Hunting in Shadows, a sherlock fanfic

Hunting in Shadows

Author: Lady Sam Mallory

Disclaimers: Boys not mine; I just borrow them from time to time when the muse moves me.

Special Thanks to: My exceptional Beta Queen, Zoe, without whom I'd be doomed to a life of grammatical inaccuracy. You are truly my conductor of light. Thank you for thirty years of friendship.

For my beautiful friend, Heather, whose incredible command of the English language allows her to provide me with individually needed words at a moment's notice.

Warnings: H/C, Angst, Smarm, Some violence, and usually a bit of colorful language.

Spoilers: Definitely Reichenbach

Author's Comments: This is a companion piece to "Surviving the Fall" and occurs simultaneously (~Jun 12, 2012- Sept 2013) from Sherlock's point of view. You should most definitely read that piece first as there are vague references to it, but both stories can stand alone.

I also want my readers to know that although I mention some of the more desperate and unfortunate sides to many countries and cities around the world, that these places also hold great wonder and beauty. Drugs, violence and horror exist in nearly every country in the world and while it is tragic, it shouldn't by any means discount the amazing vistas, friendly people and rich culture that exist in those countries as well.

This one was definitely a labor of love, as it took way too long to research (hundreds of hours) and write (I actually cried a little when I typed the two words, THE END. I did not die, although at times,I'm sure you were all wondering. Hope you enjoy it. Thanks for all your support. Hope it was worth the wait.

Thanks for reading.

'I'm sorry,' Sherlock's mind yells as he witnesses John's shocked expression. The doctor, his closest friend, struggles to claw his way through the growing crowd. 'Forgive me, John. Please, forgive me.'

Sherlock watches as his own hand is wrenched from John's grasp when the doctor attempts to check for his pulse. Of course, John lacks sufficient time to accurately determine if Sherlock's heart still beats. The agents in place will never allow him to get that close to discovering the ruse.

"No," Sherlock hears John cry out, "He's my friend. He's my friend. Please."

Sherlock longs to close his eyes against the tortured sorrow he hears in John's voice. He knows without any doubt that he is the one person who put it there. He rationalizes that this decision, though more difficult than he thought it would be, remains the best course of action. John will forgive him when he realizes that Sherlock's strategy is correct.

The oddest feeling washes over Sherlock as he struggles to understand the emotions welling up within him. He does not do guilt or regret or even sorrow. Confusion muddles his hyperactive brain as he endeavors to categorize exactly what is happening to him.

Sherlock supposes that John's anguish will interfere with his ability to reason. He will not notice that the two nurses first at the scene never once give the seemingly broken man on the pavement a second glance.

They do not check his vitals. These medical personnel immediately take defensive positions to deny access to his body from everyone, especially Dr. John H. Watson.

Sherlock surmises John's shock will blind him to the fact that the people surrounding his best friend's paralyzed body actively hinder his progress to reach Sherlock, as they were ordered to do. John will fail to remember in that moment that St. Bart's has not had an A & E department since 1995.

Mycroft stations a copious number of intermediaries to ensure that John's physical connection to Sherlock in these crucial moments remains tenuous at best.

Sherlock extracted a promise from Mycroft that John will be protected at all costs, even though he has calculated and understands there may be extensive damage to his friend's emotional well-being.

Sherlock's glad he cannot see John's face crumple in devastation as the onlookers, all sent by Mycroft, pull the shattered doctor away. He wants to cushion John as he falls backward and despairs at not being able to aid his friend in such a difficult moment.

The detective no longer has any control over the movement of his body. He lies, literally paralyzed, unable to ascertain if John hurt himself when he fell.

'I despise this helplessness, but I will do what I must to save John,' he reminds himself for the thousandth time. This cruelty, which he allows and even planned, remains Sherlock's best means to protect John. That is all that matters.

"God, no," Sherlock mutely witnesses John gasp out as he feels his body lifted onto the stretcher by the hands of some of the best undercover men and women England has to offer, including the handler at his feet.

'Nothing but the best for my dear brother,' he can nearly hear Mycroft's baritone voice intone with an air of import.

The suited man next to the agent shoves the blood pack used to drench him in his own blood under the corner of the stretcher mat. Sherlock would sigh if he were able. He was saving that blood for an experiment which would determine the autolytic changes in nitrogenous compounds.

Blood drips into his eyes and begins to burn, but he cannot close them. The paralytic Raplon, which was injected into him by one of Mycroft's agents when he hit the air bags in the lorry, prevents any movement at all.

He now understands why Molly stared aghast at his suggestion to use the paralytic. She explained, with far too many boring details, the length of time that would pass before it took effect, the fact that they had to be quick, and something else. He realizes that she was trying to tell him that he would remain aware as opposed to blissfully ignorant.

Molly sighs with relief as Sherlock's stretcher rushes into the lift going down to the ambulance bay where the white van that had dropped off agents out front would now be waiting.

"Hurry. I need to administer the antagonist. How long's he been down?" Molly questions with quiet authority as a good-looking man stops the stretcher and the doors close.

"Three minutes, 23 seconds," Mycroft's medic answers as she plunges the needle into his arm deploying the Neostigmine with glycopyrrolate reversal. These compounds together will neutralize the Raplon that currently holds Sherlock paralyzed.

"Shit, bag him," Molly curses as she works together with the special agent to effectively strip off Sherlock's clothing, while the medic forces air into Sherlock's lungs. Molly snaps several photos for the autopsy she will create digitally, paying especially close attention to the "cranial damage."

Mechanical ventilation forces air into Sherlock's lungs whilst his body tries to recover the ability to breathe. Molly quickly stows her camera and opens the white sheet to drape over his body and covers him to his waist with it.

"You'll need to resume mechanical ventilation in the van until spontaneous respiration is re-established," Molly directs the medic, brushing a hand through Sherlock's bloody curls and wincing at the macabre vision he presents as she runs a quick vitals check.

"Thirty seconds," Molly warns causing the medic to shove the ventilator under the stretcher and place the oxygen mask firmly over Sherlock's face.

Sherlock groans and Molly gently places her hand alongside his face. "You have to be quiet. We're not clear yet," she whispers, turning his head to the side as she pulls the sheet up to his neck.

Molly passes the pre-labeled toe tag to the serious agent across the stretcher and leans over to talk to Sherlock.

"I'll watch over John. You be safe," the medical examiner says as she kisses his cheek and pulls the sheet up over his head.

The lift dings as it clears the last floor, and the doors open out on the hallway leading to the ambulance bay.

Molly and the medic push the stretcher to the waiting white van, and he loads it up before climbing into the back himself.

The agent's face registers shock as he looks up to see Mycroft Holmes himself locking the stretcher into the specially installed floor brackets as the vehicle speeds off.

Sherlock coughs before placing his bandaged right hand on his chest. "How long was I out?" he inquires looking over at his brother.

Mycroft assesses his younger brother before answering. "Four hours, twenty- two minutes," he replies, as he glances up from the file in front of him. "This needs to proceed as expeditiously as possible, Sherlock. That means, for once in your life, you will have to listen to what I'm telling you."

Sherlock glares at the older man before nodding his head affirmatively. "Just keep your bloody word that John will be safe," the former consulting detective hisses whilst continuing to rub at his chest.

"Your chest still hurts?" Mycroft asks softly, his knowing eyes seeing everything including that which Sherlock attempts to hide.

"Yes, but that doesn't matter. It will fade as will the sprain from the fall off the lorry. Have you made the arrangements for the first target?" Sherlock questions, bringing his hands together under his chin out of long-standing habit.

"Of course," Mycroft begins, then hands the file over to Sherlock, as the door opens to admit a young man the detective senses is familiar. Mycroft gestures for the soldier to cross the room. "I want to introduce you to Major William MacGregor of the SFSG. Major, this is Special Agent JW Baker. You will partner for Phase II of Operation Dismantle."

"Yes, sir," the major answers with a crisp salute.

Sherlock's blue eyes squint as he realizes that he recognizes the man. "You're the soldier from the lift," he verifies as he analyzes the officer standing before him.

The major inclines his head affirmatively. "I was. I'm surprised you remember. You were a bit out of it," the Major replies as he comes to a halt near the sofa where Sherlock reclines.

"I'm sure. Paralytics tend to do that to the human body. Mycroft, what exactly are you up to?" Sherlock prods turning towards his older brother with a critical eye.

Mycroft tilts his head to the side before answering honestly, "Major MacGregor will be your partner in this endeavor. All arrangements have been made. This file contains your documents as well as the first target, and both are exactly as you specified. Our contact from here on out must be severely limited," Mycroft orders before sending the two men on their way.

"Mycroft, you bloody wanker," John shouts as he shoves past Anthea through the wooden door to his office. "You right bastard. How could you do it?" John accuses slamming his right hand heavily upon the desk.

Mr. Holmes looks up from his paperwork at the exhausted man before him and waves Anthea off. She closes the door behind her.

Mycroft's eyes fix upon the immobiliser sling binding John's left shoulder, as he also takes in the dark circles under the doctor's eyes obviously evidentiary of a complete lack of sleep.

"What is the reason for this intrusion?" Mycroft inquires loftily, his eyes serious in his expressionless face.

John inhales deeply striving for control that is hard won. "He's gone. I went to see him and he's just…gone," John accuses, tears unwillingly pricking the back of his blue grey eyes.

"Molly told me you viewed Sher," he closes his eyes before opening them again to continue "Sher…lock's body yesterday and took it with you after autopsy. Now where the hell is he?"

"Sherlock's body has been cremated," Mycroft informs the traumatized doctor, only to be shocked as John drags his sore leg around his desk and shoves him back into the wall, chair and all. John plants his sore knee firmly in the government bureaucrat's chest and leans forward applying pressure with his right hand crushing Mycroft's windpipe.

John's rage filled eyes flick downward at the blade Sherlock's brother holds at his throat in prepared retaliation and smiles hauntingly. "Wouldn't actually be the worst thing that's happened to me this week," he snarls closing his flashing eyes against the underlying sorrow in Mycroft's.

The older man lowers his weapon and gestures placatingly toward the angry soldier before him. "That's enough," he orders harshly.

John shoves himself back and runs his hand unconsciously over his face. "He wanted his organs donated to science, Mycroft. It was his last wish. You're his brother. How could you take that away from him?" John demands, his right fist clenching and unclenching in an effort to rein in his fury.

