A/N This is a sequel to, My Apologies. In other words, this fic might be hard to follow if you don't read My Apologies first.

Warnings this fic is rated M for violence, sexual situations, frequent swearing and other adult themes that I might decide to cram into it. Disclaimers are at the end of each chapter stating the obvious (ie I don't own rights to Sherlock, yada, yada, yada.)

OK, so In To the Fire, Chapter 1(spoiler alert if you are toying with the idea of reading My Apologies.)

And sorry it took so long to post the first chapter. I shall refrain from excuses.

So anyway, lets start with a quick reminder of where we left our heroes (naturally we left them hanging off the edge of a metaphorical cliff).

So, John is in the clutches of the dastardly Dimitri and his horrible henchmen, including the vicious Victor Trevor. Sherlock is determined to find his kidnapped blogger with the assistance of two CIA agents named Mitchell and Mary Morstan, two handlers (none other than Greg Lestrade-handler extraordinaire and Irene Adler-the femme fatale) and John's friend/protégé, Ahsan Guhlam (because even a sidekick deserves a sidekick).

Ok, now we can start (Finally)

Into the Fire

Chapter 1

In the sky to the east, the first fingers of indigo and lavender stained the dawn sky. Out to the west, a few scattered stars, like stalwart soldiers, refused to surrender to the onslaught of day.

From deep with in his Mind Fortress, John admired the celestial changing of the guard. He dearly wished that he could write down this metaphor in his notebook because it was clearly one of his best, and he was sure to forget it. His novel of the century might never be written now, and it was all the fault of those bloody Russian mobsters and of course that bloody bastard, Vicky.

John tried to ignore the fact that he had once again been kidnapped. He tried to avoid the possibility that Sherlock was in danger or worse. NO, NO, NO! Forget worse. Worse cannot happen. John tried to delete the horrid thought.

He let his body run on autopilot and tried, without much success, to also delete the random blows from his captors. And what exactly was the point hitting him right now? Idiots, maybe they would accidentally kill him and thwart the evil plans of the Russian mob boss. Somehow, John was not cheered by this possibility.

The black Cadillac Escalade rolled into the hanger, narrowly avoiding packing crates. These idiots can't even drive properly, thought the army doctor.

John's captors quickly hustled him out of the car, through the hanger and out the back onto the tarmac. They dragged him onto a private jet, whose engines were already running.

Big and Ugly (not to be confused with his even larger cohort, Big and Bald) shoved the army doctor into a seat and handcuffed his wrist to the armrest. John was getting tired of all the dragging and shoving. He was very, very tired of everyone handcuffing him.

Victor, gloating, leaned over his helpless captive. Victor's lank, dark hair hung over his forehead, "Well Johnny, do you think Sherlock will miss you? Do you think he'll even notice that you're gone?"

John glared up at his captor from under his lowered brows. Just let him get close; just let him get in range. John's hands closed into fists

"Well, since Sherlock isn't here, perhaps I can avail myself of your rather limited charms," said Victor, leaning closer.

John was horrified; surely, he had misunderstood. Surely that twat wouldn't…

Victor grabbed John's jaw roughly and began kissing him. For several revolting seconds, John was too shocked to react. Then he realized that he was minimally restrained, and Vicky was within range.

Grinning inwardly, John pushed forward and deepened the kiss. Moaning Vicky let go of the doctor's face to let his hand search for John's groin. With his head released from Vicky's grasp, John reared back and banged his forehead down hard, smashing Victor's nose.

Victor gave a piercing scream, and John rammed his head into Victor's face a second time. Victor fell on to the floor as blood poured from his nose. John kicked the fallen man who crawled out of reach, whimpering like a baby.

Yes, John's head hurt a lot now, but watching Vicky squirm in his own blood was worth any sacrifice. John leaned back in his seat, smiling.

Big 'n Bad stormed back into the cabin. He cuffed John above his ear and punched him in the ribs for good measure. Then the huge man pulled the lanky, writhing figure off the floor and pushed him into a seat with a wad of paper towels to stem the flow of blood.

