A/N I am sorry for the Very Long Hiatus. My other fic got in the way; I had writers block on this fic, and then this fic went and morphed itself into another genre...I blame John Watson and Sebastian Moran. So anyway, I had to completely rewrite everything from this chapter on, and then wait and see if I still liked it.
Somehow my wires got crossed and my adventure/romance sprouted some possiblyy supernatural offshoots. If this is a problem, I apologize and beg your forgiveness.
So as other authors say, please don't hate me, but don't read on if the thought of anything possibly supernatural bothers you. (Not as in the Series Supernatural, I'm not ready to try cross-overs. I'm confused enough with just one show.)
Oh yeah, some foul-mouthed John. So d...it, consider yourself b...dy forewarned.
Chapter 7
John and his business partner, Alisa O'Brien, crouched low, behind packing crates. The man-in-black had just passed them by, sweat gleaming on the sunburnt dome of his head He was walking quickly. Luckily for them, the man-in-black made only a cursory inspection around the rail cars, Sea-tainers and storage crates.
The man was obviously a CIA operative, even if John did not recognize him. O'Brien, on the other hand, was damn sure that the brawny, middle-aged, man had been part of Jones' Bhopal gang.
The man-in-black's steps receded rapidly, leaving only the distant sound of a locomotive running at the other end of the rail-yard, and they were left alone in the quiet, stifling freight area. The afternoon sun-scorched the train tracks , the cars on the siding and the couple that huddled in a thin strip of shade.
"Well hell, that answers that question," said Alisa O'Brien. "They'll be watching the trains, Doc. We can't ride them anymore, not without disguises."
"And you're stating the obvious," snapped John Watson, with a fierce scowl. O'Brien's dark, almond-shaped eyes narrowed, and she frowned from under her straw hat.
Watson rubbed his rough, unshaven face with his hand. "Look, O'Brien. I apologize," said John. "I shouldn't have snapped, and that bit about it being obvious; it's sort of thing that my partner and I...well, it's joke thing, sometimes..."
"Oh can it, Johnny," Alisa snapped back. "We're both tired and on edge. I guess I bit your head off back there, when you went after your stupid hat." She chuckled mirthlessly. "It would have been funny, you rolling around on the track, if there hadn't been a damn train coming." She sighed and turned to lean against the hot crate, pressing herself into the narrow band of shade.
"Huh," John grunted. "I'll admit, your colorful choice of words burned my virgin ears, Sag," said John, batting his blue eyes with a show of innocence.
"I thought I told you not to call me sergeant." The former US Army sergeant smiled briefly, flicking her long, black hair behind her almost in slow motion.
"And I asked you, repeatedly, not to call me, Johnny," quipped John. "Guess we can't always get what we want, Sarg." The short, blond man peered around the crates, making sure that they were truly alone.
He took off his hat for a moment, fanning himself. Despite his exhaustion and frustration, he was pleased with the fedora, which O'Brien had misappropriated from a hapless vendor last night. John no longer even felt bad about his new life of crime. Well, not very bad anyway.
He would have to learn how O'Brien managed to acquire these items so effortlessly. It was too bad that he had never let Sherlock show him how to pickpockets. Useful talent that, pickpocketing, for a career criminal.
The coast was so clear, it was downright post-apocalyptic, thought John. Not a soul in sight, hopefully the walking dead weren't around the corner. He slowly circled back and slouched into the shade, secretly hoping that he looked a bit like Indiana Jones. The soldier frowned, he was mixing up his movie and telly references just like he used to mix his metaphors. Not Good, not in JOhn's book anyway.
"It's like we can't shake these guys." muttered Alisa, pulling John's away from wool gathering. "When you told me that they're cameras and spies everywhere, well, I just thought you were paranoid. I see now, that you were right."
After all the running, train jumping, hiding and very little sleep, O'Brien looked her forty years. Dust caked the fine lines around her eyes and mouth, but John thought she was probably the second most beautiful person on Earth right now.
