Note from translator: I'm sorry it took me so long to translate this chapter, the original story is already finished, so I am the only one to blame for the delay. Arianka.
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Part three: Operation
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Medical studies and army life taught John Watson that there was no such thing like an ideally completed operation. It didn't matter whether it was set in an operating room or somewhere outside, it didn't matter if it concerned just a single patient with his illness or a group of political or military targets. There was always something that appeared in the middle of the action and destroyed everything. It wasn't that bad if it just appeared on the operating table that the patient should be cut deeper or sewn quicker. When a sleepy village turned out to be an armed base, the character of the operation changed rapidly, unexpectedly and everyone could experience these changes. The results were various, sometimes fatal. An army doctor had to be aware that things like that happened, and that he had to rescue everyone he could and shouldn't waste his breath for cursing, because there were more important tasks to do. And that was the only thing he could do. Later there was a time for cursing. For those, who survived. And were able to curse, of course.
His current mission was almost monotonous at first. He still went to his flat in the suburbs, he still worked, and he visited Mrs. Hudson now and then. Lestrade came to him in the evenings, bringing some papers, photos or testimonies, asking him to look at them and search for connections. He hoped that someone who wasn't a policeman would see more than people from Scotland Yard.
The documents the Inspector brought sometimes came from strange sources. Asked by Watson, Lestrade admitted who did he get them from, and the doctor wasn't surprised. He suspected that the elder Holmes was trying to pay for his fault, his mistake, and maybe he also wanted to revenge his brother in the legal way. As if the revenge itself could bring Sherlock back to life. Watson didn't condemn Mycroft any more, he himself wanted to have this satisfaction too, when the last Moriarty's men would end behind the bars.
Lestrade offered him a discreet security too, but Watson declined. He exercised a lot in his free time to have a good condition and never left his gun. He was sure he would be able to deal with any danger, he missed it and almost wanted someone to start a fight. He needed this moment of violence to let the war go with its own rhythm, because the doctor had a feeling as if the city around him was the enemy's ground, where he should keep his eyes wide open and be ready to notice even the smallest signs of danger.
He already saw first signs. At first they were just small irregularities, disruptions in the city daily life. An old man without leg, sadly playing flute at the tube's stairs. Two boys, probably from Jamaica, as he guessed from their dreadlocks and green-red-yellow shirts, dancing on the street corner. A girl wandering around and looking at the shop windows with her empty eyes. They showed and disappeared, always too quick to let him say if their presence was something more than pure coincidence. Or, everyone would say so, except John Watson. He saw them, like he usually saw the symptoms of an illness in his patients. The soldier he was saw them as elements of city, elements of disguise. Because who would hide better on a London street than a blind woman in colorful feathers, singing operatic arias out loud? Everyone passed her, either looking away or throwing a coin into a decorative box next to the singer.
He didn't tell anyone about his suspicions. The days passed and these colorful guardians were the only proof that something was happening around doctor Watson. He didn't mind it. On the war, they often waited long, not only in a peaceful, boring base, but also outside, when they had to last, on their wits' ends, because they couldn't miss alarm signal. But nevertheless, the events surprised him.
When Greg Lestrade blurted that he knew where they could find Moran, ex-colonel involved in weapon trade and murders, Watson didn't hesitate even for a moment. He forced the Inspector to let him take part in the arrest. Surprisingly, he didn't even have to take that effort, from some time Lestrade didn't care for the rules, and after the Holmes and Brook case he had around him people loyal enough to let this detail passed unnoticed. Besides, there were also things such as guilt, friendship and debts from the past, better times. The inspector knew also Watson's personal reasons, why he wanted to be among people who would arrest Moran and he didn't see any reason to decline John or himself this satisfaction.
Especially when it was supposed to be an easy operation.
So easy, that it had to go wrong.
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Bang!
A hit can rolled across the concrete, metallic noise echoed in the empty factory hall, followed by the sudden patter. A slam of metal door and someone's shout soon drowned in the crash of gunfire.
And then the hell begun.
John Watson clang his back to one of the pillars in the hall and cursed, thinking briefly what he, a doctor and ex-soldier, was doing in this place. And why in the hell had he thought that he hadn't had enough of firing in his life. But he knew these were rhetorical questions. He could either be here, with Lestrade's men, or sit lonely in the place he used to call home. He could try to see something in the darkness here, or stare at the empty wall over his bed. And most important – he could think now how stupid he was when he forced Lestrade to take him, or he could think over and over again about what his friend had done.
But these were just brief thoughts every soldier had, so he let them go. Their operation had just crushed, he was sure, their plain arrest changed into regular battle and for captain John Watson it was only 'here and now' that counted. And the adrenaline in his veins.
Someone shouted, one short, cut scream, that changed into a cry. The flutter of helicopter joined the noises of shots, cries and sirens.
Another doors slammed, another shoes stamped. Someone was running. In the darkness enlightened only by cars standing outside and spotlights through the roof windows, he couldn't recognize the face, but the silhouette didn't wear a police vest, so Watson jumped from behind the pillar at the fugitive.
They rolled on the concrete and Watson moaned painfully, as the impact echoed in his old shot. The man was young, strong and acted quickly. He tried to get free and push John, but then he changed his tactic and attacked. Fruitlessly. Watson pushed him to the ground and punched him strongly with his other hand, so the man went still.
"Are you ok, doctor?" A young, a bit frightened policeman helped him get up.
"Yes." Watson looked were the noises came from.
