind him.