The army doctor looked out the window to see that the jet was already speeding down the runway for takeoff. His ribs ached along with his head now, and he could feel a small trickle of blood from the new cut on his temple. It was all worth it to watch the bloody bastard blubber like a baby, he thought.

John once again regretted his lack of a notebook after coming up with such a stunning alliteration. He would need to acquire a fourth notebook now, assuming he could get out of this mess alive.

Still, John was cheered by his temporary victory. He retreated back into his Mind Fortress and tried to memorize his newest alliterative phrase, yeah 'bloody bastard blubbered like a baby', pure poetry.

The sun rose up and shone through the right hand windows, so the soldier guessed that they were headed north. The two Bigs (John was tired of repeating their nicknames) played cards and muttered to each other, presumably in Russian. Periodically they would pause to glare at John or Vicky. It seemed that the blubbering bastard was not particularly popular with the hired muscle.

After a while, contemplating his poetry became tedious, even annoying. John decided that it really wasn't very good anyway, as Sherlock had pointed out on several occasions.

Instead, John spent his time worrying about where they were taking him, and, even more importantly, he worried about Sherlock. Where was the consulting detective? Was he still at that police station? Did Mycroft get John's message, and would he able to help Sherlock? What about Ahsan? What happened to him?

Unlike Sherlock, John had no way to magically gauge the passage of time. He guessed that it was only an hour or two later when they landed, and John was quickly transferred to a slightly larger, more lavish jet. As before, this aircraft took off immediately after the kidnapped doctor was forced on board.

Once they were cruising (still heading north), a new large man (well, not as large as Big and Ugly, but a lot larger than the blond army doctor) ducked out of a door into the back of the jet.

"For God's sake! Clean them both up. I do not want blood on my carpets," ordered the new man. Clearly this man, with thinning black hair and dark, almost black, eyes was the man in charge, the criminal CO. John deduced that this was the elusive and much to be feared, Dimitri.

John's very bad day was probably going to get much worse. But for now, the new boss ignored John, and, grabbing a sheaf of papers from Big 'n Bald, he returned to his private cabin.

Paperwork? Good God, do mobsters have to do paperwork like everyone else? John pondered this rather mundane idea, as he watched the Bigs escort Vicky to the lavatory and roughly clean him up. After some loud and frankly embarrassing winging, the wrecked wretch limped back to his seat with raccoon-eye bruises, a split lip and a very swollen, deviated nose.

John was escorted forward next. With Big 'n Bald glowering down at him, John took off the purple shirt that he had borrowed from Sherlock. Using wet paper towels, John scrubbed his face, neck and arms as well as possible. He tried to rinse the blood and sweat out of his hair in the tiny sink.

With his hands temporarily freed he checked his ribs (just bruised, not broken). The two cuts on his cheek and temple would heal up even without stitches. The doctor was also developing a nice shiner, but it was not nearly as spectacular as Vicky's double set of black eyes, the blond thought smugly.

John suffered the indignity of using the loo with a towering cretin standing guard. John put his, or rather Sherlock's, purple shirt back on and returned to the main cabin.

The Bigs sat him in a chair opposite their leader. John was handcuffed to the table this time.

It must be International Handcuff a Soldier Day, thought John pursing his lips sourly. Pity no one told me it was coming up, I would have had Sherlock teach me his handcuff escape techniques. Oh, Sherlock. What if they have Sherlock? What if he's hurt or…

"Mr. Watson. It's so good hof you to join us," said the boss, who was about the same age as Lestrade, albeit a bit taller and heavier than the detective inspector. John now saw that dark hair of the mob boss was speckled with gray. His smile was full of teeth, like a shark. And about as inviting as a great white, too, thought the doctor.

"Well, it seems you know my name," said John his expression carefully neutral. "I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that you are Mr. Dimitri?"

"Very good. I am glad you are not so stupid as most soldiers. I also haf hope that you are not too injured, at least for now," said Dimitri, leering.

