Mirror Universe: John's Point of View:
John threw the brick and hit Jameson in the back of the head. The ginger-haired, orphanage director stopped running, staggered and hunched over with his arms covering his head.
"Don't! Don't. I give up, please," he shouted at John who finally caught up with him. He'd picked up another fallen brick in his grip and had every intention of braining the son of a bitch if he even thought about trying to run again.
"Hands behind your back," John growled into the man's ear as he wrenched his arms painfully up behind his back and snapped a pair of cuffs on him. It was after 1:00 am in the morning, and he'd cornered him in an alley between a closed-down pub and a heavily secured warehouse located next to the orphanage.
"You can't treat me this way. I'm bleeding, I can feel it running down my neck. Please, you're a doctor, Watson, help me," the middle-aged director moaned holding out one blood soaked hand. "I think I'm concussed."
"It's what you deserve, bloody tosser," John said. "You ran when Sherlock told you to stay. You've been found out. You think I'm going to go easy on a git like you? You stole from a fucking orphanage, a home for disadvantaged children for Christ's sake. And, if Sherlock hadn't figured it out, you'd still be doing it right now!"
He gave Jameson's bound arms a pull causing him to cry out in pain. He pushed the man's head roughly forward by his hair to look at the wound left by the brick. It had already bled copiously and the man's dress shirt soaked up the blood. Well, John rationalized, head wounds bled. A lot. The abrasion would need stitches to stop the bleeding. None too gently, he pushed the idiot face first into the brick wall so he pull out his shirt from his trousers."
"What are you doing?" Jameson wailed.
"Relax," John said. He reached up under the man's shirt and used his pocketknife to cut a large section of his cotton vest away. He folded it up into a pad and pressed it to the bleeding wound.
Jameson yelped in pain, but John continued pressing. With his other hand, he reached into his pocket and fished out his phone. He pressed speed dial and waited for Sherlock to answer. When the detective picked up he said, "I've got him in the alley behind the old Boar's Head Pub."
"Hold him there, John. I need to find the hidden records his accomplice hid or we'll have no proof he's done anything wrong. They're somewhere on the third floor of the children's home. I need more time," Sherlock commanded. "Is he injured?"
"Yeah, he's going to need the A&E," John responded with a weary sigh. "How much longer?"
"Patch him up yourself. We may have to detain him a bit until I find the records," Sherlock said. "Do not let him go, and keep him out of sight of the cameras! See if that pub has a back room you can break into."
"Sherlock, I've already been cited twice for breaking and entering. Third strike and NWI will make me serve time," John said through gritted teeth. "I can't keep getting caught doing illegal things, or I'm going to be the one they cart off to Incarceration."
"Stop whinging, John and do it!" Sherlock said using his full command voice. You didn't used to be such a dead weight. Are you here to help me or hinder me?"
That stung. Usually, the detective took John's well-being and personal safety into consideration before making dangerous demands. But lately, he'd wanted more and more from him.
"Fuck off," John retorted before he could stop himself. "I'm not getting a third strike over this knob," he hissed into the phone. Sherlock might very well punish him later for such insubordination but, he needed to know John was not some disposable sidekick, and he damn sure wouldn't allow himself to be treated as such. Incarceration in a New World prison was no joke. The London Protectors put people away for far less than breaking and entering, and most poor souls who went into one of those prisons never came back out the same.
It chilled his soul to think that Sherlock may be keeping him around only to use him up and someday throw him away. John had begun to feel the vice-grip of doubt about his ability to be of service to Sherlock creeping up on him. But, he couldn't let his thoughts go down this path.
"You are in no danger of getting another strike, John. I assure you. This area has very little Protector coverage, if any. That pub hasn't been in operation for over three years. You're safe enough there. I'll come find you as soon as I get the documents."
John grunted in assent. This section of London had recently fallen into chaos. It was one reason the government put the orphanage here in the first place, cheap accommodations.
"I'm checking out the custodian's closet now. I have hope I'll find something," the detective said.
Sherlock enjoyed a certain privilege his genius allowed him. He got things done in his own way and had quite a bit of leeway in which to do it. He accomplished things no other detective at New World Investigations had ever done since its inception five years ago. So, they overlooked a great many of his "questionable methods" for bringing in criminals.
The country, secretly spearheaded by Sherlock's brother Mycroft, had assembled the NWI to combat the growing unrest spreading across the country due to an upsurge in criminal activity left in the wake of a series of brutal, terrorist bombings. The country's military had barely reigned in the threats, but they'd had to declare a form of Martial Law and give the NWI almost total control of the population. Despite its heavy-handed approach, the country had responded positively. Crime declined, people settled into peaceful pockets of civilization and mostly followed the new rules. It would take time, but both Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes were making a difference while working toward a better future.