John resolutely did not think about the most beautiful person on Earth. He did not think about dark, curly hair. He did not imagine razor-sharp cheekbones. He took out his notebook, he had lost track of whether this was the fourth or fifth one, and scribbled out a few notes. In this intense sunlight, Sherlock's eyes would have been a steely blue, not that John was thinking about him, nope, not at all.
O'Brien watched her business partner and newly adopted 'brother' scratch in his notepad. He did that all the time. She pulled her ponytail forward and combed through it, "I guess we're both tired," she said, breaking the silence, "and it doesn't help that you can barely use your left arm, and my head is killing me. And did I mention it's hot?" she said, glaring up at the fierce blue sky. No clouds, nothing, except that she could just make out a jet flying way up, just a glint of silver in the blazing heavens.
"I did happen to notice that it's warm out, Sergeant," said the captain. "And if you're planning on sticking with me, which by in my professional opinion, is a very bad idea, you better get used to jumping on and off trains. It seems to be one of my trademarks."
He leaned over and cupped her chin; it was a very clinical touch. John re-examined her bruised temple and checked her eyes yet again. "I can't believe you let that man-in-black-wanna-be throw you off the train," said John. "Not at all the way I would have done it. You're lucky you don't have a concussion."
"Better to get thrown off the train, than get run over by one," she said.
John pursed his lips, it had been a bit close, but he really didn't want to lose his new hat. It made him look cool, and besides, he needed it to prevent sunburn and heat stroke. It was practical.
"And I did not get run over by the train, if I had, I wouldn't be offering you paracetamol for your headache," he said calmly.
She looked at him blankly.
"Oh sorry, Yank. Here take two Tylenols, and call me in the morning," said John.
O'Brien punched him in the arm but took the proffered medicine.
Thankfully, Alisa had shown no signs of any serious injury nor any signs of concussion, aside from a headache. Which was more likely due to heat, lack of sleep and stress. Oh hell, Watson, call it like it is. We're both suffering from heat stress, sleep deprivation and chronic fear bordering on terror, considered John.
In fact, John's head bothered him too. Actually, his head didn't hurt, not exactly. From time to time, his head buzzed; it was like he could almost hear a distant conversation. It was annoying. Probably the sleep deprivation. On the plus side, at least his wound infection, while still very painful, seemed to be holding steady. Perhaps, it was even improving.
He gingerly shifted his left arm in the makeshift sling made of acquired silk scarves, (acquired meant stolen but sounded nicer). Maybe the infection was getting better, but his bloody arm hurt whenever he moved it. He tried to ignore it and concentrate on their next step.
The CIA tails had delayed their travels by at least a day, but Watson and O'Brien had made it to Jalandhar. So they were now less than an hour or two from Moran's old emergency bunker. Well, it would only take an hour by car. John figured that they'd have to hoof it, and so it would probably take all day.
At least this cache should be easy enough to find, since John had been there many several times with the Colonel and their team. He just hoped that Moran had left some clues, or, better yet, some maps showing the way to his secret cache of weapons hidden in Afghanistan.
While they were still in the army the Colonel, had stocked the abandoned WWII bunker as a refuge of last resort, should any of the team need it. John figured that Moran had continued to use the bunker, even as he ran his criminal enterprises. If he had, the Colonel would have kept the bunker secret from all but his most trusted lieutenants. The Colonel had had trust issues. The army doctor seriously doubted that Moran had kept any WMD's in the bunker. It would have been too difficult to smuggle them into India and why bother when he had at least two or three equally hidden bunkers in the lawless hills of Afghanistan. No, John did not expect to find the nukes, but, if he was lucky, John would find the bunker stocked with enough money, food, water and guns to supply the next steps in his search for the rumored WMD's.
