A/N/Disclaimer: Characters belong to Moffat, Gatiss and Conan Doyle. MSF (Doctors Without Borders) is an actual organization that provides medical, mental, and nutritional help to countries that need it. I've moved some things around to suit the story. (Molly, for example, is an American and a tad more outgoing than usual). Updates are going to be irregular as I complete the story, so hang in there. (This is my Johnlock Bigbang story, and I have until June to finish.)
Beta: Allie Clark
"Turn the lights on!" John demanded, gripping Sherlock's thin wrist on an angry impulse. Moriarty flashed the lovers a sly grin and sidled over to his immaculate desk.
"I could," he began thoughtfully, "But I don't think I will. It would spoil everything, and you do know how I love surprises."
"What is it that you want? Because if we're simply going to stare at each other, I'd quite like to get some sleep," Sherlock told him, obviously bored.
"Time, Sherlock, time," Jim warned playfully, "We do know what happens when we rush things. Don't we, Doctor Watson?" John lunged at the Irishman, but Sherlock promptly pulled him back with an alien agility.
"John," he murmured soothingly, "This isn't worthy of your time."
"Let's keep a handle on our pets, shall we?" Jim said lowly, taking a seat, "Seb's just been itching for target practice, and I'd hate to see someone get hurt."
The first thing that hit him was the heat. It came over him as if he'd just stepped into an oven, as trite and timeworn the expression. John found that he couldn't take a breath without the air quite literally sticking to his lungs. He'd dressed as lightly as he'd dared, but obviously he hadn't done enough.
"Hot enough for you?" a voice called out from behind him. John turned, offering his arm to the red headed psychiatrist he'd met on the plane ride over.
"You've no idea," he muttered, gently prodding a stray goat out of the way. She brushed herself off and gazed up at the noontime sky.
"D'you believe there's goats on the runway?" she laughed, bending down to smooth her hand over its head. It bleated in response and started slowly away.
"Molly, by the way," she reminded him, sticking her hands in her back pockets. John gave her a small smile and stuck out his hand.
"John Watson."
"Will somebody clear these things out of my way?" someone shouted, pushing their way through. Irish, by the sound of it.
"Quiet! Now." The way the Irishman spoke commanded attention. The remainder of the new volunteers stopped their conversations mid-sentence. The owner of the voice was... short, to say the least. But he made up for it in control. John could see it, even now. The way he'd silenced everyone with just two words was impressive.
"Parlez-vous Français?" he asked the group.
"Oui," John replied automatically, voice taken up and carried by the response of the others. He was suddenly grateful for primary school. The Irishman frowned.
"Not enough. Most of you will have to deal with translators, and they speak it. Learn it." Molly nudged him.
"I don't speak French," she whispered frantically.
"None at all?"
"Not enough," she admitted.
"Shut up!" They snapped back to attention.
"I haven't got the time for this here. Get your luggage and get into," he shuddered, "One of those... cars. If I can call them that," he added in a horrified undertone. John and Molly grinned at each other. Their 'cars' were a small fleet of hot-pink Suzuki Jimnys.
"Go!" He clapped, and they dispersed. John insisted on taking Molly's suitcase and almost instantly regretted it. His bad leg buckled without warning, and he would have gone down had Molly not reached out to steady him.
"You okay?"
"Fine," he puffed, hefting the suitcase and throwing it into the back seat along with his own. The impact shook the car, and the man in the front seat turned around.
"Greg Lestrade," he said by way of introduction. John shook his hand and climbed in beside Molly, relieved to meet another Englishman. He'd thought that he was the only one.
"John Watson." Lestrade's radio crackled to life.
"Tango one for tango two, tango one for tango two." Greg pressed the call button and raised it to his mouth, motioning for his passengers to close the doors.
"Tango two to tango one, moving out. Over."
"Copy that, tango two. Carry on." The driver started the car, and they started toward their camp.
