Chapter Two

Unfortunately for John, after that spectacularly exciting evening in NSY's police morgue, his life returned to the basic, everyday routine he was beginning to loathe as much as his own inability to find suitable lodgings not reminiscent of a barracks. Lestrade, who had returned John's friendly offer in turn and asked John to call him Greg, had taken a strange sort of interest in him meanwhile, and had taken to dropping in of an evening or luncheon to bounce ideas off him about various cases. It was no uncommon occurrence for an official to discover the two in the morgue after most of the day shift had left, discussing oddities in the bodies John was autopsying, or exchanging ideas about Greg's latest case.

One such evening, John was finishing up with a post-mortem, securing the body and finishing paperwork, while Greg waited patiently for him to finish so that they could make a run for Thai takeaway before the DI had to go to a stakeout in Brixton.

"Anything in particular on, besides this drugs bust tonight?" John asked companionably, as he washed his hands.

Lestrade looked rather absent, he had noticed from the time the man had entered, and he blinked a couple of times before shrugging. "Nothing much, really, John."

"Mm." John shut the morgue drawer, glad of the finality, and turned around. "Want to tell me about it over that takeaway, then?"

Greg chuckled ruefully. "I suppose it might do me good to get an outside opinion, unofficial though it might be. There is something on my mind, John. It's a bit odd, more so than the usual." (1)

"Oh? How so?"

"Missing persons and robbery case. Except in each instance, the person disappeared literally, from a locked and bolted home or room, without a trace."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing, John. In each case, nothing in the room has been disturbed, and there are no signs whatsoever of violence. Had the boys going over each room with a fine-toothed comb and we've turned up nothing." Lestrade sighed. "It's like something out of a Christie novel."

"Were the victims related in any way?"

"Not that I've been able to discover. Apparently they're all model citizens, at least according to their lack of criminal record."

John raised an eyebrow as he tossed his soiled lab coat down the laundry chute and retrieved his cane. "Got yourself in a bad spot there, then. How'd your division land those?"

"Rotten luck, I suppose." Lestrade grimaced. Holding the door for John, he shook his head. "I've got no explanations for anyone, and neither does Anderson. How they expect me to perform miracles and find missing people when there's not a trace to follow is beyond me."

"And nothing else was missing from the rooms?" John asked, his interest piqued now.

"Well, not that we can tell. Two of the three lived alone, and there was no sign of anything being disturbed but we scarcely have a full catalogue of belongings. One had a mistress who was in the house the night the gent disappeared, but he vanished from a locked study without a trace. She swears something is missing from his desk but as she only saw it a few times she can't give us any idea what it was."

John knew better, and thought better of Lestrade's team, than to ask if there were suspicious dust rings or something on the desk. He shook his head. "Definitely a puzzle. Afraid I can't really help you there," he said ruefully. "Wish I could; it sounds like a case that would make an amazing story." The boys at the NSY had found out a few weeks back that he kept a blog, and that he was one of those rare people who actually liked to write - and now they teased him mercilessly about writing the great Crime Novel of the century.

Lestrade shared a grin with him. "I'll be sure to leak the details to you when I solve it, and you can name a character after me, shall I?"

They shared a quick takeaway in Lestrade's office before the DI apologetically headed out with Sgt. Donovan for his stakeout/hopefully soon-to-be drugs bust. John handed over his autopsy report to his superior before leaving for the evening, and headed reluctantly out into the blustery weather with a slight expression of distaste and a heartfelt wish that he could somehow rid himself of his psychosomatic limp (or land a job with high enough wages he could afford to take a cab home). It was highly inconvenient, not to mention embarrassing, because he knew it was not real but that nonetheless did not negate the very real pain. In addition, he hated being pitied, and everyone shoots a cripple pitying looks without even meaning to.

Rain poured off the rooftops in sheets, and he was soaked long before he'd made it four streets away. Too brisk of a wind to use his umbrella, and his well-worn secondhand coat did little to keep out such inclement weather. He made a mental note to drink more juice for the next few days and pick up a packet of Vitamin C drops at Boots before coming in to work tomorrow. Pausing at a crosswalk, he watched in absent amusement as a gentleman trying to hold a newspaper over his head suddenly scurried after it when the wind ripped it off, sending it scuttling soggily down the street.

