3. Solitaire
John Watson was back. Back where he belonged and where he had vowed never to come back to.
Afghanistan was as he remembered it. Beautiful. Fascinating. If somewhat on the lethal side.
Embedded in the marvellous landscape of Helmand province, between mountains, wild waters, dry deserts and a sky high and open above all, fields were in full bloom, covered in red and green. Death and salvation mixed in one fragile plant.
Mortality had a pretty face where opium poppy thrived. Opium, death bearing livelihood, curse and blessing. Indispensable and appalling at the same time, especially for an army surgeon who knew the value of a reliable pain killer as well as he knew the slow death of a drug addict.
In the middle of all this alien beauty other traps waited for the foreigner who allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security. Traps that could cost you a leg, or an arm. Your sanity. Or your life.
John kicked and struggled for all he was worth when the trap closed around him.
It had been such a tranquil looking village, but at its verge tranquillity ended for the medic and the platoon he was with. Within minutes they were fighting for their very lives.
Death had no face, just sound and smell. Snipers' shots. The smell of people bleeding, vomiting, losing control of their bladders. His comrades. His friends. Dying, one by one, while he could do nothing to prevent it, nothing at all.
At the same time, it was all so very irrelevant. Some place in the back of beyond some strangers killed or maimed another group of strangers. They'd never set eyes upon each other, they didn't know each other – and yet a stranger had decided that John Watson's friends should die today. Die in revenge for some dead loved ones John had never met, or for an unknown relative who had been killed by a man wearing the same uniform as John or for some inexplicable ideological or religious differences that neither fed nor housed a man – who knew the reasons or cared for them?
Wrenched in and fought over by two pairs of frantic hands, an old-fashioned gun fired twice. One shot for John's shoulder, the other let an Afghan's face explode, a mere inch away from the surgeon's head.
His attacker was dead, John was dying and still he didn't know why. What the hell was he doing here? Why had he come here? For Queen and country? For himself? To get away from a life too dull? For what? Not for the life of him he could remember why the fuck he had come to Afghanistan in the first place.
It took him several minutes to notice that he was crying, the liquid washing pieces of the other man's brain from his eyes. His fingers smeared those remains all over his face when he wiped the tears away. He cried and screamed and hit the ground and cried even harder, even louder. It was strangely liberating. It was important. Someone should cry for the others, for him and for the madness of it all.
Once he had begun crying he found he couldn't stop. He was so very angry and his shoulder hurt so much and the others were dead, and he was desperate; he would go on screaming and kicking and hitting until all the dirt, and the hatred and the pain had left him for good….
If only they would let him. But they did not. They were everywhere, their caring hands, their soft voices, telling him to come back, to wake up, to begin it all again….. why the hell couldn't they get it into their thick heads that he Didn't. Want. To?
"Leave me alone. Piss off. Fuck you, get your damn hands off me!"
"Doctor, he's doing it again. I can't hold him down."
"Why didn't you give him the sedative, nurse?"
Other hands, fumbling. Intruding. Obtrusive. Christ, would they finally leave him alone?
In the end, a third voice. Authoritative. Demanding. Clearly not used to getting no for an answer. The arrogant Oxford accent unbelievably annoying. "Pull yourself together, Dr. Watson. Sherlock needs you!"
The last bit rang a bell somewhere deep in John's head. This name. This name meant something to him. If he only knew what.
Perhaps not all the others were dead. Perhaps one of his comrades was still alive and needed his help? Perhaps death had not defeated Dr. Watson today after all? Grim Reaper, I'll make a fool of you yet!
John's eyes snapped open and he stared furiously at the human form looming over him. Instantly John's mind, the civilian attire notwithstanding, baptised this man 'The Commander'.
Impeccably groomed, blue eyes cold and withdrawn, with a frown somewhere between slight irritation and disgust at the display of unveiled emotion, an inevitable umbrella hanging from one arm, the vaguely familiar 'Commander' returned the stare calmly. "No more of this outrageous behaviour John. It's rude, useless and therefore intolerable, even under the circumstances. Check your temper, if you please."
