WARNING More paranormal nonsense. References to stalking. Oh yes, the colorful language continues. Blame John. So rated M.

Chapter 9

While he wasted his time sorting through piles of useless documents and bills, Sherlock kept watch over his blogger. Drifts of paper, which Sebastian Moran had stored in the old lockers, surrounded the consulting detective. He threw another handful of the worthless sheets to the floor.

The only surprise in all the paperwork was that the papers were good shape not rotted or chewed up by vermin. Apparently rodents, bugs and spiders had not made their homes in the abandoned bunker.

A few of the papers confirmed Sebastian Moran's prior role in drugs and arms dealing in south Asia, Europe and Britain, but there was nothing that would help in John's Quixotic search for Moran's WMDs.

Sherlock was no longer interested in that puzzle anyway. He wanted to take John and leave. It was time to get John the medical attention and rest that he so desperately needed. His poor doctor could use some food too. John had clearly lost more weight in the past week or so, thought the thin detective-missing the irony entirely.

Oh dear God, John was muttering to the shadows yet again, thought Sherlock, as the doctor ostensibly searched for a mysterious one-of-a-kind sniper rifle. Perhaps John's delusions would resolve if Sherlock took him back to 221B or even, heaven forbid, on a prolonged vacation far from stress and threats. While Sherlock abhorred holidays, he would embark on one in a heartbeat, if it might help John.

The soldier whispered and smiled at the locker. At least his hallucinations weren't frightening the poor man. In frustration, Sherlock dropped the last of the papers on the floor and yanked the last box out of the rusted locker. The box, covered with an old wool jumper, appeared to be filled with pictures and other rubbish.

John glanced at the huge mess that the detective had created and gave Sherlock an encouraging smile. And that, as much as anything, proved that his boyfriend had gone round the twist. After all, a healthy, normal John always berated Sherlock for making messes.

"DON'T say anything about the mess, mate. Just smile and nod," instructed Stew, who was very bossy, considering that he was just a hallucination. "Right. From now on, John, please don't answer, don't nod your head, don't respond to me at all. Just listen, okay? They all have you pegged as a lunatic because of us, so just play it cool. Now I have Cam up top, keeping tabs on that CIA agent, Mitchell. He's the one who's itching to get you into some psych unit in New Delhi. He's the one making all the phone calls. Cam will let us know if you have to make a run for it. And as an extra benefit, this'll keep you and Cam away from each other, because, as usual, you both act like schoolboys. Why you have to pick on each other, I'll never know."

John wanted to protest and state, for the record, that Cam always started it. He refrained from comment when both Stew and Micky glared fiercely at him.

Stew, a former army captain, paced, just like he used to when he was alive and planning missions with the Colonel. He still looked tall and lean, but very fit. Well, fit might be a poor choice of words to describe a dead man.

His spectral red hair glowed like a halo, and John was tempted to ask Stew if he was an angel. He decided against asking the ghost about it. Sherlock would probably get that pinched, worried look again, and Stew would probably just get pissed off.

John pretended to sort the MRE's that he was packing into his duffel. He didn't really think that it fooled Sherlock, but it was worth a try.

Stew paced back towards John and continued his briefing, "Now the Colonel has indicated that you have to move with alacrity, if you want to assist Chas. And no, the Colonel hasn't said a word. He never does, not even when Chas begs him to. Basically we all have to guess what he wants and if we're lucky he gives us hints. Anyway, I have a plan. I want you to distract these people using guns, money and jewels. While they fight over the money, you can make your get away and hike over to the monastery."

"What money? What jewels? I haven't seen any signs of money or jewelry," whispered John, forgetting the Don't Talk to the Ghosts rule.

"I told you not to talk back, you twat! Now your boyfriend's been alerted," snapped the irritated spirit.

John didn't remember Stew being this bossy or this bad-tempered when he was still alive. Death did not agree with Stew.

"Remember, you have to distract pretty-boy too, John," said the grouchy ghost. John refrained from writing down his clever alliteration, "I know you'll want to take this Holmes with you, but that's not possible. It's obvious that he thinks you've gone round the twist..."

Sherlock gently took hold of John's upper arm. "John, I wish you would confide in me. I know that you think you see someone there, but I assure you that it is just a hallucination. Brought about by sleep deprivation, chronic exhaustion, malnutrition and PTSD," said Sherlock bluntly. "

"See, I told you; he knows, John," said the bossy, redheaded specter. Maybe, thought John, all gingers are annoying, overbearing tyrants. A certain Mycroft Holmes immediately came to mind.* "You can't bring Sherlock with you. He'll force you into go to hospital. He'll stop you from getting to Chas in time. Chas needs you, John. You can't risk it."

John wanted to argue. He had questions. He felt the need to pummel his late army buddy.

"John," said the tall detective softly, his eyes clouded with pain. "John, at least look at me. Who do you think is there? What are they saying? Are they telling you to do things?"