He was just passing a phone booth when...the phone inside it began to ring.

Cocking his head, he stared at the booth with well-deserved trepidation. It was like something that only happened in crap horror movies, and the street was nearly deserted, the more intelligent populace having taken shelter indoors. He hurried onward, shaking his head.

And then the next booth rang as well.

And the next.

And then the street lamps on both sides of him went out suddenly, leaving him silhouetted against a brightly-lit launderette window. He wisely ducked into the shadow of an awning, well out of a potential crossfire on pure instinct, but in the process fetched up against another phone booth.

This phone rang. And rang. And continued ringing as he watched, incredulous.

Finally, as a slosh of water drenched what little bit of dry he'd been protecting within his coat, he shrugged and entered the booth; because obviously someone wanted his attention, and if they could do this they could use cruder methods of getting it. Besides, they were following a man who had smuggled an illegal firearm back from military service; there were very few things he was truly afraid of at this point.

He picked up the receiver and held it to his ear, making sure to look warily through the small glass panes of the booth for anyone approaching, but said nothing.

And, as it turned out, he did not need to.

Mysterious black cars with tinted windows, deserted warehouses with leaking pipes, secret rendezvous with designer-suited gentlemen under cover of secrecy - it obviously was his week for being thrown unceremoniously into bizarre situations.

"You don't appear very afraid," observed the man he'd been taken (mostly) against his will to meet.

"You don't appear very frightening," he replied dryly, and saw a muscle twitch in the man's cheek. (2)

"Is there nothing you are afraid of, Doctor Watson?"

"Dying of boredom, possibly." He glanced at his mobile, noting the time (they'd driven about fifteen minutes in a southerly direction). "Would you mind getting to the point? You do have one, I presume."

"I have always held we do not truly compensate our military servicemen upon their return to civilian life, not properly anyway. Would you agree with that opinion, Captain Watson?"

He stiffened, left hand clenched against his trouser seam. So they were to be playing it that way, were they? "Have you researched me, or are you simply a lucky guesser?" he asked.

"I never guess. It is a shocking habit. (3) No, you are Captain John Hamish Watson, late of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, part of the Helmand province campaign - I trust you do not require a revisiting of the specifics - wounded in an IED explosion, managed to save the life of the driver of the vehicle despite both legs being trapped under the wreckage, by applying a tourniquet to the man's badly wounded arm and turning him into the recovery position so he did not asphyxiate on his own vomit. You never received recognition for this act of valour, primarily because the other occupants of the vehicle were unconscious or deceased at the time and the driver only barely recovered, months after you had been sent back to England." (4)

John swallowed, for his leg well remembered the trauma of being able to hear exactly who in that vehicle was alive and who was dying; hence the limp. He had been unable to reach anyone other than the driver, trapped as he was and with a piece of shrapnel embedded in his shoulder frighteningly close to the subclavian artery. (5)

His tormentor was not finished. "Prior to this your last tour, you served two terms in Afghanistan and one in Iraq with the Queen's Dragoon Guards (6), proving yourself to be superior in your skills as a surgeon and a trained combat soldier. Turned down an offer five years ago to become an army sniper, as it violated your moral principles at the time." Light grey eyes peered at him over the small Moleskine. "Has that admirable but foolish sense of morality changed, I wonder."

"I could be persuaded to make an exception in your case," John snapped through his teeth.

The man smiled, as if thoroughly satisfied, and John cursed himself for reacting. That was a primary principle of conflict; never show your enemy your true feelings.

"But I digress." The small notebook was returned to the man's expensive suit coat pocket. "To return to my original point, Captain Watson. We as a rule do a poor job by our military when they return to civilian life, do we not?" John remained silent, but the man ignored his lack of participation. "I should, in your case, like to rectify that if we can come to an agreement."

"What sort of agreement?"

"I...well, shall we say, I represent a certain branch of our government and defence forces, and, in fact, would like to make a proposal to you. Nothing more."