John sighed and reminded himself that he was captured by the enemy. Give no aid or comfort to the enemy. Just give your name, rank and serial number. Christ, what are you thinking, you idiot, he scoffed at himself. It's not as though the Russian mafia will abide by the bloody Geneva Convention.

From deep inside his Mind Fortress, an imaginary Sherlock calmly whispered, 'Don't be an idiot then, John. Play the game. Talk to him. Buy time. Gather data. Stall. Play. The. Game."

Well, Sherlock was loads smarter than John. If he said 'play the game', then John would at least try to play.

"Yeah. Not too injured, Mr. Dimitri, but thanks for asking," said John forcing a fake smile onto his face. "Nice plane you have here. Must be a real pain to keep all this white upholstery clean, what with people coming in all covered in blood."

Dimitri laughed and slammed his fist on the table. "Yes. Very good. Very English. Show no fear and stiff upper lip," the man grinned. His eyes remained fixed on John, assessing and measuring his prisoner.

"Bring me the wodka and two glasses," ordered the Russian.

Dimitri had almost no Russian accent. He actually sounded more American than anything else. He really sounded like one of those bloody awful American businessmen, like J. R. Ewing. Maybe John should bring up football or baseball?

"So, Mr. Watson. A toast," said Dimitri, pouring generous amounts of vodka into each glass. "To a successful working relationship, yes?" He smiled his shark smile at his smaller prey.

"Sure, and to absent friends," said John, meeting Dimitri's gaze and sipping at the strong alcohol. They exchanged fake smiles and sincere glares until the glasses were empty.

John half expected to keel over from some hidden drug. Fortunately, drugs and poisons did not seem to be the Russian's style. Well, unfortunately, that still left a lot room for other forms of persuasion. John tried not to let his mind wander down those avenues.

"So, Mr. Watson. Shall we now discuss the location of Moran's hidden bases?" asked Dimitri, blandly.

"Well, I hardly think they qualify as bases, Mr. Dimitri," said John, cautiously. "They were more like caches or very little bunkers. Not really big at all."

"Yes. The careful, precise Englishman. Let us not worry about their size. Where. Are. They?" Dimitri's predatory smile did not reach his intent eyes.

"Well about that…You see Mr. Dimitri, once I tell you any thing about those caches, I am a traitor…Now hold on, let me finish," the Russian had started to flush red. Clearly, Dimitri was an impatient man.

"Now we're both men of the world, Mr. Dimitri," continued John, frantically trying to think like a consulting genius, trying to play the game. Remember that Dimitri is like an American businessman. Make him a deal. Yeah, a deal. "Look," continued John. "I think that you are planning to kill me when this is over. Now you know that I know so we can actually start negotiations."

"So. So, negotiations is it? More wodka is needed" said the Russian running his hand down along his jaw. "I will start the negotiations. I will say that I can make your life, ah, what is the word? Ah, yes, excruciating. I can certainly make your life excruciating, Mr. Watson."

Dimitri drew out the word excruciating. John struggled to remain calm and impassive. He smiled as he glared up from under his furrowed brow. John sipped his vodka. Best not to have much more alcohol on an empty stomach, he thought. The bastard's already getting me tipsy.

"Right. Well, I will point out that my memories of Afghanistan are not that strong. It has been quite a few years since I served with The Colonel. If you are planning to do something unpleasant to me, I should point out that trauma and brain injuries will be harmful to your plans. Just speaking as a doctor and former trauma surgeon, you know. In fact, I may already be suffering from a mild concussion, courtesy of your errand boy, Vicky." John and Dimitri both glanced over to the tall man who tried to huddle into his seat. John devoutly hoped that Vicky would receive some excruciating punishment from his employer.

"Yes, he exceeded his instructions," said the Russian blandly; Vicky somehow paled even further. Then Dimitri turned his full attention back to the army doctor. "So you will continue, Mr. Watson. You mentioned negotiations. Negotiate."

"Look, if I can find those caches for you, maybe you could sorta not kill me? I'll be a wanted man, so it's not like I could ever go home. It's not like I'd be telling anyone about you." John tried to sound desperate and sincere. Well the desperate part was easy; John was desperate.

