More often than not, Jim gave John most Fridays off, so every other week John picked up a habit of visiting Hamish in the afternoon, not coming back until after dinner, when all of Jim's lackeys and employees had returned to their respective homes. It was on one of these nights that John came home to find the front door slightly ajar.
John pushed it open slowly, stopping just before the point where it began to creak, and slipped into the townhouse. He silently picked up the gun stored in the desk and began searching the quiet house, his feet noiseless. It wasn't until he reached the kitchen that he saw Jim, passed out on the floor in a pool of his own blood.
There were two bullet wounds in his shoulder. Jim had dug out one of the bullets, and it was now lying on the floor next to a slicked-red knife.
John's heart leaped. This was his chance. He could take Hamish and leave! But Moriarty's men might think it was him. Was it worth the risk? John suddenly had vivid images of returning home with Hamish only to discover that Sherlock had already been killed. Or heading off to the school and finding that Hamish had been killed. His stomach lurched.
He stood over Jim for a moment, giving his arm a light kick, then reached down to feel at Jim's wrist for a pulse. It was so faint that it took several moments to find it. He bent and scooped Jim up, sweeping the dining room table clear with one hand so he could lay him out on it. He ran back to the kitchen to grab towels to staunch the bleeding, stepping over the pool of blood, then rushed off to fetch his med bag and returned to pull of Jim's jacket, waistcoat and shirt.
John's mouth was dry as he examined the bullet wounds. It wasn't a lethal shot by any means, but Jim had lost a great deal of blood. What if he couldn't save him? Would Jim's men ever believe him? There wasn't an exit wound for either bullet, so he carefully extracted the second bullet, then cleaned, disinfected, and tidily patched up the wounds with some neat stitches.
By the time Jim awoke, John had laid him on his bed, and it took him some time to remember what had happened. The pain in his shoulder was a convenient reminder, especially when he took deep breaths and the skin pulled at the wound, worsening the pain.
"GOD FUCKING DAMMIT—BASTARDS! – FUCK!" It was then that Jim noticed John sitting stone-faced, in the corner of the room, watching him.
Breathing hard through his nose, Jim said, "I imagine this was your doing?" he gestured at his shoulder vaguely.
"Of course. I'm your medic. Now that you're awake, I imagine you'd like some painkillers."
Jim squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth. "Yes."
John sighed as he opened his medical bag. He'd been shocked at what the Victorians considered useful drugs; they used many painkillers to the point that they were addictive and harmful. But, he'd learned, he could use a small dosage of laudanum as an effective painkiller, provided he didn't overuse it.
He dropped out a few bitter drops onto Jim's tongue, then gave him a glass of water. As Jim drifted back to sleep, John resumed his spot, keeping vigil until Jim had completely lost consciousness.
The next day, when John informed Jim that he was to stay in bed and rest, Jim let a steady string of curses fly at him, but followed his orders and stayed in bed, grumbling about boredom and work and taking more laudanum than he could possibly need.
John was bothered by how much this reminded him of Sherlock, but was also somewhat pleased to know that Jim trusted him enough, or at least his medical opinion, to do what he said. John gave him three more days in bed, partially because he needed them, but partially so Jim was out of his hair, and Jim begrudgingly obliged.
During the three days John spent extra time with Hamish and thought endlessly of Sherlock. He almost felt like a free man. He wanted to write to him. He wanted to call him, hear his annoyed voice. At this point, he would settle for any sort of news from him.
A couple of days later, as John was re-stitching a popped seam over one of Jim's wounds, he finally asked, "Who shot you, Jim?"
"One of Patrick Cassey's lackeys," Jim winced.
John was familiar with the name. Cassey was a low-life crime lord out of Cork that dealt with Jim on a fairly regular basis.
"Do you want me to take care of Cassey, sir? I mean, Jim?"
Jim's eyes narrowed and they trailed up to John's face, assessing him. "You get a kick out of this, don't you? It gives you a rush—brings you back to the war. You enjoy the hunt, don't you Dr. Watson?" John's jaw tightened as he tied off the stitching and clipped it. Jim was right, and John hated himself for enjoying any of it.
"Kill him," Jim said flippantly.
"Of course. I imagine he's in Cork by now, or en route. Do you trust me to make the trip, sir?"
Jim growled fiercely, "STOP CALLING ME THAT!"
"Sorry—old habits." He handed Jim his shirt and helped him pull it on—movement in his shoulder was still restricted. "Can I ask why you hate the title…Jim?"
Jim stood and began buttoning up his shirt. John didn't think he was going to answer, but when he reached the last button he said, staring straight ahead, "Because my father was 'sir,' and I—" Jim's eyes flashed dangerously as they met John's. "—am NOT that low-life, drunken, belligerent scum bag."
