Saturday, 13 Mar 2010

In John's life, three in the morning had never been a time for restful sleep. He had clients who stayed until two or three some mornings. He'd killed people in the quiet time between two and four a.m., when the thin desert air turned chill. He'd had his hands wrist-deep in bloody organs, pinching at spurting arteries and screaming into the night for help saving just one more life. And even when he did manage to fall asleep at a normal hour for most people, he was likely to be wrenched back awake by the claws of a nightmare at three a.m.

At three a.m. on this particular night, as John let himself into his flat for the first time in a week, his senses were sharp and alive, flooding his mind with reports: Danger. Intrusion. Invasion.

He left the door open and leaned the crutch against the wall, freeing his right hand to draw the SIG pressed against his abdomen. His right boot skidded as he crushed a thin white envelope underfoot. The flat was cold, the still air thick with the stink of the rubbish bag near the door. Every light in the flat was on.

Ignoring the envelope, he moved as steadily as he could, each step of his right leg punctuated with agony from his knee. The hinged brace was locked almost straight, forcing his gait to be even stiffer than it normally was with the cane.

He swept the apartment, checking everywhere large enough to hide even a small intruder. He looked under the desk and shoved the loveseat away from the wall, opened the pantry, looked behind the shower curtain. In the bedroom, he checked the closet and curtains before he lowered himself awkwardly onto the bed and bent over to look upside-down beneath the box spring.

No one was there.

But someone had been.

Christ, he should have expected this. He huffed in irritation and got awkwardly off the mattress, hobbling along the foot of the bed. He braced himself against the corner post as he shoved the SIG back into the holster with a sharp click.

He went back into the living room and used the wall to help him slide down, right leg stuck awkwardly out, so he could reach the envelope. He tucked it into his sling and levered himself back upright with the help of his crutch.

The envelope contained a short note from the building manager, Stuart. Copper came by, said there was a call from your flat, didn't find nothing, You can call if there's something wrong, name of Lastrad, it read.

"Didn't find nothing," John murmured as he licked his dry lips.

Lestrade. Sherlock's contact at the yard — presumably his friend.

He glanced at the plate over the light switch by the door, the electrical outlet a few feet away, and the light fixture overhead. He thought about visual and audio pickups that needed electricity and concealment. His territory had been violated — not once, when he'd been taken, but twice, apparently by Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Sherlock had been here as well, that night, but that didn't feel like a violation.

He bent and picked up the rubbish bag with his right hand. The bag was light, nothing more than the remains of his dinner with Sherlock from Sunday night, so he transferred it to his left hand and hobbled out to the rubbish chute in the hallway. He wished he knew his neighbors well enough to ask if they'd seen anything unusual, but his hours had prevented him from seeing more than a handful of people in the lift, usually going the other way.

After returning to his flat, he closed and locked the door, not that he expected the locks to keep anyone out. He considered searching for surveillance devices, but if he found them, what would he actually do? Disabling them would be seen as a provocation. Better to leave them there (if they were) and hope to come up with some brilliant misinformation to feed his enemy.

So he did a cursory search of the flat, pretending he was in a spy movie, running his hand under the edges of furniture and peering behind the drapes. He tried to put on a good show of things, but by the time the search brought him through his bedroom and into the bathroom, he was too tired to continue the charade.

Ten minutes later, the apartment was dark, save the bedside light. The SIG was tucked away in the mattress holster concealed between the bed and the cardboard bedside table, a round chambered and ready to fire. He slid the notebook between the mattress and boxspring next to the holster. He'd recorded every text he thought he accurately remembered, but it was a pitiful page and a half, and he was certain he'd got some of those wrong.

He turned off the light and got under the covers, realizing only then that he hadn't changed the sheets. After he and Sherlock had got out of bed on Monday morning, he'd adjusted the pillows and covered the bed with the duvet, but hadn't stripped the sheets for a wash. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about having Sherlock in his bed for the first and last time, but for once, his soldier's habits failed him.

He was still awake to watch the glow of sunlight under the living room door.

"Oi, mate! Spare a quid for a vet?"

"Please, just need a tenner to get home."

"I got what you need."

Sherlock kept walking, eyes flicking over the homeless lined up against the underpass like dolls for sale. They were gathered into little camps, seeking safety and warmth in numbers. The established ones had constructed windbreaks of tarps and scavenged plywood; a few even had laundry lines to hang their old, tattered clothes. All the comforts of home.

