Monday, 19 April 2010

"Oh, John, she's lovely," Irene said, smiling at the picture on the screen. He'd taken it two Saturdays ago, at the park, when Lizzie had run off to chase pigeons. Lizzie was too young to fully understand the divorce between Clara and Harry, but Clara had full custody and was raising her right. Though it broke John's heart, that meant raising her away from Harry's self-destructive influence.

Thank God Clara was willing to let him be a part of Lizzie's life, though his exact role was still up in the air. Not that he was cut out to be a father. Really, all he'd done was provide the genetic material from the Watson side of the family. All very scientific and clinical, right down to leaving his name off the official papers, except for the necessary legal records at the clinic.

"How old is she?"

"She'll be three in September."

Irene glanced at John, then back at the screen, and softly said, "She looks like you."

John shifted uncomfortably and said, "Yes, well. A disproportionate number of children are born with blond hair and blue eyes. She'll grow out of it."

"Mmm, if you say so." Too polite to disagree, she said, "I'd love to meet her one day."

He stared at her, seeing the calm, certain way she met his gaze. Finally, he looked away, wishing that Kate would come in already and interrupt. "No one knows, except Harry and Clara. My name isn't even on the birth certificate."

"I won't breathe a word," Irene promised, finally opening the text rather than staring at John's background picture. "'Need your help. Save me from a social nightmare. I'll do anything in return.' Signed 'Jim'," she read curiously. "The one who's been subbing for you for the last two weeks?"

"God, has it only been two weeks?"

"That's all you've told me about," Irene said, looking over as Kate finally entered, carrying a tray of deep, round coffee cups. "I take it that you've been enjoying yourself?"

"Immensely, though it's... turned a bit odd," John said, leaning forward to take the offered coffee. "Thanks, love. You know, I don't know what I've missed more — work or the after-hours drinks."

"I don't even rate a spot on your list?" Kate asked, pouting at him before she extended the tray to Irene.

"Cheeky girl," Irene scolded, picking up her cup. "Odd, how?" she asked John. Kate took the last cup and sat down at Irene's feet, leaning against her leg.

"I went over — Speaking of which, you can go ahead and start actually booking me with clients," he added sternly to Kate. "I'm not an invalid. I'd like to get back to actually working."

Kate avoided meeting his eyes. "Yes, Captain."

"I told her to go easy," Irene said, stroking Kate's hair. "But if you're certain —"

"I am," he interrupted.

"Then you can go ahead and book him through Christmas," she told Kate.

"Anyway," John continued, "I went over there, and this 'party' of his was fancy dress or white tie. And no, I didn't wear leather."

"Even I might be tempted to pay to see you in a proper tuxedo," Irene said thoughtfully.

"Try American Marine battle dress — complete with weapons," John said wryly. "As in, an extremely illegal automatic rifle, with ammunition."

Irene frowned just slightly as she sipped her coffee. Her other hand paused, fingers threaded lightly through Kate's hair. "I see."

"It's all a bit too easily explained," John said bluntly. "He's a barista — obviously a good one, perhaps even better than you, Kate. Then no, he's not; he's only doing it to have a bit of spending money while his lawyer sorts out a financial mess. And by the way, he owns a very expensive loft in a better part of town."

"It sounds —"

"Not done yet," John interrupted grimly. "Then he's actually got a bloody doctorate in maths, and he worked in government, which is how he ended up getting into this financial mess in the first place. Oh, and by the way, some of his investment partners may not be what they seem, so I end up going to this party with him as his bloody bodyguard."

Irene resumed her idle petting, staring distantly over John's shoulder. "It does seem a bit unlikely."

"A bit," John agreed bluntly. He set down his coffee cup and reached beneath his shirt collar to take off the identity tags he was still wearing, though he couldn't quite explain why. "And then, when we were in the car on the way to the party, he gave me these."

Kate took the offered tags and passed them to Irene. "Sterling silver?" she asked immediately, weighing them in her palm.

"The name, Irene."

She held the tags up, looking at the engraved name. "It's yours."

"I never told him my middle initial."

Irene frowned, running her thumb over the engraving. "Perhaps he saw it in your wallet? Did you pay for dinner with a credit card at some point?"

"I don't use my middle name. It's nowhere except in my records — medical, school, and military."

"So which one did he see?" Irene asked softly.

John nodded. "More to the point, what was he looking for?"


John snapped awake, slapping his left hand down to the holstered SIG concealed under the duvet as he opened his eyes to see a faint glow. The SIG was fitted to his palm before he recognized the buzzing vibration of a text alert, attenuated by the makeshift cardboard bedside table he still hadn't yet replaced with actual furniture.

He let go of the SIG and snatched up the mobile, heart pounding. Beyond the light from the tiny screen, his room was as dark as the caves where he'd led his men, sometimes to hunt the enemy, sometimes into a trap.