"So yeah, I think, when this is over, that you should give me a fake ID and bit of money to tide me over. Not a lot of money. Just a couple thou and maybe a couple of guns. Then you should just leave me off, where my unique services could be appreciated. Someplace remote like, um, well Afghanistan would be fine." John gave the Russian his very, best, fake ingratiating smile. The kind he saved for psychopaths and Mycroft Holmes.

"Sure. No problem. Now tell me where," demanded the Russian.

"Right. Thank you, Mr. Dimitri. And I am not stupid, as you yourself have pointed out. I can see you are still planning to kill me. Well, fine. Maybe you'll change your mind later, when you see how helpful I am. Anyway, here's my line in the sand. I will not cooperate, until I know my friends are safe," said John, looking into the man's soulless eyes. John forced himself to swallow despite his growing fear.

"You think you will tell me what you will and will not do?" asked Dimitri quietly, playing with his empty glass. John stared at his thick fingers, so unlike Sherlock's. 'Idiot!' cried the imaginary Sherlock from his Mind Palace, 'Forget about my fingers, and try to concentrate.'

The Russian's fingers are short and fat. His nails are rough, chewed on. So he was what, nervous? He wasn't afraid of John Watson; that was certain. Afraid of the British Government or CIA? Not bloody likely.

Dimitri's eye twitched. Well, the man is nervous. He doesn't just want the cached found; he needs those weapons. Maybe he's made a promise to someone even more dangerous than himself. Well, that's not good.

Or maybe it is good. Good, bad…dammit, I don't know! Deducing is not supposed to be my job, whined John to himself. Right, man up, Watson; keep trying. Let's assume that Dimitri needs me, alive and cooperating. He needs me, so he'll have to compromise at least a little.

"You need those weapons, Mr. Dimitri. So you need me. And you need me in relatively good health and cooperating. I need to confirm the safety of my friends," said John pushing his advantage. He wiped his sweaty forehead with his free arm, making a fresh trail of blood on his cheek.

"Look, all I need is to make a few phone calls. Like you said, I'm not so stupid, I can coöperate, you know, once this is taken care of." John risked a small sip of his vodka. Maybe it will dull the pain if any thing excruciating happens, thought John anxiously.

"We will see, after we refuel. We will wait until afternoon, then we shall see," Dimitri rose quickly. He looked powerful and yet surprisingly graceful as he moved about the cabin.

The Russian rattled off orders, before he went back into his private cabin.

The Bigs shoved a bottle of water and couple of stale sandwiches at John. He tried to eat some of the ham and cheese sandwich but his appetite was severely curtailed by the display of electrical wires that Big and Ugly stretched out near John. Vicky's evident glee at the sight of the wires, foretold of excruciating times ahead. John at least forced down the water; after all, he might not get more for a while.

To stave off either boredom or a panic attack, the army Captain rummaged around in his Mind Fortress for a bit before he finally dozed off in his chair. He woke up when the Bigs clattered around the cabin. Evidently the jet was back on the ground.

John had no clue as to their location at first. It was cloudy with a fine rain coming down. The grey mists, obscured the distant hangers and terminals. There were dirty patches old leprous snow heaped near the buildings. The setting looked as dismal as John felt.

John peered out the window until Vicky came over and slapped him. With his uncuffed hand, John managed to punch Vicky hard enough to double him over. Big and Ugly stormed over and punched both of them in the stomachs. John was glad he hadn't eaten much when his gut began cramping from his punishment.

Big and Ugly also pulled down all of the cabin's window blinds. Nevertheless, John had seen plenty of airplanes with the Alaska Airlines logo. So, Alaska it is. Probably. Maybe.

The jet was taking off again, seemingly in under an hour. John idly wondered how many safety regs had been ignored in their rapid turn-around.

John was finally allowed to use the lavatory again. He washed his face and thanked Big and Bald politely. He even got another bottle of water to drink before he was cuffed back in his seat. His wrist was beginning to get raw and sore. Stupid handcuffs, he groused to himself.