In his Belstaff coat and cashmere scarf and four-hundred-pound shoes, Sherlock didn't belong here. But the thugs didn't follow him and the most of the whores guessed he wasn't interested in them, and if a couple of dealers called out greetings to him by name, well, that was understandable but in his past, at least for now. John would want him to try and do this cleanly; cocaine was a last resort.

Finally, he heard the call, "Change? Any change?"

He veered toward the underpass wall, where a young man, no more than fifteen, was sprawled atop a makeshift bed of shipping pallets. Sherlock could see a scar snaking down the inside of his wrist where it stuck out beyond the too-short sleeve of his jacket: the mark of a suicide attempt, not six months old. Good try, too. It would have required stitches. He was new to the streets and bright enough to have been picked up by one of Sherlock's other agents.

"What for?" Sherlock asked quietly as he walked over.

The boy sat up, revealing battered Converse trainers that had once been bright red. "Cuppa tea, mate," he said hopefully, completing the password exchange.

Sherlock leaned down; to an observer, it would look like they were negotiating, probably for sex; the boy was too fresh to the streets to be working for a dealer. He made his living as a prostitute. Under the cover of his coat, Sherlock passed over a slip of paper.

Intently, Sherlock watched the boy's eyes as he scanned the page. He was actually reading the writing, not just pretending or skimming, which was the last confirmation Sherlock needed. The boy was one of his.

"Yessir," he said, shoving the paper into a pocket.

Sherlock handed over two fifty-pound notes, turned, and walked quickly away. He'd wasted enough time already. If he was going to get John back, he had work to do.

Sunday, 14 Mar 2010

Stick to a routine, John told himself, feeling horribly exposed as he carefully made his way down the street to the café. Between lack of sleep and the Paracodol he'd taken, his head was fogged. He tried to look for surveillance, but he knew better than to expect anyone lurking furtively in a doorway, collar turned up, hiding behind a newspaper or dark sunglasses. Or, more to the point, everyone had taken cover from the chilly wind and the bright sun that cut through the unusually cloudless sky. At least yesterday's rain had cleared up. Between his crutch and his sling, John couldn't manage an umbrella.

Automatically, his gaze swept the café for familiar faces, but it was nearly empty save for a young couple at a back table near the electrical outlet. Their laptops were out, warring for table-space with two coffee mugs and a plate of crumbs. Their feet touched under the table, though they weren't holding hands or looking at one another.

Surveillance or students? Either was a possibility. He was tempted to write them off as students, judging by the way they had stretched frugal orders of coffee and dessert so they could keep their table, but it was very possible that they were part of a long-term observation team. He was known to frequent this café, even if he hadn't visited here for the last three weeks. They could be using their laptops to take notes or send messages.

A familiar girl was at the till. Her eyes lit up in recognition, and then went wide as her gaze tracked down, stuttering at the sling that held his splinted left wrist to his chest, locking onto the aluminum crutch propped under his right arm.

She tore her gaze from John and turned in the direction of the kitchen. "Oi! Jim!" she shouted, and John couldn't deny a pang of nervousness. Exactly one week ago — one week! — he'd made a date with Jim and then stood him up to meet Sherlock at the morgue.

God, he missed Sherlock. He desperately wanted to send him a text asking if he was all right. Had the bastard who'd attacked John done anything to Sherlock?

Jim came out of the kitchen, shouting back, "Becky! You didn't touch my espresso — God, John!" His cheerful grin turned to a look of concerned horror, and he all but flew around the counter. The couple at the back table glanced up as he passed, before turning to their laptops. John wondered if that was suspicious or if they were just caught up in their work.

"Hi, Jim," John said guiltily.

"John, are you — Here, sit down, away from the door," he said, fussing and reaching for John before jerking his hands back. His warm, sleepy brown eyes were wide and he was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth in a way that John found very distracting.

He allowed Jim to lead him to one of the tables. Deliberately, he took a seat with his back to the wall, where he could see the back table and the door. A glance at the front windows didn't tell him anything useful, but if a surveillance team was out there in that mess, they were probably freezing to death, which was fine by him.

Before John could ask for food, Jim rushed away through the kitchen door. John sighed and glanced at the clerk, Becky, who gave him a silly sort of smile. Before he could decide if he should get up and order, Jim backed out of the kitchen, bumping the swinging door open with one hip.