"You know that security document we had to fill out? With the questions?" Molly queried suddenly. They nodded, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
"We don't...I mean...we won't ever need that, will we?" She was greeted by silence.
"The world's a dangerous place. Chad's no different."
Jim sunk into the chair at the head of the meeting table and closed his eyes, stretching. He was quickly growing tired of the 'Jim next door' routine. If he didn't come across a worthy adversary soon, he'd have to resort to making trouble. And that was merely a distraction, not enough to really satisfy his constant need for conflict. Sherlock was engaging, but his heart wasn't in it, and there was no fun for Jim in that.
The door to the rudimentary office space opened, and the new volunteers poured in. Getting a second glance at them now, not one of them struck his fancy as a proper adversary... or otherwise. His gaze lingered on the redhead and her companion, a doctor by the looks of it. There was something about the two of them... He'd look into it. Sighing internally, Jim shoved up and grabbed a box from the middle of the table, gathering the will to play nice.
"Right, now listen, because you all need to get going. You need these," he held up a handheld radio, "at all times. They are to be on you every moment of every day. Security is at a medium level right now. There's a list of codes taped onto the back, and there's lists in your houses. Memorize them as quickly as possible and don't let these out of your sight. Sign your name and radio number on this paper." Jim passed the box around, and waited until everyone had taken one and signed up before he spoke again.
"You've already been given the security briefing, so I hardly have to remind you to do as you've learned. Any questions about security, see Greg Lestrade." One of the volunteers raised their hands.
"What?"
"What's your name?" Jim allowed himself a short, self deprecatory laugh, raising a hand to his head in the universal, 'oh my, I must have forgotten' sign. Likeable, he reminded himself, accessible. And then he'd have his fun.
"Right. Jim Moriarty. I'm the general logistician. Speaking of, introduce yourselves. En Français." He pointed to the doctor.
"You first. Name, marital status, children, where you're from, what you're here for. I honestly couldn't care less," he broke in over the sudden chatter, "but it's MSF tradition."
"Bonjour. Mon nom est John Watson. Je ne suis pas marié, je n'ai pas d'enfants, et je suisd'Angleterre. Je suis ici en tant que médecin," he said flawlessly, Hello. My name is John Watson. I'm not married, I don't have any children, and I'm from England. I'm here as a medical doctor. Jim silently noted the way he moved, recognizing his previous occupation without waiting for him to say it.
"Vous étiez dans l'armée." You were in the army. John nodded and looked down uncomfortably.
"Oui." The redhead spoke next in terribly broken French, but Jim kept a nonchalant watch on John. Something about the army doctor stood out to him now. He was simple, too simple, really, to be any fun to him. But he would make an excellent bargaining chip, Jim could see that already. He smiled softly and gazed up at the ceiling. Perhaps the trip hadn't been a waste of his time after all. Perhaps.
John struggled to keep up with the group he'd been split into after the quick meeting. They were headed to the compound to stash their luggage and then go their respective ways for training. John noticed the way that Molly gripped her hand radio.
"Are you okay?" he questioned, looking down at her. She jumped, smiling in embarrassment.
"Fine. Why?" He gestured to her hand radio.
"You seem to be slowly choking the life out of the thing." She loosened her grip and cast a sidelong glance at him.
"I didn't know you were in the military." He ducked his head.
"I don't talk about it." Names were being shouted as soon as the pair made their way into the first house.
"...Brett, Hartford, Lopez, and Cook! Building 2A! Hooper, Tennyson, Hughes,
Coleridge, Watson, and Emerson! Building 1B!"
"Excellent luck," he said to Molly, following her back out and into their new home for the next eleven months. She threw a small smile over her shoulder as she accepted a packet from the MSF volunteer standing at the door.
"Name?"
"Molly Hooper."
"Hooper...room ten, first floor. You already have a roommate, so keep that in mind," she warned before turning to John. Molly gave him a final wave and wandered off to find her room.
"Name?"
"John Watson."
"Watson. Room twenty-two, second floor..wait," she frowned. John stopped.