John's new plan was to get resupplied, then get himself lost in the hills and mountains of South Asia, before searching for the caches. He cleverly called it plan N, or operation Needle in a Haystack. And yes, he had written that down in his notebook.
Let the CIA or the mafia types try to find him in the wild. Ha! He'd only have to avoid the Taliban, and since he'd be alone by then, that shouldn't be too hard. Maybe.
"The underground bunker is eighteen to twenty miles north of here, O'Brien. It's not that far, maybe we should just walk?" he suggested.
"Johnny, we'll still stick out like sore thumbs. I still say we put on shalwar kameez and shemaghs.* Even better, we should travel as a pair of women. Who knows? We might even be able to ride on top the train again, once we're in disguise," said Alisa continuing her earlier argument. She drew her ponytail forward, carding her fingers through it. John knew that it was only a matter of time before she'd flip it back over her shoulder.
Privately, John equated her ponytail-flip with Sherlock's coat swishing and collar raising. They were all designed to make Alisa and Sherlock look cool.
And what did John have? Nothing, no super-cool quirks. He just had a stupid hat that reminded him of a stupid movie character. Well, Indy was a cool movie character and not really stupid. But that did not necessarily make John Watson cool.
And, to be honest, at least with himself, it was damned irritating to always have to be the little sidekick for these tall, sexy, super-cool people. Hell, lets face it, John had probably been Moran's sidekick in the Army. He'd have to ask David about that, one of these days.
Pitiful, thought the inner soldier, standing in the rubble of the damaged mind fortress. Captain John Watson, RAMC., was envious of his tall, cool friends. John forced his stupid, petty, little thoughts back into the dungeon of his mind fortress, because really it was time to move on.
"Right. We tried it my way, and it didn't work; so I guess we should try it your way, "said John. "I suppose we could get the clothes and shemaghs, and I suppose you can dress me up, however you like."
The former US army sergeant perked up at John's surprising agreement.
"Great, it just so happens that I have the clothes right here" she said, pulling handpicked pants and blouses out of her handpicked sack. Handpicked was another euphemism for stolen. Oh, well, a little larceny shouldn't matter to a hardened, criminal mercenary like John Watson.
The hardened criminal expertly slipped on a bra, and stuffed it with silk scarves.
"So, Johnny, it seems you've had practice wearing women's clothing before?" asked Alisa. She watched him dress and reminded herself that she thought of John as a brother. She did not admire the muscle's moving under his tanned skin. The scars were definitely not a turn on. It was fortunate, that the bra was rather silly looking on John. She began to chuckle and stopped thinking about what could have been between her and the Brit.
"I have had the experience, yes. It's nothing more than advanced, tactical camouflage," he said, with frost in his voice and a deep frown. He tried to make it sound like all soldiers routinely cross-dressed to complete their missions.
He awkwardly pulled the flower be-speckled shalwar over his head, muttering under his breath about bloody burqa boys.
It was 1600 hours and probably 41ºC in the scant shade.* It felt more like 50º C, under the scorching white sun, wearing the idiotic wig and scarf. John had no idea where O'Brien had picked up a wig. The damn thing probably had fleas, thought John, trying not to scratch his scalp again.
The two ersatz women, heads swathed in scarves, gazed with feigned interest at the moss and lichen covered remains of the kos minar.*
A few motor cars and buses passed them by, traveling the Grand Trunk road. The vehicles usually stirred up dust and often spewed a thick, black exhaust. A lone bull-cart, loaded with dry hay and a few bulging burlap bags, slowly advanced along the side of the road. The Sikh driver, wearing a white turban, did not even bother to glance over at John and Alisa. A colorful, highly decorated delivery truck sped past, obscuring the old, bearded driver, his cart and his bull in a cloud of dust.
John drank more water. He was not going to pass out again from cross-dressing related heat exhaustion. Been there, done that, thought John.* He tried to concentrate on the final leg of their journey, but several days of little or no sleep were taking their toll on the army captain.