"Becky, take these." He handed over two small plates, one with a steaming crock, the other with a jacket potato. As soon as Becky rescued him, he went right for the gleaming stainless espresso machine.

Grinning now, Becky carried John's un-ordered meal to his table. "Don't tell him I said so, but he might've missed you a tad," she said in a not-quite whisper.

"Becky!" Jim protested over the hiss of steam.

She gave John a cheeky wink and sang out, "On my way!" as she sauntered back to her post.

Obviously, Jim wasn't angry. A week earlier, John had been all set to go out on a first date with Jim, to have that talk with him, and hopefully to start a relationship that could last. Sherlock hadn't even been a consideration, with his self-destructive tendencies and lack of anything like discretion or even manners. And then it had all got turned around. In less than a day, Sherlock had entirely captivated John's interest — only to have it all crash and burn, and not by their choice.

John tried to push his emotions aside and focus solely on what needed to be done. Even without proof, he had to assume he'd be under surveillance. Dating someone else, after only a week, would prove that John had moved past Sherlock. Anything resembling an outside relationship would help defray suspicion.

He wouldn't put Jim at risk, but would there be a risk? He was supposed to stay away from Sherlock. As long as he openly complied, the bastard who'd kidnapped him would have no reason to keep him under surveillance.

John could be very patient. He would watch and learn who was watching him, and he would do nothing to make them suspicious. No finding bugs or losing tails or anything to show that he was even aware that he was being watched. He'd date and see his friends and go to the pub, and when he was back in top form, he'd return to work, all as if last Monday had never happened. He would outwait his enemy, and use that time to learn everything he could, and eventually, if he was very, very lucky, he would be in a position to act.

By the time John had made his decision, Jim was back at the table, two hands cradling a huge cup that was almost overflowing with foam, whipped cream, and chocolate shavings. He set it down and stared at John, clearly at a loss for words.

"Sorry I stood you up," John said sincerely.

With only a quick glance at the counter, Jim sat down in the chair beside him. "What happened? Are you all right?"

Trying his best to sound reassuring, John said, "I'll be fine."

Jim nodded, his gaze following the same path that Becky's had, taking in the scope of John's injuries. He went back to biting his lip. "I thought —" He pressed his lips tight and shook his head before giving John a nervous little laugh. "So what happened?"

"Ex-boyfriend's jealous stalker," John said tersely. It was almost true, or as true as anything that could describe last week's insanity, at least in less than a thousand words.

"God," Jim breathed, very tentatively reaching for John's right hand.

When John didn't move away, Jim's fingertips barely touched. His hand felt nothing like Sherlock's, but that was... good. Grounding, in a way. John reassessed his decision to come here and decided he'd done the right thing.

Jim took a deep breath and said sharply, "I hope you killed the bastard."

Startled by Jim's sudden ferocity, John honestly said, "Not yet." As soon as it was out, though, he winced and shook his head, wondering how not to come off as psychotic.

But Jim's hand pressed to his, fingers curling around in a tight clasp, and his sleepy eyes had gone serious. He stopped biting his lip long enough to say, "Good. I don't like seeing you hurt."

"Not really my thing," John agreed with a smile. "Look, I'm not exactly in a place for a relationship right now, what with everything that's happened. And I have no right to ask you —"

Yes." Now Jim was smiling, and the sharp look was gone from his eyes.

"Sorry?"

"The answer's yes. I'm off at five, so maybe seven, if that's all right?"

Slowly, John laughed, turning his hand palm-up so he could take hold of Jim's. "You don't hang out in morgues, do you? Poke around crime scenes?"

Jim gave a baffled blink. "God, no. I don't like getting my hands dirty like that."

"Seven, tonight? That Mediterranean restaurant you'd suggested," John proposed as he reached for his mobile. "I'll give you my number so you can text the name."

"I need a security team at Fylla Elias tonight," Jim told Moran as soon as he answered the phone. Café employees weren't supposed to be in the manager's office, but Jim's arrangements with the owner gave him certain liberties. He kicked the door closed and crossed the little room to the desk.

"Christ, nothing like last-minute planning. You don't need me. You need a secretary."

"Just this morning, you made it clear you want more contract work."

"Not enough to eat your bloody rabbit food."

