Previously:
"Gregory, let's find out what my brother is up to, shall we?" Mycroft knocked, on the off-chance that John Watson still had his gun out.
He entered after his brother rudely yelled, "Well, enter if you must."
The Marksman Chapter 4
"That will be my brother," said Sherlock. "John, do put your gun away; it will just make the others nervous."
John sat in a chair, while Sherlock pressed the handkerchief against the soldier's flesh-wound. "I'm not sure.." began the blond.
John paused to watch Mycroft Holmes glide in like a vampire. Holmes senior, (he was obviously the older brother, by several years), was followed by Lestrade. The DI glared nervously at John, who was still holding the gun.
"Shut the door, Gregory," instructed Mycroft, pointedly ignoring the gun.
John looked up at the consulting detective who had somehow become John's ally. Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow.
John's eyes widened in doubt and then gave his tilted head a little shake for emphasis. The former soldier gripped his gun tighter. He did not want to let go of the Browning.
Sherlock nodded his reassurance.
John looked back at the politician and the detective inspector, and then he lowered his brows in a fierce scowl. Still, if this Sherlock said it was alright…Pursing his lips, John flipped on the Browning's safety and slipped the gun into his waistband.
Lestrade gaped at this silent exchange between the normally aloof consulting detective and the apparently hostile former soldier.
Mycroft pressed his lips together, unsure. It seemed that his little brother, the self-diagnosed sociopath, had reached some sort of understanding with this virtual stranger. Mycroft did not understand it; therefore, it was unsettling.
"Doctor Watson, I propose that we restart from the very beginning," said Mycroft slowly.
John instantly looked to Sherlock, his lips parted in silent protest. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Mycroft, you know that I can not abide repetition," said Sherlock. "And John is both hurt and exhausted. I suspect that he and I will both die of exhaustion and boredom respectively if we "restart from the very beginning". Now stop being tedious."
Now that John's right hand was free, he took over the application of pressure over his wound. Nevertheless, Sherlock maintained his post, next to the older man.
"Mycroft, you wish to make an offer to John. He will refuse on principle. You will insist. He will become angry. You will threaten him. He will try to escape again. People will get hurt. John will die trying to escape, or, should he succeed, he will die at the hands of his former Colonel. It's all a stupid and odious waste of time."
Sherlock sighed at the tedium but remained looming protectively over the former army doctor, who in turn looked angry already. John's forehead creased heavily with his dismay, and his lips pressed tightly together in a frown.
"Oh well done, Sherlock. You've managed to frighten and alienate the doctor already," said Mycroft irritated.
"No. What offer?" John asked Mycroft. "And how do you know I'll refuse?" he demanded of Sherlock, as he made to stand up.
Sherlock's large, pale hand pressed him back down into Lestrade's cushioned chair. "Sit down, John. You are tired and injured. You will be on the verge of collapse again, if you do not take care."
"So, you're claiming to be a doctor on top of everything else?" asked Dr. Watson waspishly. "And will you please stop pushing me down, already. I'm sitting, aren't I? Now what offer?"
"My brother, Mycroft, will offer you more money than Moran and his boss, if you will follow through with the assassination tomorrow," said the consulting detective.
"No. Absolutely not," snapped John.
"And you just refused on principal," said Sherlock softly.
"Damn right I refused! Are you all mad? He's right, isn't he?" John demanded of Mycroft standing. "You were going to offer me money to kill you. You're all insane completely bonkers."
"Sherlock, stop showing off for the doctor!" ordered Mycroft sharply. "Dr. Watson sit back down!"
John sat down heavily, startled and a bit overwhelmed. He reflexively fingered the Browning for comfort.
Sherlock drew himself up and glared daggers at his archenemy, Mycroft Holmes.
"Mycroft, you and Sherlock have to stop this pointless bickering," interrupted Lestrade, whose own face was ashen, now. What the hell was all this talk of shooting Mycroft, for God's sake, thought the detective inspector.
"Look," continued Lestrade. "This man is dangerous. He just killed one of your men, Mycroft."
"No, I didn't," said John woodenly.
"I was there; you shot him in cold blood," Lestrade practically yelled.
"I shot him. I did not kill him," John ground out. "I fired a single round at his hand; the round probably continued to his abdomen. However, neither wound would have been instantly fatal. My round disabled him. Your lot killed him after he was already down."
"Christ, ask your idiot forensics git, Andrews or whatever his name is. He could probably tell you. And you might try to remember that the poor dead man was preparing to shoot him." John waved his bloody handkerchief at Mycroft. "And the next time someone points a gun at your boyfriend, you can be bloody sure that I won't do a bloody thing to stop them, if this is the thanks I get," John huffed and glared at the wall.
"Oh, well done John," said Sherlock with a lopsided smile. "The idiot's name is Anderson, but that hardly matters. How did you know they're boyfriends?"
John huffed again. "I'm not blind or deaf, ya' know? That detective inspector has been tweeking out ever since he found out that my mark was your brother. And he's been positioning himself between me and Mr. Holmes. As if that would've protected the mark, if I actually wanted to shoot him," John finished with a mutter.
