Chapter 4

The corridors of power were Mycroft's domain, where he felt most comfortable and at ease. When his umbrella was heard clicking along the marble floors a hush would descend among the government nobodies whom he employed. Civil servants increased their pace as they moved about with box files under their arms and blank faces. No one made eye contact and Mycroft preferred it that way. He could almost feel his power radiating off the walls, taste it in the air, it was tangible. Whitehall was his realm and he was the king.

But today was different. He'd always had a suspicion that his little brother would bring about his downfall; today his inkling was fast becoming reality.

It had started with a 5 am phone call that had drawn him from his four poster bed and had him rushing into work. Now he was in a particularly unpleasant meeting with Lord Ashbury, a man who made him feel about four feet tall. Quite an achievement, as Mycroft was not a man who was intimidated easily.

Ashbury was a man whom Mycroft would call an 'Ally,' an acquaintance, certainly not a friend. Mycroft didn't have friends. The news that he had to bear – in that god awful condescending tone of his – was the news Mycroft had suspected would come but dreaded.

"We've lost track of John Watson."


"Watson!" the shout echoed around him, punctuated by a rattle of gunfire.

John ran, crouching low. The sand of the desert was blowing around his face and he squinted through his goggles to see where his comrades had gone. He spotted a leg disappearing around the side of a wall and ran again, his movements made awkward by the equipment and body armour he was laden with.

He stopped at the low wall and felt the cold stone under his hand as he peered over the top. An explosion nearby shook the ground and John lost his footing, falling to one knee and propping himself up using his rifle. His ears were ringing as he got up again, running towards the concrete shell of a small building in the direction he'd thought they'd gone.

He reached the small shack and went inside, panting from the run and pumping with adrenaline. Two of his comrades were in there and they greeted each other with nods. But where were the others?

A scream pierced John's thoughts before he could voice them. Then a crackle from his walkie-talkie "Man down! Man down!"

The noises were louder and the gunfire was coming closer.

"Watson, get down!"

"John, what are you doing!?"

People were shouting...another crackle of guns...he was running towards a casualty he knew he couldn't save...blood, so much of it...

As he held the man John could feel his life slowly slipping away, he concentrated on keeping up the pressure on the wound that was already too big. A gaping hole in the soldier's side, with a puddle of blood that John knew was too large for him to live.

But that didn't mean he wasn't going to try to save him.

John gritted his teeth.

He took off his outer layer of clothing, the toughened jacket that went over his chest protector and used it to stem the man's bleeding. He got it in a tight knot around the area, the khaki fabric soaking up the crimson liquid.

"Come on...come on...you're not dying on me mate."

Then John felt an explosion of pain in his left shoulder.

He woke up suddenly, sitting bolt upright, eyes snapping open.

He was covered in a layer of cold sweat that made his pyjamas wet and his hair cling to the back of his goose-pimpled neck. John was breathing hard and ran his clammy left palm over his face, aware that his right hand was holding on to his opposite shoulder - exactly where his bullet scar was.

He collapsed back down on the bed, his breath coming in ragged sobs. His head hurt and his heart was pounding. John closed his eyes and repeated 'It was just a dream, you're ok' to himself, the repetition slowly calming him down.

He shuffled onto his side and opened his eyes again, suddenly aware that something seemed odd and sensing another person in the room.

"John? It's alright, it's just me." Came a voice in the dark

"Who's there?" He barked, trying in vain to see the outlines of objects through the blackness.

A lamp next to his bed flickered on and John saw his friend's familiar shape through the sudden bright light that caused spots to swim in his vision.
When his eyes adjusted he saw Sherlock sitting in a chair by the side of the double bed, elbows resting on his knees and a flicker of concern on his face.

"Welcome back John."

John sat up, the silk duvet pooling at his waist. This wasn't the hospital...nor was it Baker Street.