"John, there's nothing more you can do. Sherlock's gone. Go home," he whispers sympathetically.

John closes his eyes and whispers, "I didn't say goodbye, you…you machine." John crumples forward as he realizes the words he's said. 'Machine' was the same thing he'd called Sherlock in the lab the very last time they'd been face to face.

Gasping for control, John turns away from Mycroft and curls his shoulders in abject misery. "Don't think for a minute I'll make this easy on you. You killed…you…killed my best friend and….may you rot in hell for it," John blames openly with his features twisted in disgust.

He turns back towards Mycroft, grey eyes now burning with overflowing rage.

"Your brother once called you the most dangerous man in England," John reports to Mycroft in a steady voice belying his anger.

At the self-satisfied expression he sees in the implacable eyes, John enlightens the elder man, "Not anymore."

"I'll have Anthea drop you home," Mycroft offers reaching for the phone on his desk whilst ignoring John's not so subtle threat.

John doesn't reply to him directly. Mycroft shifts as John hisses the words, "Stay away from me, you bloody fucking bastard," as he limps towards the door. He watches as John opens it and pauses momentarily with his eyes closed. Taking a deep breath, John brushes past the woman texting on her mobile.

"That I am, John" Mycroft agrees, before dismissing his secretary and reclaiming the file on his desk.

Sherlock expertly dodges the man's right hook as he uses the aggressor's own momentum to bring him to the floor before using the blade of his hand to render him unconscious.

The former detective takes the attack in stride as a second and third assailant enter, and he must defend from two separate directions. Without hesitation, Sherlock spins driving his right fist into the first man's jaw as he takes out the knee of the second man.

As Sherlock pulls the man upward in the crook of his arm and draws the man's own blade across his throat, he takes a strike to the back of the head that makes his vision swim. Sherlock turns to defend, dropping the body in his arms, and takes another strike to the face, which bloodies his nose.

He falls to the floor as blood gushes out his nose and uses his right leg to perform a sweep bringing his enemy down with a thud. Sherlock tries to follow up with a chop to the neck that is expertly blocked before he takes another hit, which he deflects into his shoulder with a wince.

Both men regain their feet and dance around each other as Sherlock tilts his head to the side and, reaching deep within him, finds the will to finish it. He executes a front kick to the man's face and nearly breaks the soldier's nose, knocking him to the mat.

"Good. He said you were a fast learner, but I had no idea," Major MacGregor praises as Sherlock turns defensively towards the intrusion. The assailants, soldiers from Charlie Two One, help each other off the floor as they turn towards the lanky but slightly more muscular man they've been sparring with for the past three weeks.

"Perfect disarmament and reutilization, JW," the felled man beams proudly at Sherlock then turns to his superior officer to report, "He's ready."

"Very good, Doyle," MacGregor states before dismissing all the men except for Doyle.

Once the Major has the room, he orders, "JW, we'll meet at 0700 to discuss mission parameters and strategy, if you're quite through dispatching the men?"

Sherlock nods and turns to head back towards the barracks before refocusing on Mac again. A slight tremble can be seen in his right hand as he runs it over his black curls.

Sherlock clears his throat and rasps, "I have something I must do tomorrow."

Mac eyes the young man critically. "Affirmative," he replies openly with a nod of his head.

Sherlock takes the dismissal and heads back to the barracks to clean up and prepare for tomorrow.

Doyle glances at the Major tentatively before inquiring, "Look, Mac, I know this is need to know, but…he never talks unless he's on mic, and he fights like nothing I've ever seen."

"You're right…it is need to know…and you don't, Captain," the Major shuts down any further discussion using his rank instead of his given name. "Look, as far as we're concerned these orders came from God himself. We've gone dark and we follow the protocols as such."

"Yes, sir," Captain Doyle responds crisply, years of service deeply ingrained into him.

"Dismissed, Captain," MacGregor orders.

Doyle salutes, turns on his heel and leaves the training room.

Mac looks up to the heavens and proclaims beneath his breath, "Lord, don't let this kid get me killed."

Sherlock observes as John helps Mrs. Hudson from the taxi. Mrs. Hudson clutches flowers to lay on his grave, and he sighs at the sentiment. The detective rolls his sore shoulder to work the stiffness out then sighs as he notices that John has lost nearly 7 kilograms (15 pounds) in the past month.

Sherlock's face twists with anger at his older brother who is supposed to be taking care of the doctor.

John leads Mrs. Hudson to the graveside where they talk for a few minutes before John stands staunchly alone. The consulting detective's blue eyes widen as he witnesses the soldier's solid façade crumble.

"John," Sherlock whispers, shaking his head, careful not to step too far out from the copse of trees.

Sherlock watches as John turns to walk away, only to change his mind and return to the black stone. He sees the doctor check over his shoulder, step to the headstone and with great reverence reach out with trembling fingers to touch it.

The detective witnesses his best friend inhale deeply before gently tapping his fingertips on the slick marble. John takes several steps away, clenching and unclenching his hands, then turns suddenly in afterthought. He contemplates the change in direction as John's fingers gently touch the gravestone once again.

The former detective closes his eyes at the pain he can plainly discern on John's face. Sherlock absently rubs at his chest just above his heart, wondering, not for the first time, how this soldier manages to get past his carefully constructed defenses.

Sherlock glances away when John crumples in on himself, his hand over his eyes as silent sobs wrack his body. Sherlock flinches slightly at the rare display of emotion, then his thin mouth twitches as John performs an about face grandly and strides quickly away from the grave.

Sherlock watches him go, his hands thrust deep in his pockets to ward off the unwanted emotions roiling within him. He schools his chiseled features as John and Mrs. Hudson get into the taxi and drive away.

Slowly, he heads for the gravestone and places his long slender fingers on the spot that in a fair world would still be warm from John's touch. He bends down and retrieves the voice activated miniature digital recorder.

Sherlock's hands shake as he replays the last bit recorded to ensure the quality of the file.

His eyes widen as he hears John's rich tones. "Oh, please, there's just one more thing, okay, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me." There is a slight pause before his friend continues, "Don't…be…dead." John's voice breaks as he asks Sherlock for this one last favor before imploring, "Would you do…? Just for me, just stop it."

Sherlock stops the playback, his blue eyes suspiciously glassy, and pockets the recorder with John's military identity discs. He suddenly realizes that if he believed in it, he would truly rot in hell for what he's callously made John endure.

Sherlock runs a hand over his newly shorn blonde hair with a grimace. A close call in London precipitates the change, and he waits impatiently for Mycroft to answer his mobile.

"Hello," the older man's baritone comes through the line.

"You promised," Sherlock accuses dangerously. "He's lost at least a stone (14 pounds) and doesn't look like he's slept."

"You came to London. There's too much at stake to risk such folly," Mycroft scolds, files shuffling in the background.

The older man's admonishment meets an eerie silence before Sherlock adds, "Do better," and the line goes dead.

Sherlock seats himself at a small table in the back of the tiny bar, where he scans his surroundings carefully. Mac watches the front and smiles as his contact Diego Luis enters the tiny nameless establishment.

The short Colombian man shakes Mac's hand, and Sherlock continues to observe both egress points for any hint of deception on their contact's part.

Mac laughs out loud and claps the older Colombian on the back. He thanks him repeatedly and finishes his cerveza before heading out the door.

Sherlock's mental clock begins counting down the short waiting period before he will follow and meet Mac back at the small colorful hostel where they are staying.

Sherlock takes in every detail as they make their way back, mindful to stay far enough behind to watch Mac's back. Although a small boy tries to pick his pocket, they end up back in the room without any further issues.

Mac circles the small room and ensures privacy before sharing what he's learned from their robust contact.

"Got the location, we leave in twenty. Grab your gear," Mac orders and Sherlock complies readily before shaking his head a bit at the irony. John would love the level of cooperation that Sherlock displays daily for this soldier who actually reminds him a bit of his friend.

Mac exudes confidence and danger, traits that most people who do not know John foolishly believe him to be without. Sherlock knows better.

Sherlock swings a black pack onto his shoulders and nods his readiness to the soldier.

"Let's get moving, JW," Mac orders, amazed at how well he gets along with the younger man which, of course, is much easier to do as the new soldier has said maybe five words to him.

Sherlock sighs subvocally as he remembers John's enduring patience for surveillance.

They have been holed up for five long days in the jungle on the edge of a small "suburb" known as Soacha. Shacks line the dirt streets as people bustle about the village.

They watch one small building in particular as it seems to be the residence of the man their contact has given up. Sherlock rolls his neck with his eyes closed for a moment before he opens them to see Mac give the signal.

Finally, they are on the move. Sherlock stealthily seats his pack on his back and quietly follows the young Colombian.

Mac follows at a short distance, surveilling both his young charge and their target. The tango enters a dilapidated building just north of their position. They shorten their approach and quietly infiltrate. Mac, verifying the marks on his mobile, smiles predatorily.

Sherlock waits on Mac's hand signal before acting on his orders. He inserts silently, his AK-47 Cold Steel Hunting Knife at the ready. Sherlock slits the throat of the man they followed and efficiently takes down the man counting money as Mac takes down his two objectives.

Mac nods at Sherlock and recovers all maps, documents and other Intel, shoving them quickly into his pack before signaling the departure code.

Two hours later, they are wheels up en route to their next assignment.

Sherlock opens his laptop and immediately hears the alarm that indicates new information about John. He opens the file and sees a flagged newspaper article simply titled: "Local Hero Rescues Hostages." The story speaks of a very brave former soldier Dr. John Watson who single handedly attacked a gunman stopping a bank robbery at Lloyd's TSB Bank PLC in Regent's Park. Sherlock grimaces and roll his eyes at the craziness on the page before him.

"Has the world gone mad?" He fumes grabbing his mobile and dialing Mycroft.

"Hello," he hears his older brother answer, as he reads that the hero sustained a minor gunshot wound.

"Minor gunshot wound? There are no minor gunshot wounds where John is concerned," Sherlock assures Mycroft through tightly clenched teeth.

Mycroft sighs heavily on the other end, "Just tell me that you're not in London again."

"Don't be daft. I'm on a transport on the way to Rio," Sherlock hisses. "John?"

"Sustained a minor scratch on his left side. He's fine. Four agents are assigned to him," his older brother informs him cautiously. "You need to focus on the job at hand."