"Excellent, John," said Sherlock, practically skipping to the door. "Anderson! How many rounds hit the dead would-be-assassin?" Sherlock looked back out of the corner of his eyes to be sure that Lestrade was paying attention.
"Show some respect to the dead, Freak," answered Anderson. "Six bullet wounds, two to the head. Both of those were at point blank range instantly fatal. Two to the chest, both also would have been fatal. There was one round each to the right hand and lower abdomen, the last one being superficial…"
Sherlock slammed the door in Anderson's face. John frowned at the consulting detective and shook his head slightly.
Sherlock frowned too, realizing that the doctor was displeased with his rudeness, but he paused for only a second, "As John said, he disarmed and disabled the assassin. No doubt, your minion was hired by the same man who tried to hire John. The hapless minion realized that his real boss's plan to use John had failed and was required to attempt to kill you himself. Had your minions and the police kept their heads, we would have had a wounded yet conscious suspect available for questioning. I'm sure he would have confessed quickly, especially if John and I were to have done the questioning. Now you will want to proceed with your much riskier plan."
"Actually, Sherlock, the plan should work quite well. I will not be in any real danger," said Mycroft, more to Lestrade than to Sherlock.
"I'm not referring to you, Mycroft," said the consulting detective in disgust. "John will be in great danger, when you release him to the men who hired him. I feel that it is too dangerous for the doctor…"
"Stop. Everyone just stop. What? Plan?" demanded John furiously. "I haven't heard a single actual plan mentioned. Do you two read each other's minds or something? God, if you bicker telepathically, it must be hell inside your those big heads of yours."
"Don't be an idiot, John. There's no such thing as mind reading. I know my brother. I know the way his devious mind works. I can also see your talents, and therefore I can predict how he will he will try exploit them shamelessly to accomplish his goals.
"Mycroft plans to manipulate you into assassinating him tomorrow. He has recovered enough of your records to know that you are indeed a crack shot, or sniper if you will. So, you will shoot Mycroft, but not in the head. Oh no, my crafty brother will have you shoot him in the chest or back where he'll be protected by armor. He will pretend to die. Then he will force you back into the hands of Moran. My brother hopes that you will gain the trust of both Moran and his boss, once it appears to the world, that Mycroft has been killed. He wishes to use you as a double agent. But as I said, his plan is flawed. You have come here to the police voluntarily; you are compromised. Moran will find out, if he does not know already. Then he will kill you."
Mycroft began to smirk. Sherlock began to feel a frisson of worry; there was something that the consulting detective had overlooked. Best to utterly destroy this dangerous plot now.
"Even if they did trust you, initially, Moran is jealous, and he will still kill you over his boss' affections. Furthermore, you are not a good liar, in fact you are a terrible liar. You will be caught sooner, rather than later. No matter what, all paths inevitably lead to your death, doctor. It is fortunate that you did refuse on principal."
"No," said John.
"Precisely, John," agreed the young brunet, with smug satisfaction. "There, he said no, Mycroft. You'll have to cook up another plot."
"No, you're wrong. I did refuse on principal but now that you've explained it, I have to agree on principal," said the sniper, chewing on his lip. Mycroft did not bother to hide his own smug smile.
"You're an idiot! I just said that you'll die…" yelled Sherlock.
"But I might take them down first," said the former soldier, slowly and firmly. "They're a dangerous threat, and probably not just to me or your brother. I'm a soldier and an officer; I swore to protect Queen and country. So I have no choice."
"No, No, No! They didn't even threaten the real Queen, just my brother," said Sherlock furiously. He was angry at everyone, including himself. He had overlooked John's strong sense of honor and duty. There was always something...
"Sherlock," said John, shaking his head again.
"No, John. I won't stay around while you sacrifice yourself in the name of duty. Mycroft, this is nothing short of murder. You will sacrifice this man and gain nothing from it." Sherlock strode to the door. "John Watson, he is using you now, just as shamelessly as Moran tried to. I advise you to come with me at once."
John looked up, with wide blue eyes, at the tall, pale man in the doorway. He wanted to follow the consulting detective. John trusted Sherlock, and he did not trust that Mycroft at all.
But if there was any chance that John could aid in the capture of Moran and his psychopathic boss, then John had to take that chance. It was his duty.
Feeling inexplicably sad, the former soldier shook his head no, silently denying the handsome, younger man.
Sherlock turned away and stormed out of the office, only to be stopped by Mycroft's minions blocking the main exit.
"Mycroft!" bellowed the young consulting detective. With in moments, one of the guards received a text, and Sherlock was released. He rushed out, his long black coat flapping behind him.
A/N Thank you to all who are reading or following my story.
Special thanks to my reviewers: ruvy91, Wicked Winter, Kat, AiLoveS, SamuelE8688 and guests! I appreciate your comments, editing recommendations and encouragement.
Disclaimer You know the drill. I don't own the rights to anything remotely related to SHERLOCK including the books, TV shows and movies.
Oh yeah, TBC, of course. :D