"OK, from the kos minar," said John, with a sigh. "We have to cut cross-country to get to the bunker. It'll be better to wait until dusk, since it'll should cool down to a lovely 35º C by then." he said sarcastically. "Anyway, it's easier to sneak around in the dark. We'll rest here until around 1930 hours. I'll take the first watch…"
"No, Doc. You won't be taking a watch at all. You haven't slept for... well...actually, you've barely slept at all since we met. What you will do is try to take a siesta, and I'll watch. I'm busy making plans for all that money that we're gonna find. And don't forget, Doc, you said that I could have my pick of the jewelry," said Alisa. "Don't bother arguing. You are a business investment, and I protect my business investments."
"Look., I'm pretty sure about the guns and money, O'Brien, but I can't be sure about the jewelry. Jones mentioned jewelry once, and he may have been lying. Apparently, the idiot thought I'd be interested in Jew-al-ry," drawled John, trying to sound American. O'Brien smacked him for his trouble.
Before resting, John rolled up his left arm sleeve and checked his wounds. There was still a bit of yellowish discharge coming from the infected laceration, so he cleaned it, carefully staying out of the squeamish sergeant's sight. Wilting under the burning sun, he half-heartedly buried the soiled silk scarf dressing.
John was so very tired, but it would be nearly impossible to sleep. It felt like his scalp was crawling with vermin, and now there was that stupid on and off buzzing in his ears. Maybe he had Ménière's Disease? *
While his business partner lit up a cigarette, John rested his head back against the warm stone, trying to will himself to fall asleep.
Instead of sleeping, his mind began to wander again. John worried about the World's Only Consulting Detective. No doubt Sherlock had fallen under the spell of that witch, Irene, as soon as he got back to London. ('It's not nice to say things like that,' , chided John's boring inner-doctor, from inside the shelled-out mind fortress.) John was unsure what he thought wasn't not nice, doubting Sherlock's fidelity or calling Irene a witch. Probably both.
Actually, John didn't care. Firstly, Irene was a witch and a bitch. Secondly, if Sherlock took up with her, then to hell with him. No to hell with both of them.
Thirdly, John could handle it. Gone was insecure, needy Doctor John Watson. He was now a soldier of fortune and a hardened criminal. He did not fall apart when someone broke his heart. He was Three Continents Watson, a man of the world. Actually Four Continents now.
Anyway, it was perfectly understandable, if Sherlock preferred the beautiful, young and very upper-class, two-timing, overpaid whore ('Oops, bit not nice there,' said the overly nice inner doctor). They made a beautiful pair. He rather hoped that the World's Only Consulting Dick got a broken heart and a STD from the World's Bitchiest Dominatrix.
John imagined his old mates laughing at Three, no Four, Continents John Watson now. He could actually hear them. It was humiliating to be mooning over some bloke who forgot him so easily. Hell, Sherlock didn't even notice when he left the room sometimes. Bet he didn't do that with Irene "The Woman" Adler. It would serve Sherlock right if he did get hurt.
Oh God, if he got hurt, Sherlock might do something stupid. And John wouldn't be there to protect the idiotic genius during a danger night. John felt the firs,t faint stirrings of an anxiety attack and took some deep breaths. OK, he didn't mean it. He really didn't want Sherlock to get hurt, but what could he do about it from thousands of miles away.
Oh bloody hell.
John tried to stuff his concerns down into his mind fortress's dungeon; it was getting mighty crowded down there. Then he tried to clear his mind. He then stretched his stiff legs out, and stared out at the Grand Trunk, nervously biting his lip and scratching first at his scalp and then at his healing wounds.
John struck up an apathetic conversation with Alisa for a while. John talked about some of their mutual friends, including the Colonel.
Eventually the conversation fizzled out; they were both too hot and too tired to keep it up. Some insect was droning on in the brush, and the buzzing in John's ears was louder than ever, which really irritated John. It almost sounded like voices; he could almost make out some words. Weird.