The absurd disparity of this lecture in gentlemanly behaviour and the gruesome situation (what gruesome situation by the way? where was he?) left John speechless and confused.
The 'Commander' used the opportunity to send the doctor and the nurse packing with the singular blend of superciliousness, presumption and good manners brushed to impertinent perfection which, in John Watson's personal opinion, had always been the most detestable character treat of the traditional British Upper Classes.
"Anthea, I'm not to be disturbed. I'm finally making headway here."
Somewhere behind the 'Commander's' back a young woman floated towards the door, closing it behind her with discreet softness.
John wasn't surprised one bit. A man with this attitude would always have a league of willing hands at his disposal. It was just part of who and what he was.
Based on this perception, an idea formed in John's head and made it all the way down to his tongue. "Mycroft!" How the hell came he knew the man's name? "Mycroft, where's your brother?" John frowned at his own words. Brother? What brother?
Something amazing happened to the 'Commander's' (Mycroft's actually!) features. They softened. Yes, they really softened until they looked – almost – like those of a human being.
The patient winced with widened eyes when the 'Commander', unbelievably, fascinatingly, demeaned himself to take John's hand.
Unsure and very awkwardly Mycroft patted the hand before he laid it down again, most carefully. "I had hoped you could tell me." He wanted to smile but the movement got derailed under way and it left his features open. Transparent. And awfully tired.
Flushed with embarrassment John averted his eyes. He had no idea where he was or what had happened, but one thing was obvious: This wasn't a man who liked his soul being pried into.
"You see" Mycroft said "my little brother loves to land himself in the most awful of troubles sometimes. The times I found him….. in outrageous circumstances….. His taste in people and situations tends to be… a bit bizarre…"
Suddenly the blockage was crushed; the barrier John's mind had created to protect him from a recent trauma by replaying an older one vanished in an instant.
It was all there, before his mental eyes, crystal clear. The pool. The explosives. And the people. Bizarre was the word; for Oskar Dzundas and even more so for his master.
Moriarty.
James Moriarty. Jim-from-the-hospital. Oh poor, poor Molly.
"Moriarty? Who's that?"
Only from Mycroft's question Watson realized that he had said the name aloud. And he realized something else. Somehow Sherlock had done the impossible and kept the existence of a personal enemy from his brother for months.
Poor Mycroft then. Instantly John's mind degraded the man from 'Commander' to 'imbecile'. A nitwit who'd thought he'd controlled every inch of his baby brother's life and all the time keeping Moriarty from him had cost the younger Holmes nothing but an ironic smile.
But in the end it had cost Sherlock his freedom. And heaven knew what else by now.
Which meant that John Watson had no reason whatsoever to keep the secret from a man who practically was MI 6.
"James Moriarty. Considers himself a Consulting Criminal. Doubtlessly he's invented the job" John said with grim humour. "You want to commit some hideous crime but you're too stupid for the job, he's your man. He's always stayed in the dark, always kept his hands clean but now you'll find him on the payroll of Bart's hospital. IT-department. Because he surely is your brother's arch enemy."
If Mycroft was taken aback by the sarcastic hint at their first meeting he didn't show it. "He'd hardly given his real name at Bart's, now would he."
How was it possible that John should endure this unnerving tone of absolute superiority from Sherlock so easily whilst it drove him mad coming from the elder brother? Whatever the reason, John's voice was acid when he answered.
"Moriarty sacrificed an important branch of his criminal empire, some of his most lucrative customers together with thirty million Pounds and a big share of his reputation, just to get through to Sherlock. Believe me, he did give his real name. If only to demonstrate what he could get away with under your very nose!"
Now John did have the satisfaction of seeing the other man flinch. Surprisingly it brought him little comfort. From his former brief insight into Mycroft's soul he knew they both shared the same misery and guilt.