John looked at his distraught boyfriend. Well, most people wouldn't see it, but John knew Sherlock...

"Look John," said the ghost with glowing red hair. "I'm going to get the Colonel to show you where he stashed the money and jewels. That's when you let the others come down here, and, in all the excitement, you take a flit. Just remember to take your pack and your duffel, cause, unlike us, you gotta eat. And you should start eating more, you're as thin as a wraith."

John sighed.

"I thought you'd like that one," said the redheaded wraith, smugly.

"John, how many fingers am I holding up?" asked Sherlock.

John sighed.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Cap'n John. Forget Stew and his stupid advice and his even lamer jokes. Deal your man, before 'e wets 'imself," said Micky, pushing Stew out of the way. "You're jus makin' things worse Cap'n Collins; now shove off."

Who knew ghosts could push each other around, thought John, with yet another sigh. This tag team conversation with the consulting detective and the hallucinatory apparitions was confusing, to say the least. John felt quite dizzy from it all.

The doctor looked at his pale lover, who held up three long tapered fingers. And, un-surprisingly, John sighed.

"Really Sherlock? Okay, fine," said John finally answering the genius. "Three, you are holding up three fingers up…Today is Saturday, I think. Which would make it... the eighth. If it is Saturday, I have been rather distracted and without access to a watch or calendar. That can happen when you're running from the Mafia, and the CIA, Y'know? …And moving right along. David Cameron is Prime Minister, and the ruler of the universe is, of course a ginger, who happens to be named Mycroft. The thirteenth element in the periodic table is aluminum, and the fifth planet in the solar system is Jupiter and I bet you didn't know that, did'ja, Mr. Genius? Well, i think that covers general knowledge."

"I had coffee for breakfast and tea for lunch and again for dinner. I didn't remember to eat, but I did remember to take my pills, which are due again in five hours. Unless I need paracetamol, which I can take again whenever I want, because it has been over four hours since the last dose, which by the way is 1000 mg or two caplets po q fours prn pain and fever. In fact, if this goes on much longer, I shall need the paracetamol for the massive headache I'm developing. So much for short-term memory. I remember that my sister is Harry, short for Harriet. I was hospitalized with a broken arm when I was eleven. I got to eat chocolate ice cream in bed, and a very nice nurse named Sadie, who had fake blond hair, gave it to me. And I felt safe in the hospital but worried about Harry being alone with our Dad. The first time I had sex was with a girl named Bambi, and not a word, not a word from you, about her name. She was a lovely girl. The sex sucked, but I was 18 and at that age, I thought any sex was great sex. Last I heard, she was working as a paralegal and had had two babies. So much for long-term memory."

"Shall we test my muscular coördination?" John closed his eyes and touched his fingers to his nose. He opened them and his eyes followed his finger. Yes, that was cheating the test since it was his own finger, but whatever.

John was cold tired and worried. Worried about his sanity, worried he was going to lose Sherlock, worried that the ghosts were actually real and worried about Chas.

Oh dear God, what if the fucking ghosts were real? That is probably a sign of my worsening delusional state, thought John,

John hopped on one foot, then the other one. He walked on his toes and then his heels. WIthout warning, the thin-lipped consulting detective forcibly swung his blogger around to face him.

"Shall we next test rapid alternating movements and then my reflexes. And then, I dunno, I guess that'll cover it? " said John fiercely, glaring in the dim light from the torches.

"You forgot pupillary responses, John," said Sherlock softly, dangerously, looming over the soldier. He still held John's arm tightly, reining in his anger with visible effort "Never mind, John. When you are ready to trust me, I'll be right here."

John crossed his arms, and tried not to wince when that pulled a bit too hard on his left arm. "I'm fine, Sherlock. I really am fine."

John turned his back on his so-called friends who wanted to take him away from Sherlock Holmes. "Come on, let's finish with that box of crap, and then we'll find the vault."

John was suddenly awash with guilt. This wasn't fair to Sherlock. None of it was Sherlock's fault. Sherlock shouldn't even be here in this God-awful mess.

Wordlessly, the blond captain put his arms around the tall, lanky man next to him and held him close.

Sherlock let the smaller blond hug him. John was shivering; his skin was cold and clammy. "John you have to get out of this dank cave, you're shivering," said the detective.

"Well the sooner we sort out those papers…" began John, who studiously ignored the fierce glare coming from Moran. The silent specter suddenly loomed in front of the couple. John and Sherlock passed right though the imaginary ghost's body. As usual John shivered from some kind of hallucinatory chill. Sherlock shivered too.

Now that was weird. Why on earth would Sherlock react to my hallucination, wondered John?

John was gradually becoming just a tad bit...disturbed by this whole phantasm thing. Sherlock should not have shivered, hell he was shivering almost as much as John as he drew the smaller man in under his protective arm.

These stupid ghost are hallucinations. They are an elaborate projection of my subconscious trying to adapt to stress and trauma. My own mind made them up to help complete the mission.