John roamed for a while in his Mind Fortress. He spent a few minutes giving himself a pep talk and tried to prepare himself for the Russian's excruciating persuasion, just in case their negotiations fell apart.

John distinctly heard Sherlock's baritone voice demanding that he 'Stop focusing on the word 'excruciating, John. Play the game. Use your tiny mind, John; it's probably bigger than Dimitri's. Just stall and misdirect, John. You can trust me, John. I will come for you…'

From there, John tried to cheer himself up with false bravado and bad puns. Then John sorted through his memories of the World's Only Consulting Detective beginning with their bizarre meeting at St. Bart's, where the tall, pale, exotic-looking man in a very expensive hand tailored suit asked Mike Stamford for a phone, and John Watson sealed his own fate by volunteering his mobile phone.

John woke up dazed, briefly looking around for Sherlock. Then he noticed that Dimitri was back, grinning evilly. Yeah, just like a shark.

Big n' Ugly had pulled off John's shoes and socks. Vicky, with his own evil grin, attached wires to two of John's fingers. OK, not good, not good at all. Wires were attached to his foot. Well class, the potential circuit is now 's science demonstration is all ready. Definitely not good.

John prepared to hunker down in his Mind Fortress, but then, the Russian handed John a phone.

"So we try it out, Mr. Watson. I shall let you make your phone calls and see if your friends are Okey-doky, yes? Then you will gif me the directions to Moran's hideouts. Here's your rules. You don't tell my name. You don't tell your location. If you are very bad, then Vwicky gives you the electrical shocks." Dimitri sat down with a cup of coffee. "So, Mr. Watson, make your calls."

John licked his lips and tried Sherlock's most recent mobile phone number. Of course he was put into voice mail. He left an inane message, something like. 'Hi, this is John. Miss you. Have a nice day.'

Bloody hell. That Russian shark was grinning at him, and Vicky couldn't wait to shock him. John tried to steel his nerves. Right, lets try Ahsan. Once again, John was sent into voicemail, and he left another idiotic message.

He tried Mycroft and got another recording, "Hi Mycroft. John Watson here. Um, OK. So, how are you? I'm fine, well not really. Got a shocking story for you someday. Ha. Ha. Um. Bye."

Dear God was everyone dead or something horrible? Well, maybe they were all just at a big party…

In desperation, John tried Greg Lestrade next.

"Lestrade, here. Who is this?"barked the detective inspector.

John swallowed, overcome by the sound of a friendly voice, even if it barked at him. "Um, hi, Greg. This is John. Um, how's London?" John looked up at Dimitri, who nodded blandly.

"God help us, it's John!" Lestrade put his phone on speaker. And motioned frantically while whispering, "Go get Sherlock." Then he added louder, "John where are you? Are you OK? What…"

John interrupted, "Look Greg, I don't exactly have a lot of time here. Do'ya have any idea where Sherlock is? I need to find out if he's safe, um him and a friend of ours named Ahsan?"

"Here John, they're both here. They're safe," Relief flooded the army doctor, and he sagged into his seat. A new confidence bloomed in his Mind Fortress; Sherlock was safe it really didn't matter what Dimitri did now.

Lestrade continued, "Ahsan is right in front of me. And Sherlock, I'll get Sherlock. Where the hell are you?"

"Um, no. It's fine; it's all fine. But you're sure, really sure that you and everyone and um, Sherlock are safe?" asked John again, stuttering a bit.

"Yes! Now tell us where you are…" said Lestrade again.

"No, no, no!" yelled Sherlock, grabbing the phone from Lestrade, "Don't tell us anything, idiot! They'll hurt you."

John gasped at the sound of his best friend and lover. He simultaneously tried to instantaneously weigh the risks of answering Lestrade's question. If they tracked Dimitri's plane, could someone bring it down? If John was going to die anyway, he might as well try to bring the mobsters with him...

Dimitri must have seen something in John's eyes, because he reached across the table for the phone.