"Then stop getting John shot," Sherlock demands and rings off the mobile tossing it on his pack.

Mac glances up at him worriedly. "John was shot?" He asks, parroting the words back to the younger man in an effort to glean some information on his close-mouthed partner.

Sherlock closes his eyes and nods, "Yes," he rasps, his voice trembling slightly.

Mac sighs. "We've been together 6 weeks and you never say a bloody word. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were a mute operator, JW," he complains, tossing Sherlock a protein bar.

"What's that saying you used in Venezuela, CATFU? I think you could suffice it to say that I am indeed, by military standards, completely and totally fucked up right now," Sherlock reports, making short work of the dried fruit bar.

Mac startles at the unexpected curse, not to mention numerous words, before chuckling a bit hesitantly. "Wow. He speaks. Way to instill confidence that you've got my back," he huffs out a bit harshly.

Sherlock nods, appreciating the man's difficult position, and the silence in the small space is deafening momentarily. "I've got your back," he whispers suddenly, John's voice echoing through his synapses.

Sherlock leans on the ceramic tiles in the shower at the safe house. Water sluices down his exhausted and damaged body as he uses every ounce of strength to remain on his feet. He shuts down the scalding water and wraps a towel around his hips.

Wiping the steam off the mirror, he takes a hard look at himself. He has a black eye and a small cut above it, but otherwise the damage to his face is minimal. He pulls at the sore muscles in his neck and shoulders then verifies that the stitches in his left side are still there. Nine pretty little black x's that hold together the laceration from the knife fight in Brazil, the last stop in their South American tour before flying into Mexico.

Turning away from the mirror, Sherlock checks the burn on his back just below his right shoulder from the explosion in Mexico. He sprays salve on it then shrugs his shoulders painfully and pulls on a pair of black cargo pants and a black T-shirt. Grabbing his Sig sitting ready next to the hand basin, he moves out into his room.

It's been three months since his "death" and they've gone on three more missions since Bogotá. After Colombia, they took out one of Moriarty's counterfeiting circles in Caracas, Venezuela, which explains why the consulting criminal had a seemingly endless supply of funds for any pet project he wished to complete. They confiscated plates for several different currencies before destroying the lab and the men who ran it.

Then came Rio, which Sherlock simply refuses to think about right now. He tries to quiet John's voice in his head by closing his eyes tightly and rubbing at them. Why can't he delete that mission?

Mexico went off without a hitch, but the drug cartel they shut down there would hardly make a difference in the drug trade. Cuidad Juarez teems with cartels all fighting to end the world through methamphetamines, marijuana, opium, and, of course, the cocaine they funnel into the United States from South America.

Sherlock sighs and pulls a nylon green cord out of his side pants pocket and glances down at it. He rubs his thumb over the words on the round metal discs. The former detective closes his eyes and feels the grooves of the letters of John's name and information there. He knows he should not have pinched them from Baker Street but also accepts that maybe once in a great while, he too can be affected by sentiment.

Lying down on the small bed, his Sig in his hand, he attempts to sleep for a few hours before they leave for Dubai.

Mac's hand shakes slightly on the binoculars, causing Sherlock to raise a brow questioningly. Five weeks of surveillance of this small compound has been more than enough for them both, but today, they finally acquire the pertinent Intel.

"Sorry, mate. Hate slavery in any form but especially women and children. I think we've got all we're gonna get. We'll hit the place at 0300," Mac whispers, stowing his gear in his pack.

Sherlock stashes his gear as well and shrugs the pack onto his back, grateful that they will move on the Dubai White Slavery ring that they've managed to attach to Moriarty. The dead psychopath used it as another means of income for his network.

They set up perimeter warnings for their position and settle in to wait for the mission window, taking turns to rest and eat the rations that are beginning to run low.

Sherlock opens his eyes to complete alertness, his gun aimed at Mac's head, when the soldier taps his shoulder. He nods, preserving the silence, and follows the older soldier's hand signals to position.

At the pre-selected time, they quietly breech the compound's defenses and make for the guest house on the south side of the property.

Sherlock unsheathes his knife, plunging it into the brainstem of the guard in front of him just as Mac garrotes his target. Both dead men slide silently to the arid ground, and Sherlock makes quick work of the lock as Mac stands guard.

They quietly step into the entry and head down the hall before entering the first room on the left where two young women are sleeping.

Each man places a firm hand over a woman's mouth and Mac whispers when their eyes fly open, "Rescue. Come with us if you want to go home."

Mac pulls the young blonde woman from the bed gently, which quiets her panic, as she has not been handled with care in a very long time. "Gather the other girls and let's get out of here," Mac orders as Sherlock leaves to place the charges around the guesthouse.

Less than ten minutes later, they are loading into a stashed lorry and the entire ridge is awash with the glow of post explosion firelight.

Sherlock bends down to take a handful of sand and studies it carefully as it runs through his fingers. He repeats the procedure several times, finally placing a handful of sand in his side cargo pocket with the identity discs before he becomes aware of Mac's attention.

"Soooo, whatcha doin'?" Mac asks, his head tilted to the side, his face a mask of confusion.

Sherlock looks away sheepishly before bringing his gaze up to lock on the older soldier's dark eyes. The indecision shows on his face as he turns away and whispers, "John spent too much time here."

Mac nods with understanding and drops the subject. "We need to get moving, JW. We've got a lot of work to do figuring out how many of these weapon caches belong to our boy," the soldier notes as he turns into the burned out building they're staying in for cover.

Sherlock follows behind watching their six. As he enters the dark, dusty room, he pulls out the map of the Kandahar region where several small arms depots hold the weapons that they hope to destroy.

The former detective has grown bored with the tedium of surveying this map everyday for the past nine weeks and spending the alternating hours gathering more Intel. While at first Afghanistan made him feel closer to John, he can't help but feel the need to leave this country as soon as possible.

Afghanistan took John's shoulder, it stole John's career and it turned Sherlock's peace of mind into rubbish when he learned a small portion of what his best friend had endured here.

"How do you wanna do this?" Mac asks, pointing at the numerous targets unofficially scheduled for destruction.

"Quickly," Sherlock responds shortly, pulling several blocks of Semtex out of his pack. Seeing the charges reminds the detective of a horrible night at a pool so very long ago. With trembling fingers, he primes the explosives with the detonators and again looks over the map.

"I count seven, no eight possible targets in this region," Mac notes gesturing to the map which has now been overlaid with a transparency showing the camps.

Sherlock glances over the map with a critical eye, automatically disregarding three of the depots, before he's able to gauge two more as abandoned. "These three are the ones we should hit," Sherlock surmises, his voice steady.

"You're sure?" Mac asks before shaking it off and replying, "Of course you're sure. I'll take care of transport. You finish up here, JW."

Sherlock nods and efficiently finishes his work as Mac sneaks out to grab them a mode of transportation. His Sig sits on the table before him within easy reach should anyone find this hole.

The first two weapons caches go down quite easily; however, the third shows that a complete clusterfuck was inevitable.

After setting the charges, Mac makes it back to the RV (Rendezvous Point) only to find that JW is conspicuously absent. Then sporadic gunfire rings out through the darkness, causing the older soldier to turn back towards the depot and scan for insurgents or his bloody partner.

"Where the hell is he?" Mac spits out quietly, looking around from cover when the depot blows, spewing flames of orange and yellow into the black sky. "Bloody hell," Mac curses.

Mac makes his way to his partner's last position and begins a grid search. As he moves stealthily through the remnants of the blown apart cache, he ensures that each body he comes to is dead and if it's not, he remedies that.

The veteran soldier slides past the last flaming barricade to see two men felled on the dry desert floor watering the sand with their blood. Upon closer inspection, he realizes that JW lies partially underneath a corpse and hopes like hell that the fool hasn't gotten himself dead.

Mac shoves the tango to the side to find Sherlock unconscious beneath him. "Fuck," Mac hisses with relief and pulls the taller man up and over into a fireman carry while maintaining control of his weapon.

Mac hauls Sherlock out of the kill zone into the sparse cover surrounding the now ruins.

Sherlock moans, coming to more quickly than expected, and gestures to be put down. Mac complies until Sherlock's legs nearly go out from underneath him.

"You okay?" Mac questions, looking over the pale faced man and seeing he's coated in blood.

Sherlock nods and they make for transport. Once safely ensconced in the vehicle and moving at a good clip away from the wreckage, Sherlock retrieves the emergency bandage from his pack. He leans his head against the warm glass and tries not to pass out while putting pressure on his leg and side.

"What the fuck happened?" Mac demands, his anger palpable as his dark eyes dart back and forth between the injured former detective and the road sprawled out before them.

Sherlock sighs and leaving his eyes closed tightly, gasps between breaths, "Came out of…. nowhere."

Mac curses again and finally takes a decent look at the young man hunched over in the seat next to him. "Shit, kid. You were hit. Report."

"Leg…side," Sherlock spits out as he slides down in the seat, dizzy from blood loss, his usually clear blue eyes glazed over in pain. Sherlock wheezes as he repurposes his belt making a tourniquet at the top of his thigh using a pressure pad from his pack as padding. Not great, but the John voice stopped shouting in his head as soon as he complied.

Mac's expression goes dark immediately as he pulls out the SAT phone he has for emergency extractions. "Need a MEDEVAC at transmitter coordinates," he barks into the phone and is provided with egress instructions before pushing the specialized mobile back into his pocket.

He steers the transport to the best available cover and gets out of the vehicle. One last glance to make sure they haven't left anything and he hauls Sherlock out the passenger side door.

"Stay with me, JW," Mac orders, settling Sherlock's arm over his shoulder and half dragging him to the secondary RV. Several minutes pass before he hears the low whump of the chopper blades as they cut through the star field above them.

"Wait…" Sherlock hisses as they move onward, and he feels unconsciousness beckoning him. The former detective reaches into his pocket and pulls out the green nylon cord with John's identity discs on it. "Keep them safe," he whispers pushing them weakly into Mac's hand.

The older soldier glances down at the round metal discs and shoves them quickly into his pocket. "You got it. Let's get moving," Mac announces, dragging the man forward with him.

Mac pulls Sherlock up, compelling a groan from the injured man as he starts to droop into unconsciousness. "Hang on a bit longer, JW," the soldier directs firmly, smiling with relief as he sees the American Blackhawk H-60 land.