"Moriarty fancies himself destined to defeat your brother, Mycroft" Watson continued somewhat quieter. "And vice versa. Both get their kicks from proving how very clever they are, so defeating Sherlock – and probably you! - is the biggest kick the bastard can get in this 'verse."
Mycroft rose from his chair. It was unsettling to see him nervous enough to actually pace a few steps. "You think Moriarty crowned his great achievement by murdering my br..." he cleared his throat discreetly. "You think Sherlock is dead?"
John forced himself to face that possibility although his stomach revolted at the very thought. "No" he finally said, desperately wanting it to be more than just wishful thinking. "He went through too much trouble to get Sherlock alive. He's the typical mad child who's got everything the world has to offer."
"Once he's found the perfect toy he'll take his time with destroying it?" Mycroft completed the thought. To John's ears his voice was hatefully cool and unemotional.
"Something like that, yes." Watson had no ambition to seem uninterested when he was anything but. His voice betrayed what he felt. To think of Sherlock as a toy. A perfect human toy. A mouse with a broken spine for a cat that wanted to play the finest, the most delicious game of all.
In this moment Anthea opened the door as softly as she had closed it before. "He's correct, Sir. Jim Moriarty; got himself a job at Bart's IT-departement, befriended a woman named Molly Hooper who is..."
"An acquaintance of Sherlock's. Thank you, Anthea. Find out anything you can about him."
"We're already on it, Sir." And gone she was.
Somehow the casual exchange shorted John Watson's temper. "Mycroft, you idiot, how the hell come you don't know anything? You used to know if I slept on a couch or in Sarah's bed! How could Sherlock disappear from every fucking screen you have?"
If John hadn't known it to be impossible, he'd thought that Mycroft Holmes blushed with shame. His lids fluttered and he looked around with a hurt expression. "It grieves me to say that my little brother got the better of me this time. Besides…."
"Besides what?" John snapped. Christ almighty, there he sat, Mycroft Holmes, the all-seeing, all-knowing eyes and brain of the British Government, as clueless as a mole in a spotlight.
"Besides I knew which agent intended to lay his hands on the Bruce Patterson plans. An international mercenary of Czech origin. Naturally I knew the cases around the Hickman Gallery to be a distraction. The agent had been arrested a few minutes prior to Sherlock texting me he'd give me the stick next morning, so …. Case solved!"
"And you took a nap whilst your brother was kidnapped?" John asked incredulously.
"Of course not. I coordinated the overhaul of the foreign office's security network!"
The indignant reply unhinged John's anger and left him ….deflated. "Tell me, Mycroft, from intellectual to intellectual, do you ever sleep?"
"Not much. Insomnia and liking it runs in the family."
"I should have known" John murmured, frustrated, but then his mind jumped back to the matter at hand. "So, how did you find me?"
Mycroft's cheeks became a shade darker. "Unfortunately it took me almost fifteen minutes before I realized that Sherlock suspected somebody else of being responsible for the abductions and the murders that served as a distraction from the missile plans. I needed additional time to deduce Sherlock's whereabouts, albeit it had to be the pool in which Carl Powers had died. Obviously."
"Obviously" John muttered. There was nothing obvious about it to him. As always. God, it was enough to jump out of one's skin, such a genius and couldn't even protect his idiotic baby brother. "Obviously you've found me by the pool. The CCTV there. Moriarty acted in plain sight. What did you make of it?"
Mycroft's face reddened even more. "The cameras, all of them, had been disabled in advance. My best experts couldn't get anything from them. The surveillance technology there was useless. We've found you, half dead. We've found the tracks of the compact van they used to transport Sherlock, we tracked the van down in an abandoned part of an old private harbour. A boat had left this harbour the very same night to rendezvous with a French ship on the high sea. We've found a piece of Sherlock's shirt in this boat, together with a rag and a scarf that had been used to gag him, although he had been chloroformed as well as drugged with some opiate."
