Goddamn... this is getting long people... it's like my CM fics just better... :D
Enjoy...
Kasey
PART SIX
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(Sherlock's POV)
Oh... my head... this hurts... quite a lot... oh... this must be what it's like for stupid people; thinking hurts... ow... I don't think I want to think right now... in fact I know I don't... but I think I have to... John once said something about concussions and the importance of staying awake; something else about comas too but I was thinking at the time so-
John... where's John? Why isn't he here to prod me and keep me awake? Why isn't he here? Is he safe? Is he hurt too?
John! John! Oh... ow... thinking and panicking with a concussion isn't a good idea... no, not at all...
And there's the darkness... it's around the edges, picking at my conscious... trying to envelope me... but John needs me... I need to find John... but five minutes won't matter... not much at least... I'm guessing I was out for a good while anyway so five more minutes isn't going to be that much a stretch is it?
Don't answer that.
Sorry John... I don't think even I can help in my state... I'm talking to myself and expecting an answer... beyond crazy... oh the darkness has got me... it won't have me for long though... nothing ever does see...
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(Narration)
Whilst John was pacing up and down the length of the sitting area in 221 b Baker street he was holding an internal conversation with himself on the pro's and con's of finding the creeps who'd taken Sherlock, his Sherlock, and possibly doing to them what the SAS do to their own; only there would be no end to the amount of agony, physical or psychological, that John would put them through until they were well and truly dead! On one hand it would be both gratifying and practical since it would make him feel less useless and remove the threat to Sherlock's safety. On the other hand it would also result in him feeling guilty about murdering, correction torturing, people to death even if they were kidnapping bastards and then he'd have to deal with the possible repercussions of the law. But that was why he'd called Mycroft of course; the brother who "occupies a minor position in the Government" was the bloody Government and could do as he damn well pleased when he pleased!
It was nine minutes and forty-two seconds after John had hung up the phone on Mycroft when a sleek-looking black Mercedes-Benz Guardian S500 pulled up outside 221 b and John looked out of the window overlooking the road to see a familiar figure step out of the car and immediately stride up to the door of John and Sherlock's flat. Without any further preamble John shot down the stairs, still gripping his Browning L9A1 in his steel grip, and opened the door just as Mycroft raised a hand to knock on the door. If Mycroft was surprised by John's weapon he didn't show it and John didn't care as he moved aside and let Mycroft into the house; he closed the door quieter than he had the last time he'd opened it and didn't speak until he was back in the sitting area of the flat.
"I'm going to need your help to locate Sherlock and his captors," John said flatly as he spun on his heel, in such a military-ingrained manner that Mycroft briefly considered the notion that John might end up with whiplash, and pierced Mycroft with a look that just screamed, 'argue-with-me-and-I'll-shoot-you' and Mycroft chose to wisely to barely breath as John continued in his orders, "I'll also need some pretty heavy firepower but if push comes-to-shove then my handgun will have to do. You'll also need to keep the police away for as long as possible; I don't want them seeing Sherlock in whatever state he'll be in by the end of this."
"Of course Doctor Watson," Mycroft said simply, foregoing his usual pedantic behaviour as he chose to get to the matter and be part of the solution as opposed to the problem.
John nodded curtly and his grip tightened on the gun in his hand, one of his fingers caressing the safety in a manner that disturbed Mycroft no-end. He sighed and looked at Mycroft with a look upon his usually innocently ignorant features that he would always remember, as he said darkly, "I'll also need your help in dealing with those responsible for this entire mess; if you're willing."
It was a statement really, and the politeness on the end of it was moreso because an ingrained response rather than genuine politeness and Mycroft, being as intelligent as his younger brother, tactfully decided to go with the flow of one Captain Watson; because Doctor Watson and plain John weren't in at the moment and probably wouldn't be in for a little while, "Of course Doctor, or should I call you Captain?" he enquired, deciding to inject a snippet of his usual sarcasm.
"Whatever gets you to do as I say Mycroft," John replied bluntly as he smirked evilly at Mycroft before his features morphed from a dark intensity to the more familiar polite-innocence, "I'm worried about him Mycroft and whatever you can do will be greatly appreciated by me and Sherlock; though he won't admit it."
"I doubt my brother will ever appreciate anything I do for him Doctor, Anthea will have sorted out the details of this plan of yours," Mycroft said airily before pausing and looking at John with a raised eyebrow, "you do have a plan don't you?"