They are imaginary, like Harvey the giant rabbit, John firmly reminded himself.

But then, why was he listening to them and planning a rescue for Chas based on their paranormal advice. John began to chew on his lip.

"John, I will give you ten minutes," said Sherlock, drawing John out of his funk. "Then you have to go up and get warm. In the meantime put this jumper on," said the detective holding up an old, large military issue jumper.

"Hey, that was Stew's," said John glancing over at Stew who smiled. John drew the musty smelling jumper over his head. It was huge on him, but it was warm. And it had belonged to one of his mates; it was comforting.

"Yes? Well, the jumper was in this last box, which contained memorabilia. This sweater, a book, a knife, some postcards even… and pictures John," said Sherlock. He took his blogger in his arms and held John's small, shivering body against himself. His large hands rubbed soothing circles over John's back. He began speaking carefully, "John, would it surprise you to know that, with possibly four exceptions, all of the pictures in the box are of you?"

"What?" asked John with a muffled voice. Despite some ribbing from his mates, he had snuggled into Sherlock's sure grasp.

"There are well over one hundred photos, John. All are several years old. Some are group shots, but in those cases, you are always one of the group. All of the other pictures are of you. All of them. I must admit you look very handsome in your uniforms and fatigues, as I believe you called them once." There was a trace of fond amusement in Sherlock's voice.

"You're joking. Pictures of me?" asked John in a small, unusually vulnerable voice. He burrowed into Sherlock's toasty embrace, absorbing the heat the taller man gave off. John rested against Sherlock's broad chest, feeling Sherlock's living chest as it rose and fell with each breath.

John closed his eyes, just for a minute. And he listened to his lover's reassuring heart beat. Who really cared about some old pictures? John was tired and cold. When the detective continued speaking, his rumbling voice reverberated in John's ear. John sighed with relief and clung even tighter.

"Yes John, pictures of you. Pictures of you working, visiting with patients, pictures of you in combat. For God's sake, combat." Sherlock did not share the feelings that those photos engendered, distress over the danger John had faced and arousal at the way John faced it. The detective hugged John tighter, even though it made the cut on his chest ache. "There's a picture of you with a sniper's rifle in the middle of nowhere, a picture of you wounded-just a cut on your scalp but it bled a lot. I have often wondered when you had gotten that scar...There's you in the dining area..."

"Mess tent, Sherlock," corrected John absently; his fuzzy mind was coming back on line. What he hell? Pictures of John Watson?

"Pictures of you reading, playing cards, sleeping, showering and…"

"Bloody fuckin' hell! In the...in the bloody shower…" John was now fully awake but could not get the words out. He tried to pull away from the consulting detective.

"Yes, John, in the shower. Indeed, there are a few pictures taken while you copulating," said Sherlock.

"I'll kill him," announced John irrationally. "I'm going to kill Moran."

"Cap'n John. Jus take it easy. He's dead already," said Micky. The apparition stood with his massive arms crossed and glared at the Colonel, who glared back defiantly from a dark corner.

"John, you already killed him," Sherlock reminded his blogger.

"I'll bring him back to life. And then I'll kill him again!" threatened John harshly.

"John, you can't exact revenge on a dead man. And remember, you're the one who ended his machinations once and for all. But it is worth remembering, John, that Sebastian Moran was untrustworthy," said the consulting detective. "You said that he was responsible for the deaths of your team, and he tried to kill you twice. Now we see that at one point, he was virtually stalking you. Surely, even if you thought that you possibly heard his voice, you would not trust it," said Sherlock shrewdly.

The doctor stiffened. Fuck. He knows. Of course Sherlock saw right through John Watson. Hell, he probably read my mind, thought John.

"Just agree with him, suggested Stew. "He's mostly right anyway, John."

"Yeah, well… well, I can honestly say I don't hear Moran at all, Sherlock," said John, dry scrubbing his clammy face. "And you're quite right, I wouldn't trust him, not for a bloody, goddam minute." John managed to imitate a Sherlockian death glare, and sent it straight to his former colonel.

"Good. I surmise that your injury and subsequent discharge from the arm forced Moran to stop his stalking. said Sherlock, steepling his fingers under his chin. The imaginary ghosts stared at his posing."He did not continue to stalk you, and perhaps that was due to his relationship with Moriarty. Perhaps, Moriarty insisted that Moran stick to the activities that Moriarty ordered."

John watched the colonel's face fall. He become haggard and older looking. It's not as though a ghost, even an imaginary ghost, had blood and could become pale…Still, Moran was clearly upset when Moriarty was discussed. Not scared or even angry, he just looked…sad. Oh God, the damn ghost missed the psychopathic madman.

In spite of his resentment, John still felt sorry for the his former commander.

"I think Sebastian cared about Moriarty," said John softly, watching the imaginary phantasm. "I think he even sort of loved Moriarty."

"Evidence, John?" asked Sherlock sternly. "I've warned you about making wild suppositions that are not based on a firm foundation of fact."