Mac tightens his grasp on the younger man and begins to run with him, although Sherlock's sluggishness causes them to stumble several times.

When they are within ten metres of the chopper doors, one heavily armed soldier drops onto the ground to provide cover, as Mac gracelessly throws a nearly unconscious Sherlock over his shoulder and hauls ass for the bird.

"Name's Crew Chief Noah Hendricks. Heard you needed a lift. We were the closest. We'll be at Kandahar Combat Hospital in less than ten," the large soldier relays, clapping Mac on the back.

"Good," Mac sighs as the onboard flight medic works over Sherlock, "That's really good."

"It's an American hospital and one of the best," Noah answers truthfully, continuing to examine his patient.

"How bad is he?" Mac asks the concern evident on his tightly stoic features.

"GSW through-and-through left flank and a penetrating stab wound right lateral thigh," the flight medic dictates over the radio before pulling Mac down to him.

"Need your hands. Keep the pressure on while I get him stabilized and pack the wound tracts," he orders as he jabs a field syringe into the patient's left thigh.

Sherlock rouses with a groan when he recognizes the familiar feeling of numbness. "No. No morphine," the injured man demands and the medic's head pops up, surprise in his eyes.

The flight medic leans over Sherlock to gauge the seriousness of the request by the look in his eyes. "How long?" He asks needing an honest answer to treat his patient.

Sherlock holds his gaze, his pupils dilated with pain and tries to breathe through it.

"Six years, one month, four days," Sherlock replies, and the corpsman smiles and continues bandaging the wounds.

"Good for you," the flight doc whispers, before his facial expression suddenly shifts.

"Turn him towards me," he yells as he rolls Sherlock into the recovery position just as he vomits all over the metal grating of the chopper floor. "We got ya."

The corpsman clears out his patient's mouth and waits for the second go 'round to finish up as Sherlock has just lost contact with the conscious world.

"Check his tags and pull three units of cross matched whole blood," the trauma doctor, Dr. Latimer according to his badge, orders as he evaluates an unconscious Sherlock's condition. "Let's get an LFT, HCT, FAST test and a CT scan stat." (Liver function test, haematocrit test, focused abdominal sonography for trauma and a computed tomography scan)

Several medics work efficiently on establishing catheters on both arms for blood transfusion therapy.

"Come on, people. Let's move it. We'll check the thigh on the move," a trauma nurse calls as she hauls herself up onto the stretcher and starts working on Sherlock's leg.

Dr. Latimer sighs as he grabs the intake papers, glances at them quickly and turns towards his team. "Low dose the morphine, he's high risk," the tall doctor directs as he breaks into a run alongside the fast moving stretcher.

The trauma nurse confirms the orders and continues working on Sherlock's right leg. "Got it. Low dose morphine only. Sharp trauma looks clean with minimal damage to the lateral thigh. Bleeding controlled, no major artery damage, should be able to just stitch it up and keep an eye on it."

"Do it, Sammy," Dr. Latimer orders handing her a preloaded suture needle as they move down the hall. "Watch it, we're turning."

They slam through the double doors of the CT room and prep him for the scan as Nurse Sammy stitches up his right leg quickly but neatly.

"Nice job, Sammy," the medic praises as he double checks the transfusion lines and starts a new bag of blood.

Dr. Latimer checks the wound tract and adds additional pressure bandages pleased that his patient seems to be losing less blood.

Sherlock moans repeatedly as he gasps his way back to consciousness. His breath comes in shallow pants as his blue pain-filled eyes shoot open and his body begins to tremble.

The doctor picks up a syringe and flicks the edge to ensure that there are no bubbles in it.

"No…" Sherlock grinds out through clenched teeth on a small puff of air. "No…. morph…"

"We know. Low dose, diluted only," Dr. Latimer assures his patient with a pat to his shoulder. "It's only going to be enough to take the edge off."

"F…fine," Sherlock stutters, grimacing as his hands clutch the metal bars underneath them, as the doctor injects the attenuated morphine.

Dr. Latimer leans over his patient to check his vitals. "Get me those results, people," he hisses as a medic runs out the door to do just that.

Mac sits in a hard plastic chair in the hall, his hands folded together, as he leans forward with his elbows on his knees.

He rocks for a minute before jumping up out of his seat when a nurse approaches. "Major?"

Mac nods and answers as he removes his Mark 7 helmet, "Yes, ma'am. How is he?"

"He's stable for right now, and Dr. Latimer is checking over the CT scans to see if he needs to perform surgery. He should be out to speak with you as soon as he gets a chance," the petite nurse reports before turning on her heel and heading down the hallway.

Mac reclaims his seat and pulls out the ringing sat phone. "Yes?" he answers quietly in deference to any patients that may be nearby.

"Report," Mycroft Holmes' rich baritone voice demands on the other end of the mobile.

"Yes, sir. We infiltrated the target. The mission was successful, however…my partner sustained injuries that required MEDEVAC," he reports, closing his eyes and rubbing his hand over them.

"Explain," the powerful god of his current universe orders and he grimaces.

Mac blows out a breath and begins, "He sustained wounds to his right leg and left side. He's currently undergoing tests to determine if they need to perform surgery but is stable right now. That's all I have, sir."

Mac shakes his head, holding his breath, as the power of the man on the other end of the call resonates through the line.

"Keep me informed, Major," Mycroft commands with an authority that is frankly more than a bit terrifying.

"Yes, sir," the exhausted officer answers, shutting down all communications while his eyes widen in typical 'clusterfuck' fashion. "That went well."

Mac shoves the phone into his cargo pants pocket and begins to pace the hall praying that the kid would come through this if for no other reason than he had no intention of facing down that scary wanker on his own.

"Major?" a very tired Dr. Latimer asks several hours later.

The officer stands up stiffly from his chair and salutes. "Yes sir," he offers, shaking the doctor's right hand.

"I'm Dr. Latimer. Melanie told me you were here for JW," he begins, as he shakes the soldier's hand.

"How is he, sir?" Major MacGregor asks tentatively almost afraid of the answer he's about to receive.

The tall American doctor smiles and states quietly, "He's actually quite well. He'll be here for several days at the very least, but I'm confident he will make a full recovery. The bullet grazed the liver causing a Grade I laceration, but at this time surgery is not required. We'll keep an eye on him and wait and see. As for his right leg, we were able to suture it up, and he'll have to be careful for awhile, but should be right as rain."

Mac exhales a breath he didn't even know he was holding. "Thank you, sir. When can I see him?"

"He's resting as comfortably as possible right now. I'll have Melanie take you down there," the kindly doctor suggests and bids the Major good night.

"Great, I'll wait here. I need to call it in," Mac informs the retreating man and reaches for the sat mobile once again.

The line rings through and a weary voice answers with, "Go ahead."

Mac actually smiles before delivering the news. "He's resting comfortably. He has a small laceration on his liver, and they stitched up the leg wound. I'm about to go see him, but I'll give him your best," the relieved major apprises his superior of JW's condition.

"Very well. See that you do," Mycroft relays before hanging up the mobile.

Mac looks down at the sat phone and sighs deeply. "Got it CFB," he replies softly, disconnecting the line. With the power wielded by the mysterious official, he definitely got the message clear as a fucking bell.

"Don't think that's such a good idea," Mac warns as Sherlock attempts to get out of the bed.

The young detective shrugs painfully and pushes himself up to standing with a low moaning hiss.

The next two minutes are spent gasping for breath as Mac shakes his head disbelievingly.

"JW, are you always this much of a stubborn pain in the arse?" the Major asks, not really expecting a valid answer.

"So I've been told," Sherlock responds, his face contorted with the effort of movement.

He finally gains solid footing only to be scolded by the nurse as she walks through the door.

"And what do you think you're doing?" The nurse asks disapprovingly.

Sherlock huffs out an amused chuckle coupled with a painful grunt. "I should think that would be obvious. Mac…" he pauses for breath only to continue several seconds later, "Where are my trousers?"

Mac holds both hands up in supplication to the approaching nurse.

Sherlock scowls at him. "Traitor," he hisses dropping gently to the bed.

"Maybe I'm just smart enough not to play with fire," Mac suggests, a huge smile spreading across his face.

Sherlock crosses his arms gently over his chest before adding his own theory in a voice that's very reminiscent of his best friend Dr. John . "Maybe you're just a prick."

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but we've been at the safe house for weeks now, and I have to check the impulse to strangle him more often than I should," Mac barks into the phone, clearly irritated, but managing to hold it in line.

"I'm sure," the amused arid tones cross the line, making Mac twitch.

Mycroft leans closer towards the file he's checking. "Well, I'm sending you a file marked Urgent Eyes Only. Give it to him. It's not mission critical, but it may keep you from having to eliminate him," the older man promises. "It should be there in about an hour."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," the irritated major says gratefully before ringing off.

Sherlock limps, with the aid of a cane in his right hand, into the room and moves over towards the kitchen.

He puts the kettle on and inquires politely if Mac needs any tea.

"That would be great," Mac replies, as Sherlock removes two cups from the top shelf in the cabinet.

Sherlock sits down heavily at the table and tries not to think about John. He reaches into the pocket of his dressing gown and caresses the identity discs there.

'God, I miss John,' Sherlock thinks as he absently rubs at his chest. It's been eight months and 19 days since he supposedly died, since he shattered his best friend's world.

His current doctor, not John and therefore not very good, insists that he rest for another few weeks before returning to his work. He admits to being restless and spends his days stalking around his room.

The kettle whistles and time moves on without his consent.

Mac taps on the door and steps into the room when Sherlock beckons.

"Good to see you up," Mac offers, holding a nondescript envelope in his hands. "This came for you while you were kipping."

Sherlock winces briefly as he reaches to take the small packet. He opens it and glances at Mac when a flash drive falls out into his hand.

"I'll leave you to it," the older soldier remarks as he heads out the door with a broad smile on his rounded face.

Sherlock slides his laptop onto his good leg and pushes the drive into the USB port. Fingers deftly moving across the keys, he enters the password on the first try and opens the file.

The screen displays a note from his brother which he reads quickly.

Please desist all activities that may result in being assassinated by your own partner. I have included information to study as you recover.

Sherlock opens the photo file and looks at the first picture which automatically loads.

"John," Sherlock whispers, running his fingers over the picture on the screen with muted reverence.