"You can't be onsite," Jim warned, sitting down in the creaky, uncomfortable chair. "Watson's going to be there with me."

The silence that followed was profound.

Jim sighed, swiveling the chair with a grating, rusty sound. "He came into the café. You didn't exactly specify the extent of his injuries," he added darkly.

"I'm not the expert on breaking into NHS computer systems — not that there are any official records. You want me to get in touch with Corporal Murray? I knew him from the FOB. It wouldn't be all that suspicious."

"No." Jim leaned back and squinted up into the fluorescent lights overhead. "Tomorrow, I want you to do another check, see if they have any records on me."

"Got it. And for tonight, just your rabbit-food restaurant, or is this date continuing elsewhere? You shouldn't go to Watson's flat — it's definitely bugged."

Jim went cold. "Give me a minute," he said, putting the phone on mute.

Very few people knew his name; more to the point, very few criminals knew his name, and even fewer knew how to get in touch with him. Instead, he worked through layers of intermediaries or kept all communications electronic and encrypted.

Soon after Watson had moved to the neighborhood, Jim had taken the job at the café, for multiple reasons. This particular café was part of a co-op that directly imported green coffee beans from all over the world, and Jim could always use another smuggling channel. While Jim didn't actually need a legal income, it was always good to have a cover story verified by people outside the organization. It also offered Jim an easy, innocent way to meet and observe John, to assess his potential value to Jim's organization. The fact that he really liked coffee was just a bonus.

But the whole point of this was to avoid official notice. Going out on a date with John might just end up with Jim's name on Mycroft Holmes' desk. On that basis, Jim should quit the café and disappear.

Then again, Mycroft hadn't killed Watson. And Jim wanted to know why.

He picked up the mobile and switched off mute. "Just get the team to the restaurant. Our date is at seven. Full security, inside and out."

"You paying to have me on overwatch?" Moran asked bluntly.

Greedy bastard, Jim thought, but he really was the best. "Yes. If you see anything, don't act unless there's a definite threat."

"Don't worry. I won't wreck your date."

Sherlock lost himself in the music, trying not to allow the temptation of mathematical precision to turn his playing mechanical and dispassionate. Instead, he focused on John — how he'd loved the first movement of this piece and has looked forward to hearing the entire composition. But inevitably, the thought of the mission ahead distracted Sherlock, and he lost the elusive musical picture he was attempting to create. Each time he succumbed, he set down the bow and scribed a few more notes on the sheet music to help find his balance once more.

"Oh, Sherlock, that's lovely," Mrs. Hudson said gently.

Normally, any interruption to his composition would be met with a snarl and a sharp word, but things had changed at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson stood by the kitchen doorway, her dark blue dress covered by an apron. Her hands were wrapped in a towel around two stacked plates, the top plate covering the bottom one as though to keep it warm.

"Thank you." He put down the violin and shoved the pencil into a pocket of his dressing gown.

"I'm glad you're composing, dear. It's so nice to hear."

He wouldn't explain the composition, not around Mycroft's listening devices (one hidden in the damaged wallpaper where he'd embedded a sword, another under a loose floorboard, a third in the overhead electrical box for the light). Sherlock had left those, though he'd pointedly disabled the video pickups.

He kissed Mrs. Hudson's cheek and took the plates, still wrapped in the towel. He carried them to the kitchen, where he set the bundle down and uncovered the contents.

Instead of dinner, there were two BlackBerry mobiles with charging cords. "Smells delicious," he said for the benefit of the mics.

"I'd best go check on dessert. I expect you to come downstairs for some," she said sternly.

He looked at her and saw she was worried. He'd explained the situation to her in detail. She was his closest ally in this, the one person no one would suspect — the one person he could trust completely.

Gently, he gave her another kiss on the cheek and said, "Half an hour."

"Half an hour," she agreed, and left, taking the kitchen towel.

Careful to keep out of direct view of the windows, Sherlock brought the phones to his desk, where he plugged them both in to let them charge. He checked each mobile and committed the numbers to memory before programming only those numbers into each phone's address book. He verified that texting was enabled, wiped the history, and sent a single text from one to the other.

He'd have to go out later tonight, tomorrow at the latest. He needed a secure line of communication. For now, though, he left both phones to charge and went to sit in the kitchen. In a half hour, he'd go downstairs and see what Mrs. Hudson made for dessert.