"The stalking stopped for some reason, Sherlock," said John. "I think he lost interest in me…" John stopped talking, because Moran was staring at him and shaking his head in denial. Holy crap, the hallucinatory ghost was looking at John longingly. John found himself crowding into the taller detective. This was all just too damn much.

Sherlock pulled John in close again, "Well, I suppose that is a possibility, John. Moran could have had a romantic interest in Moriarty, but there so easily could have been other explanations too." The detective ran his warm hands over John's jumper clad back and rested his chin on John's head. John's normally soft hair was matted. He made a mental note to see that John was properly bathed in the very near future.

Normally, John would have been irritated at the detective's patronizing tone, however, he was really creeped out by the colonel leering in the shadows. Instead he let Sherlock reassure him; he once more buried his face in the firm, warm chest in front of him. On top of everything else, John Watson was sick and tired of being so bloody cold.

"John," said Stew. He frowned when John turned to him with a baleful glance. "Hey, sorry to interrupt. And don't look at me like that! I never knew a thing about those photos. I never even saw Seb with a camera, and he was my best friend," John just glowered from his safe harbor. "Look, we'll deal with this picture debacle later. You have other problems to worry about. You have to 'find' the money so you can finance the rest of your mission and so that you can distract your so-called friends. Well, sorry again mate, these friends of yours have pretty much agreed that you need to go to hospital. According to Mitchell, even pretty-boy there wants to send you away. So can we just move on, please?"

John risked a tiny nod to Stew, Micky and the recently returned Cam. With his blogger tucked close into his side, Sherlock quickly finished sorting out the box of 'mementos'.

Pacing right through the table and the boxes on top of it, Stew continued, "Right, good man, Captain Watson. So, start by telling Holmes that you've ascertained the location of the concealed vault." The tall specter leaned over John, making him shiver even more.

"Um, Sherlock? I've ascertained the, um, location of Moran's concealed vault," said John, pushing up against the detective. He splayed his icy hands over Sherlock's sides to warm them.

"Ascertained the location of the concealed vault?" repeated Sherlock, looking down at the smaller soldier.

But Sherlock hates repetition, thought John.

"Since when, do you use words like ascertained?" asked the World's Only Consulting Detective. He examined John as if he were a new species of fungi.

Oh. Fuck, thought John.

"Tell him you're well versed in rhetoric and capable of eloquent speech," suggested Stew.

"I'm well versed in, in rhetoric and elegant...I mean,eloquent speech?" parroted John uncertainly. John frowned; he deduce from Sherlock's quirked eyebrow that John Watson was well and truly fucked.

"John, that doesn't sound like you at all," said Sherlock. "I would like to know why you are talking like this." Sherlock held the shorter man out at arms length and his gaze running up and down John's body.

Bloody fucking hell, he's deducing me, thought John. It was impossible for John Watson to hide things from Sherlock Holmes.

"Okay, now tell him…" began the tall glowing Captain.

"Shut up, Cap'n Stuart," snapped Sergeant Micky Winston, bucking command structure, "You're confusin' John and makin' things worse b'tween 'im and 'is man. You best go up with Cam and keep an eye on that Mitchell. And Doc, tell your boyfriend you're smart, but for God's sake, use your own words."

John took a deep breath, "I did go to Uni, Sherlock," said John. "I do know lots of big words. As you may recall, I was a doctor. Doctors know lots of big words, like meningococcal septicemia or arteriovenus malformations. I'm even familiar with the words ascertain and rhetoric. Now, can we stop fussing about my vocabulary and finish up down here."

"Yes, John," agreed Sherlock, as his shorter boyfriend tugged his hand toward the southern side of the bunker. "But John, my point is that you are using words that are outside your typical lexicon…"

"Fine, I used a big word. If it bothers you, I'll stick to little words and leave all the big words for you," snapped John. "Lexicon, my arse…" he muttered.

Lestrade interrupted, just as soon as he saw the lights from their torches. ""Boys, I've been patient, but enough is enough. Look, I'm coming down there…"

"NO!" John yelled. "Hell no! You can't come down. Not yet. Um, Sherlock has t'get all these…we have to, um…"

"Collect evidence. I need to collect evidence, Lestrade," Sherlock called out smoothly. "The evidence could be crucial in analyzing Moran's motives, allowing me to deduce where he hid his armaments. In addition, John and I are still looking for booby traps."

"Yeah, there could still be booby traps. It's still too, um, risky. Yeah, so ten minutes, Greg," said John. "Just give us ten, fifteen minutes, tops." John sighed, and gave Sherlock a grateful little smile.

Sherlock preened under John's admiring gaze.

The partners walked around piles of rubbish.

The army captain's eyes followed the apparition of Colonel Moran as he sauntered over to a pile of four or five shattered crates. Stupid smug ghost, thought John, still very disturbed by what those pictures represented.