John sits on the steps outside Baker Street. He looks drawn and sad as he seems to watch the people go by. The caption on the photo indicates that it was taken shortly after Sherlock's death.

The next is a video that shows John treating Ella in a back alley in London. It appears a bit grainy, but John gives her a jab and pats her on the shoulder. He looks weary and has lost some considerable weight but seems to be in much better spirits than in the first photo. Of course, John would take care of his homeless network.

The corners of Sherlock's slight mouth turn up when John hands Ian a new sketchbook for his drawings before packing up and leaving the alleyway. John always does think of these things.

Several more photos go by on the screen: John with Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson as well as many pictures of John treating other members of their homeless network. There's even a security still of his friend shopping at the Tesco. Months of surveillance flickers across Sherlock's synapses as he watches John's life, after the fall, unfold before him.

The images range from John trembling with sadness and pain to his friend seeming to push the turmoil behind him and move on with his life as much as possible. Sherlock closes his eyes momentarily, knowing, if not fully understanding, the suffering he thrust upon his one true friend.

The pictures bring on a flood of emotions that Sherlock is ill equipped to deal with, so he switches to looking through different files and stumbles upon an article written up in The London Times. It speaks of Detective Lestrade's exceptional work in finding the serial killer Amelie Cole, a distraught military wife, whose husband had been killed in Afghanistan.

Sherlock skims the article, only to realize near the end that John had played a part in her capture. Apparently, a special consultant to the Yard had discovered that she was using jequirity bean bracelets to poison her victims. Sherlock nods his head and smiles at John's brilliance in making the connection between the jewelry and the abrin poison.

He sifts through several more articles before pulling up the last few pictures.

Two photos burn themselves into Sherlock's memory, and he carefully places them on a special wall of John's room in his mind palace.

In the first, John sits on a bench in Regent's Park with a young woman, his blue grey eyes alight with fascination, and Sherlock cannot help but smile. The woman holds one of John's hands and smiles at him with love in her hazel eyes. The caption on the picture says "John with Mary, his fiancée".

Sherlock closes his blue eyes. He's missed more than he thought possible, and the pain throws him considerably.

The last photo is another of John and Mary. They are smiling happily, her hand wraps around his bent arm and John's other hand rests lovingly upon hers. Sherlock notices that they are both wearing wedding bands and the detective turned operative stares in wonder at his friend.

John looks happy and Sherlock smiles with emotion that feels vaguely like relief. He tilts his head sideways as he examines the photo further. Mary's genuine smile fills her hazel eyes.

Sherlock moves the laptop to the bedside table, the wedding picture still on the screen. He slides down in the bed and rests his head on his arm, right hand gripping the Sig under his pillow.

Glancing once more at the photo on the screen, relief is palpable. Sherlock's death has given John the freedom to answer his own needs. John is safe, but more importantly the man looks happy.

Sherlock closes his blue eyes and some of the tension he's been holding onto begins to fade. His breathing evens out as restful sleep finally claims him.

Sherlock rolls his neck in an attempt to release the tension. He leans forward and swipes the fog from the mirror with a hand towel. Momentarily vacant eyes adjust as they take in the new man reflected in the mirror even if he doesn't recognize the face there.

He closes weary eyes and leans forward until his head drops onto the damp reflective surface. His eyes pop open and he takes in the full reddish blonde beard and moustache on a much too lean face.

John wouldn't recognize him now if the man were standing right in front of him. He hardly recognizes himself; even his blue steely eyes look almost haunted by the day-to-day grind of the ops.

Sherlock balks slightly at the thought of the next array of missions. He knows that they will be difficult, and he needs to focus on the primary goal, the reason he has been living in this perpetual hell for the past nine months. Protecting John.

All of this has been accomplished to protect John. Sure, he knew that going after Moriarty's web would alleviate his boredom and satisfy his need for revenge on the bastard, but when it all comes down to it: He did it to save his only true friend. It's become an obsession and the main reason he draws breath each and every day.

Sherlock shrugs off the disillusionment that he sees staring back at him. He wills himself to keep going no matter the cost to himself. Protecting John is more than worth it.

The former detective takes in the fine tremors that shake his right hand. How alike he and his best friend have become over the past several months.

It's almost over. Sherlock inhales deeply at the thought of staying alive. Moriarty would have been bored by such an admission. Hell, the old Sherlock would have been disinterested as well by such mundane thoughts.

On the rooftop, that evil bastard taunted him with the song and now he only hopes to manage it.

His discerning eyes travel down his body, the once porcelain skin covered in mottled bruises and new healing pink scars that seem so foreign to his remembered self-image.

What if he doesn't return to London? John has Mary and seems truly happy. What right does he have to intrude on the doctor's life now? Is the revenge he doles out on Moriarty's organization worth the price he's paid?

His dark thoughts wage war within his brain, and he banishes them quickly. "Of course my motives are completely justified. There's no time for this ridiculous nonsense right now," Sherlock snarls at the stranger in the mirror.

The former detective's stormy blue eyes close of their own volition. He's frankly surprised at his exhaustion. He ran full steam ahead for years on cases for Lestrade, without sleeping for days on end, yet he's never been so exhausted.

He carefully calls up the construction of his mind palace. He attempts to enter the room of the last case he worked with John in London, only to find himself in the space reserved for the good doctor himself. Sherlock's closed eyelids twitch at the drollness and sentimentality of ending up here. Yes, John's strength and tenacity, his very friendship and brotherhood continue to save Sherlock's mind during this turbulent time, but seriously?

He made this choice, and he would see it through.

A sharp rap on the door brings him back to himself.

"Wheels up in thirty," Mac yells through the door.

Sherlock pulls on his standard black ops attire and opens the door. "Let's go," he states quietly, resigned to whatever lies ahead.

Mac and Sherlock study the layout of the small diamond mining operation before them. The Sierra Leone jungle landscape allows more cover than they've had on most other ops and Sherlock rests prone as he looks through the binoculars.

East of their position lies an enormous mud pit where several dozen children wade knee deep in the filthy, murky water with large blue bowls. They pour the water laden contents of the heavy bowls through sifting pans where they hope to find diamonds to help their families.

Mac shakes his head and motions for them to withdraw to the fallback position.

"We need to take out the operation when the kids are out of the line of fire," the older soldier suggests, looking to Sherlock for some ideas.

"Agreed," Sherlock says mildly distracted by memories of his first op after Afghanistan.

Mac eyes his partner carefully. "Get out of your head, JW. What happened in Cambodia was not your fault," he reminds the stubborn lanky former detective once again, clapping a hand down on his shoulder.

Sherlock shakes his head firmly in disagreement but wisely keeps his mouth shut.

"What about IIECL?" Mac inquires of Sherlock before finishing the thought. "We could try to get a rapid assessment team pulled in to analyze the situation. That would close them down for a few days." (International Initiative on Exploitative Child Labor)

"That would just complicate the situation," Sherlock adds, shaking his head uncertainly.

Mac nods in agreement. "Alright, let's take another look. We've only been monitoring them for five days. We've got position. Let's continue to analyze the site and see what we can come up with," the older soldier adds, taking in Sherlock's worn expression. "We'll get it, no worries."

Sherlock just shrugs and sits up to pack up his gear, absentmindedly rubbing at his aching shoulders. Hour after hour on his stomach, lying on a damp tropical jungle floor watching the mud pit was bound to do that.

"JW, we're so close. Just a few more jobs and this shit is done," Mac offers in hopes of lightening his partner's dark mood.

Sherlock just closes his eyes tightly, refusing to look forward to any kind of future when he had no guarantee that he'd be alive to see it.

Sherlock bolts upright in the bedroll, the Sig in his shaking hand pointing outward toward the dark and open room as he clears it visually.

His wide eyes take in Mac, the only other occupant in the empty room, and he lowers the weapon, simultaneously blowing out an unsettled breath. His right hand swipes at his sweaty face, and he throws off the lightweight blanket and lurches to the bucket in the corner.

Within seconds, he rests his forehead against the corner wall as he heaves into the barren plastic container. Sherlock moans quietly as he vomits again, emptying what little nourishment he's managed to take in today.

The detective's blue eyes glance over at Mac sleeping on the mat. Sherlock's mouth twitches. He knows the veteran soldier could not possibly be sleeping through this, yet he pretends quite admirably.

After several minutes, the detective's stomach begins to settle, and he uses a small amount of bottled water to rinse his mouth and wash his face. Sherlock's hands tremble with emotion, disappointing him with his own perceived weakness.

Throwing his shoulders back, he steps back over to his bedroll and climbs in to resume what passes for sleep in this humid and hot hell on earth.

"I think it's the best option that we have," Sherlock notes, pointing to the map before him.

"I agree. The 27th is our best bet. It's Independence Day and the locals will all be celebrating, which of course means…" Mac acknowledges, looking towards his exhausted friend.

"Clear access," Sherlock finishes, flipping the map over to view the closer aspect.

Mac nods in agreement before saying, "Exactly. They'll all be at the celebration, and I'm pretty sure that the bloody bastards won't waste the opportunity to move the diamonds."

"Definitely plausible," Sherlock agrees, folding the map and stuffing it in his pack. "They have a ship in port in Freetown that will need to be destroyed.

"That's where they'll take the diamonds," Mac tells his partner, while indicating the route on his own map.

Sherlock's expression sours even more, if that is at all possible. "We'll need to acquire the diamonds before the ship goes down," he states working through the details of the plan forming in his head.

Mac smiles smugly at the former detective. "I've got an idea on that," he replies, raising his eyebrows mischievously, "You're gonna love it."

"We've got three days," the detective warns the older soldier about the strict timeline.

"Time to get busy then, JW," Mac prods, pulling some meal rations out of his pack. The soldier tosses a packet over to Sherlock who deftly snatches it out of the air.

Sherlock exhales as he watches the overgrown tango place the diamonds in the electronic boot safe of a dark green medium four-door sedan.

He shakes his head and moves stealthily across the dirt road as the enormous man stalks back into the building. Working efficiently, he pops the boot and folds himself down into the space there.

Sherlock turns on a penlight and places it in his teeth. Pulling the screwdriver out of the pocket in his utility trousers, he deftly unscrews the nameplate before using a paper clip to liberate the motor wires on the electronic safe.

The detective attaches the wires to a nine-volt battery and opens the safe, pausing momentarily when he feels the car dip and car doors close above him.