The silver Vauxhall Corsa slowed but didn't stop as John's taxi dropped him at the restaurant. It might be a tail, or it might an unrelated car. It had followed him for seven blocks, taking over after a black Ford had followed John's taxi for nine blocks. He noted both in the Moleskine book he carried in his sling. With his left hand out of commission, his handwriting was nearly illegible, but the army had taught him to write down everything, no matter how insignificant.

After the taxi dropped him off, John limped into the small, narrow restaurant, set between a clothing shop and a dentist's office. There were a few booths up front near a takeaway counter, and small round tables in the back. For a small restaurant on a Sunday night, it seemed to be doing brisk business, which was a good sign. He had no idea what the restaurant's name, Fylla Elias, meant. The idea of vegan cuisine wasn't exactly appealing either, but he figured he'd scraped the bottom of the barrel with army food. Anything had to be better.

He didn't immediately see Jim until he made it down the corridor and into the back dining room. Jim was there, tucked into a corner out of sight of the front door, which was a relief. Anyone wanting to keep watch would have to actually come in, giving John the chance to memorize faces.

Jim rose, and John couldn't help but stare. He'd only ever seen Jim in his café uniform of black shirt and black jeans. Now, he wore a sleek navy suit with a matching tie over a dove grey button-down. He looked five years older and very, very enticing.

"Wow. Look at you," Jim said, before John could even say hello. "That's a great suit. McQueen?"

"I... have no idea," John admitted a bit sheepishly, glancing down at himself. The suit was pinstripe, charcoal and silver, and he'd paired it with a black button-down shirt that had white buttons. Worn without a tie, it looked a little less silly than a lighter shirt, since knotting a tie was beyond his capability until the splint was off. As it was, he'd had to resort to an electric shaver and slip-on dress shoes. He'd been tempted to wear his boots — they had laces but also zipped up the sides, making it easy for him to put them on — but he could just imagine Irene's reaction if she found out he'd paired a suit with army boots. American army boots, at that.

"Sorry. Hobby of mine." Grinning, Jim offered his hand. "Hi."

John clasped his hand with a little laugh. "The only thing I really know about clothing is how to identify a home nation by the camo patterns. But you look fantastic, if you don't mind me saying. I hope you haven't been waiting long."

"Not at all." They sat down and Jim added, a bit more softly, "Well, okay, a bit, but only because I got here early."

John picked up the menu on his plate, though he didn't look at it. "We're both here now. Let's get ordering out of the way before the staff chase us out. Then you can tell me everything there is to know about you."

"Oh, but I'm boring," Jim protested. His cheeks went pink and he avoided John's eyes, focusing instead on the menu.

"If you think that, then you're also wrong," John said gently, turning his attention to the menu. "So, what's good here?"

Eventually they ordered, after Jim insisted he wouldn't take offense if John ordered the lamb. John gave in, though he compromised on an appropriately vegan appetizer. The waiter grinned through the whole discussion, and was still grinning when he brought over two glasses of wine.

Once they were settled with a plate of pita bread and hummus, Jim leaned forward, quietly saying, "I promise, whatever it is, I won't hate you."

Startled, John asked, "Sorry? What?"

"You just look like you're trying to figure out how to tell me something. I promise, whatever it is, it's fine."

"Am I that obvious?" John asked with a laugh.

"I'm good at reading people." Jim slid a hand across the table in silent invitation.

"First... I meant what I said earlier. I'm really not looking for a relationship — something long-term, I mean," John explained.

Jim's smile never faltered as he shook his head. "Neither am I. I don't do relationships. Too busy with the rest of my life." Then he laughed and added, "And I meant what I said earlier. No mad stalker exes in my past." He twitched his fingers again, beckoning for John to take his hand.

Tempted as he was, John held back, thinking of how to start this conversation. Honestly, he'd thought about it ever since he started working for Irene, but there was no good way.

Best just say it, he thought, taking a deep breath. He looked steadily across the table to meet Jim's eyes. "I'm a dom. A dominant," he explained.

A flush rose in Jim's cheeks and he looked away, but only for a moment. He bit his lip again. "I thought so. I mean, I could tell —"

"Professionally."

Jim sat back as though startled. He smoothed down his tie and looked distantly past John. "Oh," he said softly.

