Chapter 11: Provence, not a safe place for the witch

'Present, London – 2010 Thursday'

It was Thursday morning, and John knew that he should have been at work, or at least on the way, but he wasn't. He was still at home, (and in his pajamas) because he had come back from his mission very late, around midnight. The other reason was that he'd been injured. It wasn't bad,. just a few bruises, but Mycroft told him to stay at home for the day.

By the time John, Greg, and Mycroft had left the hospital the night before, it was already three in the morning. Mycroft told John as he was flagging down a taxi to go home that he didn't have to work in the morning. John suspected that his coddling was for a reason. He had never heard of agents being treated like that before. They had always been seen as soldiers, men that could be replaced., John had worked under these conditions for a long time. He wasn't used to being cared and treated like a human being, instead of a tool.

John's thoughts returned to the task ahead. The report of his last mission. He'd never had a problem writing down the details in the past, but this time, something was different.

Sherlock's blood covered his face. He was looking up with pleading eyes when split and bleeding lips whispered to him.

Although the words were so quiet as to almost be unheard or misunderstood, the meaning was clear.

RUN

The picture of Sherlock in his cell, cuffed in chains stayed burnt in his retinas, even after John closed his eyes. John forced himself to open his eyes again to look at the white screen of his laptop, and the still empty document. What could he write about this mission, one where he had broken the rules more than once? Where he had changed history? John shook his head and took another sip of his cold tea (how long had he been staring at the empty page?) and started to write.

Marseille, France, 1245 AD:

John entered the city from the north, he had left his time machine camouflaged near the front gate.

The target, Sherlock, was a suspect in prison after his condemnatory sentence. Agent J. H. Watson, witnessed the end of the sentencing.

People Attending: witness- male, around sixty, citizen of the city of Marseille. Former resident of the city of Paris. Worked as contractor, retired to Provence after inheriting his family's land.

Charge: the Target was declared guilty of witchcraft, being an accomplice of the devil, and gaining eternal youth from the devil.

Verdict given by Inquisitor Pere de Bristol, a confident man, around thirty years of age. - Sherlock was to be burnt at the stake at sunset.

John needed a break. There was a huge difference between writing down the facts of someone you don't know, and ... Sherlock. John had never had a case where the boundaries between work and his personal feelings had been crossed. He really needed to do something about it. He got up and went into the kitchen. He knew that he should eat something, but the thought of food made him nauseous. He finally decided that a fresh cup of tea would do him good.

While the water was boiling, John got his phone out. He really felt like he needed to get drunk- as soon as his report was done and it was a decent hour to get pissed.

'Tonight, the first round is on me. JW'

It only took Greg a second to answer. John figured that he probably had the phone next to him, in case he was needed at work.

'Ok, tell me when you're ready. I'll be finished around two. Not much to do here without you. GL'

John was glad that he had someone who understood him and didn't judge that he wanted to go drinking on a weekday afternoon.

John went into the bathroom, When he looked at himself in the mirror he could see the results of his adventure, not 24 hours before. A huge black eye covered most of the left side of his face. On his neck were the handprints of the man that had to hold him down. He lifted his shirt, where he saw blue, purple and green bruises covering his chest. Seeing himself like this made his hands shake, and the pain of his broken finger reminded him that he needed to take his next dosage of painkillers. John closed his eyes.

Flashes of his keeper's face appeared behind his eye ids. He couldn't forget the brutal hand that had held him down on the dirty ground, or the sickening noise as his finger was broken. He could clearly see Sherlock's scared eyes, and then there was darkness as John was knocked out by a hit to the face.

John sat down again with his tea in hand. He knew that the sooner he started to write again, the sooner he could get drunk to forget the pain and Sherlock's tears. The not quite empty page stared back him from the computer screen.

John entered the city through the north gate. He knew that the dungeon was located 1.2 km south-west of his current location.

He had no interactions with any civilians. His cover stayed intact, his language and dialect were manageable.

John remembered how it physically hurt him to stand still in the corner of the room, as an old man told his story about how he had worked with the defendant and that he hadn't aged the entire time. John had nearly shouted at the man and attempted to tear Sherlock away from the guards that held him down, even if he wasn't in any condition to move. He wanted nothing else than to take Sherlock as far away as possible away from the place where they had pronounced his death sentence a short time ago. He needed to talk to Sherlock, or at least to try to get to him. That was the moment that everything went wrong.

The physical condition of the target indicated severe torture over a long period of time. The method used to try to glean information was beating (there were bruises over every visible part of his body), whipping (had blood and open wounds on his back), and an all-round poor state of health.