Gradually, John's eyes grew heavier. The shimmering heat made the trees and traffic dance. He watched the passing trucks and cars.
He saw a figure approaching. It, too, shimmered in the heat and disappeared in the dust of a passing lorry... Ah, there he is again. A tall, rangy, blond man in fatigues and carrying a sniper rifle. John would have been worried except that he could see through the apparition, and of course he knew that Colonel Moran was already dead. So, no worries.
Obviously, O'Brien did not see the Colonel leering at them. Well duh, that was because he wasn't really there. He was just a hallucination, no doubt a manifestation of sleep deprivation or fever or heat stroke…or the herald of incipient septicemia…John yawned, not really all that concerned. Maybe it was… an unusual side-effect…. of, of his medications… or…he yawned again….and then finally he began to snore.
"Wake up Doc; it's getting dark out," said Alisa O'Brien, shaking John's good shoulder. It was sunset, and darkness fell rapidly. John risked pulling off his wig, although he left the shemagh around his shoulders for now.
John cautiously looked around into the dusk; everything was colored shades of indigo and violet. He was mostly relieved that the weird Sebastian Moran apparition was gone. Well hell, of course it wasn't real; it probably wasn't even a hallucination. It was probably just a dream.
John stood up, but his legs were a bit stiff, so he leaned against the still warm kos minar. The sky was orange, fading to pink and purple. Only a few lurid red cirrus clouds interrupted the expanse of indigo sky, that and a few swallows. Or did they have swallows in India? Well some kind of swallowish bird then.
It really was a tiny bit cooler, a very tiny bit. John popped some paracetamol and antibiotics. Naturally, the buzzing in his ears had started right up again. He'd want to get his ears checked out, when this was all over..
He looked around again. He saw no one except O'Brien, who cinched up the straps of her recently acquired rucksack and, of course, the traffic that still passed along the highway. The speeding lorries cast weird shadows around John and his partner. Since it was pretty much dark, John decided to remove the scarf and blousey shalwar too. The slight breeze felt heavenly, against his sticky skin as he removed the too-tight bra. John stuffed the bra, scarves and shirt into his pack. He ignored the burning from his wounds, as he pulled on a thin, tight tee.
John silently set off west-northwest.
"Hey dude, wait up,"called O'Brien. She ran to catch up. "Everything okay, Johnny?"
He stopped to look at her. In the falling dusk, her almond-shaped eyes crinkled at the edges, signaling her concern. John's brain was definitely feeling a bit too fuzzy, because of the heat and all that damned the buzzing. The mumbling and muttering sounds were really distracting.
The short, soldier concentrated hard before he mustered an answer, "M' fine, good. Yeah, good. Just a bit groggy." He flashed her a fake smile, so she wouldn't worry. They both drank some more water as they hiked through the brush and skirted a harvested field.
Yeah, not a very good answer, he thought plodding on in the dark. He sighed; this was all a bit not good really.
He shared a grimace with his old comrade in arms, Sebastian Moran. Moran was silent too, but that was probably because he was dead, reasoned John. Yeah, silence of the grave and all that. John smiled faintly. I should write that one down, he thought.
John and Alisa walked on in the gathering purple dusk. Their footsteps crunched in the dry grass, sometimes they kicked up little clouds of dust. John gave any buildings and most of the cultivated fields a wide berth. Only a few dogs barked a protest, at the man and woman hiking in the dark.
After a while, John allowed the Colonel to pick their path. Moran seemed to know the way and seemed happy to help-for once. The late special ops Commander had always been good at avoiding detection.
Insects chirped and buzzed and scritched as the shadows coalesced into night. Bats swooped overhead. Although he wasn't very fond of them in close quarters, such as subway tunnels and caves, John liked bats in general. Outside, where they minded their own business, the bats were fine.
