Fading Away

By SherryGabs

Rated: T

Sorry to say that John/Gibbs will not be reunited with his team in this chapter. But we are very, very close. So close you can headslap Tony if you want! Next chapter definitely.

Chapter 13

John stared down at the body for a moment breathing heavily. He almost felt a pang of guilt at taking the life of the man who had been his only… What?… Companion, friend?

"No, you were no friend. You were planning on killing me all along, weren't you, you bastard." John couldn't know for sure. But he was sure that at the last moment, it was either himself or Jonathan.

He wanted to get out of there. He searched Jonathan's pockets, taking the knife out of the back pocket and putting it in his own. From the sports coat pocket he found a money clip and a syringe. He dropped the syringe wondering what the small amount of liquid was that could have killed him. Shaking off the thought he pocketed the sixty-five dollars from the money clip. In the other pocket he felt that god awful remote control he despised and pulled it out. Studying it, he noticed the buttons had identifying abbreviations. A twisted smile formed as he thought of a suitable retribution for what he himself had been put through.

Pushing what he thought was the correct button, his eyes gleamed as the handcuffs and chain lowered from the ceiling. Tightly fastening the cuffs around Jonathan's wrists, he pushed another button and watched in fascination as Jonathan's body was jerked upright and pulled up to the ceiling by his arms. His head flopped back as he swayed above the floor.

John grabbed his denim jacket from the floor. Before leaving the glass room he turned and pushed one more button on the remote. He turned the lights on as high as they would go.

"I'm sure you're burning in your hell." He let the remote fall from his fingers. "You can bake in mine."

****************

Upstairs in the kitchen, John found the keys to the Cherokee where Jonathan had left them on a hook by the back door. His shoes were there also and he sat at the table to put them on. While putting his jacket on, he looked around to see if there was anything else he'd need. The only thing he grabbed was the flask of bourbon he'd laid on the table earlier.

Getting behind the wheel of the SUV, John reversed the direction in which they'd arrived at the house. It was only a couple of miles to the interstate and he decided to go back to Washington DC, to a place he was familiar with.

Along the way thoughts raced through his head. He had killed Jonathan. He knew it wasn't murder, but self defense. He might have went a little overboard afterward, but it still felt justified. He was completely on his own now, no one to answer to and no one to help him out but himself. Within his anger at Jonathan, he also felt abandonment. He'd done everything Jonathan had told him and what had been expected of him. Except maybe taking care of himself better. If he'd been stronger, he wouldn't have had to sleep in the streets and be hungry. But despite his loyalty, Jonathan had betrayed him; wanted to kill him.

Dwelling on these thoughts and others, John didn't notice how fast he was driving—until the siren behind him pulled him back to the here and now.

"Fuck!" he hissed. This was the last thing he needed. He had no license, was in a stolen vehicle, and had just killed someone.

Brief thoughts of trying to outrun the police car flashed through his mind, but he didn't want the entire Virginia State Highway Patrol on his tail. So, braking and signaling, John pulled over to the side of the freeway.

The highway patrolman got out of his car and slowly walked to the driver's side of the SUV, writing down the license number on his way. This gave John a quick few seconds to think of a plan while he rolled his window down.

"Sir," the officer had a slight southern drawl, "I clocked you going 87 miles per hour in a 65 mile per hour zone. You in a hurry for any specific reason?"

"No." John looked out at the slim, medium height man and figured he could probably take him.

"May I see your driver's license, registration and proof of insurance, please?"

"Don't have any."

The patrolman's stance instantly became more alert. "Then step out of the vehicle."

John held up his hands to show they were empty before slowly opening the door and getting out of the SUV. But instead of closing the door, noticing how close the officer was, he rammed the door into the man.

The cop didn't fall, but was struggling to keep his footing and dropped his ticket pad. John struck quickly, knocking the man to the ground. He punched his face and rolled him over, taking the handcuffs from their holder on his belt. While the officer was still dazed, John pulled his arms behind him and put the cuffs on him. He drug the cop to his own patrol car, opened the back door and hefted him up into the back seat. Closing the door, John glanced around, breathing heavily. There were few cars going in either direction on the interstate, but no one seemed to have paid any attention. He picked up the ticket pad from the ground and pulled off the top sheet that had the Cherokee's license number written on it. Ignoring the screaming and kicking coming from the patrol car, he tossed the pad back to the ground and got back in behind the wheel of the SUV.