How long does it take for a gunshot wound to stop bleeding?

"Fucking hell," he whispered, fingers fumbling over the keyboard as he realized Sherlock had done something stupid again.

Why are you texting me? Go to A&E. How did you get shot?

He fired off the text as he kicked off the blankets. Unless Sherlock was in a different country — which wasn't outside the realm of possibility — John would have to go find him. Otherwise, it might take an hour to talk him into going to hospital or calling emergency services. He got out of bed and started typing another text as he went for his dresser.

Call 999. Where are you?

He put the mobile down on the dresser, opened the drawer, found pants and socks. The mobile glowed and buzzed again, apparently set to vibrate mode, which was odd. Every time he accidentally set his phone to vibrate and someone rang, he jumped like he'd been stung.

The warehouse. I need you here. It's safe now, I promise.

He balanced, one hand on the dresser, and got into his pants. He tossed the socks onto the bed and opened the wardrobe to find jeans. The movement finally got his blood flowing and chased the last fog of sleep and nightmare from his brain.

He dropped the hanger and snatched at the phone, only then realizing it wasn't his phone. It was the BlackBerry.

His first thought was that he'd answered it. If the texts were a trap, he'd fallen for it without hesitation, because he was half-asleep and he really could see Sherlock getting himself shot.

But god, what if it wasn't fake? Could he really take that risk?

Of course not. But he didn't have to rush in blindly.

What warehouse?

It took Sherlock (or whoever it was) a minute to answer, long enough for John to put on his socks and one of his old, washed-soft T-shirts. It was sand-coloured, meant to be worn under a uniform, but it was comfortable and he'd hide it under a black button-down and jumper.

The one where he took you. It seemed fitting. I brought him here for you.

For a moment, John stared at the text, not even breathing. It was Sherlock. It had to be Sherlock. John would still go in cautiously, treating it as enemy territory, but somewhere inside, he believed.

I'm on my way.

Leaving the blue jeans on the floor of the wardrobe, he found black jeans instead, and used one foot to pull out his black combat boots. A glance at the bedside clock showed it was just after three in the morning; he'd had less than an hour of sleep. He'd worked with less, and night was actually better for him. At night, he knew how to be invisible.


Mycroft's mobile blared out an alarm to wake the dead, wrenching him from the comfort of sleep in a daze. He rolled over and picked up the BlackBerry, calming his mind at once before his thoughts could stray to considerations of nuclear or chemical or biological attacks. He'd already had his nuclear scare for the year courtesy of his dear brother. Besides, this wasn't the national security alert klaxon, though it was a matter of urgency.

Surveillance Team MECHANIC found incapacitated. Subject PILOT missing. Visual search of surveillance footage reveals anomalous visitor to PILOT's residence. Subject identified as Sherlock Holmes. PILOT's residence clear and vacant. Request further instructions.

Mycroft's first instinct was that he was still dreaming. Why on earth would Sherlock be at Sebastian Moran's residence? What precisely did 'incapacitated' mean? The team assigned to watch Moran was made up of Mycroft's finest covert operatives — a necessity, given the formidable skills of their target.

He threw back the blankets and rose to get dressed. His team lead would be giving proper orders. Already, the photo analysts would be swarming to the office to review CCTV footage and find Moran's location. The area for four blocks around his residence had been saturated by new cameras; if he was out of the house, with Sherlock or not, his analysts would find which way he'd gone.

As he crossed to his ensuite, he dialled the photo analysis desk. He gave his identification and said, "Review the feed at two-hundred-twenty-one bee Baker Street. I need a location for subject Sherlock Holmes."

"Please hold, sir."

He switched the mobile to speaker and pressed mute so he could quickly shave. Apparently, he wouldn't be sleeping any time soon. After drying his face, he sent a quick text to his driver.

"Sir," the analyst said, as Mycroft was heading for his walk-in closet.

"What do you have for me?" He turned off speaker-mode and tucked the phone against his shoulder so he could sort through his suits. The dark charcoal would show the fewest wrinkles, just in case he needed to nap on the sofa for a few minutes. He chose an aggressive red and gold silk tie to offset the muted shade of the suit.

"Mr. Holmes departed the residence at twenty-one-fifty-one yesterday, sir. He hasn't returned."

"Thank you," Mycroft said automatically, disconnecting the call as a pit of ice started to form in his stomach. Whatever was happening, the odds that his wayward brother was involved had just gone up substantially.


The bullet went all the way through my arm, two inches below my shoulder.

Through as in entry and exit wounds? Or is it a graze?

A graze, I think. I couldn't see clearly through my sleeve, and if I unwrap it, the bleeding will get worse.

Is it wrapped tightly? You need to keep pressure on it.

Yes.