Perhaps it was just because he only wore a thin tee, but it really did feel cooler, even if it was just a lower setting in the Punjab Oven, like bake instead of broil. Oh God, that's a good one, John took out a his handpicked notebook and pen and took a couple of notes before it got too dark to see. He always forgot these really good lines unless he wrote them down.
He pointedly ignored the Colonel's silent glowering, from where he stood, a few steps ahead of John. It figures, that the bastard's idea of haunting would consist of leering and glaring, thought John, matching Moran's glare. Of course, maybe Seb's mad because I killed him. Of course it was entirely justified; the bastard had killed Micky and Cam, and he was coming after Sherlock and me, for that matter. John narrowed his eyes and deliberately glared harder at the stupid hallucinatory apparition.
Shimmering stars studded the night sky, as they hiked past a sleeping village. John couldn't refrain from smiling in relief, when more of their old army team finally fell into step with him. They were much easier to get along with than the silent Colonel. He shot a grin at Micky who clapped a dark, albeit semi-transparent hand on John's shoulder. Damn that was cold. Fortunately, imaginary hands did not hurt sore shoulders, in fact, the chill felt rather good. John glanced obliquely at Alisa O'Brien. He hoped that he was managing to hide any reactions to the hallucinations. He really didn't want O'Brien to realize that her business partner was barmy. Not just yet, anyway.
"Bout time you showed up, Captain," said Micky, his dark face glowing faintly in the purple shadows.
"Doing the best I can, Sarg," said Captain Watson with an answering grin.
"Of course you are, Doc," said O'Brien, assuming that John was talking to her.
John exchanged wry looks with Sergeant Michael "Micky" Winston and Captain Stuart 'Stew' Collins. Stew held a finger in front of his lips. John gave a little nod; yeah, mum's the word.
It was good to have the team reunited at last, even if he could see right through them. And at least they talked to him unlike the silent Colonel. John picked up the pace, eager to meet up with Cam who had been assigned recon duty. In a few minutes, John could just make out Cam, who was floating over the dry brush.
That should have been very eerie, except that it was Cam. Cam was always an idiot; there was nothing scary about Cam…unless he had access to explosives, John smirked at that idea. He'd definitely need to write all that down as soon as they reached the old farmhouse and he could use his pocket torch.
Thank God, Micky, Cam and Stew were not giving John the silent treatment. They had loads to tell him, and in fact, they were all set to send him on another mission once he finished up at the bunker. He couldn't not go; not if David was in danger. But it was awkward. He wasn't too sure how O'Brien would respond to the idea. Maybe he should pull a Sherlock and just disappear. He decided to put off talking to O'Brien for now.
John tried not to laugh, when Colonel Moran wordlessly sent Cam off to continue scouting. He fought off embarrassing giggles, when Micky began to reminisce about John's driving lessons and the goats. It was good to have the team back together, one last time.
"Sherlock, please tell me why we have to stumble around in the dark when we can just as well wait until morning?" demanded Lestrade who walked with a limp after banging his shin against a hard brick or stone fence in the dark.
"Shut up," muttered the consulting detective. Then he continued on a bit louder, "You saw the foot prints in the dirt around that mile marker. They are recent; surely they were made today. There were two persons, with nearly the same sized feet but differing gaits. The slightly wider shoe prints almost certainly belonged to John. Obviously, I'd recognize John's prints. Presumably, the other prints belonged to his slightly taller companion, that O'Brien woman."
In the dark, Sherlock found it easier to hide his discomfort over John's choice of traveling companion. The chances of John reverting back to his comfortable heterosexuality multiplied exponentially with time exposed to that healthy, buxom, exotic, half-Asian woman who also happened to be a soldier. Dear God, it was a match made in hell.
Of course Sherlock did not intend to waste another minute, before locating his errant blogger and reminding said blogger that Sherlock was vastly superior to any other potential companion let alone lover.