The agent went into the dungeon to investigate. Target was found in a cell underground, in bad condition but able to talk. At around eleven in the morning, while interacting with the target, the guards discovered the agent and he was taken prisoner.

After being beaten for information, he was locked away with the target.

Result: two broken ribs, three bruised ribs, swelling on the left side of the face, a black eye and a broken finger. Order in which injuries were obtained is unknown.

As John opened his eyes again, he saw Sherlock in front of him. One eye was swollen and he was barely able to see his friend chained up, even as close as he was to him.

" ...You shouldn't have.. come here." Sherlock's one working eye watched as John sat up. He was only tied with a rope.

Ignoring the pain he tried to untie his bonds. "How did you end up here?" All the pressing matters, like how to escape, could wait for a moment. He needed Sherlock to focus on something else. They needed to get away from this prison and Sherlock's impending death. Somehow, they had to escape the pain and darkness inside this godforsaken place.

Sherlock must have understood John's intentions. "Notre Dame, it's still not finished, it needs a bit more time. Only a little while longer."

Sherlock coughed and John saw blood trickling down his lips. "I needed to leave Paris for a while, I'd stayed longer than I'd intended to. The first time I left I went north, the second time I went east and this time I went to south of France."

Sherlock leaned back against the wall. "It was not my best idea, or perhaps it was just a stroke of bad luck that I met the man on the street. He recognized me and accused me of witchcraft. The result of which is what you see now. Tonight they will burn me, and I will be dead again."

"What happens after you ... when they burn you?" John was sure that being immortal was fairly complicated.

"I'm not sure. Somehow, my body will either heal or regenerate. I'm not there when it happens. Since I am an immortal being, I've only died a few times." Even in death Sherlock could find something to hold on to. John could see that his fire wasn't gone. He'd seen it at Notre Dame. He knew that Sherlock would come back and finish his masterpiece.

After returning to consciousness, the target and agent were placed in the same cell. Agent determined that the target was still working at the construction site of Notre Dame. To remain hidden, he had moved away every few years. Target was recognized by one of his former workers and brought to trial.

After a last visit from the Inquisitor to offer the target a last chance to confess. Target helped to loosen the agent's rope. Agent was freed and left target in cell in order to keep history intact. Agent left area unseen and returned to the to time machine for his journey back.

John leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and ignoring his headache. He was done with the report. It wasn't his best work, but he was injured and under the influence of pain medication, so if someone asked, he could blame those reasons for what was probably his worst work ever.

When he looked over the report again, he couldn't find any evidence that it was too emotional. He had not been precise about the time, so they wouldn't find out that he had waited outside the town until the fire and smoke was gone. He didn't mention the talk they had and the emotion behind their words. There was no pain in this report, either Sherlock´s or his own.

He couldn't leave without Sherlock, but the look the man gave made it clear that he didn't have a choice. John knew if he stayed he wouldn't survive the interrogation, and wouldn't come back to meet Sherlock, who reminded him that he would survive. John wanted to see him again. But that was only possible if he left Sherlock behind and got away so the people wouldn't d burn him as well.

John knew that Sherlock would keep on working on Notre Dame, no matter what happened to him, he would finish his work. After he untied the ropes that bound his hands, he stood up and hugged Sherlock. Yes, he had done the same thing last time, since John had been desperate to see him, but not today. Today was a promise that they would meet again, to keep strong and don't give up. John couldn't do anything else because Sherlock asked him to leave, knowing what would happen soon.

Sherlock´s last look was burned into John's mind, but he swore to himself that he wouldn't cry. They'd promised to meet again. And he believed in Sherlock that they would. Leaving town wasn't as hard as John thought it would be. Everyone around him was excited to watch the witch burn, so John escaped unseen. As he reached the north gate, the first smoke appeared in the yellow-red sky.

He wanted to leave, to forget, but that wouldn't be fair. John climbed up on the next hill and watched the flames and smoke devour his friend. He waited many long hours until the last bit of smoke had been cleared away by the light breeze from the ocean.

'I´m done, you can pick me up whenever you want. JW'

'On my way. GL'

John got up, chose a new shirt, and changed into something you could wear outside your flat. The pajama pants fell to the floor. When John looked in his mirror, he didn't see the bruises or feel the suddenly realized that he'd n found what he was going to give Sherlock to remember him by. Glad that this horrible day had had one good thing happen in it, he finished dressing and decided that he wouldn't drink too much after all.

AN: Next weeks chapter: A punishment of God.