It was painfully obvious to Sherlock, that John thought he saw something or someone moving in the shadows. Yet John also had enough insight to know that it was not real, and thus he tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to hide his hallucination. Sherlock had no idea how to proceed with John. Admittedly, Sherlock felt that he should try convince John to seek medical care, but he also couldn't force his blogger into anything-that was a given.

"John are you certain there is a vault? Have you even seen it before?" asked Sherlock, surveying the rubbish and debris uncertainly. So far the vault had eluded Sherlock's sharp scrutiny.

John pursed his lips, considering. "No," said John finally, shaking his head. "I don't think the vault was built, the last time I was here but..."

"No, no, no, John!" said Micky, scowling. "You hav'ta say 'yes'! 'Yes, I remember where it was'. Otherwise you're gonna hav'ta explain how ya find it!"

"Oh! No, no I mean, um, yes. Yeah, I guess I sort of remember it being over here?" said John, confused with all of this ghostly advise on top of his conversations with Sherlock. "In fact, I, um. I think it's right here, under this pile of crap." John leaned his elbow on the pile of crates. Naturally, the pile gave way and John stumbled through Moran's ghost and then into his boyfriend. Sherlock caught John by his arms with a tight-lipped grimace.

John bit his lip to hide the pain in his arm and his sudden chill. Micky smacked his face with his palm and hissed at John. The smaller soldier pulled out of Sherlock's reach and then knocked the rest of the crates away, revealing a grate built into the floor. John looked blankly at the grate and twitched his lips in frustration. Now what? He looked up at Micky, who shook his head. The damn Colonel just grinned evilly. Stupid bloody ghost, maybe this was Moran's sick idea of payback. Making John pay for having killed Colonel Moran. Bloody bastard.

John looked up at his partner. "Um, I guess this is it, Sherlock, but I'm not…quite sure… how it opens."

"John, have you or haven't you seen this before?" demanded Sherlock sternly.

"Maybe. My, um…my memory is um…" stuttered John, rubbing his head. "Well, maybe, I saw it once for a few seconds…but I never saw him, I mean bloody Moran, open it," he said after some prompting from Micky.

Micky was always the one who had talked John and himself out of trouble. Like the time when they stole the case of beer from the Yank's CO, and then there was the time when John tried to learn to drive a jeep and hit the goats. John shuddered. To this day, John couldn't abide the taste of roasted goat. Micky hissed and regained John's flagging attention.

Sherlock had knelt down, and now he studied the rusty grate with his torch. He noted that the grate covered a pipe, which in turn, seemed to be blocked off. Ah, there were scratch marks, some fairly deep, but only along this one side. Simple.

"Here John, you need to pry it up with a lever,' said Sherlock, pointing to the scratches.

"Brilliant, Sherlock," John grinned proudly at the genius. The army doctor scrambled through the detritus, searching for a lever in the refuse. He soon found a couple of pipes and a wooden table leg that might work. It was surprisingly easy to pry up the grate with the bit of pipe. The grate flipped over backwards, bringing up its false cement floor and a short piece of pipe with it.

Underneath was a large safe.

"Oh fuck," exclaimed John. "Of course, no one knows the combination!" He narrowed his eyes at the Colonel, who shrugged as if he were bored. John wanted nothing more than to punch the glowing wanker in his translucent face.

Sherlock sighed, reached in, turned the tumblers and opened the safe.

John stared in open-mouthed admiration at his brilliant boyfriend. Micky looked impressed too, but the Colonel skulked back into the shadows. "That's extraordinary, Sherlock! How did you know the combo?"

"Child's play, John," sighed the genius. "The combination is 5646, which is alphanumeric for J-O-H-N. Obvious, given that treasure trove of pictures."

John felt his face fill with heat. Maybe no one would notice his blushing in the dim light. Then he thought of something worse.

"Oh my God, Sherlock! What did you do with all those bloody pictures? I don't want anyone to see …"

"Taken care of, John. I put most of them in your duffel. I kept a few as evidence."

"Evidence? Evidence? Why would you need photos of me for evidence?" asked John suspiciously.

"John, surely you know my methods by now," lied Sherlock, smooth as silk. John did not need to know that Sherlock had kept aside a few pictures that John might not approve of. However, the consulting detective found them hot, very hot. So hot, that he'd like to ravage John Watson soon, very soon. In the dark, John didn't see Sherlock's eyes dilate with desire.

"I must understand Moran's mindset, John," continued Sherlock, with mock innocence. "I must understand all his motivations. I need to, as you so eloquently say, 'learn what makes him tick', yes? Only then will I be able to deduce where the weapons are."

"Be a hell of a lot easier, if he'd just come out and tell me," muttered John. Once again, John fell for Sherlock's misinformation.

"John may I remind you that Sebastian Moran is dead. And dead men don't talk," said the consulting detective

"Yeah, I meant…" stuttered John. Quick, change the subject, directed John's inner soldier. John grabbed the satchel out of the vault and opened it. "Bloody Hell! Sherlock, just look at all this money." Stacks of money filled the brief case. There were mostly US hundred-dollar bills in the satchel, but there were stacks of rupees, pound notes, Euros and even some currency that John didn't recognize. All were in large denominations.

