Title: Totem
Rating: T
Spoilers: Series 1 of Sherlock
Summary: Rescuing Sherlock from the clutches of a violent terrorist cell forces John to rely on a long-unused, lethal skill.
Setting: After The Great Game, but before Scandal in Belgravia
Disclaimers: This is purely to express my enjoyment of the show and the brilliant writing, characterization, and acting we've come to adore. ACD, Moffat and Gatiss own everything except the idea for this fic.
AN1: This is a prequel for my fic 'Aegis', which you don't have to read first, but it might be helpful to do so. :)
AN2: We don't get to see John in his capacity as an ex-soldier as much as I'd like (aside from ASiP), as he's usually playing Sherlock's foil, doctor, or both. I wanted to explore the scenario I briefly described in Aegis-mainly because the idea would not leave me alone, but also because it's absurd enough to provide entertainment *and* maybe some character development. A two-fer! Hang on to your bonnets, folks. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
# # # # # #
PART I
"I'm just saying it's something to go on," Lestrade said, attempting to sound cajoling.
"A bloody terrorist cell is holding Sherlock hostage for no other reason than he's got a blog and an older brother who shares his last name, and they're threatening to rip his teeth out and hammer them into his skull unless we cough up an absurd amount of ransom and all that's something to go on?" John dug his mobile out of his pocket and brandished it at the Detective Inspector. "You said he dropped by earlier—why the fuck is Mycroft ignoring my calls?" John demanded, nearly rapping Lestrade's nose with the phone. The DI flinched but held his ground.
Lestrade's eyes flickered to John's fists clenching and unclenching spasmodically at the doctor's side. He had never seen John this emotional before, and it unnerved him. "John, we have time to find him. We almost had a trace."
"You think I don't-Of course I know-" John sputtered."What if that's what they wanted? What if it's a plant? It's not that simple." His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. "Look, you've got what you need. It's been an hour. Everyone get out, please," he said, furious gaze now fixed on Sherlock's armchair.
Anderson continued to collect evidence as if John hadn't spoken, dutifully cutting and tape-lifting the spray of blood droplets from the carpet near the couch.
Lestrade took a slow step forward, puzzlement clear on his face. "We haven't got all the evidence yet. Is something else going on, John?"
John harrumphed and turned away, fighting down the surge of fear that accompanied Lestrade's words. He couldn't know, could he? Sally was dithering about in the kitchen, not touching anything, but her gaze darted from the cupboards to the baseboards, and lingered suspiciously on the cannisters of flour and sugar.
John's temper ignited in an instant. "A fucking drugs bust? Now? Is that what you think Sherlock needs?" He roared, pointing at Sally.
She startled and jerked back into the table, sending an erlenmeyer flask to the tile with a crash. "No, John, honestly, I was looking for-"
"I said get out," John said, biting out each syllable.
No one moved. Sally had frozen in the process of picking up the pieces of the flask. Lestrade just looked stricken. John couldn't see Anderson, but it was deathly quiet in the flat.
"What part of 'get the fuck out of my bloody flat' are you finding difficult to understand?" he bellowed, losing the battle against his ragged temper. "Now do your fucking jobs and find out where they've taken him!"
John became aware of the silence and cleared his throat, a flush appearing high on his cheeks. The tension in his body ebbed slightly. "Please update me on any new leads. I'm going to check his site again."
It was in that moment that Lestrade intuited why Sherlock insisted upon taking John with him to every crime scene, every alley chase. That even in the midst of a whirlwind of activity surrounding a case, Sherlock found time for John to choke down a cold sandwich and a cup of coffee. He doubted the consulting detective understood his own motives, but then, Sherlock wouldn't recognize a directive coming from his heart, would he?
This sort of staunch allegiance, how freely John displayed his regard for such a contrary man was a rare thing indeed. It occasionally brought out the "good" man that Lestrade believed was bound and gagged inside Sherlock's subconscious. All the more reason to find the consulting detective; he did not want to face John Watson if Sherlock had come to serious harm.
"Everyone out. Out," Lestrade barked. Anderson looked at if he was going to protest, but a deep glare from Lestrade had him swallowing his words and shoveling his paraphernalia into its carrying case with a look of pained irritation.
"I want updates as soon as you have them," John repeated, waggling his mobile under Lestrade's nose.
"I will, John." Lestrade gripped John's shoulder resolutely. "We will find him."
The DI gave him such a look of concern and long-suffering that John was tempted to apologize in spite of the DI clearly possessing information about John that was private. One glance at the smashed teacup on the carpet hardened his resolve.
"Thank you," John said, meaning it, before shutting the door in Lestrade's face. He waited until the DI's footsteps had faded down the staircase before turning away from the door.