John had expected some level of rejection, but he wasn't about to apologize for what he did — or what he would go back to doing, once he didn't need the splint for his wrist or the knee brace. "I always —" he began at the same time Jim said, "That's brilliant."

They stared at each other.

"You mean that?" John asked, before shaking his head. "You do mean it."

Jim smiled at him and started to pull his hand back before he resolutely reached toward John again. "I do."

With a soft, amazed laugh, John took his hand. "So... you're not... I don't know, upset? It's not too odd?"

"God, no. I mean, if it's what you want to do, it's great."

He sounded sincere. John ventured another smile and said, "It is. I never even considered it, but... it's actually pretty amazing."

Finally, Jim saw a potential hook to get the discussion on track. All John had to do was bring up his work with Irene and mention who recommended him to her. Then, they could move on to relevant negotiations.

He watched as his agents, the duo seated behind John, paid their bill and left. He lowered his other hand from his tie, glad he didn't have to repeat his signal for them to give him privacy. He was willing to discuss a lot in front of his security teams, but not this.

In the very public café, where their roles were defined as customer and employee, John had been friendly, kind, and definitely interested. In private, Jim discovered he was surprisingly the same, which meant he was either a better actor than Jim had suspected or this was the real John Watson. Jim had to remind himself not to stare as he tried to decipher the truth, because he could hardly believe that this man — this... nice man — had somehow managed to make an enemy of Mycroft Holmes and survive an encounter with his government thugs.

Hell, John might even prove to be too nice for Jim's purposes. Traces of John's military service clung to him in his haircut and the way he carried himself, but if Jim hadn't seen his service record, he wouldn't believe John had ever even seen a gun, much less killed people. He'd even gone so far as to ask if Jim would be offended if he ordered the lamb.

Smiling in approval, he looked back at John. "You get to do something you love. Not many people have that chance in life. But how did you start?"

"I can't even remember," John said, momentarily baffling Jim. How could John not remember? He'd been working with Adler for... what, two months? Then John explained, "It's just how I've been, all my life," and Jim realized he was talking about his sexuality, not his job.

Wondering how to get the conversation back on track, Jim tried to stall, asking, "What do you mean?"

To Jim's frustration, John let go of his hand and tore off a strip of the pita bread before he asked, "Remember those games you used to play as a kid? Spies and secret societies and such?"

Resentment twisted through Jim, sharp and sudden. He remembered watching, but never playing. He'd always been on the outside — or, worse, the target of the popular kids, as John must have been. "Sure," he said as mildly as he could.

Sitting across from the popular, charismatic man, so self-controlled and dangerous and yet still so innocent, Jim realized he could quickly learn to hate John.

Or to envy him — if not something worse.

Unaware of Jim's inner thoughts, John continued to shred the pita bread into smaller strips. Jim realized that John was uncomfortable about this. Quietly, John said, "God, it... It sounds so deviant, but I didn't actually do anything — not at first, anyway."

Taking refuge in the excellent food that he couldn't taste at all, Jim worked through one of the pieces of warm bread, fussing with the hummus to keep from looking into John's dark blue eyes. "You sound like you're about to confess to a murder or something," he finally said, his tone much more flatly neutral than he would've liked.

John's answering laugh was shaky. "No, not quite that. Not even close. I mean, it was all innocent. My parents never had the talk with me, and they wouldn't have at that age, anyway. It's just... sometimes, you... you feel things." He looked across the table at Jim, looking so uncertain — so vulnerable — that Jim's resentment was lost by the sudden urge to reassure him, to offer a comforting hand or an understanding word.

What the hell was wrong with him?

"It was all innocent," John repeated, "but something about it just felt right, when I'd take someone down — catch the bad guy, whatever." He laughed nervously, finally dropping the scraps of bread onto his plate. "Don't even get me started on when I'd tie my friends to a tree or fence or something."

"They didn't think you were —"

Jim caught himself, wondering what the fuck he was doing, not just losing control of the conversation but nearly going into the darkness of his own childhood as though seeking common ground, because there wasn't any. From the first time he'd laid eyes on John Watson, he'd known that John had been the popular boy, friends with everyone, dating any girl he wanted, probably able to fuck any boy he wanted without getting labeled or stigmatized for it. And he was just bloody nice enough that he wouldn't have picked on the unpopular ones, the freaks, and the outcasts. He would've chosen them for his football team or his science project, because someone like John thought the world should play fair, even though everyone knew it wasn't.