From a sign a few miles back, John knew he was only about nine miles from Washington. He would have time to drive there and abandon the SUV before anyone would be looking out for it. It was registered in Jonathan's name anyway, not his.

It never occurred to him that the patrol car had a dash camera mounted and it had recorded the whole incident. By the time he reached downtown Washington, with increased traffic, forty minutes had passed. When he dropped off the Cherokee in a parking lot and wiped his prints with his shirt sleeve pulled down over his hand, another fifteen minutes had gone by. By then a BOLO with his description, and the vehicle's, had just been issued to all local precincts.

**************

John, now having some cash and clean clothes, treated himself to a steak dinner and beer at a casual bar & grille. It had been so long since he'd had something this tasteful and filling, he considered it the best meal he'd ever had. His lungs felt much less congested and he only coughed sporadically. But he must have still looked a bit peaked, because the fortyish-something waitress asked if he was okay as she laid the check on the table.

Seeing her instantly as the mothering type and slightly annoyed with himself that he felt gratitude, John assured her he was fine and handed her cash for the bill and her tip.

John walked along the busier streets of downtown DC as the hour drew later into the evening. The cash he had left would get him a cheap room for the night… very cheap, but it would be a hell of a lot better than sleeping in an alley again. Keeping an eye out for an inexpensive motel, he was brought up short in his musings by a woman stepping into his path.

"Hey, honey, you want some company?"

John had seen many hookers in the past few days… of every shape, look, age and color. This one momentarily took his breath away. Tall, leggy, very pretty face without too much makeup like most hookers used. Her ginger-red hair lay in natural waves around her shoulders and her body showed just the right amount of curves in her clingy green dress that was covered by a faux fur short jacket, left open to reveal her very attractive cleavage.

She smiled knowingly at the look in his eyes. "You are the handsomest man I've seen all evening." She lightly ran a scarlet-colored fingernail down his cheek and off his chin. "I can put some color in those cheeks."

Taking the words for what he knew they were—a sales pitch—he couldn't help the color that came to his cheeks as he swallowed down his embarrassment. Feelings that had laid dormant for so long were rising to the surface. He wanted her, but was sure her price was too high.

"Maybe some other time," John hated the choked sound of his voice.

Her face showed her disappointment and her mouth pouted. "Well, that is a shame, honey. If you change your mind, I'm usually along this block somewhere. My name's Heavenly."

John nodded as she walked past him and muttered "You certainly are" under his breath. He turned and kept his eyes on her slinky form until she became lost among others on the sidewalk.

He had a hard time getting Heavenly out of his mind. Her red hair and green eyes had awoke something in him that he didn't want to resist. But money was a problem. She'd want it up front, he was sure, so he'd need to get some cash quick.

Luckily for him, an opportunity presented itself just a few blocks later.

Passing an alley, John looked down it in time to see two men standing a little ways in. He saw a flash of money and stopped. Keeping his body hidden behind the corner of a building and peering around it, John saw the wad of money the dope dealer was adding to. The young man buying rocks took his prize and set off in the other direction. John saw his golden opportunity.

The dealer started walking slowly further into the alley, whistling and counting his cash. John silently followed him, withdrawing the switchblade from his back pocket and opening it. Grabbing the man's hair with his left hand, he pulled back, bringing the knife to the man's throat in one swift movement.

"Give me the cash and you walk away alive," he said in a cold, menacing voice.

"What the fuck?" the man snarled, startled at being snuck up on. "I ain't handing you shit!"

Before the man could gain courage enough to try and fight him, John pressed the knife into the dealer's skin with just enough force to draw a small amount of blood.

"I can easily slice you if you so much as twitch a muscle! Now slowly raise the hand with the money up." When the man showed no sign of doing this, John used his body to shove the dealer into the brick wall. "Now, asshole!"

"All right!" the man grumbled angrily. He did as instructed and carefully raised his hand with the wad of cash. "There's about two thousand there. Take it!"

John released the man's head and grabbed the money from his hand, quickly stuffing it into his jacket pocket. Not being ignorant of drug dealers, John knew the man probably had a gun hidden. Before the man could get any ideas of reaching for it, John once again grabbed his hair, pulled back and smashed his face into the brick wall. He released the dealer and let him fall to the ground unconscious.

