This was written as a fill for some prompt ages ago. I can't even remember what page it's on on the bbc Sherlock prompt meme. In fact, I forgot about it for a little while, hehe...
Agent W
When John hears the telephone box ring as he walks past it, he immediately picks the phone off the hook without another thought.
He rolls his eyes as he answers it, mildly annoyed at the interruption while he's trying to find his wayward (possible) flatmate. John doesn't even give the speaker a chance to talk before he snaps into the phone. "First of all, I retired years ago, and you've never felt the need to do this to me before. Second, I know you could just get my phone number - that cannot be harder to do than this. What do you want?"
There is a silence on the other end. John blinks to himself, "Well, I say retired ..." he corrects mildly before trailing off and shaking his head, "Anyways, look, unless it's another Boglodite invasion, I thought we agreed I would contact you."
The silence is persistent, and John can't help himself frowning at the phone. "Hello? Is anyone there?"
There is a cough. "Get in the car, Doctor Watson," a male voice finally answers, just as a black vehicle pulls up at the kerbside. Belatedly, John realises he might have incorrectly assumed the identity of the caller.
"Oh, well, this is..." John starts, awkwardly.
"Get in the car."
John considers ignoring the order for a second, but then he realises he has certain things he needs to set right, and he can only do so in person. Without another word, John hangs up and makes his way into the car as the disembodied voice had instructed.
In the car, there is a woman sitting idly beside him and texting away. John looks her over from head to toe, noting her chic red dress and utter lack of greeting, affirming yet again he'd been an idiot.
"Hello," John greets. The woman ignores him, but John goes for another try, hoping futilely that perhaps the new Chief initiated a casual Friday from 'the last suit they'll ever wear', or something that could hopefully make him seem less foolish. "So, what's your name?"
The woman doesn't even look up. "Uhh ... Anthea," she answers.
"Ah, great," John replies disappointedly. No such luck there, it seems. "Do you also answer to A, perhaps?" he adds hopefully, "Agent A?"
"Mmm, no."
John sighs once more.
By the time the car pulls up in an empty warehouse, John is feeling frustrated, and frankly, his leg is starting to hurt. John gets out of the car and hobbles towards the man leaning imposingly on a sleek black umbrella in front of him.
John is not impressed.
"Have a seat, John," the man says, gesturing towards a metal chair in the middle of the warehouse, which in turn is in the middle of nowhere.
John can't help but ignore him, glaring at the black suit the man is wearing. Or more accurately, John can't help glaring at the salmon-coloured tie the man has on. If it had been black, John could at least delude himself the other man was possibly a MIB agent as well, and no-o of course John wasn't an idiot spewing confidential information to a third party like that. Maybe he really should've let himself be neuralyzed …
The man raises an eyebrow at the doctor's fixation on his tie, but never comments on it. He, instead, tips his head into an inquisitive stare. "Tell me, Doctor Watson, just who did you think you were talking to when you picked up that phone?"
John clutches at his cane and tries to stand up straighter. "I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business."
"It could be."
"It really couldn't," John answers in a deadpan.
The man moves, elegantly picking up his umbrella as he reaches into his suit pocket. "You were an army doctor in Afghanistan before you were invalided home. Studied medicine at King's College before enlisting into military service."
John presses his lips together into a line. "You seem informed about me," John responds tightly, internally mildly surprised his semi-retirement seemed to allow him to exist on files once more, incomplete data or not.
The man leans forebodingly onto the handle of his brolly. "You do not want me as your enemy, Doctor Watson," the man articulates sharply, "I will be if I need to. Explain this Boglodite invasion you were referring to, because I cannot guarantee your continued survival if you do not have a satisfactory answer. There are only so many possibilities for that contact of yours who you seem to expect to be able to control public phones much like myself."
"Why would this matter to you?" John tries to deflect.
"I have a tendency to worry," is the man's only answer. John supposes the word 'invasion' tended to do that to people.
John considers the choices for his next course of action, but there really isn't many to choose from in the first place. "I though Chief O wanted to bring me back," John finally answers honestly, hand gripping tightly on his metal cane, "With a new Chief, I thought the MIB wanted me to return to New York instead of letting me roam around un-neuralyzed with the dubious reason of being their international first-response agent. Besides, Agent K was brought back and he was actually retired. Although, I suppose that was before Chief Z's death," John muses to himself.
"The MIB?" the man manages to pick out from John's ramble.
John can't help grinning at the man's flummoxed face. "Men in Black is a secret non-government American agency that polices extraterrestrial alien refugees," he says nonchalantly, twiddling his cane.
The man shakes his head. "Are you trying to convince me of the existence of extraterrestrial beings, Doctor Watson?" the man asks amusedly.
"Maybe."
The man inclines his head ever-so-slightly, an eyebrow rising to his hairline. "Oh, you believe in them." The man suddenly shifts, eyes sharpening as they glance critically at John's person as if only now deciding to give him a good look. "This organisation of yours, you joined after your medical education, and you spent a few years in America where the organisation operates, before joining the army. I don't believe your nonsense of extraterrestrials, dear Doctor, but they have clearly brainwashed you into believing them. How disappointing – you seemed like a sound minded man at first glance." He lets out a deliberate sigh, "Doctor Watson, spare me the trouble of paperwork and tell me about this organisation. Know if you refused, I will still unearth the information without any difficulties." The man twirls his umbrella, "Quite frankly, it is only a matter of exertion and, of course, a chance for you to redeem yourself."
The speech is long, and John suffers through it by toying with his cane out of the man's sight. "Yes, yes," he answers idly when it is over. In the next second, John retrieves a pair of sunglasses from his front pocket and slides it on his face. The man in front of him tenses at John's movements, but all John does is casually lift up his cane. The doctor smiles as he points to a section near the top. "Look right here for a second?" Before the other man even has a chance to blink, the top lifts and a blue flash washes over the warehouse.
John folds his sunglasses with a sigh. "I'm just a perfectly innocent man you kidnapped off the streets. In fact, you didn't hear me make a fool of myself in that telephone box at all. Now, you're going to get on with your kidnapping speech and tell me exactly why you wanted to kidnap me in the first place."
John waits patiently as the neuralyzer flash wears off. The umbrella man blinks for a few seconds in his daze before he turns towards John once more. "Doctor Watson, what is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" the man asks without any preamble, all previous conversation completely forgotten.
Finally, they seem to be getting somewhere. "I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him ... yesterday."
"Mmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"
…
In the end, John manages to escape the man's clutches after repeated interruptions by texts from the infuriating man in question, and by giving answers full of snark. On the car ride back home, John leans into his seat, ignoring the beauty sitting next to him as he taps his finger rhythmically on his neuralyzer-embedded cane. For a long minute, John wonders to himself if moving into 221B Baker Street really is such a good idea; other than being randomly kidnapped, he's already been forced to use his neuralyzer twice in two days, and something tells him Sherlock will not escape a second, third, fourth, heck even fifth neuralyzation within the week.
Perhaps, John thinks hopefully, the MIB will have need for an Agent S before he manages to give the consulting detective brain damage? Well, they'd better be quick about it then.