He stalked about the wreckage of their living room, free now to vent the rage and worry choking his throat as he imagined Sherlock struggling against his unknown assailants. And clearly there had been more than one man-he had seen Sherlock take on as many as three before being overwhelmed, and that was only in his hand-to-hand. He even paid some eccentric, crusty ex-pat who resembled Rasputin to attack him at random intervals to "keep him on his toes" for fuck's sake.
John glowered at the memory of returning home from a hellish day at the surgery to Sherlock swaying in place as he poured tea for a frightful-looking man seated on the couch, the teapot and Sherlock's arm slathered in an almost comical amount of blood. It was only Sherlock's dreamy yet frenzied insistence that he had "paid the man, John" and should not be rewarded for his hard work by having his brains plastered all over their wallpaper.
His mobile pinged. He rolled his eyes as he unlocked the screen, bracing himself for Lestrade's annoying but well-meaning attempt at solidarity.
The number at the top read Unlisted.
18 Ravenhill Road.
London E13 9BN.
Play by the rules.
Remember the Order.
Accurate weapons only.
Blood thundered through his temples, his heart aching and swelling at the lines of text, even as the rest of his awareness narrowed in, sharp enough to see the individual pixels, a thousand different ideas tripping and stumbling through his brain, warring to take top billing. He fought down the urge to act, that instinct that had carried him through his tour and kept him alive when mixed up in the danger that followed perpetually in Sherlock's wake. Going straight to the address would be stupid.
"You see, but you do not observe."
Sherlock's favorite jibe stilled his rampant thoughts. He mentally shook himself, and reviewed the facts:
When he'd arrived back from Tesco's this morning, the Yard had already been at the flat for thirty minutes, and no one would answer his questions. Lestrade was watching him with that particular brand of pity John was all too used to receiving. Invalided home from Afghanistan. Doctor. Alone. Poor. PTSD. Friends with Sherlock. Always reduced to a bulleted list. Even though he and Lestrade were friendly, almost mates, the pitying look piqued his pride.
He'd just missed Mycroft, apparently, because why else would Lestrade look both concerned and guilty if he hadn't been made aware of information that was none of his goddamn business? John knew he was adept at hiding his depression, but hiding anything from Mycroft Holmes was futile in the end. This latest trough had brought him so low that he'd called in to the surgery twice in one week, barely able to get the words out of his mouth before dragging himself into the shower and running the tap for hours. He'd scheduled an appointment with his therapist after that, but when the time came round, he sat on the Tube until long after the appointment had been missed. Mycroft had known, of course. He always did. Damn his CCTV snooping. He really was as insufferable as Sherlock proclaimed.
Sherlock's kidnapping was the icing on the dysfunctional cake that John couldn't stop eating. With a sigh, he turned about and properly looked at the disrupted furniture.
First question: professionals?
John looked down to the shards of bone china at his feet.
No, not professionals. If that were the case, no one would have known Sherlock was missing for hours, days even. Professionals nabbed their mark away from personal lodgings if possible. Clean extraction.
Which counts out Moriarty, John thought with palpable relief. He quirked a smile in spite of the situation. Being relieved that Sherlock's kidnappers were just a "garden variety terrorist cell" was mad. Every aspect of his life had gone utterly sideways since he fell in with the consulting didn't waste time wondering how the abductors had gotten his number. They wanted him to hunt down Sherlock without the Yard's help-to show up alone for a spectacular ambush sure to get him maimed or killed. John absolutely intended to go to the address, however...
Second question: armed with what?
He looked at the text again. Accurate weapons only.
He instinctively felt that such a specific directive discounted his firearm. John closed his eyes and mimicked Sherlock's mind palace process (or what he thought occurred when the man abruptly tuned out). He marshalled the past few days' events, the kidnapping, the text, holding them all together in his mind, looking for connections.
…Nothing.
Scowling, he stomped to the shelves and yanked the nearest dictionary down.
accurate (ˈækjərɪt)
— adj
1. Faithfully representing or describing the truth.
2. Showing a negligible or permissible deviation from a standard: an accurate ruler
3. Without error; precise; meticulous
A faithfully represented weapon? A weapon without error? A precise weapon?
He sighed harshly and squeezed the bridge of his nose, running through every swear he knew in English and Pashto before checking the text once more.
The Order. What Order?
He turned slowly on the spot, eyes roaming across the oddities dotting the walls. He stopped on the skull painting with the blue background in the corner above the lamp, as he often did when he was irritated and wanted to look at something other than Sherlock. The irony of that thought was felt all too keenly. Of all Sherlock's "art" in their flat, this was one of the few pieces that resembled actual art, and not "rubbish Sherlock found whilst diving in the skips." The skull was painted on different layers of perspex, and it clashed with everything else in the room (also an absurd statement, considering). John often mulled over the process needed to create the image. Probably hours of trial and error, jugs of paint wasted—
He snapped out of his thoughts and allowed himself a small smile. Oh my God. That's it. Has to be. The paintings.