Indeed, there was no time to waste.
Look, Sherlock," continued the nagging detective inspector. No wonder his wife left him for her yoga instructor, thought the lanky genius. "...Sherlock, would you please do me the courtesy of listening to me?" Nag. Nag. Nag, thought Sherlock. "Aren't you worried about missing clues in the dark? What if we miss the trail?" asked Lestrade.
"I can follow the trail easily, Lestrade. I had years of practice, while on the trail of Moriarty's criminal web," said the consulting detective. "See here...broken grass stems and even a footprint, John's in fact. And right here, they spilled some water. We have John almost within our sights, Lestrade. Why would we wait and risk losing him again?" Sherlock's tone of voice screamed, IDIOT!
Mitchell grabbed Sherlock's arm. The consulting detective barely restrained himself from striking this new obstacle between him and his blogger, "Holmes we have to slow down for a minute. We are tracking two armed, former soldiers, one of whom you think is may be wounded…"
"I don't just think it, Mitchell. I know it, because I observed the evidence. We all observed the video feeds, even you, cannot have missed the extent of his injuries which, while not life threatening, would be very painful," said Sherlock with a sigh and a dramatic eye roll that was largely wasted in the dark. "Why do you ignore the evidence in front of your own eyes? Furthermore, we have fresh evidence. Whoever sat in front of the kos minar, partially buried a discarded scarf that was covered in discharge from an infected wound. The discoloration and smell leave no doubt as to the source of the stain."
"That was disgusting, and I don't know why the hell you handed it to me," complained Mitchell. He and Lestrade simultaneously curled their lips in revulsion.
"Which is why you should always carry gloves and sanitizer," said Sherlock to end that pointless discussion.
"You don't carry it, you make Ahsan carry it," said Lestrade.
"Only temporarily, I will give that job back to Captain John Watson tonight. He is Sherlock Holmes' assistant," said Ahsan.
"What does it matter," whined Sherlock, tugging against Mitchell's grip and strongly considering the use of force to break free. "John is out there somewhere. He is injured. He may be sick." He may be assaulted by that Amazon O'Brien at any moment, thought Sherlock grimly. "I need to find him, now."
"My point, Mr. Holmes," insisted Mitchell, " is that we don't want to sneak up on them in the dark and risk getting shot. It's especially risky if Watson is sick or in pain; he's likely to have a hair-trigger."
"Yeah. You know, Mitchell has a point, Sherlock," said Lestrade. "And there's John's PTSD to consider. I'm sorry Sherlock, but under the circumstances, John is likely to be unpredictable. We have to be careful how we approach him."
"And John he was recently tortured," added Mitchell, "which increases the likelihood that he'll be unstable and paranoid. He'll shoot first and ask questions later."
"Yes, yes, when we get close, we'll announce ourselves; we can even give out calling cards. Everything you say, reinforces my argument that John needs me and that there is no time to waste," said the exasperated consulting detective. "Can we just go…"
Mary Morstan, who had scouted ahead with Ms Adler, ran up jogged back to them, "Come on then; we've found them. There's a house, a ruin really, on the other side of the field. We could hear their voices."
"Oh don't beat about the bush," said Irene, with unsuppressed glee. "It's Dr. Watson, we both recognize his voice, and he's with some woman, and I fear we've caught them at a bad time. We might want to come back later. From the moaning and groaning I can assume that they are in the middle of…"
"Now wait a minute, I told you I don't agree. I do not think they're getting it on in there." said Morstan, put out with Ms Adler yet again.
Sherlock tripped the brawny CIA agent, then pushed him aside . The consulting detective jogged toward abandoned farmhouse. This was exactly what he had feared. John had been waylaid by that militant siren.
He tore through weeds and tall grass, but was brought to a sudden halt by a womans groan, coming from the dark shell of a mud brick house. The ruin had no roof and one wall was partially collapsed, looking as if it had slumped over from exhaustion.