Despite the calluses and scars, John's hands felt incredibly soft and warm as they surrounded Jim's fingers, pressing just lightly enough to get his attention. "Jim?" he asked worriedly. "I'm sorry. Forget I said anything."

Pulling the tattered edges of his constructed persona back into place, Jim shook his head. Find common ground, he told himself, remembering the basics, at least, of how to manipulate people. "No, it's... it was like that for me, too, only I was always the bad guy who got caught," he lied.

Fucking hell, a psychiatrist would have a field day with the two of them.

Sherlock left his flat at exactly eleven, Belstaff coat wrapped tight over a worn fleece bomber jacket bought secondhand years ago. He had a knitted cap stuffed in one pocket, and he'd borrowed Mrs. Hudson's white merino wool scarf.

He walked to the Tube station where he knew Aura spent the night when it wasn't too rainy. She was there, as predicted, with her cart of black rubbish bags holding her worldly treasures. A quick glance reassured Sherlock that there were no new surveillance cameras and no pedestrians watching him.

In two quick moves, he had the coat off and bundled down among the rubbish bags. He passed her a hundred quid in small bills and pulled on the cap without a word. Hunching down, he threw the scarf around his neck and jogged back up the stairs to the sidewalk, his steps light and quick. It wouldn't fool anyone for long, but he only needed a few minutes' distraction.

It was too bad he couldn't use Aura for this, but she'd lost a foot to diabetes years earlier and could barely hobble. She made contact with the rest of his network once a week, twice at most. He needed someone younger and cleaner — the boy he'd contacted yesterday would do, though his overpass was a bit far to travel tonight, if he didn't want to be missed. He had an hour, two at the most before Mycroft's surveillance teams got itchy.

He didn't encounter the boy before he spotted a likely candidate, a young blond woman, pretty enough to be a target, wary enough to show she knew her way around the street. Knife up one sleeve, money kept in three small bundles — left shoe, left sleeve, right coat collar. Sherlock approached her, saying, "Need any change?"

"Love a cuppa tea," she answered, eyes flaring with sudden hope.

He pulled off the cap and swiftly closed the distance between them, leaning a hand on the wall over her shoulder. His posture was deliberately threatening, but the young woman didn't flinch or go for the knife, which was the last confirmation he needed; she was one of his. "I need you to make a delivery," he said quietly.

"Happy to oblige, sir." She leaned back against the wall so she could look up into his face, though the dim light in the alley left them both mostly in shadow.

He took the phone from one pocket. He'd wrapped the charging cord around it and taped it in place. "The man you're looking for is named John Watson. He'll be using a crutch, probably aluminum, on the right side. His left arm is in a sling — blue canvas. You'll have to wait near his flat. You need to slip this phone to him without him noticing — a pocket or a shopping bag would be ideal."

"Easy 'nuff, sir." She took the phone and tucked it safely inside the layers of her coats.

"He's some distance away, so you'll need to take the Tube. Is that a problem?" Some of his network of informants and agents had legal difficulties, and the stations were heavily patrolled, at least in some areas.

"Not at all."

Sherlock had marked John's flat, the café where he ate, the two local grocery stores, his usual pub, his place of work, and Irene Adler's house on a map. He passed it to her, along with a printed photo of John, taken by one of his network. Finally, he handed her the last of his cash. "This should cover you for a few days. If you can't get the mobile to him by this time next week, you know how to find me."

"Knock down the rubbish bin at that café Chatterjee owns. Right, sir?"

"Perfect." He tugged the cap back on and left the alley with a quick nod. He wanted to get his coat back before Aura forgot and wandered off with it.

There was something sinful about driving a Maserati down a pitch black country lane two hours outside London. The top was down despite the damp, cold night air. Jim needed the chill to clear his head, to focus on something other than John Watson, because he was two minutes away from either fucking him or ordering him killed, and neither was currently an option.

This was why he didn't date. Ever. He found partners who appealed to whatever kink he wanted to indulge, and then got rid of them. They never got under his skin.

When the mobile rang, he thumbed the steering wheel button and barked, "What?" His voice was probably lost under the rush of wind but he didn't give a damn.

"Your teams are having fits. It's not nice to ditch your own security, Jim. Makes their trigger fingers itch," Moran scolded.