"Problem?" She tugged on her short ponytail and craned her neck.
"Lestrade!" she boomed, waving him over with her packets. As Greg made his way over, John shifted his feet nervously. Already he was having problems. He'd come to Chad to get rid of them, hadn't he?
"Problem?"
"I've got Watson in room twenty-two. Do we have somewhere else where we can put him?" Lestrade pursed his lips.
"I suppose we should have planned around him. I'm not sure we'll have access to another room until a month or two from now.." he trailed thoughtfully, flipping through the woman's chart.
"What's the matter with twenty-two?" John inquired, "Surely it isn't anything I can't handle." I've already been to war, he said to himself, anything is better than that. The woman looked at him with pity.
"Sherlock Holmes," she told him, rolling her eyes. John almost laughed.
"Sher- a person?" he asked incredulously, "I think I can deal with a person." The two stared at him as if he had no idea what he was getting himself into. In a way, he felt as if he didn't.
"Dr. Watson, Sherlock Holmes... he's more than a person," Lestrade warned, "He's more like an enigma."
"Wrapped in a riddle," the volunteer added.
"Surrounded by a mystery," Greg finished, frowning at the papers, "John, I'm afraid you'll have to room with Sherlock. I'm going to try to have you moved-"
"I'm sure I'll be just fine. I don't want to make a fuss," he said, embarrassed. He was holding up the line. Greg handed the volunteer back her papers and put a hand on his shoulder.
"He's hardly ever in there, but be on your guard. He's... he's quite something."
Included in John's packet was his schedule, and he checked it absentmindedly as he slowly took the stairs to his room, bags cradled to one side. Struggling to comprehend the time difference, he assumed that he'd be due at surgery soon. He raised his hand to knock on the door, but decided at the last moment to try the knob. It didn't open, and he really wasn't surprised. This Sherlock character was already proving to be the mystery they'd alluded to.
"He's not in there," a Spanish woman informed him on her way by, "He's hardly ever in there." John sighed and dropped his suitcase, unclipping his new ID. Feeling all of sixteen years old, he slid the ID into the door and bent it back towards the doorknob. Tossing a hasty glance over his shoulder, he slid the ID around and caught the knob as the door swung open. He hadn't jimmied a lock since he'd attended uni. Pushing his thoughts aside, John picked up his luggage and pushed his way into the sparsely decorated room. Upon first inspection, it seemed as if no one lived there. Each bed was immaculately made, and there was little (if any) evidence of a human presence. If Sherlock lived there, he wasn't able to tell. Thinking that they'd made something out of nothing, John put his suitcase on the bed and sat down beside it, beaten by the time change. He'd just become comfortable when -
"Dr. Watson, it's Dr. Crane. Jimny leaves in five. Over." the radio alerted him, giving him a start. He took a breath and shoved off the bed.
"Right, I'm coming," he muttered back, bracing himself, "Over."
September 15, 2012
I suppose I'll have proper use for Dr. Thompson's journal now, won't I? She's sworn it's for the best, but then, I'm not very decent at therapy and all that anyway. I'd much rather deal with the physical, the tangible. And that's what I'll be doing here...if I can manage it. We've been toured today, and we're to be trained tomorrow and the following. And then I really start - without any help. I cannot afford to muck up. I've seen these people, and they need doctors. It's nearly impossible, really, the idea that we allow people to live like this, without water, without the proper food, without proper protection and shelter. I'd thought I'd been humbled when I'd gone to war, but the few hours I've spent here have clearly told me otherwise. I'm not so much afraid for my safety as I am of that of Molly and the others. I've faced this before, and she hasn't. Sweet girl, she is. I haven't had the chance to see her since moving in. And while I'm on the subject of moving in... This Sherlock, (if he even exists) seems to be nowhere to be found. I'd rather thought I'd wander into him throughout the day, but it seems I was wrong. It's getting on eleven now, and I've yet to see him. But one thing at a time, I suppose. We're to wake at five tomorrow.