"You expect me to believe you work for MI-6 or the Secret Service and are offering me a job?" John asked incredulously. He cast a glance at their surroundings. "Well, that at least explains the camp Bond atmosphere," he added, rolling his eyes.

"You may believe whatever you like, Doctor Watson. The fact remains, that I have a job for you, should you choose to accept it."

"And if I do, I gain...?"

"A substantial sum of money as payment, for one thing," the man said, with a careless swing of umbrella. "But, more importantly," he added, spinning to pierce John with a knowing look, "you have an assignment and a purpose which I can guarantee you will appeal more to your, shall we say, adrenaline-dependent living tendencies than dissecting corpses in New Scotland Yard's morgue?"

John flushed angrily, but this time kept his mouth shut; there was no reason to give the man any more ammunition. And besides, he was now quite curious. "What sort of assignment are we talking about?" he asked bluntly.

"Nothing which will outrage your moral sensibilities, John. No assassinations or espionage against the Realm or the like. Though I can give you a license to kill if you would prefer...it does make the legal red tape so much easier if you are caught with that illegal Army Browning in your possession, you know." A knowing smile as John's eyes flickered uneasily. "But as far as your assignment, I have a gentleman I would like located and surveillance put upon. You would merely perform that duty and report to me. Nothing more, nothing less."

John was silent for a moment, weighing his opponent. Then, "I've always held with the adage that if something sounds too good to be true, it usually is," he remarked candidly. "This smacks of politics, and I refuse to become nothing more than a pawn in a game where I don't know the rules."

"I had anticipated you would say as much," the man replied, apparently unruffled. "Shall I give you some time to consider the matter, then? Say, two days? I will not force you into any assignment, Captain," he continued, looking down an aquiline nose. "I have never found those men who must be blackmailed into service to be trustworthy. Should you accept your assignment, my assistant will give you a number where I can be reached by call or text." John briefly repressed a giggle at the idea of a government official doing something so mundane as text messaging. "The assignment is somewhat urgent, however, as matters are fast coming to a head - but those details can wait until you have the proper clearance. You understand, of course." The bland smile was back in place, and John recognized the dismissal for what it was.

"...Right, then," he said, a trifle awkwardly, and shifted his weight onto his good leg to begin his walk back to the car. "I'll be in touch, yeah?"

"Choose wisely, Captain Watson," his opponent called calmly after him. "You will find that you have hardly left the battlefield, and the side you choose can have...unexpected consequences."

"...Sure." He shook his head, and scrambled into the back seat of the Mercedes opposite the man's extraordinarily pretty (and totally not interested, unfortunately) assistant.

"I'm to take you home," she said, without looking up from her mobile phone.

John shrugged easily and gave her the address, deciding to enjoy not having to walk back to his bedsit in the deluge that buffeted the vehicle.

At the very least, it was not a wasted evening.

Lestrade was distracted the following day, barely giving John a nod when he brought an autopsy report on a poisoning case by the DI's office.

"Another one last night," he groaned in response to John's candid observation that he looked like something off Dawn of the Dead.

"Locked-room disappearance?"

"Yeah. This time it was a middle-aged woman, which is new, but I don't see a significant clue other than that. Oh, and that she was one of those nutters that collects cheap knick-knacks. Every solid surface in the house, covered in the things. Creepy dolls and smiling cats and dancing bears and the like." Lestrade gave a full-body shudder that made John grin knowingly. "Every. Square. Inch. If something were stolen we'd never be able to tell."

"Unless she didn't dust the things properly, which is fairly common with that type. Dust is eloquent, Greg," John said thoughtfully. "Have you double checked, just to be sure? No valuable antiques that she didn't realise she owned, that could be a motive for kidnapping?"

"Got Anderson's crew finishing up the photographs right now, but I didn't see anything at a quick look-through. Bloody unnatural, if y'ask me, all those eyes staring at you everywhere you turn. Wouldn't sleep a wink in that house, I tell you."

John nodded. "Had a maiden aunt who collected angels; I was always scared to death to sleep in the guest bedroom, all those benevolent smiles staring down at me as a kid..."