A long-unused muscle at the corner of John's mouth twitched in the hint of a smile, imagining what Sherlock's response would be upon learning that Moriarty had daddy issues. The twitch was quickly gone, however, and John nodded. "Point taken, boss. It won't happen again."
"It better not, or I'll cut out your tongue." Jim said the words lightly, but John shivered, knowing that he meant them. "Gannon and O'Seanassy will go with you. Clean up everything and everyone." He pulled on his waistcoat, turned to leave, then looked back at John. "Hamish's school goes on holiday starting next weekend, so if you don't want me alone with your son, I suggest you hurry."
John gritted his teeth. The last thing he wanted was Jim to have any alone time with his son, feeding him poisoned lies, teaching him how to manipulate or kill or acquire. He would do the job as quickly as he could.
The job was harder than expected, even with Gannon and O'Seanassy's help. John didn't return until the day after Hamish got back, and his throat was so bruised that he had difficulty speaking or swallowing. He also sported a large gash across his back, but he couldn't see it to tell if he needed stitches or not.
As soon as he arrived back at the townhouse—John still refused to think of it as "home"—he limped to his room and hurriedly tried to clean his battered hands and face before Hamish could see. The water in the ceramic washbasin was soon a rusty color from the blood of several different people.
"There's blood seeping through your shirt," came a bored drawl from the doorway.
John straightened and reached behind his back to touch the dampness in the middle of his back. "Dammit," he murmured, then began unbuttoning his shirt as Jim walked over to him.
"How's Hamish?" John asked, coughing from the small amount of talking. He tried to clear his throat and found it extremely painful.
"He's fine; in the kitchen now," Jim said. "I told him you were delivering an important message for me in Cork." He cocked his head to the side, his mouth curling into a small smile. "Which, I suppose you were. And it all went as planned, I hear."
"Not all, but the end result was the same," John said, working off his shirt with some difficulty. He didn't want to undress in front of Jim, but redressing so he could see his son had taken higher priority.
John could feel Jim's eyes on him as he examined the bloodstains in the shirt. "How bad is my back?"
Jim stepped behind him, and John shivered. Even though he'd gotten more or less used to working for Jim, he didn't like having Jim out of his line of vision, and so close to him. He could feel Jim's breath on his neck and his fingers tracing along the edge of the wound.
"You won't need stitches, Dr. Watson," Jim said. To John's surprise, he helped John wrap gauze around his chest to staunch the bleeding, his fingers quick and nimble.
"Take a day off," he said when he was finished, and disappeared down the stairs.
John looked at himself in the mirror, shocked at how worn and weary he looked. He pulled a fresh shirt on, double-checked the mirror to make sure the gauze was keeping the blood at bay, then hurried to the kitchen to see Hamish, who rushed into his arms for a hug.
Hamish pulled away. "Dad, what happened to you?"
"I'm okay," John rasped. "I had an accident, but I'll be fun. How was—" John stopped to cough and clear his throat. "How was school? I missed you."
"It's good. Jim is telling me what stuff is true and what stuff is false that they think is true!"
"You call him Jim now?" John murmured, smoothing his hand through Hamish's hair.
Hamish pulled John over to the table to show him a thick stack of glowing school reports, research activities, Latin class readings, and biology sketches.
John refrained from talking too much to preserve his voice, but he hugged Hamish as often as he could, and after dinner, which was dominated by Hamish's conversation—Jim was absent—John told Hamish how proud he was of him.
"Dad…can I sleep in your room tonight?"
John hugged him tightly. "I would like that very much."
That night, John felt happier than he had in a long while. He curled around to protect his son's body while he slept, not minding the pain in his back. If nothing else, John thought, he had kept his son safe so far. He had killed and done other unspeakable things, and he had abandoned Sherlock, but his son was safe in his arms, and that was almost enough for the moment.
Over the next week, Jim continued to give him assignments, but John knew he would be able to see Hamish afterwards. Every day he hurried to scrub blood off his hands. It was often the blood of criminals, but sometimes it was the blood of innocent people, people who didn't deserve to die. Every day John watched the water in the washing bowl turn pink and thought ruefully what a crap doctor he was, taking lives instead of saving them.
Then he would go out and see Hamish, and he would see Sherlock's eyes when Hamish looked up at him, and John would think, "I'm doing this for you. For both of you."
Evenings with Hamish were heaven. They read books and John croaked out stories, his voice growing stronger every day, and every night they curled up to sleep. The week passed much too quickly.