John's confused face made Mycroft sigh. "As a medical man you do not need me to explain the usefulness of genetic research in forensics. Sherlock's shirt was …. soiled. He's never stomached chloroform very well and his saliva..."
"I'm getting the idea, thanks" John said hastily, aghast. Another thought struck him. "Christ, how long have I been out of it?"
"Ten days. And even so I had to throw my weight around to get this little interview with you."
"Are you telling me you and the complete machine of all the MIs, CIs, SYs and all the other high an' mighty initials that live on tax payer's money haven't been able to find one kidnapped man in over a week, although he kidnapper was kind enough to leave his card?"
"Must I remind you that you've told me his identity only now? Doubtlessly the evidence I mentioned has been placed. To mislead us..."
"Damn it, Mycroft, Where. Is. Your. Brother?"
John Watson's heart was in his throat when Mycroft Holmes just shrugged and looked at him. "You are my last hope, John. If you can't remember anything, if you haven't heard any slip of the tongue – I'm at a loss. We all are."
John swallowed. Hard. This couldn't happen. This was impossible. Unthinkable. Dozens of experts, technology worth millions of Pounds, contacts from here to the end of the world and back again were at this man's disposal and he needed a slip of the tongue?
"Moriarty doesn't make that kind of mistakes" Watson said. "I'm sorry."
And he was. More sorry than he'd ever been in his life. Ten days. 240 god-damned, fucking hours at the mercy of a complete psycho. He couldn't begin to imagine what Sherlock was going through. How he would feel. Only that it had to be way, way beyond 'sorry'.
"John, please... if you feel up to it... maybe if we go over it together, if you tell me exactly what happened to you and my brother during that night..."
To hear Mycroft beg somehow made things worse. Much worse. In one word, hopeless.
And hopeless was unacceptable.
Therefore John Watson threw himself into the process of reporting, hoping against all odds that they'd come up with something. Over and over again he repeated what he had seen and heard during that night. With Mycroft, with Mycroft's best interrogators, with some prize-winning psychiatrists, even with the help of some special drugs.
But it all came to nothing.
The van, the harbour, the boat and the ship – dead ends.
Moriarty himself – vanished without a trace. Janus Cars, Hickman Gallery – nothing.
The most dead end of all was John Watson himself.
At least that was how he felt. Finished. Useless. Defeated. Dead.
In other words - he felt exactly as he had felt when he had first come back from Helmand to London. Before he had met Sherlock Holmes. Before he had found what to him had looked like a way back into life.
12 Months after the 'pool incident', as it was called, the investigation – the search – was officially abandoned, the case closed.
Mycroft Holmes withdrew 'to the country', address unknown, according to Anthea.
Mrs Hudson gave her remaining lodger a wide berth for somewhat longer before she reluctantly mentioned the future.
The very same day John packed his few belongings. Sherlock's stuff was no longer a concern. Some weeks earlier John had come home and his flatmate's belongings had been gone. According to Mrs. Hudson 'this dreadful man with the umbrella' had come and taken it all away.
John Watson was lucky to once more get his old room at the cheap hostel where he had first stayed after the homecoming that had been a return to an alien world and nothing else.
The nightmares came back. Night after night he saw his platoon die and more and more often a new face was among the corpses, a face that had not been there before.
The days John spent behind closed curtains, dreading the next night.
He lost a threatening amount of weight and didn't even notice. His muscles withered away from sitting around too much and he didn't care.
Someone had depended on him, relied on him. Again. Had trusted him with his life. Again. And he had failed that someone. Again. This someone was lost whilst John Watson had survived. Again.
The difference was, John Watson wouldn't try again. Wouldn't rise again. Not this time.
This time, John Watson would just curl up in a dark corner like the wounded animal he was, and die too.
It was in that room, in that state, that Sarah found him.
And she decided that she would bring him out of that shell of sadness and self-accusations even if it was the last thing she'd ever do.
