It started with a phone call. John H. Watson was sitting in his tent, relaxing as much as he could before a new group of soldiers crawled in to be patched up. A shaky voice at the other end of the line said "I-Is this John Watson?"
"How did you get this number." The voice trembled. "Y-Your sister, Harry, has been killed. She told me before she died to bring you back to London." John stared blankly at the far side of the tent. Covering the mouthpiece of the phone, he slowly hunched forward, letting out a sigh. It had been only a matter of time with his sister, she was always too drunk to take security seriously. "Expect me within two weeks. What's your name?" The voice sounded relieved. "She wasn't sure you'd come back. My name's Adam Harrison. I'll be waiting, she said you could find me."
John hung up and hid the phone away. It was rather fortunate he'd been back at the tent when Harrison had called, he could have as easily been out on a field mission. He was disappointed to leave, he'd formed several close friendships and enjoyed the constant rush of adrenaline. But he also wanted to return to London, his city. He wonders what might have gone on in the time he's been away. / He'd have to make arrangements to get back soon, but right now there was someone yelling for his help outside. John ran out, grabbing his first aid kit.
Running with the man who'd called him, he was caught up with what was happening.
…..
Returning to his tent, John reflected on the last six hours he'd spent saving some kid who'd got his leg blown off. He needed to get home, but the army would never let such an experienced surgeon go without good reason. John picked up his phone and made a call. The next day on field duty, he waited for the signal, (the jeep in front of his lurched violently to the side as a small mine went off under it, injuring several soldiers). He ran out despite the protests that their medic would get them, and crouched over the nearest wounded. Over the sobbing and gasping of his charge, John heard several shots, and the answering cover fire. He heard/saw the signal as he worked on his patient (two shots from a hidden rifle, the nearest two men drop like sacks of so much meat), and relaxes, remembering his ma telling him if he knows he's about to get shot to relax to minimize muscle tearing.
BANG. Oh dear God the pain it's like nothing he's ever felt or remotely hopes to feel again and he can feel the blood leaking out of his shoulder oh why did I think of this I'm going to die in this godforsaken desert…..
John wakes up in agony, or what he can remember of it. I must be on the good stuff if I can only feel a twinge. But that might also be because you've been trained to resist torture since you were five Johnny. "Oh! Good, you're awake." He groans. "How long have I been out? It feels like I got kicked by a mule and then run over by a lorry." The overworked nurse managed a chuckle at his pathetic attempt at humor. "You've been asleep three days Dr. Watson. They managed to get you out and back to London rather quickly. Luckily, the wound was not fatal, but you'll definitely suffer some nerve damage. You'll be lucky if you can move your left arm at all for the next few days, but the sooner you can move it the sooner you can get it back to full strength. I'm afraid you're days as a surgeon are through though, you simply can't regain all the motor control lost." John smiled tightly, they'd be surprised at what a well-placed bullet wouldn't damage. And he'd hired the best he knew, who happened to be an old friend.
…
If the doctors were surprised at his rapid recovery, they didn't say anything. Leaving the PT area after his last day of constant exercising his muscles, he headed to his temporary lodgings. He pulls out his laptop, and starts checking crime rates and the forums his sister made the organization use. The codes were far too easy to break, he'd get someone on those. Or, just keep them as-is and post fake information on them. Yes, that sounded much better. He'd think of a new code. John sighed as he looked at he crime rates, his sister had really been slipping the past year, it was really no wonder she'd gotten offed. Disappointment was followed with worry. If his sister had gotten killed, what about Harrison? Had he been strong enough to hold the organization in check while John plotted to get back to London?
Only one way to find out. John left a message on the forum, using his old codename 007. His sister had teased him endlessly, but John really liked the Bond movies. Just to spite him, Harry had chosen "Brokenclaw" as her codename. John smiled sadly and hit enter. The message read "guess who's back in the game?".
He left the message board open all night, periodically checking to make sure he hadn't been hacked or anything of the sort. The reply came around midnight, when people usually checked the board. John gave a chuckle. It seemed Harrison had a sense of humor. He can work with that. "Agent 007. Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to meet me exactly where I was when I called you. You have three hours." Cracking his knuckles, John grinned and grabbed the burner phone. He did love a challenge, and in the old circle he had gained a bit of a reputation as a hacker. This was as much a test of his identity as and invitation.
He didn't remember Harrison, but he did remember the one person who would still know his old codename. Mitchell. They'd grown up together, mob kids, learning the ropes and sharing marks. The encryption was a small challenge, increasingly less so as it all came rushing back to him. As soon as he was finished and was sure of the coordinates, John grabbed his coat and few personal belongings, shoved them in a messenger bag, and walked out the door of the bedsit. He didn't look back./
John walked into the office building and straight up to the receptionist. "How can I help you today sir?", he said, barely glancing up from the book. "Hi, I have a 4:00 appointment with Mr. Bond." The receptionist finally looked up and addressed John directly. "He's expecting you, go right on up. Third floor, second door to the right." Of course, John already knew where to go, and was walking to the elevator before the man had finished talking.
As he walked into the office, a deep sneering voice spoke from the large swivel chair behind the desk. "Well, if it isn't John Watson, Soldier Extraordinaire."