A knock at the door heralded the arrival of a sergeant with Anderson's photographs, and Lestrade peered wearily into the folder, shuffling through them with the expertise of a man who has done this more times than he can count and really doesn't expect to find anything.

"Mm, as I thought. Would be a bit too much to ask -"

"Hold up, what was that?"

"What was what?"

John picked a photograph out of the discarded stack and held it up. "Just there - isn't that a circular spot that's a bit off-colour from the rest? Could be a place where a figurine or something was standing."

The DI peered eagerly at the photo, and then looked up, grinning triumphantly. "You may be right! But we have no way of finding out what exactly it was, do we."

"Not really, unless she has someone, a friend or someone, who might know what was sitting there. Cleaning service?"

"On it. Keep your fingers crossed," Lestrade replied, already on his phone to one of his minions to begin research.

"Mmhm. Lunch later?"

"Got a meeting with the CS, unfortunately. Catch you later."

John nodded and headed down to the morgue, nodding to colleagues as he passed them in the corridors. He was just about to go out of phone range in the elevator down when his mobile beeped.

Have you considered my offer any further, Captain?

There was no signature or name, but he recognized the number. Mr. X was persistent, he'd give him that.

He probably should not have gotten that much enjoyment from ignoring the text, but he put the weirdness which was his life from his mind while he set to work.

Late that evening, he arrived back at his bedsit exhausted and dripping wet. Obviously Mother Nature had decided she would like to try to drown the British Isles, and she was doing a rather good job of it. He hung his jacket and other clothing near the heating vent to dry, and changed into the few comfortable clothes he owned.

Forgotten in his trouser pocket, his mobile beeped again.

You do understand that accepting my offer will ensure you will never again need to fight your way across Montague Street in a pouring gale, do you not?

Obviously the man was a stalker as well as whatever else he did for a living. John sent him back a Farsi vulgarity and went for a hot shower. When he returned, another message was waiting.

Charming. My assistant will be delivering you your assignment information this evening; review it and get back with me re: its contents, if you will.

As if to underscore the message, his buzzer rang to indicate the young woman standing under an expensive umbrella on his doorstep downstairs. She ignored his offer to come in with polite indifference, handed him a dossier, and left a moment later. The clack of designer heels followed her down the corridor to the elevator as John shut the door behind her.

He tossed the dossier onto the table and fixed himself a pot noodle before sitting down before it armed with his laptop and the newspaper Greg had handed him before he left, knowing John wasn't about to buy such extras with his small salary. That was part of the reason he liked the DI so much; Lestrade's knowledge of people obviously had been a benefit to his work as a police inspector, and that lack of pity but helpful matter-of-factness carried over into his personal relationships.

The mysterious disappearances had been relegated to Page Six, retreating under an article about a gas explosion on the South Side which had blown up a condemned warehouse, and some bizarre little piece about UFOs seen in the vicinity of Cardiff last weekend. John shook his head at the eyewitness's less-than-sound account of strange lights, shockwaves, and memory-altering drugs, and scanned the disappearances article. Nothing new there, other than the journalist's sensational account of a mysterious force slowly picking off innocent London residents one by one, etc., etc.

He reluctantly turned his attention toward the dossier he'd been forced into taking, in the hopes that it would prove less melodramatic and more realistic.

How wrong he was.

Mycroft Holmes had just checked in with his security detail and was preparing to retire for the night when his mobile beeped.

Are you having me on?
JW

Smirking, he ignored the text and went to bed.

(1) Dialogue adapted from 6NAP (as indeed much of the backstory case will be)
(2) Dialogue taken from ASIP, and the following conversation twisted to fit my purposes
(3) Said by the younger Holmes in SIGN
(4) John wears the regimental tie of the Queen's Dragoon Guards in TGG, and in HOUN he's disclosed as being part of the Fifth Northumberland, as was Dr. Watson in ACD canon.
(5) There's no set canon as to how John was injured in BBC's version of events, and so I went with ACD canon details regarding the injury and simply used a feasible explanation for the event.
(6) See 4