All right. Try not to move.

Are you close?

I'll be there as soon as I can. Fifteen minutes at most.


The last text was a lie; John had already arrived and scouted enough of the area to know no one was obviously lurking about on guard. He sent the text from the weed-choked yard where he'd been pulled out of the car boot six weeks earlier. He immediately turned off the mobile and hid it in an inside pocket of his jacket, and then did the same with his other phone. The last thing he needed was the noise of a text giving away his location.

After a moment's consideration, he set his cane aside. He'd have to move quietly, quickly, and the cane would just get in his way. If things got ugly, he'd be able to push past the pain. Worrying about escape would come later, if he made it that far.

He drew the SIG and silently unclipped the holster, switching it to the outside of his jeans so the hard plastic edges didn't press against his back. Then he leaned against the building, eyes closed, taking deep breaths as he reviewed what he remembered of the interior. Thank God he'd thought to return a couple of weeks ago. More than one of his fellow soldiers had mocked his habit of collecting dirt wherever he went, but this time, it been an opportunity to get the layout of the building.

Since he'd left his flat fifteen minutes ago to find a taxi, he'd been fighting the urge to call for backup. If Murray and Vanterpool ever found out he'd gone in alone, they'd kill him themselves, but that was fine. They weren't soldiers anymore, signed up to risk their lives for queen and country and their fellow soldiers. They were civilians, and John had no right to ask them to bleed for him. They'd already done everything they could to help; the rest was up to him.


At this late hour, the London streets were unusually empty, though not deserted. The car idled at a red light, and Mycroft fought to hide impatience and anxiety. He caught himself tapping a finger on his mobile and clenched the plastic tightly to stop himself.

It took an interminable ninety seconds for the light to change, and another fifteen for his agent to finally speak: "Sir. We have confirmation from the taxi driver. He dropped them off in Croydon, at —"

"The warehouse." Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose as he disconnected the call. He pressed the intercom to his driver and said, "Change of plans. Croydon, all possible speed. Break laws."

As the car lurched forward, Mycroft dialled his beta team leader, currently in charge of the hunt for Moran and Mycroft's meddling brother. "Get your team to Croydon," he ordered, giving the address of the warehouse. "Surround the building but take no further action without my orders."


John moved as quietly as he could down the hallway, the ache in his leg all but forgotten. Cautiously, he looked into each room that he passed. On the street side, faint light shone through broken windows; the rooms at the back of the building, facing another wall of brick and glass, were too dark for him to see more than a few feet. He didn't dare turn on his torch, even though the red lens would keep his nightvision mostly unaffected.

The only light in the building was up ahead, in the room where John had been held six weeks earlier. The light was at an odd angle, as if it came from a torch dropped on the floor. Methodically, John worked his way towards it, keeping his eyes averted until he'd checked the last room. Then he stared at the glow that came through the doorway, giving his eyes a chance to adjust.

Just two weeks ago, he'd practiced nighttime urban infiltration, under Gottlieb's expert instruction. It had been a game, a challenge she'd issued once they were both bored of distance-sniping in the rain. Now, he was grateful for the practice.

Slowly, he knelt down, inhaling as he shifted the SIG to a steady one-handed grip. With his free hand, he took a signal mirror from his pocket. Holding it at a sharp angle, he slid it over in front of the open doorway, avoiding the beam of light, and tilted it so he could see.

The torch was on the floor, a small black Mag-lite — not the type of thing carried by security guards to club people over the head. Steel legs of a chair. Trainers, bare ankles surrounded by ropes binding them messily to the chair. John couldn't help but notice that the rope was thin, white clothesline, not meant for bondage. It was wrapped in tight loops crossing over themselves, messy but effective, and the visible knots looked secure.

He tilted the mirror a bit more and followed the steel lines of the chair up to hands, suntanned skin coated with blood, wrists cuffed through the bars at the back of the chair. Hiatt police-issue rigid cuffs. The chair was facing the far wall, so all he could see of the victim was fine silver-blond hair and a hint of profile.

Your enemy is in the military, the text had said two weeks ago. He remembered thinking the description could have been Colonel Moran.

Oh, Christ, he thought, heart jumping with sudden shock, because it was Moran.

He stopped himself from rushing in and instead deliberately made a noise. If it was Sherlock in there with a weapon, John had no desire to get shot because of a twitchy trigger finger. If it was someone else, perhaps he could lure his enemy into sight.

The bound figure immediately struggled, scraping the legs of the chair against the rough concrete floor, stopping only when a familiar voice growled, "Don't!"

Sherlock.

John threw caution to the winds and rose, rushing inside, sweeping the SIG through the room as he searched for threats — not that he could possibly classify what was actually a threat at the moment, because the only one who was armed was Sherlock, holding a matte black pistol aimed right at Colonel Moran's head.