"Oh no, you must stop, Sherlock Holmes, you are all wrong about John Watson," said Ahsan in a stage whisper as he and Lestrade caught up the consulting detective. "I am sure he is not having the affair, Sherlock Holmes."
A woman's voice cried out into the night, "No, no wait. I'm not ready for you." She groaned again with effort.
Dear God, I'm too late, thought Sherlock.
"It's a bit late for second thoughts. I'm already in!" said John harshly. His breath caught, and then he groaned out, "Oh fu-uck."
Sherlock growled when a wide-eyed Lestrade grabbed a hold of Sherlock's shoulder.
"Look, Sherlock, you can't just go storming into that house, if they're…You just have to wait," said Lestrade. "God help me, you'll just have to sort it out in the morning"
"Oh, I disagree. Lets go in and catch the sainted doctor in flagrante delicto," said the Woman. "I think it's time to knock him off his pedestal."
"Oh no, John Watson will have a very good reasons and I will ask him," said Ahsan. They all stared at the ruined house across the, weedy yard, as John cried out, "That's it. That's it... No, you don't have to move. I can do it myself." Then John gasped loudly, almost as if he were in pain.
John had never gasped out like that for him, thought Sherlock, his heart twisting in pain. Then Sherlock swelled with anger and jealousy, yes jealousy. Sherlock would put an end to this travesty of sex. He would bring John to his senses.
The consulting detective turned, twisted and somehow freed himself, leaving Lestrade holding Sherlock's empty linen jacket. The consulting detective, followed by the team burst through the gaping door. By the light of a single pocket torch, a tall woman, who was fully clothed noted the observant detective, stood over a hole; with legs spread wide for support, she her straining arms held on to a rope. This was a bit unexpected, and Sherlock was momentarily nonplussed.
She turned. gaping and reached for her sidearm. The rest of the team pushed forward, as the rope slid out of the startled woman's hands. There was a loud cry, that was cut off by a sickening thud.
A/N I promise to update a bit more quickly this time. Honest. I am editing chapter 8 now.
Unfortunately, (or fortunately) there will be more of the possible sppoky stuff in chapter 8. But there will also be a reunion, if John can manage to concentrate on Sherlock long enough…
*41ºC=106ºF (for us Americans who can't handle metric). The typical daytime high temperature is over 100ºF in Jalandhar, India during summer( March-June). And, yes, I am, indeed, one of those weather nerds, but that's not important right now.
*35°C = 95°F.
*Kos minar-stone pillar erected by the Mughal emperors to serve as mile markers. A kos was a unit of measure approximately equal to 3 km. Minar means tower.
*John suffered mild from heat exhaustion while dressed as a woman in the prequel, My Apologies to his everlasting embarrassment he fainted in the arms of a stranger. Naturally, John blamed Sherlock.
*Shalwar kameez the tunic/shirt and pants worn by both men and women in many areas of south Asia.
*Shemagh- a keffiyeh or large multipurpose scarf issued to British Soldiers. In desert environments it is used to block sun, sand, dust etc. Of course, John and Alisa are familiar with shemaghs, but they would wear women's scarves over their heads while in disguise.
Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me over this long hiatus. (I know it seems like it was years ago. Sorry. I'm so sorry!) Thank you especially to those who reviewed chapter 6 including InuChimera7410, Dimavarien, I'm Nova, SamuelE8688, power0girl, Guest, ruvy91, Wicked Winter, Quiet Time, Dakkira1, Sonia, darkhearted243, foxeeflame, EJ 12212012, issyapir, JOhnlocked86, Minnesota Fireball Wolf. You guys are the best! (I should probably say you girls; statistically speaking we're mostly all gals but that's just my inner Sherlock speaking...of course he wouldn't say guys or gals or even girls unless he was forced to discuss a female child...)
Disclaimer- I do not own the rights to SHERLOCK.