John found the Glock in the man's waistband. Putting the knife in his back pocket, he kept the gun in his hand and backed away until he was sure the dealer wasn't going to wake yet. Before stepping back out onto the sidewalk, John put the gun in the back of his waistband and covered it with his jacket. Shaking off the wave of angry aggression that had taken hold, John retraced his steps in search of his angel named Heavenly.

He found her moments later, leaning over, talking to a man through his car window. He stood behind her and cleared his throat to get her attention. She stood up and smiled when she saw who it was.

"Change your mind, handsome?" she asked, posing provocatively.

He nodded and pulled just the corner of the cash in his pocket out so she could see he was prepared to pay.

Heavenly wiggled her fingers good-bye to the man in the car and gave John her full attention. The bald, fat guy in the car gave John a scathing look before driving off.

"How much?" John asked.

"Fifty for a blow job." She moved closer to him. "One hundred and fifty for straight sex." She reached and rubbed her finger down the buttons of his shirt, her tongue wetting her lips. "What'll it be?"

John could feel himself heating up and he swallowed the impulse to shove her up against the building behind them and seeing just how good those glossed lips tasted.

"Straight sex. You gotta room?"

She pointed to a building two doors down. "Right there." She hooked her arm through his and winked at him. "You're gonna love it."

They climbed up two sets of dimly lit steps and down a dismally dreary hallway to a room. Heavenly unlocked the door and preceded John inside, closing it behind him. The room was just as dreary as the stairs and hallway. A sagging full-size bed took up most of the room. A dresser, nightstand, small table and chair filled the rest. All of which had seen better days. An open door led to what was obviously a bathroom and a second closed door he assumed to be a closet. She laid her small purse on the dresser and removed her jacket, hanging it over the chair.

John closed the distance between them and attempted to put his hands on her waist to pull her against him, but she held him back by pushing on his chest. "Money up front, sugar."

He sighed his displeasure, "Name's John."

She giggled. "That's original."

His jaw tensed slightly, but he realized she probably did hear that name a lot, real or not. He turned away so she couldn't see just how big the wad of cash was and peeled off a fifty and a hundred. Replacing it back in his pocket, he turned back around and handed her the hundred and fifty.

She took it from his fingers, folded it and placed it in the low-cut neckline of her dress. "Why don't you get comfortable while I go hang this dress up."

His eyes followed her into the bathroom. She didn't close the door, but stayed out of sight behind it. He released a heavy breath of anticipation and sat down on the bed.

John started to remove his jacket when the door to the room suddenly burst open. Four men came through, badges hanging from around their necks. The first two coming through had guns raised and aimed at him.

"Metro Vice! Hands up!" the two loudly shouted at once, rushing towards him.

Eyes wide in shock and survival mode kicking in, John's first instinct was to go for the gun behind his back. But before he could even reach back, his common sense told him he didn't have a chance.

"I said hands up!" one of the cops with a gun shouted again.

John closed his eyes briefly, realizing he'd been caught in a sting operation. Walked right into it. He cursed himself and his stupidity while he slowly raised his hands into the air.

"Put them behind your head and stand up."

John interlocked his fingers behind his head and stood up. Immediately, the two officers who weren't holding guns came up and each grabbed a wrist, forcing them behind his back. A plastic cable tie was placed around them and locked into place. While the first two officers continued to cover him, the other two searched his pockets.

'Heavenly' came out of the bathroom at this time, still in her green dress. John's glare should have smote her right then and there.

"Gun!" one of them said sharply holding up the Glock 9mm. He removed the clip and set both on the table. "Got a license for this?"

John's negative shake of his head confirmed the cop's suspicion.

The other found the knife in his back pocket. He opened it and studied the blade. "There's a little blood on this and it looks fresh."

The last to be removed from his pockets was the cash and flask. The officer counted the cash, including the hundred and fifty that the female vice officer handed over.

"Two thousand, thirty-five. That's a hefty amount to be carrying around. Where did it come from?"

John just shrugged and said, "Payday."

"You don't have a wallet or ID?"

John shook his head no.

'Heavenly' held up her badge and announced in a voice that no longer had a sultry overtone, but completely businesslike.