John quickly shoved some rupees and several stacks of American dollars in his pockets and in his heavy duffel bag. Sherlock tilted his head watched his normally honest blogger blithely steal some of the money.

Then, John seemingly lost interest in the money and shoved the still very full case to the side. He reached into the safe pushing some files to the side. John snagged a cloth bag that was full of something heavy. Then he froze, literally, when Moran reached around him. The colonel was embracing John with one arm and pointing to a flat leather case at the bottom of the safe. A gun case. The gun case, thought John, teeth chattering.

John pulled out the leather gun case. He carelessly tossed the heavy cloth bag aside with his trembling hand, and it landed on the floor, near the satchel full of money.

John opened the case while Moran hovered over his shoulder. Nestled inside was Moran's personal, hand-tooled sniper rifle. It was modeled after an L115A3, but most of its components were made of titanium, making it strong but lightweight. Moran had designed the gun himself with a gunsmith and ordered it though Alisa O'Brien.

John had only touched the gun once; Moran had allowed his subordinate the honor of firing the special weapon just the one time. As far as he knew, John was the only man accorded that honor. Maybe, thought John, that should have been a clue…but he really hadn't thought that Moran was interested in him. And he certainly hadn't been interested in Moran. Hell, I wasn't even gay back then.

That reminded John of Sherlock. The doctor flashed a blinding smile at the detective, then turned his attention back to the sniper rifle.

"A sniper rifle, John?" Asked Sherlock, apparently frowning as he felt some of the chill from John's imaginary ghost. John was not sure how that was even possible.

"Yeah, this is it. The Colonel's own rifle. He had it made to his own specifications, I never knew where he got the money to pay for it," said John softly, caressing the frigid components. "Yeah, I…I guess I assumed it was from his savings and from his winnings at the table. Moran almost always won at poker. Y' know, I guess I helped pay for this baby. Moran ended up with most of my paychecks 'cause he always beat me at cards. He cheated, y' know?" John allowed himself a fixed angry stare at the tall, blond colonel who drifted away, glowering.

"Cap'n John, get the ammo out of there and lets get a move on," said Micky shaking his head. He'd never been a serious gambler, and he didn't love guns like John and Sebastian. But he had loved fighting and he had been very, very good at it. Until the sniper's bullet found it's way into his head. And now there was a final mission for him and his mates to complete. But they needed John Watson's help.

"John, you need to leave this cavern at once. I think you're becoming hypothermic," ordered Sherlock, tugging John close to his chest in a vain attempt to warm him. "John you're shivering, you lips are blue and your skin is like ice. We are going now."

"Wait a just a second, Sherlock," John picked up the bag he had dropped; he dumped a handful of gold chains, gold bangles and both loose and set gems into his hand. John dropped them haphazardly onto a teetering table and dropped a couple stones as if by accident near the safe. He pocketed the rest.

Trying to control his shaking hands, John reached in and grabbed the files and began sorting through them quickly. Some looked promising. They detailed some of Moran's more recent actions with the other south Asian crime bosses and there were references to specific locations in Afghanistan.

"John, you need to come away," insisted Sherlock, who firmly pulled on John's arm.

John crammed the potentially interesting files in the duffel bag with the gun case and the box of ammo from the safe. John would have to repack the whole bloody bag, because it was really too heavy to drag on a three-day hike.

"Okay. Okay. I'm done," he said, turning into Sherlock's warm hug. He looked up at that beloved face with it's sculpted cheekbones. The pale blue eyes were dark, almost a gun-metal grey. The torch-light glittered in his eyes.

"Sherlock," said John softly, his arms wrapped around a thin but very warm waist. "Before I do anything else, I'm going to have to look for someone, a friend who might be in trouble. I don't know what you…"

"John, I would prefer to have this discussion up top. You are shivering uncontrollably…"

"Actually, I won't discuss it up top, because I don't trust most of those people up there," said John his voice hardening.

"Alright, John, then tell me, where you did you get this notion that your friend might be in trouble? Who, exactly, is this friend?" said Sherlock. "John I am aware that you've been seeing and perhaps hearing things that aren't there, including a vision of Sebastian Moran."

Fuck and bloody hell. The two-ton elephant in the room just got up and sat on John H. Watson. Bloody buggering fuck.

John realized that it was remarkably hard to think with a metaphorical elephant sitting in your lap.

Sherlock wasn't finished, "John can you swear that you are not seeing or hearing things that are not there?"

The army doctor chewed his lip; his forehead resembled a roadmap of wrinkles as he tried to think his way out of this bloody morass.

"John Watson, we need to go. We need to go home and leave these missions behind. You are injured and ill and require medical care," said Sherlock, stroking John's hair in imitation of how John always soothed him.