He closes his eyes and inhales deeply as a moment of uncertainty for this plan washes over him. He shakes off the sensation before proceeding with the safe break. Removing the diamond pouch and verifying its contents, he shoves it into his pocket and replaces it with the dummy pack before rewiring the safe to lock.

Sherlock screws the plate back in place and promptly stows his gear and prepares for egress from the darkness.

Checking his watch, he notes that he's ahead of schedule and nods knowingly. The noise outside the vehicle increases as they move through Freetown and people thump the car as it rolls through the overcrowded streets.

Sherlock braces himself as the car crashes into another vehicle, and he hears the men yelling at the other driver. His phone vibrates as Mac signals the "all clear" and he immediately vacates the boot and blends into the crowd passing by the stopped automobile.

The former detective makes his way to their backup RV as he waits for Mac to complete his own objective.

"How'd it go, JW?" Mac inquires as he enters the meet point, arms raised to Sherlock's level weapon.

"Got it. You take care of the explosives?" Sherlock responds in kind, grabbing his pack up from the floor as he holsters his Sig Sauer.

The older soldier nods affirmatively with a glimmer in his eyes. "Nothing like a little diving to cool you down in the middle of bloody Africa. Charges were set just as we discussed. Used a depth finder attached to the detonator," he adds with a wink and a smile.

"Nice choice," Sherlock comments dryly, as they move toward their vehicle. "Let's get out of here."

"Took the words…" Mac mumbles as he clears the area and climbs into their transport, simultaneously shoving his sunglasses on his tanned face.

Sherlock sighs and scrubs at his face, his hands dragging slightly through the full blondish red beard and moustache there. He inhales deeply and lays his head down none too gently on the countertop folding his arms over his head.

Mac pulls the whistling kettle off the stovetop. "God, I've missed tea," the older soldier groans, pouring the hot water into the mugs.

Sherlock rolls his shoulders back, sits up and takes the tea as it is passed over to him setting it down in front of him. "When do we leave for Paris?"

"Two hours," Mac answers almost cheerfully. "This shit's almost done."

Sherlock closes his eyes at the thought and blows out a breath, his hands raking through short strawberry curls. "Documents forger?" He verifies, glancing over at the other man, his arms dropping down to the side as he raises his head.

Mac nods with a wild smile as he brushes a hand over his dark military short-cropped hair and hands his partner the file.

Opening the file, Sherlock gazes at the name before him. "Francois Arnaud. Wet work?"

"Affirmative," Mac responds finishing his tea and washing out the mug.

"Let's get it done then," the tired former detective announces, before taking care of his own mug and making for his gear. "I grow weary of hunting in shadows."

Sherlock watches as Arnaud strolls north down Rue de Turenne past Saint-Denys Church. The man heads straight towards their table at le Diplomate Café, and both men tense at the unexpected action. A flicker of relief enters Mac's eyes when the man continues onward without paying them any mind.

Several minutes later the mark enters the L'écrivain Fantôme. "The Ghost Writer," the former detective whispers shaking his head in annoyance as he finishes his tea and sets the cup down with a slight rattle.

Mac rolls his eyes at Sherlock's irritation. "Clever name for a front newspaper written by a documents forger," he adds, fully knowing that he's throwing gasoline on the fire and thoroughly enjoying himself.

Sherlock's disapproving glare only serves to increase Mac's amusement. "He really must be dealt with," the former detective adds disdainfully.

Mac slaps the young man on the back and stands dropping enough Euros on the table to cover the bill and tip. "At least he's made it easy on us. No security and he spends most of his time by himself. It could be days before they even find the body," Mac states with incredible confidence as both men walk away.

"Very well. When?" Sherlock inquires, his blue eyes slanting toward the soldier next to him.

"No time like the present," Mac professes, reaching forward to take a last swig of his coffee before crossing the street leaving Sherlock to follow, his slight limp barely noticeable.

Mac slowly lowers Arnaud's body to the floor less than thirty seconds after Sherlock disables the electronic surveillance system.

"See you back at the RV," Mac says with a wink and heads out the back door.

Sherlock nods and saunters out the front door a few seconds later. He walks briskly with the flow of foot traffic so as not to draw attention to himself.

His thoughts are drawn to how soon this may end, and he sighs almost hopefully. Closing his eyes, he escapes momentarily to the mind palace as he makes his way to the safe house.

Pain shoots through his head as he passes the entrance to a garage just south of the church. His body crumples to the hard pavement, his hands outstretched in a futile effort to break his fall.

Head lolling, Sherlock tries to focus on anything around him, the couture shops across the street, bells ringing, although probably for him alone, or the ceiling above, only to be disappointed by his inability to do so.

Heaviness drops his head back and his mind ceases to calculate as darkness closes over him like dirt falling in on a coffin.

Sherlock jolts, his eyes blinking furiously, when the cold water hits him. Jerking backwards, his head slams into the wooden slats behind him.

He tries to reach a hand up to his face but finds himself unable to do so. The shock drags the former detective to complete consciousness unwillingly, and he jerks violently at the realization that his hands and feet are bound to a wooden chair.

Sherlock struggles to remember the events leading up to this moment, but frustration mounts when his brilliant mind fails him.

"It's a shock, I know," a rich baritone voice fills the small surrounding space. "For me too. You can imagine my anger when I stopped to pick up my new documents only to find that my contact had been murdered. Then I saw you and there was something about you that was familiar…"

Sherlock raises his glazed blue eyes to the figure that steps before him. He raises an eyebrow at the recognition clearly plastered on the younger man's face.

The man flicks the end of a syringe and pushes up Sherlock's sleeve. "A little something for the trip," he informs his unwilling patient then smiles chillingly. "Plays havoc with the memory as well as acts immediately. I chose this especially for you, Sherlock Holmes."

"You seem to have me at a bit of a disadvantage," Sherlock notes, his head tilting forward as waves of nausea and confusion come over him.

A hollow chuckle flows through the air, "Just the way I like it," the figure states factually as the room begins to fade from Sherlock's view. "Night."

Sherlock moans, his distress palpable in the dankness around him. He scrambles through the ravaged rooms of his mind palace, searching for the memory dredged up by these moments.

John hanging in pain, dangling from a hook as Moriarty tortures him the night of the pool.

Blood dripping to the cold hard floor as John fights to retain consciousness.

A vicious strike snaps Sherlock's head backwards, and the ache in his arms and shoulders nearly chokes him. Sherlock shivers in the coldness of the darkness surrounding him as he attempts to take in his surroundings.

His body dangles from a hook in the low ceiling. Sherlock's bare chest heaves for breath made more difficult by his hanging position.

The stale air permeates his nostrils as Sherlock's head drops forward, and cigarette smoke fills his senses causing him to wretch as more images become clearer.

One hundred and fifty four circular cigarette burns.

Burn the heart out of me.

John.

Sherlock's eyes snap open. "What do you want, Moran?" He asks testily, his face fixed in boredom.

"You, dead," the sniper hisses, breaking another one of the fingers on Sherlock's immobilized left hand, causing the detective to cry out. "Not too soon, but soon enough."

Sherlock sighs rolling his blue grey eyes, "Others have tried before you, including your predecessor, if I'm not mistaken. What could possibly make you think you can achieve it?"

Moran smirks wickedly, his eyes fueled with rage, the sniper waves his hand across the body hanging in front of him, before snapping, "I'm more patient than he was. He complained incessantly about your need for cleverness."

"Wouldn't want to be bored," the former detective replies snidely.

The assassin shakes his head in amusement, flexing his fingers in the black leather SAP gloves he donned much earlier. "No chance of that today," he drawls out helpfully before punching Sherlock repeatedly in the ribs once again.

Sherlock hisses out a breath when he feels a rib crack, and the blows finally cease. His head drops forward only to pop up again when he feels the syringe needle enter his arm.

"Time to take a little ride, Mr. Holmes," Moran informs the older detective before punching the man in the jaw to accelerate his decent into unconsciousness.

Sherlock opens his glazed eyes very slowly. His arms ache from the earlier abuse and his left hand feels completely worthless with four broken fingers, but it is imperative that he discover a way out of this.

Pushing up to sit, the detective gasps in pain, wheezing for breath before scanning the room.

Low ceilings and a small overall area are the only bits of information he possesses the ability to process.

Closing his eyes, he tentatively walks through his mind palace, which has become more dilapidated with each additional torture. He curses his mind's current inability to compartmentalize.

Sherlock thinks about John. The former soldier looks happy. He has everything he has always wanted, and the detective realizes that as long as John's safety has not been compromised, then it doesn't really matter.

Moriarty still loses and Sherlock wins as long as John exists.

The thought brings a smile to Sherlock's face and he reels backwards as Moran hisses in his ear, "What in the hell are you smiling about?"

Sherlock maintains his silence and deals with any punishment the dishonorable soldier can dole out. Two ribs have cracked now, and breathing's become quite challenging.

The former detective smiles again as he realizes that Moran has indeed made a critical error, one which he has every intention of exploiting to its fullest the instant a chance presents itself.

Moran steps forward onto Sherlock's ankle chained to the wall, grinding down with his boot. "I asked you a question," the assassin yells, pushing his face into Sherlock's bruised and battered one.

"Yes, you did," Sherlock responds, moving his right hand quickly to capture the chain and wrap it around the sniper's exposed throat.

Moran chokes as the chain cuts into the delicate tissues of his neck, crushing his trachea and preventing any oxygen from reaching the man's lungs.

"You are about to die. That seems to be reason enough," Sherlock growls as he draws the sniper closer, wraps his left arm around his throat and using his right hand to apply counter pressure, snaps the bastard's neck.

Sherlock opens his eyes slowly to regain his bearings.

'Where am I?'

His addled mind refuses to cooperate with his silent request.

A tremendous weight on his chest requires his immediate attention, and he moans with the effort of trying to move.

'What happened?'

Sherlock's agitation grows as the high level of pain in his body supercedes all reason.

He closes his eyes, takes a shallow breath and quickly shuffles through the rooms of his memory until he finds what he's looking for.

Pain

'Push past that, Sherlock. Focus.'

Torture

Moran

Pain

"Very well," he whispers through bloodied lips, reopening his eyes.

Glancing downward, he sees Moran's lifeless body spread across his own, his left arm still loosely wrapped around the assassin's throat.