Mycroft had wanted Sherlock to take the position of Prime Protector, but of course, the detective had refused the position. However, they used him off the books every chance they could and paid them both well enough for their work. John knew NWI depended on Sherlock's unique set of skills as much as the detective needed the stimulation of the cases and problems to solve. Only, John thought ruefully, he didn't always get the benefit of operating in the shadow of the great detective. Because, when he got caught doing something against the rules by The Protectors, it stuck. He didn't have a big brother to bail him out or sweep his legal indiscretions under the rug.
John had long ago reconciled himself to the fact that Sherlock lived a charmed existence, but he had agreed to this life when he'd signed on to become Sherlock's crime fighting partner and his submissive.
"Yes, Sherlock, I'll deal with it," John said gruffly and rang off, sighed and grabbed Jameson's arms to propel him forward. Once again, he'd been relegated to Sherlock's shadow.
John had an illegal app on his phone that pinged the location of all the CCTV cameras in London. He used it now to be sure he'd not been tracked by one of them. Sherlock had traded his services to a very talented hacker to obtain this app, and it had come in handy on numerous occasions.
A minute later he received a text from Sherlock:
I"ll deal with your outburst tonight, John. SW
"Shit," John breathed. He thought he might have gotten away with telling Sherlock to fuck off, but his Dom missed nothing.
John sent a text back:
I'm sorry for that. I was under stress. JW
I know. That's why I'm going to give you a chance to redeem yourself. You take care of Jameson, and maybe I'll be tempted to use the riding crop instead of the cane. SW
Yes Sir. JW
John breathed a quick sigh of relief. He had no excuse for his behavior, he knew. Instead of harboring his worries about their relationship, he should be talking about them to Sherlock. Sherlock wouldn't know about his insecurities unless he told him. He just didn't know if it was the right thing to do.
The riding crop he could handle and even enjoyed to some extent, but he hated the cane. Because Sherlock's punishments had become more intense in the past few months, John wondered if he might be escalating their frequent scenes to extreme new heights because he'd become bored and needed further stimulation. He hoped not.
Their relationship had started brilliantly just after their first case together. John fell into his role as submissive easily and eagerly. He'd never known anyone who'd claimed him so perfectly physically and emotionally. He'd let Sherlock have complete control over him before he even knew he wanted it. Of course they had sex, often, but John sometimes missed the warmth he'd had with other lovers. Sherlock could be a cold-hearted master at times, but John held out the hope he would eventually thaw and they might even find something softer, and more intimate. It chilled him to think he might be losing the most brilliant, exciting lover he'd ever known because he just couldn't give him what he needed. He just didn't know what that was.
But, unless he wanted to leave the glorious detective, he'd have to put up with the constant demands both in the field and in the bedroom. He had no choice.
Fortunately, no camera tracked the alley and John used his lock picking skills to get into the back room of the pub. He carried a small medical satchel with him, and he had antiseptic wipes, needle, and suture. He'd learned the hard way always to be prepared when he worked with Sherlock. He even had a tube of lidocaine stored at the bottom of the bag that he could use on the wound. This man wouldn't get better treatment even if he'd gone to the A&E. In addition to shoddy care, he'd probably have to wait hours to get seen. The city's general hospitals were always overcrowded and understaffed.
He unlocked the back door using tools he kept in the pocket of his fitted, leather jacket, and pushed his way into the pub's empty stockroom. No alarm sounded. This part of the city was lucky to have electricity and running water in most areas. Because the pub had been shut down, John could rely on the place having no power running through it. He confirmed his suspicions when he saw two thick electrical cables cut in half, and lying dead in the middle of the floor. That also meant no light. He'd have to stich Jameson up by the weak beam of his torch.
Jameson pulled the sticky shirt-pad away from his head and widened his eyes at how much blood had already saturated it. Rivulets of it ran down his arm. "I'm going to faint," he whispered as he staggered forward into the room. John found a broken chair for him to sit on. It wobbled dangerously with one leg shorter than the others, but it was all the room offered. John found a stack of old magazines and shoved them under the broken leg to help stabilize it. He pushed Jameson down and cuffed his wrists to the back of the chair. It would have to do in a pinch.
He held the torch in his teeth as he searched his satchel for his medical supplies. Thank god he'd thought to stuff a pair of latex gloves in his kit.