"Please don't go there, there's a regular battle…"
Watson disregarded this attempt to stop him. Battle or not, he could be more helpful there than this young constable whose hands were shaking at the mere sound of shots. And – Greg Lestrade was there, and Watson had already promised himself that he would not lose any more comrades-in-arms. It was enough he had to watch helplessly once.
And now he was again under fire, he heard the unique sound of reloading weapons, and the bullets ringing around the steel construction and concrete. Somewhere there a barrel of petrol blew up and the darkness was enlightened by fire. And Watson ran again with his comrades and jumped over the obstacles, protecting the others, until some doors went open and he and the policemen rushed into the room.
Suddenly something fell by their legs and rolled, hissing and crackling. Foggy puffs appeared in the gleams of light and the air got a sweet scent which overshadowed even the smell of powder, petrol and varnishes. Someone shouted it was a gas, someone started screaming in fear, trying to step back and escape, someone stopped him, but for John it was only the squat silhouette running though the other door that counted.
He ran after him, but suddenly his legs gave in, his shoes became strangely heavy, and his steps unsure. Suddenly he couldn't breathe, silver spots danced in the darkness in front of his eyes, and Moran, it had to be that bloody Moran, receded. John forced himself to take one more step, two more, but then the gun fell from his hand and he sank on his knees. It was difficult, too difficult to keep his head raised, he couldn't focus his gaze, his hands stiffened, he couldn't feel his feet...
A shot? Gas? It didn't matter to Watson. Whatever it was, he had been hit with it, rather effectively, judging by the rough concrete under his cheek. He saw a high silhouette with the corner of his eye, someone was walking towards him, carefully passing over the rubbish on the floor. Was it Moran coming back to finish him off? This wasn't important anymore and didn't bother him.
But this silhouette, this coat, it was all so familiar... No, impossible. It couldn't be possible. Real life wasn't a poor American movie to give him an illusion of seeing his dead friend in such situation.
He laid, stiff, not being able to move, and the man was close, so close... He knelt by Watson and in the same moment the helicopter above them made another circle and enlightened the stranger. Dark curls, thin face, sticking cheekbones, bright eyes...
Damn American movies! With this last thought doctor John Watson sank into darkness.
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Watson knew that he was still among alive ones, no matter what. He was sure it was possible only at this side of Styx to wake up having the worst symptoms of a hangover. Not a single mythology ever mentioned blessed souls suffering from overvoltage of ambrosia, and the damned souls shouldn't have had pleasures like drinking. Of course, someone less optimistic could say that the hangover itself would suggest that worse place in afterlife, but not John Watson. He was sure since his childhood that the hell was first of all a very hot place. And he thought that his personal hell, when he finally goes there, would look totally different.
So now, blinded by the light and stunned by the noise, he heavily turned on his side and tried to ease his stomach. Someone held his head and cleaned his face with a wet, mint handkerchief. It was so pleasant, that doctor Watson inhaled deeply and sat without any sensations. The same person gave him something to drink to wash over the awful aftertaste.
The symptoms of hangover disappeared surprisingly quickly. Stomach cramps ceased, headache lessened, light stopped dazzling, noise deafening. Watson could finally look around. He wasn't surprised when he saw a paramedic by him and that Lestrade sat on the other side of the room. The Inspector seemed to be nervous. Which meant, thought Watson, that their arrest had failed...
"What was that?" he asked as soon as the doors slammed behind the paramedic.
"Some invention of Russian antiterrorists. Only hypnagogic, fortunately." There was no joy in the Inspector's voice. There could only be one reason.
"Did he escape?"
"No."
Watson gasped, surprised. He was convinced that Lestrade was painfully disappointed that after all this mess, nerves and tragedy, after months of their difficult investigation and guerrilla war when he had to find a spy among his people, the last and the most important man involved in Sherlock Holmes' death had managed to escape.
But if the suspect had been caught, then why did the Inspector look as if he was shivering in fury?
"We have Moran," said Lestrade. "We have his men..."
"What's wrong, Greg?" Watson interrupted him. "Someone died?"
"No," answered the Inspector and inhaled deeply. "I have to go..."
Watson only nodded. He didn't try to fool himself that he was the only one who had suffered from the gas. Lestrade was strangely nervous. He probably had to go further and see the others, but also to make sure no one from the press would know that someone civilian had taken part in the police action, moreover someone close to the famous consulting detective. And most certainly he had to prepare to all that paperwork that waited for him.
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An hour later John Watson smiled bitterly to himself. Donovan drove him to his flat, he suspected she did it on the Inspector's personal request. When he fell, poisoned by the gas, he injured his knee and now it was getting more difficult to move. The Sergeant was silent all the way and so was he. Not only because they succeeded and the chase was over. Something that had led him during these last months, that had given the doctor the energy needed to function, just stopped existing. First of all, John wasn't going to say aloud what, or rather who he had seen at that brief moment in the warehouse.
And now, aching and tired, with a stiff leg, he sat in his empty flat reading about fentanyl, a gas used by Russian security service. Hallucinations, illusions, daydreams... Yes, that was the right explanation. There were no mawkish visions.
Xxx
Somewhere on a London street Lestrade nervously lighted a cigarette. He was about to drop that habit, but right now he couldn't refuse himself that form of comfort. Not after the action in the warehouse, when he thought for a moment that he had lost completely this time. He was still shaking at the thought that it was so close and he wouldn't think of the consequences now.
"He saw you," he said finally. "He will wonder."
"For now, he will think it was a hallucination," replied the tall, dark-haired man. "Make sure he will talk to Moran, Lestrade. He had to be prepared."
To be continued…