"Excellent," he notes quietly, then draws his lips into a painful line.

The former detective gently disengages his arm and uses what little strength he possesses to push the dead man face up on the cold floor next to him. Taking in Moran's open lifeless eyes, he allows himself a small moment of triumph.

"It's over," Sherlock groans quietly as he rolls onto his left side, mindful of his broken ribs and begins to dig through the pockets of the dead man. His fingers brush against cord, and he drags it from the assassin's pocket.

John's identity discs rest in the palm of his hand, and he closes suddenly numb fingers over them and exhales softly. He shoves them into the pocket of his torn and dirty trousers with trembling fingers.

He reaches forward once again to probe through more pockets when he finds exactly what he needs. Locking fingers around the keys in the pocket, he sighs with a crooked smile and draws them out.

He studies each key carefully before choosing the appropriate one to free him from the chain at his ankle. Hissing, he opens the manacle and carefully peels it away from the swollen purple flesh there.

His brows squeeze together with mild confusion as he notes his bare feet until his brain catches up with Moran's reasoning.

Gasping for breath at the excruciating pain in his ankle, he tosses the shackle aside and leans heavily on his left elbow.

His pain ratchets up another several degrees and Sherlock retches in between breaths.

Several minutes later, his breathing back under as much control as possible, he crawls to the wall and pushes himself up from the floor.

Sherlock sways under the sudden onslaught of nausea as the room spins around him. Resting his head on the cool tiles, he waits for the feeling to pass before making his way painfully to the door across the room.

Inhaling as deeply as he's able, he opens the door slowly and groans at what he finds.

"Stairs. Why did it have to be stairs?" Sherlock mumbles sibilantly, closing his eyes.

Tears of pain and frustration stain Sherlock's filthy bearded face as he struggles to open the door on Moran's car, a black four-door sedan, in the pounding rain.

Lowering himself carefully into the driver's seat, he starts the car with the keys liberated from Moran earlier and pulls out onto the street cautiously.

Glancing around, he takes in the scenery, continuously scanning and evaluating the information of the area surrounding him. Houses and driveways skitter past his glazed eyes, and the darkness pervading the neighbourhood seems nearly oppressive given what he's been through.

Street signs blur by throughout the twists and turns, and he makes a mental note to check the next one and attempt to determine where exactly he's been. The next road advances quickly, water leaving a wake, and he makes the turn clipping the kerb.

'Shooters Hill Road. I'm in London.'

In his shock, he slams on the brakes, jarring his ankle and ribs in the process, water spraying up from the tyres. Laying his head down on the steering wheel, tears of relief prick his eyes and he exhales softly.

'Home'.

'John.'

Sherlock heads north on the A102 motorway, assuming a course for Baker Street and home; his battered face broken apart by the quirk of thin lips drawn into a slight smile.

His blue eyes strain with the weight of the rain hammering the windscreen, nearly in time with the pulse tattooing a merciless beat within his brain.

His hands shake with the effort of controlling the automobile on the slick, wet roads.

Factoring in the lack of traffic and relative position of the moon above, he determines that it's late at night.

His mind centers on home and its proximity to where he has found himself. He could almost thank the dead assassin for getting him so close.

Sherlock's vision greys as he passes over a divot in the road. Shut storefronts rise up on both sides of the roadway, and his head drops down as unconsciousness encroaches. He groans in frustration as the adrenaline that once fueled his escape, abandons him to near helplessness.

The sedan fishtails on the road, jumping the kerb and crashing into the lamppost. His torso meets the steering wheel causing him to grunt and take the final step into unconsciousness.

Sherlock stumbles from the vehicle, his weight barely supported by his wiry frame. His left leg drags behind him, the bloated ankle incapable of sustaining his mass.

Unsure of his direction, he shambles along until he staggers into a darkened alleyway. The former detective cries out as he drops to the ground.

Anger swarms over him like angry bees at his failure. To come so close to being reunited with his best friend only to fail at this moment seems insensate and cruel. He retches on the ground, his broken body drenched in rain and sweat commingled.

Closing his eyes, his trembling body gives out taking some of his will with it.

Sherlock doesn't feel the gentle hands that cup his face within moments of his fall into oblivion.

Strong and capable hands check the felled man for a pulse, and a sigh escapes heart shaped lips when they find one.

Turning the grungy form over, the woman gasps when she sees the damage done to this poor fellow. She drags him to the shelter of a box overhanging two bins and covers the opening with another box to keep him as safe as possible from possible predators.

"I'll be right back," she whispers stroking his forehead, before taking off at a dead run through the heavy rain and puddles of water lining the alleyway and street.

Sherlock feels his body revolt as it's pulled into an upright position. He tips forward haphazardly and begins to dry heave.

"We've got you. You're gonna be okay," a kind young woman's voice reassures as she pats the hand on her shoulder.

Sherlock finishes vomiting and a strong arm wraps around his waist and pulls him back from falling.

His mind adheres to the safety the couple provides, and he sinks back into his memory palace for additional protection while remaining vaguely aware of his surroundings.

"John," Sherlock rasps, his febrile body rallying in one last effort as his left broken foot drags behind them.

"Aye, let's get you someplace safe, and I'll fetch Dr. John for you," the strong wiry man reassures the injured bloke with a warm smile. "He's the best. Don't worry, he'll come."

Sherlock's weight drops between them as he lets go of consciousness once again.

"He's burning," Ella whispers to Ian as they continue to drag the senseless figure between them.

Ian nods his head knowingly in her direction. "I know, but we need to get him back to the warehouse and then I'll go after Dr. John."

Ella nods in agreement, "Dr. John will know what to do."

Ian flies through the warehouse door with a loud bang startling Ella. "I brought Dr. John, Ella. He'll take care of the bloke," he barks nearly out of breath.

Ella glares at him, her adrenaline level spiking from the scare. "You scared the hell out of me, you bastard," she scolds, her hazel eyes flashing as she drags shaking fingers through her hair.

Ian has the sense to look guilty before guiding Dr. John to his patient. "Look, Doc. I know you've had a rough time, but this guy looks really bad," Ian rambles as he leads the doctor to the shaking body on the floor.

John drops his medical bag to the floor by the long strap and kneels down next to the body. He runs a steady hand through his dripping blonde hair and reaches forward for the sanitizer in his kit before pulling on sterile gloves.

"Bollocks," he curses as he starts to examine the patient trembling before him who moans disquietingly.

"Shhh…Let me take a look," John's comforting order soothes Sherlock's wounded spirit.

Sherlock cries out as his blood and sweat soaked shirt pulls gently away from his body, giving the doctor his first good look at the damage. "Fuck, Ian. This guy was tortured. Where did you find him?"

Ian stands shuffling from foot to foot, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of the trench Sherlock gave him the year before he died.

"A bit away from 'ere. Saw a wreck not too far. Musta been 'im. Found blood in it," Ian reports to the good doctor.

John continues to evaluate the thin man's condition.

Sherlock's eyes remain firmly closed as he drags himself back to consciousness.

He lifts a shaky bloody hand up towards the doctor. "N…..no mor…," he gasps, his fever-driven body drenched with blood and sweat.

"No more. You're safe," John verifies when the man under his capable hands surges upward his head shaking back and forth negatively.

"Morph….no….morph…ine," his patient moans, his blue eyes glazed with pain and a touch of fear, his high fever interfering with his usually clear mind.

John sighs, understanding immediately. "Good, because I don't carry it," he assuages, his hands moving with professional assuredness.

"John," his patient groans as he touches burning fingers to John's face. He scoffs at his brain and its textbook normal hallucinations as he looks at the doctor the kids have fetched for him and sees only his doctor and friend John Watson.

John returns his gaze to the man's face and shrugs at the familiarity. Injecting liquid paracetamol directly into his patient's veins, he continues treatment as the near unheard of rains pelt the rooftop.

Ella rubs hands up her arms trying to ward off the chill she feels deep in her bones, "Is he going to be okay?"

"Too soon to tell for sure, but I think so, especially if the paracetamol does its job. He's covered in lacerations," John notes, as he pulls a set of sterile scissors out of his pack and begins to cut away the man's filthy clothing, starting with the black T-shirt. "I need more blankets, as many as you've got, and a flannel with some soap."

John sighs as he works, saying, "Need to do a head to toe and start an IV."

His sure hands make quick work of finding a vein and starting the IV. "This is the only pack I've got, so we're gonna need to get him conscious and taking in fluids soon."

John hands Ian a ₤20 note. "I need you to pick up some water, cans of broth, several tubes of super glue and some ice. We need to get his fever down," John directs, his left hand still evaluating the injured man as he finishes cutting away the black trousers.

John takes the blankets that Ella hands to him and leaving the man's boxers in place covers the shivering body on the mat.

"Ella, help me here. I need your hands," John orders, pulling her down firmly and handing her some gauze. "Put pressure on the head laceration. It's still bleeding. I'll stitch it in a minute."

John gently folds back a small section of the blanket and palpates Sherlock's ribcage causing the younger man to flinch and wheeze for breath.

The doctor grimaces, his mouth drawn in a tight line. "I know, kid. I know. Just stay with me," he commands, as his hands slide farther down his sides taking in the pink puckered scarring of a gunshot wound on the stranger's left flank. He's careful not to open up the dozens of lacerations and abrasions on the young man's torso.

Moving on down the beaten man's body, John notes the recent knife wound in his patient's right thigh and sighs deeply. "This kid's been beat to shit. What the hell?" He curses when he sees the left ankle that's obviously broken and purple. Checking the toes for adequate circulation, he smiles when they don't disappoint.

The arms are also covered with multiple cuts and bruises, but the left hand presents the most damage with four broken fingers. John momentarily averts his eyes at the brutality this man endured. Shaking off the feeling that his thoughts were stirring, his eyes divert back to Ella.

"When Ian gets back, I'll need to set those fingers and his ankle, but for now, let's just clean him up as best as we can, and I'll stitch up his head," John notifies of Ella of the plan.

"You got it, Dr. John," Ella says as she continues to clean the lacerations on the man's chest.

John leans over the head with steady hands, his eyes closing briefly as he notices his wedding ring. Grabbing a preloaded suture needle, he gently holds together the edges of the wound and begins to stitch it closed.

The haggard doctor glances momentarily at Ella as he places professional tiny black sutures in his patient's forehead.