John blinked and nodded curtly, Captain Watson was back as was the slightly terrifying look on his face, "Yes. Sherlock had his mobile with him; right pocket on silent, and you've got access to the necessary communications-monitoring technology I need to be able to find his location. Then I'm going to go in there and neutralise every threat to his safety, remove him from the danger-zone and return him to safety; i.e. here," John finished abruptly and Mycroft had the fleeting thought that John Watson would have been good to have on one of his infiltration teams; the man's got balls and intelligence, though not of the same calibre as his and Sherlock's but intelligence all-the-same.
Sherlock was the one who was good with crimes, Mycroft was good with politics and the subtly of it all, and it seemed that John Watson was the one who was good with the militaristic characteristics that both of the professions of the Holmes brother's often included. Maybe when this was all sorted out Mycroft could convince John to join the team infiltrating the Iraqi terrorist groups... he would certainly be useful out in the midst of the war-zone, but he doubted that John would go; and he also doubted Sherlock wouldn't kill him for sending his John out to be shot.
And he was kind of fond of John Watson himself.
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(John's POV)
I want to shoot something, correction someone, several people in a straight line with a sign above their heads reading 'we-kidnapped-and-beat-Sherlock-Holmes-up' would bypass any guilt or hesitance over their demise; of that I can assure you. But technically I can't waste bullets on the walls, though I'd sorely love to do so, it's just I don't have an infinite amount of bullets; even though Sherlock seems to think differently. I mean, only last week I found him taking my bullets apart because he needed gunpowder... I was planning on shooting him then I can tell you, but Lestrade had come by with a case; small mercies otherwise there might have been an obituary in the newspaper. I can actually imagine what it would have said, well sort of; "In Memory Of Sherlock Holmes; Beloved Pain-In-The-Arse, His Experiments Will Not Be Missed. Childish Brother of Mycroft (Who Occupies A Minor Position In The Government Only), Friend (If That's A Remotely Viable Term To Apply) To One John Watson, And Nightmare For All Criminals In London City, And Everyone Else For That Matter. He Will Be Missed... Sort Of..." it would be ironically funny really and I obviously need some sleep if I'm thinking this stuff...
Where is Mycroft? You'd think the ponce would be here straight away since it's his brother that I called him about wouldn't you? Well... I guess I shouldn't be surprised; those two are the way they are and normal doesn't apply to them, it can't be applied to them actually. They are who they are and I have to live with that just as much as they do themselves; if they're a nightmare for me then I guess I'm a nightmare for them aren't I? What with my simple thinking and ignorant behaviour and all...
If I were the same man I'd been five years ago I don't think I'd have been as agitated as this; but five years ago I was on a team, second-in-command and treating soldiers with their innards hanging out so... I guess it's all relative, like your perspective changes over time; I know what I mean, shut up. If I was the same man I used to be then I would have been waiting patiently for an order from someone higher up in the ranks than me, someone who had priority and leadership skills; leadership skills! Don't make me laugh and accidentally shoot the wall, the safety's off afterall. I had leadership skills, I just didn't flaunt them like most of those go-boys, and there's a difference between leadership skills and rash arrogance; arrogance is more likely to get you and your unit killed, real leading isn't. I think the reason why I was never one for being the leader is the guilt you feel when someone dies after you've told them to go right instead of left, check that room instead of this one, stand-down instead of retreat. I don't like guilt, I don't think anyone does really, but I'm feeling guilty now and dear God is it one hell of a motivator!
I feel guilt over rejecting Sherlock, I feel guilt over going up those stairs first, I feel guilt over leaving him behind, I feel guilt because he'll have probably woke up now and be scared and alone and I'm not the there to rescue him... damn I hate guilt right now.
There's a Mercedes Guardian S500 that's just pulled up outside, I bet you that's Mycroft; the guy drives around in bullet-proof cars like he's some sort of politician. Maybe he is, maybe he's the secret-Prime Minister and everyone's too blind to that because Cameron's running around with the baby brother twin Clegg distorting everyone's views and opinions on the world? Damn that's a really scary thought...
I'm off down the stairs and I'm at the door before the man can even knock, I think I jumped from the top of the stairs to the bottom to be honest, and I just know he's surprised but I'm not overly concerned with how he's feeling at the moment; getting Sherlock back is my priority not Mycroft's feelings. I let him inside, one step to the left and there's enough room for him to squeeze though, and I can see Anthea sitting in the car; at least I can see the silhouette of a woman in the car and I'm guessing, hoping, that it's Anthea or whatever she calls herself nowadays. The doors shut quieter than before but still enough to echo throughout the hall and I sprint up the stairs with Mycroft following; only he doesn't sprint, no he's too posh and arrogant for that, he waltz's up the stairs. Arrogant git.