"You are being charged with attempted solicitation of a prostitute, possession of an unlicensed firearm and…"

As she went through the charges and then told him his Miranda rights, John's mind tried to fathom the amount of trouble he was in. And they didn't even know about everything else he'd done in the past few days. Assault on police officers would not go over lightly.

"Do you understand these rights as I have read them?" she asked, looking at the man who looked a little lost.

"Yeah," John muttered.

"Take him out to the truck with the others," she instructed with a heavy sigh, thanking God she didn't have to go back out on the streets in those heels.

"Nice job tonight, Kiley," one of the officers complimented her as the others took John out the door. "This guy looks like a real bad boy."

"Thanks, Glenn. It's a shame though," Detective Kasey Kiley frowned in retrospect. "He has the prettiest blue eyes."

**************

Besides John, there were five other men being led out of the truck and into the police station booking area. They were all put into a holding cell together, having their hands released from the ties as they entered it. The other cells were also crowded; must have been a busy night for crime in DC. John took up one corner of the room and stood there, waiting his turn. The cell felt confining, reminding him too much of the one he'd spent all those months in. He wanted to pace, but there was no room.

One of the vice officers had asked for his name before being put into the truck, needing it for the charge sheet he was filling out. When all he got was 'John' for a name and nothing else, he became a bit pissed and just wrote 'Doe' for the last name.

So when John heard the name John Doe finally being called, he knew it was him they wanted. Having paid attention as the others had been led out, he knew to put his hands through the slot in the door to await handcuffs being put in place before they would open the door.

As he was being booked, with what very little information he gave them, and then fingerprinted John caught the attention of the supervisor. The man searched his desktop for the papers he wanted. One was the BOLO placed earlier that day and the second was a printout of the face of the man who'd assaulted a state highway patrol officer. The dash cam video had been reviewed and photos of the assailant had been sent to all police stations in a fifty mile radius just two hours before.

He compared the photo to the man standing at the counter. It was him. What were the chances of that?

John stood at the counter, his hands involuntarily pulling at the handcuffs, wanting them off badly. Finally finished, he was led to a doorway where the officer there estimated his size and handed him a jailhouse orange outfit and paper slippers.

As John was being led back to his holding cell to change, the supervisor came to the officer who had booked John and showed her the photo and BOLO. "I want his arraignment held off as long as possible. The boys upstairs are gonna want to see him."

It would be the next afternoon before John was taken to an interrogation room and interviewed for the first time. Once again in handcuffs, attached to a wide leather belt around his waist so he couldn't raise his hands very far. He thought he would go nuts if he had to stay in that cell any longer. The cell, the cuffs, it was all too much too soon since he'd gained his freedom. He'd gone from one prison to another and it wasn't sitting well with his psyche.

The interview didn't go well. The only information John would give was his name and when asked about the gun, bloody knife, and money he only said he found them.

In the less than twenty-four hours since the photo of him had been released, the detective interviewing John had received notice that the same man had assaulted two police officers in Arlington and a park maintenance worker here in the city. When asked about these occurrences, John just shrugged and didn't say a word.

Detective Terry Rhinehold had been pretty perturbed by the end of the interview, wanting to pull some words from the prisoner's throat by hand if he had to. An hour after the interview, sipping coffee and going over notes from another case, Det. Rhinehold was interrupted by a lab tech.

"Finally got a fingerprint match on the John Doe down in holding. I think you might be interested."

Terry yanked the paper from the tech and studied the picture of the same man as John Doe, but with shorter hair and a bit healthier looking. The name Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, N.C.I.S. was below the picture. He read on and stood up when he saw that his prisoner been reported missing last November.

"The guy's a fed?" He read the paper again, noting the contact information. "You start processing the evidence we found on him yet?"

"Not yet, we're pretty backed up."

"Don't bother. Keep it in storage for now." Terry dropped the paper and picked up his phone. "I think I better make a phone call."

TBC

1. I really have no idea how much a hooker charges, so those amounts are just made up.

2. The name 'Heavenly' came from a movie Mark H. did with Elizabeth Taylor, "Sweet Bird of Youth". Heavenly was his young love from his hometown. I thought the name would work well here.

And if you're interested... the movie has a very naked Mark H. near the beginning. OMG! What a body! (swooning) LOL.