FUCK! The defective may have said medical care but John Watson heard mental ward. In fact, John could almost hear the doors slamming shut, locking him inside the psychiatric unit.

Sherlock wants to send me away, screamed John inside his hastily rebuilt mental fortress. Fuck that. Fuck the fucking ghosts. Fuck the bloody fucking hospitals! Fuck. Fuck. Bloody buggering FUCK!

'Plan B! Sound retreat! Run for the hills,' yelled the idiotic mini-soldier in his mental fortress.

And Moran was right in front of John. He suspected that John wouldn't trust Sherlock now. Sherlock tightened his grip on John. Oh God, of course Sherlock knew. He knew, that John knew about the hospital. Sherlock was going to force John into some mental ward.

And Moran was pointing to the rest of the files. And then pointing to Sherlock. He smiled at John, oh so friendly, considering he was a fucking, evil, phantom. John didn't trust Moran even more than he didn't trust Sherlock. I am so fucked, thought John, not for the first time that night.

Still, John slipped out of the detective's grasp and grabbed the rejected files. He shoved them at Sherlock. "Check these out first, Sherlock. Then we'll go up top and um, then we'll decide what to do, okay. I'll do whatever you think is best," said the blond, trying to placate the genius.

Sherlock looked askance at his blogger, immediately suspicious of John's rapid acquiescence. John smiled blandly, further fueling the detective's disquiet.

Irritated, Sherlock glanced at the folders, quickly discarding the first two. Then he froze. The next file was labeled Jim.

Oh…

He opened it; the very first letter confirmed Sherlock's suspicions about the smuggling ring in Cardiff, the one that Moriarty had so obviously organized. But there was never any proof, until now.

The next page was useless. The next two might have been helpful years ago. He tossed them aside.

The next several were handwritten letters to Moran. They were open and revealing. They might help solve the puzzle who James Moriarty really was…'OH! This is Christmas,' thought Sherlock.

Sherlock was enthralled, as he greedily read by the light of his pocket torch.

The Colonel grinned his evil, tosser grin and nudged John, numbing John's arm with the cold.

"C'mon Johnny-boy," said Cam. "Your mates up top have had enough and they're comin' down. Yeah, that detective fellow is already shimmying down the rope. And that fuck-head, Mitchell, is all set to personally escort you to hospital. I don' think he likes you, Johnny. I sure as fuck don't like him. Som'thin's up with that one," growled Cam. Like a brother, Cam picked on John relentlessly but was ready to fight with anyone else who so much as sneezed at John. Mitchell was definitely on Cam's bad side now.

John hesitated. He did not trust Moran. He sort of trusted Micky and Stew and even that idiot, Cam. He wanted to trust Sherlock, but Sherlock had just said that John needed to go to hospital.

Fuck.

The trip to the psych ward was a NO GO.

John edged his way back to the rope leading up to the trap door. The soldier hefted his duffel. It was too heavy. He dropped it and offloaded some of the water, a rifle and ammo (not The Rifle, of course) and then some more water. Hell, he only needed to carry tiny bit of water, he had the filter and iodine tabs now.

Lestrade was finishing his descent.

"Hey Greg!" said John, as if they had parted ways only yesterday. "I found the ladder," added John, innocently.

He pulled a very long rope ladder out from under the rubbish. A ladder that Moran had just helpfully pointed out. That damned, imaginary, glowing, sneaky, son-of-a-bitch wanker from bloody hell.

"How're you feeling, John," asked the detective inspector carefully. Once more, John heard the doors of the psych ward slamming.

John tied the ladder to the rope which swayed as O'Brien shimmied down next.

"Good, great. I'm great. Just, um cold. Sherlock wants me to go up top to wait and warm up, right Sherlock?" said John.

Sherlock grunted his assent; then he muttered some deductions while he waved his papers around.

"Hey, you guys," John called up. "As soon as O'Brien gets down here and before you send Irene, pull up this ladder. There are hooks right up there; I forget which side they're on."

Lestrade was rubbing his arms vigorously, "Yeah it is cold all of a sudden," John casually looked away from Micky, who backed away from the detective inspector with an apologetic look on his handsome, nearly transparent face.

"Say, how'd you know that Irene was next in line?" asked the very suspicious and overly snoopy detective inspector.

John was saved from answering when he was enveloped in O'Brien's huge bear hug. Lestrade's frown turned into an insufferable smirk, as John disappeared in the taller womans embrace. The army doctor blindly tugged on the rope to signal Mitchell and Irene to pull up the ladder.

As long as Sherlock was otherwise engaged, John allowed himself to share a chaste, well almost, chaste kiss with his business partner.

"And that's how the legend of Three Continents John Watson was born," said Micky smugly. After all, it was the sergeant who came up with the nickname for John 'Three Continents' Watson in the first place.

"Johnny are you alright?" asked Alisa breathless from her descent and John's exuberant greeting. "I mean, you sounded a bit…goofy there for a while, Johnny."