The week after Hamish left, John woke to the sound of a loud crash from downstairs followed by a shout of rage. John quickly dressed and went downstairs. He tentatively looked around the corner into the drawing room to see Jim is angrily pacing back and forth, kicking things that get in his way. John noted the remains of a vase next to a wall, then his eyes flicked back to Jim and found the consulting criminal staring at him dangerously, his usually neat hair sticking up in all directions, as if he'd been clawing his fingers through it over and over. Jim suddenly closed his eyes, then it was as if someone had flipped a switch when he opened them again. His face was serene and he smiled at John, smoothing back his hair. "I'm going out. You can have the day off."
John shivered, instantly reminded of how violent and changeable his boss and captor was. He couldn't let himself forget that he was living with a madman as unpredictable as a summer storm. He sighed a breath of relief as the door closed, then bent to pick up the vase shards. Several had skittered under Jim's desk. John crawled under to retrieve them. As he straightened, he noticed a corner of a note poking out from beneath a ledger. Looking to double-check nobody was around, he slid it out to skim it over. As he did, his heart skipped a beat.
The letter wasn't very specific, and clearly part of a chain of correspondence, but it was clear enough that Jim was having trouble with business in London. Apparently since they had left, things had been spiraling out of control in that particular section of Moriarty's web.
"…two months should be ample time, Professor—I'm sure there will be no need to send over any more of your men…"
John reread that phrase over again. Knowing Moriarty, he would almost certainly send more men back to London, even if was only for a show of power. This could be John's chance. His chance to see Sherlock, or to at least get a message to him.
Hope began to bubble in his chest as he carefully stowed the letter back where he found it, making sure the same amount of paper was sticking out as before. He sat back to think. Jim carefully monitored the mail to make sure he wasn't sending or receiving anything.
John's mind flickered to Jane, the housekeeper. He jumped from the chair and went to the kitchen, where she was busy chopping vegetables.
"Jane. I have a question."
Jane looked at him in surprise. She rarely heard anything out of the tacit gunman. "What is it sir?" She brushed away a strand of frizzy hair from her face.
"I wondered if you would be able to, one day, send some letters for me." He held his breath as he waited for her reply.
Jane hardly had all of the details of Jim and John's arrangement, but she knew that John was being held against his will and that he wasn't to communicate with anyone outside Jim's circle. Her voice caught nervously as she stammered, "You-you know you're not supposed to be sending out mail, sir…I-I…" She put down her vegetable knife, her hands shaking as she thought of what Moriarty would do to her. "…I don't know, sir…I'm sorry…if Mr. Moriarty found out…I…" She looked at the floor.
"He would kill you if he found out," John said, nodding. "I know I'm asking too much."
If it had been on behalf of anyone else, John would've walked away and left her in peace, but this was Sherlock. This was his one chance. He had to try. John surprised himself by walking over to grab her shoulders and saying urgently, "Jane. Are you married? Do you have any children?"
Jane gave a small nod. "My husband passed…but I've got a son…around the same age as your lad—Hamish…"
Tears burned in John's eyes. His voice was fierce. "If you could bring back your husband and keep your son safe, wouldn't you do anything? Risk anything? Jane, if I'm asking too much, then I will find another way, but I have got to get back to my…wife. And I have to get Hamish away from this man, before he becomes like him. Jane…please…" He gripped her shoulders tightly. It had been ages since he'd been able to tell anyone what was going on in his mind, and admitting how desperate he was now almost put him over the edge. It was everything he could do to keep from collapsing.
Jane, startled by the fervency and anguish in John's voice, nodded. She blinked back a few tears of her own. Of course she wanted to keep her son away from Jim, and she knew all too well what it was like to miss her love. She sniffed and gave another nod. "All right. All right, sir…I can help…what exactly did you want me to do?"
John smiled genuinely for the first time since Hamish had been home and squeezed her shoulders affectionately, fighting back the urge to kiss her on the cheek. "All I need is for you to receive and send letters—they'll be addressed to you, and outgoing ones will be addressed to a fake relative of yours in London—I'll arrange everything so that Jim never finds out. And it won't be for a few months, after I go to London…if I can get there. Thank you, Jane. Thank you."
He gave her a final look of gratitude and a short nod before leaving the kitchen, thinking. He had, for the most part, gained Jim's trust as far as a job was concerned, but if Jim was ever going to let him go to London, he would have to believe that John had put Sherlock out of his mind entirely.
He would have to convince Jim that he liked him, that he enjoyed his company. It couldn't be too sudden—Jim would see right through it.
John thought about it for the rest of the afternoon, pacing his living room and bedroom, walking up and down the staircase. He wondered how far he would go if it meant seeing Sherlock again. He would need to figure out what Jim wanted from him, and then give it to him as willingly as he was able.