Chapter 1. SOMEONE ELSE'S HAND
John could hear arguing around him, something wrapped around his mouth, making it difficult to breath. His head was covered by a dark cloth, it moved against his face as he took deep unsteady breaths through his nose, a sense of panic nearly overcoming him. Was he in the dessert again, had he been taken by the enemy. Listening he could hear the foreign language. It was Farsi, his shoulder ached, he realized biting hands where holding him under his arms on each side, dragging him.
"Get him on the truck!" he tried to gain some sense of balance, willing his untied feet to move, he pulled back against those unknown men holding him. He couldn't see and the bag was ripped from his head. He pushed back again, the world seemed blurring and hazy, like a bad dream or drunken night out. Still he managed to dodge a meaty fist aimed for his face, pulling one of the men holding his right arm, into the path of the attack. This threw all four off balance and they landed now in a heap on the cement.
More yelling in Farsi he kicked out, moving away from the tangle of arms, idiots had tied his hands in front of him instead of behind. Someone was reaching for him he was already on his feet pulling the damn gag from his mouth. They were yelling in Farsi, confusion, why was he here, something felt wrong. One of the bigger thugs laughed and rushed at him tackling John by the waist, the smaller man brought a knee up, catching a bearded chin. His hands reaching for the handgun holstered at the aggressors side. That tap to the chin crumpled the bigger man, leaving him slumped in a heap at John's feet.
"Stay where you are!" he growled in their language everyone froze, no one moved. Looking around he could see the four men, five counting sleeping beauty at his feet. A warehouse? Not a cave, but something had to be off, why did he feel so confused, drugs maybe, a hit to the head. He wasn't in fatigues, was he? The enemy were dressed all in black, not scarves or the grays, browns and whites of the Afghani people.
Mycroft and Sherlock watched frozen in their places, the familiar blond haired man wasn't able to see the caramel skinned goon, coming up from behind, holding out what looked like a taser. Sherlock felt sick as the weapon came in contact with his friends neck, it shocked the good Doctor's body causing him to fire the gun and drop it, falling on his side twitching uncontrollably and the screen didn't go blank until he was loaded into the back of black van no to gently.
"This footage was given to us through unusual channels sir, the source hasn't been confirmed but Elias Perry found it on a raid Eruopol was involved in. He had it forwarded to the proper channels, wondering if it was one of our agents. The man being of British nationality, face recognition identified the doctor immediately. The time stamp is from five hours ago sir."
"What do we know about the group?" Mycroft didn't look up from the screen, he'd rewound and paused just before the end, catching the look of cool determination, and maybe confusion on the young doctor's bruised face.
"They are a terrorist cell sir, our department has been tracking their weapons sales. They aren't the typical Jihadists, they only serve their own purposes. They go by the Knights of Allah. Only using their Muslim connections to aid them in their sales and smuggling."
"He's alive." Sherlock moved to the rewind the screen, the look the doctor had he was dazed and confused, but alive. Alive and fighting back, Doctor Watson was a very stubborn man, and Sherlock felt a sense of pride swell up in his chest. Yes, his blogger was often underestimated.
John Watson was still kicking, his face bruised and battered, in a state of confusion, but he was still kicking.
"Something is off." Mycroft shook his head. He could sense it by why couldn't he isolate it. Perry, he knew that name, why?
"Sir?"
"Bring me this Elias Perry."
"Sir he's-" the brunette PA caught the glares from both Holmes and halted her words, texting quickly without even looking down at her phone. "Yes sir. Right away."
"Mr. Homes sir?" one of the surviving security officers, who had returned to duty immediately after he was cleared by a doctor, cut in.
Mycroft and Sherlock moved twin gray eyes on him, he continued despite the varying degrees in the temperature of those glares. He knew that the younger Holmes blamed them, in fact he' said as much, called the team 'idiots, blundering fools badly trained monkeys, incapable of babysitting a puppy let alone keep a Doctor out of harms way.
The older Holmes only held a cool detached gaze, one that was purely professional and to the point. So it was this one he addressed.
"When we were under attack, Doctor Watson-" He caught the sneer of younger Holmes now turning his back on Thomson and Mycroft.
"Go on, Thomson." The older Mr. Holmes urges ignoring the hiss from his brother.
"Yes, sir. While we were under attack I heard the Doctor say something under his breath, I didn't understand it but it is worth mentioning. "
"Well spit it out!" Sherlock growled.
"He said, 'Not Afghanistan. Dublin' and then I heard one of the assailants swear in perfect English, caught a bit of an accent as well. He had a ski mask and black gloves but I swear he wasn't anything but a Brit. I think the Doctor understood that too."
"Thank you Agent Thomson." He nodded and hesitated before returning to his position beside the door. "I've never seen a man so cool and calm in the face of such chaos sir, he saved all of us. And I hope to return the favor."