"And I've asked you not to call me Johnny," he said, his grin fading as he looked at his boyfriend who was engrossed with those damned files. He dragged his gaze back to the tall woman in his arms and plastered a smile on his face. "Anyway, Alisa, I'm fine. I guess I just jarred my brains when I fell, and everything was a little foggy for a few minutes. But I'm fine now. I just need to go up top. Orders of his Highness over there." John nodded his head at the consulting detective, who was on about something.

"No, No, No!" expostulated the tall brunet, angrily shaking the file. "That can't be right. He can't possibly have known that before I did…" his baritone gradually lowered in volume,but he continued to mutter and gesture to himself.

"And they think you're crazy?" asked Cam in disbelief.

John managed to ignore the imaginary phantom, who gaped at Sherlock's antics.

"So, um, I'm supposed to go up top," repeated John, "and I sorta need to relieve myself anyway. And you need to get your loan payback outta that briefcase over there, and make sure you take whatever you want of the jewelry. You better hurry before Mitchell and that Woman come down and scarf it all up."

"Oh trust me, I will, Johnny," said Alisa finally releasing him from her hug. "But Irene's not all that bad, Johnny."

They all looked over when the ladder dropped with a whoosh. Mitchell immediately began to climb down pushing ahead of Irene Adler.

"I'll explain about her later, Johnny," said O'Brien, who turned and trotted over to collect on John's debt before that Mitchell could interfere.

"I'm not so sure that you can just give away that money, John," said the policeman with pursed lips.

"You go stop her then," said John. He figured O'Brien was more than a match for Greg Lestrade. The army captain turned to face Mitchell, who nodded stiffly at John.

"Hey, Mitchell," said John trying to sound friendly and sane. Mitchell seemed unconvinced.

"That mess of paperwork was Sherlock's way of sorting," the blond pointed at the files littering the floor in the ersatz living area. If you guys are looking for evidence, it's probably over there," said John disingenuously.

"Yeah, I'll check it out. Just don't go anywhere with that bag," said Mitchell eyeing the duffel.

"Course not. Are you afraid I'm going to smuggle these MRE's outta the country?" said John, with his arms crossed over his chest.

Mitchell caught sight of Alisa O'Brien pocketing stacks of money. He turned away from John.

"Hey, you! O'Brien! You can't just take that money," yelled Mitchell, who stormed over, followed by Lestrade.

The Woman was making her way down faster now. John remembered how she escaped through a second story window wearing nothing but Sherlock's coat, like Cat Woman, thought John.

Her eyes were already locked on the money and jewelry and the three people arguing in front of the oblivious detective.

In spite of his dislike for Irene Adler, John felt he had to hold the ladder steady as she climbed down with her cat-like agility.

"Where's Ahsan and Morstan?" asked John.

"Oh, Mary went looking for Ahsan a while ago, I'd guess that she found him," said Irene Adler, with that oily, know-it-all voice that John really despised. "They'll turn up in a little while, pretending that nothing is going on between them."

She hopped off the ladder and, having no interest in John Watson, she hurried to join the now heated discussion.

"Let's go man," said Micky. The Colonel looked intently at John, willing him to head up the ladder. John looked at O'Brien, who seemed to have found an ally in Ms. Adler. John's money was on the two women.

John put one foot on the ladder, and then suddenly John pivoted and started walking back to Sherlock.

Stuart Collins held out a hand, painfully freezing the center of John's chest. The ghost whipped his hand away, frowning at John's grimace of pain.

"Sorry, John. I didn't realize…" said the one time army captain. "But, look, now's your chance. They're all busy. And you can't trust that damned Sherlock Holmes. Mitchell's been telling everyone that he cleared his fucking hospital scheme with Holmes first. You've got to go now."

John hefted his duffel and began the climb up the ladder. His heart hurt from the realization that Sherlock was so willing to just send John away to a mental ward. His left hand and arm hurt too, of course, but they were as nothing compared to his bleeding heart.

A/N *I hope that I did not offend anyone who is red-headed or cares about anyone who is red-headed. I simply couldn't resist the Mycroft joke. As usual, I blame John. I do not personally hold any grudges against redheads, gingers or people with auburn hair. One of my best friends has red hair although it is thinning a bit now. Really.

BTW, John likes red-heads too. He sort of doesn't like a certain redheaded master the universe who pretends to be a minor functionary of the British Government. But otherwise he likes gingers. John very much likes a certain consulting detective who has used red hair for his disguise.

Anyway.

Thank you to everyone for reading this fic. The updates are taking longer than I'd like but I truly appreciate your patience. Thank you, thank you for continuing with this fic,

A special THANK YOU to everyone who has been reviewing this fic. including EJ12212012, InuChimera, foxeeflame, SamuelE8688, I'm Nova, power0girl, Nevyn, Wicked Winter and Quiet Time. Thank you all for your wonderful and helpful reviews.

Disclaimer I own no rights to Sherlock. But I wish that I did. But I don't.