DO IT! Screamed his inner soldier, tried of the fear and anger and always being kidnapped and handcuffed and…

"We're in a Gulf Stream jet heading west, about two hours away from Alaska!" yelled John.

Vicky pushed the button to engage the electricity, and nothing happened, because John had already kicked the wires off of his foot. Big and Ugly grabbed the loose wires and tried to tape them to John's leg. Big n' Bald snatched unsuccessfully for the phone in John's hand, as did Dimitri who was shouting in Russian.

John shouted over Sherlock's protests, "Tail number starts N 43…Dimitri and Vicky…Oh hell," the wires were reconnected, and it hurt. "Bloody hell! Shoot down..umm…plane.. fuckin' shoot it!..ummmmMMM!" The phone dropped from his hand as the increased voltage coursed through his system. A scream finally ripped from his throat before Dimitri smashed the phone to pieces cutting off the signal.

A rough hand yanked John's head up and slowly pulled him out of his daze. The cup of water dashed in his face helped to wake him up.

"That was stupid, Mr. Watson. You haf disappointed me; you are just another stupid soldier," Dimitri waved his hand and the electricity coursed through John's body again. His muscles convulsed painfully. The agony continued even after the shock was over, as his muscles twitched and cramped. And his fingers burned; the cabin smelled like charred flesh. John fought off waves of nausea.

There must have been a good reason for him to have defied the Russian, but for the life of him, John couldn't remember it. The Russian was right; it was a stupid stunt.

John's head was pulled up again so that Dimitri the shark could overwhelm him with his malevolence. A small, sensible Dr. Watson strongly advised against repeating any further acts of defiance.

"We had a deal, Mr. Watson, you should not have tried to ask for help…" snarled the Russian.

"Oh no, Mr. Dimitri. I wasn't asking for help," said the soldier, ignoring his frantic, sensible, self. "I told them to shoot us down out of the sky. Not the same thing at all."

John tensed for another round of electricity, but Big and Ugly punched the side of his head instead. John desperately wrapped himself up in his futile bravado.

"Now you will tell us the location of Moran's weapons," demanded the angry Russian.

"Um, Give us sec. I'm think'n," explained an exhausted and confused John Watson. His mouth tasted like metal, like copper. He must have bit his tongue during the convulsions, thought John. Yeah, come to think of it, his tongue really hurt. A lot of things really hurt right now. His mind was wandering, probably a little brain trauma from all the stress and the hitting and the electrical shocks…

Belatedly, John realized that a meaty hand had gripped his jaw and shaken it, while Dimitri yelled at him, "…when I say so. And you will tell me everything or I will start shipping pieces of you back to your friends…"

Well, Sherlock might like that; he likes body parts, thought John in his mental fog, before he blacked out again.

John had no idea how long he was unconscious, but the jet was descending. Final destination, or just a stop to refuel? John swallowed uneasily; he really, really didn't want to vomit on himself.

Once the jet had landed, John could hear thumps and bumps as the aircraft was again refueled. While on the ground, the shades remained shut.

The Bigs stalked around the cabin like a pair of ugly hyenas. Vicky had curled up in his corner like an ugly spider. Like a big, ugly, black spider with horrid long skinny legs, thought John.

In no time, the jet was up in the air again, and John's favorite Russian mobster was back for round 2. Or was it round 3?

"I don't know why you are so determined that I will kill you, my friend," said Dimitri.

Oh, ho. Back to being friends are we. Maybe he thinks he can play good mobster/bad mobster all by himself. He must be another criminal maniac. Why do I always end up with psychopaths and maniacs? Don't they make plain old greedy but sane criminals anymore?

"Mr. Watson, it is stupid for you to be holding out on me. It is stupid not to answer me. And it is rude, you know this?" the Russian wore his toothy shark smile.

The BAMF tactic had been stupid. It got him shocked and hit and didn't really accomplish anything. Of course it was stupid, because it was my idea, thought John. "OK, OK," said John reverting back to Sherlock's 'play the game and stall for time' tactic-the good idea of course.