"Let them fucking kill each other."

"That's all the excuse I need to handle your staffing issues and hire some real professionals." Jim could barely hear Moran's chuckle over the roar of the engine. "You need anything, or should I just keep listening to the police scanner for reports of a luxury fireball, no survivors?"

Jim snarled, pressing the accelerator even harder, pushing his reflexes almost to the breaking point. The road had long ago given up its gentle, traffic-friendly curves for sharper turns edged with railings and trees that would ensure the fatality if he crashed.

"No," Jim finally said, before changing his mind. "Yes. Everything on Watson. School records, medical history, fucking Facebook screenshots, for all I care."

"Got it." After a moment, Moran continued, "If you're going to order a hit on him, we may need to have words, Jim."

With another snarl, Jim disconnected the call. Then he took one hand off the wheel, nearly losing control until he backed off the accelerator just a hair. He found his mobile and punched the power button until it shut down. Then he threw it in the back seat and went back to courting death, firmly telling himself to stop thinking of John Watson as his.

Monday, 15 Mar 2010

"And the Olympic security briefing is on schedule for Wednesday."

Mycroft sighed, glancing at his screen to verify the appointment was properly entered into his calendar. He was triple-booked on Wednesday, but that was nothing new. Honestly, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been so lucky as to be double-booked.

"Anything else?"

"Not official, sir."

The note in his aide's voice caught his attention. "Oh?" he asked with some trepidation, wondering what his brother was up to this time.

"Operation TALENT, sir."

It wasn't quite relief that passed through him — not at the mention of that distasteful issue — but at least he wouldn't have to bail Sherlock out of custody again. "Go on."

"File update, sir." Her fingers flew over the keyboard of her laptop, and a moment later, Mycroft's email alerted him to a new priority message.

The message was blank, except for the attached pictures. The first was a grainy black and white still image taken from CCTV footage, judging by the sharp angle. Despite the poor image quality, he recognized John Watson, codename TAU, at once. "Still using that crutch, I see. How long?"

"Estimate is another three weeks, sir."

"Do alert the surveillance team. Who's that with him?" he asked, focusing his attention on the other man. He was the same height as TAU and seemed a bit more slender, though it was hard to tell with both of them in suits and coats against the torrential rain.

"The photo intel team is having difficulty resolving the image, but the surveillance team 'suspects'" — she let out a huff at the lack of certainty — "that he's from the café by TAU's residence. Shall I task them with searching the café's records, sir?"

"Do. Was this a business meeting?"

"A date, sir, as evinced by the last image," she said delicately.

Curious, he scrolled to the last image. All four were CCTV stills, all four of abominable quality, but even still, there was no mistaking the way the two men kissed in the last image.

"Hmm..." Mycroft leaned back in his chair, fingertips pressed together. "Designate with a codename for now."

"Sir," she acknowledged, and retrieved her BlackBerry, dialing quickly.

A date could be a significant sign that TAU had understood Mycroft's message to him... or that kiss could be a ruse to throw off any watchers. There was no way of knowing if TAU was aware of the surveillance. But if TAU was dating, it could mean his interest in Sherlock had waned — or, more likely, that he'd made the sensible decision and had turned his sights on some other unsuspecting victim. Well, if he had, it was the Met's problem, not Mycroft's.

"I need a codeword... Thank you." Disconnecting the call, she looked back at Mycroft. "Unknown subject is designated ROOK, sir."

"Very well. Unless otherwise notified, let's end Operation TALENT on the..." He opened his calendar, considering the difficulty of keeping a very expensive surveillance operation active and unnoticed in the heart of London. "The twelfth of next month, yes."

"That includes Easter weekend, sir. The overtime expense will be substantial."

"Hmm... You're right," Mycroft said reluctantly. He could bury a lot in his budget, but he already used most of his slack keeping Sherlock out of trouble. "Make it Thursday, April first."

"Yes, sir. Anything else?"

"That will do, thank you."

UPDATE LOG OPERATION TALENT / REV 1.041

SAIC: SANDEKI, M / RECORDING AGENT: TAYLOR, R. A.

Identity Subject ROOK confirmed.
Moriarty, James NMN (DOB 21101976, IE DUBLIN / DOD N/A / NHS 943 476 5919)

FILE UPDATED 03152010/1109
RECORD SAVED