The task took a half hour as he smoothed the lidocaine into Jameson's wound and carefully stitched the man up. The pain relief of the topical ointment wouldn't last long. He tore off another large patch of the already tattered undershirt and created a makeshift bandage to tie around the director's head. He snapped off the gloves and announced, "You'll live," as he ran his hand through his short, well-trimmed beard.
Jameson hung his head and moaned, "It hurts!"
"Shut it," John whispered. He tried to generate some sympathy for the idiot before him, but if Sherlock found the files, they'd have enough evidence to put this man behind bars in a New World Incarceration facility for at least a decade or more. Most people took a very dim view of stealing from homeless, orphaned children in today's society. It ranked somewhere between pedophilia and robbing from the elderly. Even though the city of London had gone to shit in the last two decades, there were still some things that just weren't on, and this was one of them.
An unprecedented number of government-run orphanages had sprung up in the wake of the terrorist attacks. Numerous mothers and fathers had succumbed to the attacks leaving the city of London burdened with bringing up thousands of orphaned children. Unfortunately, men like Jameson used this horrific situation to take advantage and line his own pockets.
Before Mycroft's New World Investigations had stepped in, the only thing people cared about was protecting themselves at all costs. After the new controls had been put in place, the city struggled to find its feet again.
John finished his ministrations on his prisoner and took a moment to look around the room. He paced around for another couple of hours waiting to hear back from Sherlock. He grew tired of standing. There was nothing for him to sit on so he rested against one dirty wall. He wriggled around trying to find a comfortable spot and felt a leaver behind his back move. In the dark, he'd accidently turned on the pub's circuit breaker panel. The lights overhead flickered slowly to life. Startled, John turned around to flip the switch back down. The place did have juice after all. The last thing he needed was to turn on all the power and attract attention to himself. In the half-light, he saw that the panel seemed to have been pulled apart by what John could only imagine had been vindictive gnomes who hated modern technology. Wires hung haphazardly from twisted breakers. How the thing operated at all was a mystery.
He scrabbled at the largest switch and pulled at it hoping to shut it all down. But that had the opposite effect. The power increased. Music now began playing in the main room of the pub from some long forgotten stereo and John began to panic. While he tried to shut down the traitorous electrical system, he failed to notice the two cables on the floor had fitfully twitched to life. Little arcs of electricity shot out of the ends in a very pretty display of blue fire. John gave up trying to get the befuddled panel to cooperate and decided to go into the main room to see if he could shut down the music and lights manually.
"Stay put or I'll rip those stitches right back out," he snarled at a woozy Jameson, who only looked wild-eyed at him, and nodded his head yes.
John ran across the storeroom floor towards a door that lead into the main room of the pub. He was so intent on stopping the noise that he didn't see the two spitting cables on the floor. His right foot looped under one cable, and his left foot stepped right on the live end of the second one.
A white hot pain stabbed through his leg and he dropped to the floor with a cry. The second cable flew up and touched his other leg completing a deadly, electrical current that flowed through his entire body. He juttered helplessly as an unknown number of volts flowed through him. The shock rippled through his mind and nerves in great undulating waves. He endured the blinding pain until it just stopped. The pain shut off like a switch, and John wondered if he'd died. If asked, he'd only be able to say he felt his spirit had broken apart from his body. A white light ripped open in front of him, and his spiritual self inexplicably rushed forward through it.
As he felt his consciousness push forward, everything he'd heard about the afterlife seemed to be coming true. He felt himself moving through the predictable tunnel toward a bright light. So, John thought, this was it. His life finished up at the age of forty-two in the back room of a broken-down pub. These could be his last conscience moments. But, instead of the eternal darkness he expected from death, the tunnel widened out into a well-lit room with a body lying on the floor. The body looked like his but somehow not his. It too writhed under the influence of electrical current that flowed from a couple of power cords wrapped around the legs. The figure, so like his own, also lay on his back in what looked to be a rictus of pain.
This version of himself had no beard and wore clothes he'd never consider putting on his body, a plaid button up, khaki trousers and an oatmeal jumper. He looked like something out of a children's television show. But his spiritual self didn't seem to care about the extra softness of the face or the terrible clothes of this other John Watson. It simply craved a physical form that called to his disembodied spirit. Here is your home!
The room dimmed as the breaker box shorted out leaving the form on the floor still. As soon as the current ceased, his spirit slammed into this new body like a diver hitting the water from a great height, and he took a great gasping breath.
What the hell had just happened to him? Did he just have an out of body experience?
He opened his eyes. His heart thundered in his chest so hard he thought he might be dying. He'd obviously electrocuted himself on the fucking cables he'd seen earlier, but that didn't explain what he saw at this moment.