"Ella, see if the man has any identification. It'd be great to know who I'm sewing up," John commands, his hands steadily completing his work before grabbing another preloaded needle to move on to a particularly deep gash in the scrawny man's chest.

Ella picks through the pockets of the pile of clothing lying next to her. Smiling in triumph, she pulls out a green cord with identity discs on it. "Guess he's in the military?"

She questions, her brows drawn together in confusion.

John's head pops up quickly. "Not looking like this. Unless, of course, he's special forces," the doctor rationalizes as he takes the discs and looks closely at them.

"What is it, Doc?" Ella asks noting that his face pales several shades.

Blue-grey eyes meet hazel ones as his strained voice asserts, "These are mine."

John tracks Ella's startled gaze back to the febrile man on the floor in front of him.

"Sherlock?" Dr. Watson whispers as he takes in the trembling man before him.

"Dr. John? What's goin' on?" Ian asks after coming through the door, worried when he sees both of them stunned into frozen silence before the doctor jolts and continues treatment. "Ella?"

"It's Sherlock," Ella replies hopefully, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Sherlock's dead," John bites out by rote, astonishment warring with disbelief and hope on his drawn face.

Ian glances from one to the other as Ella gets up to pace back and forth in her agitation, swinging her hands at her sides.

"Can ya not be sure, Doc?" Ian asks, trying to catch the other man's eyes made dull with shock.

John thinks for a moment, his eyes lighting up when the answer comes to him. Turning over the stranger's left hand, the doctor closes his eyes when he notes the perfect circular scar placed there by Sherlock himself after the events at the pool.

"It's him…but…he's…dead…. Oh my God…. Sherlock," John sputters, his happiness overshadowing the shock he's feeling at the obvious deception.

Ella and Ian share an overjoyed celebratory hug. "He's alive," Ella cries out, her tears of joy threatening to drown her in happiness and relief, as Sherlock moans loudly on the floor when he tries to shift position.

John scowls at the near helpless man on the floor before him. "Let's see if we can keep him that way, so I can kick the shit out of him myself," he mumbles, his left hand working as his right loosens from the angry fist he made upon this new discovery. "Ella, hold him down at the shoulders and talk to him. Ian, be careful, but I need you to hold his right leg. It'd be great if he doesn't kick me in the head while I'm setting his tibia."

Dr. Watson examines the left lower extremity very carefully. His fingers move deftly over the tight, swollen and shiny skin. Sherlock groans heavily and tries to pull his leg away.

"Sherlock, you with me?" John inquires softly, his features tense in the face of the medical malady he's just diagnosed.

The detective pushes up slightly onto his elbows, his head lifting up from Ella's lap.

"Mostly. John?" Sherlock questions, his blue eyes glazed with extreme pain. He blows out a deep breath and tries not to retch on the floor.

"Yes, Sherlock. I'm here. Who did this?" The doctor demands hoarsely.

Sherlock's head drops back at the spike in pain before he hisses, "Moran."

"How did you get away?" John asks quietly, his fingers moving gently over the offending limb, as Sherlock subconsciously protects the leg attempting to wrench it from the doctor's firm grasp.

Sherlock pauses and looks away before dragging his steel blue eyes to John's worried ones. "I broke his neck," he admits factually before falling back onto Ella's legs once again. "What's wrong with my leg? I know it's broken, but it hurts more than that."

John studies the leg again before cursing vehemently. "Ian, hand me the scalpel. It's anterior compartment syndrome, Sherlock. We've got to get the pressure stabilized right now, or we risk you losing your leg or going into renal failure."

"Ella, hand me one of those towels, please. Oh, I'll need the marker out of my bag," John demands as he extends his right hand outward, his left carefully maneuvering Sherlock's ankle into 90º plantar flexion.

Grabbing the towel, he deliberately folds the fabric into a four-inch wide strip and then places it carefully under the heel, stretching it up the sides of Sherlock's gastrocnemius (calf muscle) like a stirrup. Sherlock flinches and groans with the action, tears of pain welling up in his now watery blue eyes.

"Ok, mates, each one of you take a towel end and hold it steady," Dr. Watson orders, rolling up a small flannel and handing it to Sherlock who places it between his teeth.

John sets the scalpel down on a sterile linen pulled from his pack and, taking the marker, circles the fibular head he can barely feel beneath his fingers. He then circles the lateral malleolus (outer ankle bone) and draws a line between the two tracking the position of the fibular bone.

Tossing the marker aside, he dons a fresh set of sterile gloves and picks up the scalpel in steady fingers. Taking a deep breath, he places the blade edge one finger breadth anterior to his line to make the lateral incision necessary to open the anterior compartment of Sherlock's leg.

The doctor looks up at Sherlock's pained expression and reminds the stubborn man, "When you start to lose consciousness, don't fight it."

"I'm not an idiot, John," Sherlock snaps, his pain increasing the sharpness in his tone.

"That's debatable," John mumbles, preparing himself mentally for the surgical procedure he knows must be done.

His gaze flickers to Sherlock, who rolls his eyes and motions with his right hand to get on with it. John's eyes twitch back to the job at hand, and he exhales again before drawing the blade through the superficial tissues down the entire length of the compartment.

Sherlock screams through the rolled flannel for more time than John would wish on any enemy before finally succumbing to unconsciousness.

John's steady hands work with professional detachment, ignoring his feelings of empathy, as they examine the muscle that has pushed through the incision and the doctor smiles when he determines that it is completely healthy.

Using the sterile scissors, he opens the anterior compartment slitting through the fascia, a fibrous tissue surrounding every muscle. John leans back on his heels exhausted by the effort. After ensuring that the compartment has been fully accessed and released, the doctor checks the nerves and blood vessels for excessive damage. Pleased when he finds none, he gently packs the wound with sterile gauze.

John tosses his bloody gloves on top of the towel and gives Sherlock a jab of antibiotics before beginning to stabilize the broken tibia and wrapping the ankle, mindful of the surgical site.

John glances at his best friend, and for a moment, his heart expands in his chest with relief that the man is alive and mostly whole. He reaches out a tentative hand and pushes the damp curls back from the slack features. Catching himself, he draws his hand back quickly, his eyes darting around the room, only relaxing when he realizes that the move has gone unnoticed by the other occupants.

John sighs deeply as Ella crosses the room with another blanket, which she lays over Sherlock's unconscious form.

Laying a gentle hand on John's shoulder to get his attention she inquires, "You okay?"

John huffs out a laugh, his blue eyes shiny with exhaustion, before answering the question put before him, "Not remotely."

Sherlock lunges upward on a gasp causing John to release the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"How do you feel?" The doctor asks laying a hand on Sherlock's forehead, pleased that his fever seems to be reducing.

Sherlock considers the question carefully before settling on an answer, "Well, at least I'm alive. Mostly. Let's not do that again."

John laughs at the matter of fact statement, his hand scrubbing his face. "Stop doing stupid things and maybe we won't have to," John hisses angrily, wishing he could just ignore the former detective and attempts to do just that by checking Sherlock's leg.

"You know we'll need to talk about this eventually," the lanky patient reminds his doctor.

John glares up at his best friend menacingly, "A bit of advice, Sherlock, just for shits and grins. Never piss off the person trying to save your bloody life."

Sherlock's blue eyes twinkle with amusement, "I'll keep that in mind, although at this time, I would have to say that your impeccable advice came a bit too late."

"Of course it's too late, you git. You should have come to me," John accuses, his hands flying from bandage to bandage causing the young detective to flinch on occasion.

"Probably," Sherlock admits, "but your life was in danger and that was unacceptable."

"My life was in danger," the doctor repeats, covering his face with one hand as he attempts to reign in the unadulterated fury raging through his body, causing steady hands to tremble. "My life's often in danger when we're working on a case, Sherlock. That's my choice, not yours."

"We're gonna step out for a bit," Ella interrupts, dragging a protesting Ian towards the door. "Be right back."

John shakes his head, "I forgot they were even here."

Sherlock didn't, but feels it's probably better not to admit that just now.

John smiles and Sherlock's look turns quizzical, his brow arched in question.

"I know what you were thinking," John ventures, "and you're right. It was smarter not to say it."

"What can I do to make this right?" Sherlock asks of his closest friend.

John gets up off the floor and crosses the room. He looks over at his injured partner and sighs, "Nothing, and that's part of the problem."

"You should go," Sherlock offers, reaching out his hand towards John, belying the words he's just spoken. "Your wife's probably really worried about you."

John sighs sadly as he walks back towards Sherlock still supine on the floor.

"She's not expecting me, Sherlock, so it's fine," the doctor assures him, returning to check Sherlock's leg once again, causing the younger man to flinch and hiss in pain.

Sherlock groans, exhaling in sharp little pants. "Do you have to keep doing that?" The former detective sibilates, his sharp features drawn tight with pain.

John rolls his eyes as he chides the younger man, "You know I do. Unless, of course, you want to lose the leg."

The detective sighs, "Fair enough. Why is your wife not expecting you?"

John looks down at his wedding ring before replying, "She's dead, Sherlock."

Sherlock's thin lips tighten at the news and he looks away as John busies himself checking and rechecking his work on Sherlock's lower extremity.

"The leg looks really good. We should be able to move you in a day or two," the doctor reports, not meeting the detective's gaze.

"That should be satisfactory," Sherlock replies, glancing at the multitude of empty superglue tubes off to his right.

"Superglue? Really John?" Sherlock criticizes hoping to incite a reaction from his best friend.

John exhales an angry breath. "Hell yes, you bastard. How else was I supposed to put Humpty Dumpty back together again?"

Sherlock can't help himself. He barks out a laugh born of stress and a bit of dry humour, which causes John to join him.

"I feel rather like Humpty Dumpty right now, so I would venture to say that your analysis is sound," Sherlock notes helpfully, resulting in John breaking up even more.

"At least this is not a crime scene," John gasps between stifled chuckles.

"Of course not. We always maintained a high level of decorum at those," Sherlock reminds the doctor.

John pauses to look askance at the shaggy detective. "I better re-evaluate. Maybe you hit your head harder than I thought," he says, his face broken by a wide smile.

"Business as usual, then?" Sherlock inquires tentatively, his blue eyes locked with John's.

"We've gotta start somewhere," John replies, his own blue-grey eyes never leaving Sherlock's.

The End