"You know, I'd like to give my considered medical opinion, with all due respect. The more you hurt me, especially with high voltage electricity and head injuries, the less I will remember. Not a threat, Mr. Dimitri, just a medical fact," said John hoarsely.

The Russian's face fell, he glared at his goons, and then fixated on the unshaved, raccoon eyed Victor Trevor. Dimitri slapped the former socialite across his face.

All the inner John Watsons cheered from the battlements of the Mind Fortress. Even the imaginary Sherlock joined in the huzzahs when Vicky got slapped down.

"Mr. Watson is correct. He speaks sense," said the crime boss. "He is of no use to me with damaged brain. He will help now, because I will give him thousands of American dollars when I receive the weapons I want. That is a deal."

"So my friend, now you will tell me the location of the weapons?" asked Dimitri, his large hand resting heavily on John's smaller hand. Incongruously, John noticed that Dimitri's hand was covered with dark hair. Dear God, just like a tarantula, John suppressed a shudder. Why does everyone remind him of spiders, for God's sake? Must be the brain trauma.

Dimitri seemed to be getting agitated again. Right. Show time, Captain Watson. "Right. So first, Moran was paranoid; this is an important point. Moran trusted no one. He never left trails or markers. I can't tell you exactly where anything is but...Now I'm asking you to listen for a minute, because I'm telling the truth…but I think I can remember my way to many of the caches. That was the plan we were going with, I mean when I was kidnapped by the CIA. Before I was kidnapped by you. See, I was going to lead Jones, the CIA bloke, to the caches in person. Now, I guess I will lead you there instead."

Vicky was taking notes as John spoke, but Dimitri looked less than pleased. In fact, he looked like he was ready to hurt a British Army soldier again. So much for being friends, it must be time for the Bad-mobster to come back.

"Look, I'll tell you the directions, but remember what I said before. The directions are vague, and there's no markers. So we had a camp near Tarinkot, off the Khas Uruzgan highway you know?" from their blank looks, no one did know. Good, they'll never know the truth from the lies. "And to get to the first cache, we had to trek into the Western hills for, oh I'd guess, six to eight hours. Well, then we stopped at a village. Well not a village, but more like a big compound with a few families, and the headman raised these really great brown and white goats. OK, it sounds stupid, I know, but you might need to know this since the village that's not really a village has no name. The headman had a name, Mostafa. But if he's dead, there'll be a new headman but you'll know if it's the right village by the goats. Just ask about the goats."

"Is this a joke, because I'm not laughing, my friend," said Dimitri.

"Nope. Not a joke. I'm dead serious. Poor choice of words," said John with a grimace. He had a sinking feeling that Sherlock's delaying tactic wasn't going to work. Hell, even the truth wasn't going to work. "So then you head northeast into the hills. You'll be looking for these rocks that I called 'The Guardian's of the West'. Like from the book… The Two Towers?"

John received blank looks. "Well maybe you saw the movie, you know with hobbits and wizards… and orcs?" John couldn't help glancing at the Bigs, they were very orc-like weren't they? Maybe they were really Uruk-hai? OK, my mind is wandering again; not good Watson.

Right, the Russian didn't look happy. Maybe John should try lying; except Sherlock always said that John was a terrible liar. So we stick to the truth, which will help them not at all really. And Dimitri is finally realizing it. The Russian was breathing hard and his face was turning red. His eyes were narrowing into evil slits.

"Right, you're clearly not into Lord of the Rings. Clearly not. So you look for these two big rocks and you head towards them and don't do that. No more shocks…I'm actually telling you… the truth…Bloody!…CHRIST" John was shocked into unconsciousness again.

TBC

A/N Reviews appreciated. Sorry for the bleak first chapter. Next one will be Sherlock's POV, and I hope to have it up next week. I mangled enough foreign languages in my last fic so I decided not to try to fake some Russian. It would be too embarrassing. :$

Disclaimer-I do not own the rights to Sherlock, John Watson or any characters from SHEROCK the BBC show or the books by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.