The paintings from their previous case with the Painted Killer. Ten all told. Each painting had been printed on canvas, embellished with a lavish number, and stapled across the gaping chest wound of each victim. With seemingly no connection aside from the style of death, and no evidence left at the scenes, Sherlock had tacked the canvases onto the walls and studied them for 48 hours (12 of those spent sawing viciously at his Stradivarius), before he catapulted out the door with John stumbling along behind him still half-asleep. He and Sherlock had arrived at Hyde Park before the killer claimed his eleventh victim. It had been a near thing. John still hadn't gotten the entire explanation from Sherlock.
"If the paintings are the Order, then which one is being referenced?"
He straightened the cushions and sat down on the couch with more calm than he felt, flipped the laptop open, logged onto his desktop, and pulled up the document with his notes.
1. Battle of the Ten Nudes. Antonio Pollaiuolo. 1465
2. The Garden of Earthly Delights. Bosch. 1510.
3. Hunters in the Snow. Peter Bruegel the Elder. 1565
4. Judith and Maidservant with the Head of Holofernes. Artemisia Gentileschi. 1625
5. Death of Major Pierson. Copley. 1783
6. Oath of the Horatii. Jacques-Louis David. 1784
7. George III Reviewing The Tenth Dragoons. Sir William Beechey. 1798.
8. Saturn Devouring His Children. Francisco Goya. 1819
9. The Starry Night. Vincent Van Gogh. 1889
10. Guernica. Pablo Picasso. 1937
11. ?
Notes:: The paintings vary widely in subject matter and span several artistic periods. All contain people. 6 of the 10 depict weapons, mostly swords.
"Mostly swords," he read aloud, knowing instinctively that this was the clue. It was too much of a coincidence. And didn't Sherlock often say that true coincidences were rare? John fished his mobile out and flipped through the recent photos. A quick review of the canvases confirmed his hunch—other weapons were depicted, but two of the paintings had a sword as a focal point.
Why did the text stress 'accurate' if they didn't mean a sword? A rifle or bayonet wouldn't provide the thrill these men were seeking, and John had the impression that his actions were very much meant to entertain the terrorists. And who wouldn't want to see a twit's attempt to rescue his friend armed with an obsolete weapon? Even John could see the humor.
He looked up from his mobile screen and stared at the men couldn't be reasoned with-they placed no value in Sherlock other than using him as a costly ransom. If money was even the endgame.
It was supposed to be a death sentence.
But John Watson had not survived two tours of a hellish landscape to be outwitted by a pack of thugs.
The front was seldom far away, though the intensity of his flashbacks had lessened in Sherlock's company. The triggers were many and varied—the artificial heat the radiator belched in his bedroom often brought the front thundering to the fore. The miasma of dust and sweat carried by the oppressive Afghani heat clogged his nose and dried his throat into perpetual hoarseness as he shouted for supplies above the staccato of the assault rifles. The sun was merciless, but it's absence meant dust storms and a bone-deep chill at night. He felt the press of guilty irritation that had always underpinned his emergency efforts, b/c it was already roasting in the confines of the med tent, and their blood was too hot on his skin, soaking the sleeves of his shirt as he pressed bleedstop bandages to their wounds, hoping it was enough.
John slowly closed the laptop, considering his options, surprised a bit at his own calm.
Sherlock did not know everything about John's tours. In fact, he had rarely asked. There were things John had witnessed that were not recorded, things he had done that were too ugly and deep to ever pass his lips. His bad shoulder twinged in sympathy.
True, he did not have anyone to turn to when he was invalided back to London. That had not been a lie. John, however, was not without contacts. Many men had died during his battlefield ministrations, but many more had lived. Some even had the chance to thank him in person when his unit cycled back to base.
This past Armed Forces Day, after the official ceremony, after the crowds had thinned, he and other invalided veterans gathered in Trafalgar, poppies riding stark on their lapels, and made the pilgrimage around the Cenotaph. Other observers jostled around them. The only people speaking were those that had not seen war.
John had nodded at the few men he knew, acknowledged their arbitrary, shared existence before descending to Charing Cross, only to come back to the street when he discovered the Tube packed with people who had attended for the spectacle, because it was "marked on the calendar." He could not fault them for it. What did they know?
After one last glance at the rows of poppy wreaths grouped around the monument, he began the walk back to Baker Street, stopping to wolf down a sandwich from Speedy's before heading upstairs to the flat. He'd hung up his coat and scarf and turned to the living room, his eyes falling upon their cluttered coffee table to the single, live poppy laid on his closed laptop.
He couldn't say how long he stood in the doorway, riveted by the burst of color that danced like a flame in the mixed shadows. Sherlock said nothing the next morning, and neither did John. The flower was currently pressed between two pages of case notes in the drawer of his bedside table, and he could feel its presence radiating through the ceiling now, a touchstone from Sherlock that was all the more meaningful in its simplicity.
John held the reverie in his mind and fingered his mobile, eyes flinty and far away, before dialing.
Part II coming soon!