"I'm going to need your help to locate Sherlock and his captors," I say in a flat and monotonous voice; I can't let my feelings play into this anymore, I need to act like the solider I am inside and think of this like any other military strike, even if it's going to be me against the bad-guys and the man I love, yes love, held against his will who I'm rescuing. I still can't give in to what I'm feeling, I'd be of no-use to anyone if I do, "I'll also need some pretty heavy firepower but if push come-to-shove then my handgun will have to do," well I've managed to shoot a crazy taxi-driver with it from a good hundred yards, taking out a few dozen men will be no problem; yeah right, "You'll also need to keep the police away for as long as possible; I don't want them seeing Sherlock in whatever state he'll be in by the end of this," and I speak from experience about that; you never want to see the looks of pity, loathing, disappointment, hatred on the faces of others when you live and someone else dies, when you're hurt a bit and someone else is dead. It's not nice, not nice at all.
I can see Mycroft debating whether or not to argue with me and I swear to the high heavens that if he does I'll shoot him in the patella; the knee. But it seems that that thought has been conveyed to him by the look on my face and he's wisely chosen to respond with an affirmative, "Of course Doctor Watson."
Doctor Watson, Doctor, I don't feel like a doctor right now; I feel more like Sweeny Todd probably did in that musical-film with that actor, Johnny-something. Barber becomes butcher becomes murderer, doctor becomes soldier becomes very-pissed-off-and-vengeful; yeah I can see some resemblance there...
"I'll also need your help in dealing with those responsible for this entire mess," yeah, like an unused and abandoned factory and lots of sharp, pointy things and a cocktail of drugs, "if you're willing," I add to my rather dark and foreboding statement in an effort to be, or at least sound, polite; old habits die hard and my politeness has long-since been ingrained in me since I was a kid, family expects a young child to be polite an-all...
Mycroft looks like he's amused by my attempt at politeness; well I could always be chillingly cold and give him a look that'll give him nightmares couldn't I? Of course I could and his answer calms me a little, "Of course Doctor, or should I call you Captain?" and amuses me of course.
How should I respond to that? Sarcasm? Annoyance? A fit of uncontrollable, slightly hysterical laughter? No, I think I'll just respond with a witty, "Whatever gets you to do as I say Mycroft," you're getting owned right now mate, sorry... not really.
There's this feeling inside of me and now I feel it pulling and tugging at the ropes I've tied it up with, it wants to be free and I can't let it free because it'll ruin everything and then I'll lose Sherlock, and I can't risk that; but I can show that I'm feeling it to some degree, you know instead of looking like I should audition for the part of the crazy axe-murderer in a horror, "I'm worried about him Mycroft and whatever you can do will be greatly appreciated by me and Sherlock; though he won't admit it," I'm sincere with this, I mean what I say; including Sherlock's lack of appreciation.
"I doubt my brother will ever appreciate anything I do for him Doctor," is Mycroft's response and if I wasn't so agitated inside then I'd probably think more of the sadness in his voice, "Anthea will have sorted out the details of this plan of yours," he pauses and looks at me with a raised eyebrow and I just know what he's about to say, "you do have a plan don't you?"
A Plan? This is my plan! This! You here! Me ordering you about! That was actually the extent of my coherently formed plan, the rest is more we'll-blow-up-that-locked-down-when-we-reach-it really. But I think I should probably come up with a plan right? Yeah... plans are a good thing to have to some degree; well here we go, "Yes. Sherlock had his mobile with him; right pocket on silent, and you've got access to the necessary communications-monitoring technology I need to be able to find his location. Then I'm going to go there and neutralise every threat to his safety, remove him from the danger-zone and return him to safety; i.e. here," it sounds like a pretty straight-forward plan and I'm not inclined to go into any more detail since I actually need the required information before I can make a definitive decision on the best course of action; but neutralising every one of those bastards is so, so appealing that it's hard to ignore the almost primal urge to shoot them. Though if one of them goes for a gun or Sherlock then they're beyond screwed; they'll have to deal with me.
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TBC... well I think this is definitely hotting up isn't it?
You've got to tell me what you think and some people have mentioned how it's strange that this has all started with a pink apron... it is kind of strange but hey, I'm strange so it's logical... to me at least.
ANYway, I have my GCSE results day on Tuesday so you might not get another update for a few days; it depends on my results and whether or not I have a breakdown, I'm not good at failure people... but if you review and tell me how awesome my story is then I might be able to survive and not fall apart... hopefully.
Kasey