AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story takes place in an AU World War II-era Britain, where the government resembles that of the government in V for Vendetta. I am not bashing the UK, Britain, or the respective governments, etc. etc. etc. I don't own Sherlock, etc. etc. etc. Any resemblance to any people, living or dead, is probably accidental but who knows. (;
John Watson looked at himself in the cracked, dingy mirror. The uniform wasn't perfect, but it was a pretty good match. His prematurely grey hair was tucked under a black plastic hat, and his perfectly polished boots were laced tightly around the brown trousers, which were of course over two pairs of socks. It was actually his uniform from when he had fought for the British army, when he had still thought that his beloved government could do no wrong. He had modified it a bit, to take off his honor patches and replace them with patches from his new fake regiment. He didn't feel comfortable in it; he didn't feel like himself. But then, that was the point, wasn't it?
While he was in this uniform, he was no longer John Hamish Watson. He was Private Jonathan Winchester, of the British Peacekeeping Force. "Peacekeeping," of course, was a diplomatic term for "search and destroy," and the target of the destruction was the New British Rebellion, the militia for which John was actually a soldier. His was a stakeout mission, and his only task was to obtain information about attacks and warn the others before they happened. There had been too many surprise airstrikes, too many good men and women lost. So the Rebellion had decided to do something about it, besides fire futile shots at the metal planes. It was dangerous work, but he knew that he could do it. Of course, he would never admit to the high that he got off of it.
He walked out the door and marched towards the newly renamed Peace Plaza, formerly Buckingham Palace. A whipping post, gallows, and stocks had been recently erected on the front terrace, not yet stained with the blood of innocent men. Guns and bullets were more efficient, of course, but public whippings and hangings were a show of power, a way to keep people control under fear. For it wasn't just the New British Rebellion that wanted change in the corrupted country. But not many other citizens would admit to it, out of sheer fear of the British government. John used to be one of those people, until they shot his pregnant wife, Mary. That was the day he decided that something must be done, and that he would not simply wait around for someone else to do it.
He saluted the officers at the door, and strolled inside. The halls were as ornate as ever – the gold and red floors polished to perfection, the marble and iron statues gleaming. But there was one distinct difference: instead of being primarily a place of residence for the Queen and her family, the castle was now a base for the British forces, and desks lined every corridor and empty space. People bustled around, carrying contracts, orders, and press statements. Others carried weapons, standing guard or patrolling, making sure no one who wasn't allowed got into the building. The citizens of Britain were kept strategically uninformed, and sometimes intentionally misinformed, and if they were to find out the information contained within these walls, all hell would inevitably break loose. Sooner, rather than later.
His mind went on a sort of autopilot. Up, up, door, third hall on the left, second door on the right. But halfway through his route, he got caught up in a stream of soldiers running downstairs. Not one to miss out on action, he followed them, keeping pace with the younger, more agile men. In the grand hall, there was a commotion going on, between two officers.
"You're working for the rebellion, aren't you! You're one of them!" The shorter, stockier officer yelled, pushing the other, taller officer in the chest.
"Are you mad, Trull? How could I work for them, I spend all of my bloody time here covering your arse!" The taller one yelled, his black, or perhaps just very dark brown, curls flying out from under his black beret as the hat hit the floor.
The men decended into unintelligible shouts and insults, pushing and shoving at each other but neither of then daring to take the first swing. Until the short one flung his arm around, knocking a vase into the taller one's face. Finally, another officer decided to take action, pulling the two apart and yelling for them to just shove it. The other men around John dispersed, no longer entertained by the tussle. John stepped forward, and helped the taller man up off of the floor. He could see blood coming from his lip and possibly his nose, but the man did not seem phased by it. He gave John a calculated look, and smiled.
"Hi. I'm Sherlock Holmes. I see you're my kind." He said, and John raised an eyebrow.
"Um, yes, sir, I am a soldier, if that's what you mean. Private Jonathan Winchester, at your service." He said, hoping his new acquaintance didn't catch the slight hesitation in his voice when saying his name.
"No you're not. Your first name is John – you stumbled on the last two syllables. Your last name likely begins with a W but is not Winchester – there hasn't been a Winchester family in London in nearly a hundred years. Furthermore, the patches on your uniform are hastily sewed, not the work of a government factory." John's heart nearly came out of his throat, and he was considering running for the nearest exit.
"But the biggest indication of your false identity is that awfully dyed grey hair, obviously not a professional job. But not to worry, I won't tell the authorities. We're all in this together, after all." He said, and with a smile, quickly flashed the band of red Henna ink on his wrist, the mark of the Rebellion.