-ooo-
Sherlock reached the house's entrance door and looked around. He couldn't find anyone, but he didn't expect any less. If Captain Watson and Greg Lestrade were out there on a mission to protect them, they couldn't make themselves noticed. They were the silent backup, they made sure that incidents didn't take place.
-ooo-
'Can you see them, Sherlock?' Mary asked, preoccupied, from the back of Lestrade's mini-van.
Mary Watson was a woman that privileged a fair amount of cold reasoning. That was how she had gone through several governmental agencies and two rouge agencies and come out safely on the other side. That was how she had survived difficult circumstances growing up. That was how she had come to understand Sherlock Holmes, the genius of Baker Street, and read him almost like an equal. But ever since that bullet – the one she had herself recovered from the stream and was keeping to herself as a prized souvenir – her reasoning had fallen to the most basic levels of working standards. The shock to the system, the realisation of her own physical frailty, of the invisible strings of chance that ruled the universe, had taken a toll on her.
In one thing her mind kept clear and her heart called for; the company of John Watson.
Too bad he was out there playing the hero again.
Playing a very secret hero, too.
Sherlock shook his head. He couldn't make out John or Greg in the landscape. He didn't expect any less from the former army captain. John would keep an efficient camouflage on his and Lestrade's actions behind them. To keep the secret from possible back-up teams of the men Greg had arranged to be incarcerated, and also secret from Sherlock, Mary and Molly. The advanced team of three didn't necessarily require secrecy about the back-up team advances. Only one scenario granted an advantage to this strategy of keeping Sherlock in the dark. The detective knew it. And he hated it. He had not agreed with John to this. John was going rouge on their plan. Like the captain would do only when one true mission was on his mind: to keep them safe.
John had one plan up his sleeve, one that made Sherlock's teeth grind in anger. When everything else failed, John was planning to become bait.
Not even Greg knew that.
Luckily Mary was too beside herself to make the obvious math and she didn't know yet.
Only Sherlock knew. And he was livid.
He – and Mary – and Molly – were obviously in the wrong team. How had he let that happen? Oh, yes...
'Feeling better, Mary?'
'I feel like I've been shot. Which, coincidently, I have', she admitted with a smirk but not much more emotion. They were alone at the moment. Why engage in the traditional social conventions? Sherlock was surely quite aware of what it was like to have been shot, and the feelings turmoil that came with it. (He even had her to "thank" for that experience.)
'Fair enough', he conceded, choosing to sound as cold as her. 'John would have wanted me to ask anyway.'
'John should be here', she blurted out. 'How, again, did he convince us to go on without him?'
Sherlock smirked to the landscape with no one in sight. 'He pulled our leg by being more rational than us, Mary.'
'Oh, yes. Greg's in for a surprise. Captain Watson's short temper bursts.'
'I often wondered how I managed to live with him.' Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'He was really touchy when I practised my aim shooting at the walls... He never did see the one time I used daggers. I had planned to convince him that moths had eaten the wallpaper, of course.'
'Sherlock, you don't have to try to cheer me up', she saw right through him. 'I'm really worried about John, and about us too, but I can handle it.'
'You were shot, Mary', he said in a caring tone. She smiled softly.
'It's a bit nastier than you and John had let on, Sherlock. Too bad I can't get a refund.'
'Who's doing the cheering up now?' he smiled too.
'I can see what John sees in you, Sherlock', she told him seriously. 'No wonder you are his hero.'
'Heroes don't exist, Mary. I just had to remind him that too. Didn't he tell you that?'
She frowned. 'What are you talking about, Sherlock?'
'We had... sort of a... fight. John and I.'
She could read him easily now. 'Whatever happened, he's always your friend, Sherlock. If this was about eating and sleeping again, that's just because he cares.'
Sherlock stopped talking as Molly finally approached. 'We should go.'
'Yes, Mary agreed, in the same business-like fashion. 'And it's about time, Sherlock, you came up with a plan. A better plan my husband's. You know I really love John, but his plans...' she depreciated. The detective had to bite a chuckle, in honour of his absent friend. Mary elaborated, despite Molly joining them: 'John's plans are all about bravery and honour, and action. We need a brainy plan, Sherlock. Between you and me. We need to come up with something nice.'
Molly glanced at Sherlock, confused. Surely he wasn't about to take the lead of John's wife? What else had she been besides an agent in the States? Why was Sherlock so interested in Mary?
Sherlock smiled a not so innocent smile. 'Think our plan needs a sniper? Seems a pity to waste a church steeple.'
In front of the detective, Mary mirrored his smile. This was going to be fun, Sherlock realised. It was like having a non-moral John by his side. Mary wouldn't be as insistent on keeping criminals alive and being discrete on firearm power. Mary on her good days was just as revengeful as Sherlock. Now injured and missing her other marriage half... For the first time ever in action, Sherlock just might become the pondered one... Nope! All hell could break lose as far as the consulting detective was concerned. They had hurt Mary, Sherlock would never stop Mary from exerting her revenge, reclaiming her power. He'd rather join in on the fun.
Only...
'Stop it, you two! Stop it.'
Molly's voice hadn't lost a certain squeakiness to it, but had otherwise gained an incredible amount of power as she threatened them with a steady gaze, heavy breathing and an expression that promised that she had just read Sherlock – if not both of them – to their core.
Suddenly, a small part of Sherlock was angry at how insightful had John's division by teams been.
Moral Molly was the new John.
Sniper Mary was also the new John.
All summed up to too many Johns around for Sherlock's liking. Sherlock just quieted down. Sulking, brooding, over the real John's absence.
-ooo-
Molly was driving the mini-van. Mary was riding shot-gun, as Sherlock, currently occupying all of the back seat, believed it was called. His hands were poised in his thinking pose, and only the rattle of the road kept him from being otherwise completely immobile.
They had been on the road for ninety-three seconds when the first gunshots echoed further back on the road.
Immediately Molly stepped on the pedal, jerking everyone in the van as they speeded up. Acrobatically, Sherlock went from almost falling off the long seat to peaking off the rear window in one slick movement. Obviously, there was no sign of either parties. There wouldn't be, at least of John's and Greg's. They had seen something, surely, recognised danger on the road, and reacted accordingly, mimicking the level of threat. With trembling cold fingers (when had his hands become so cold?) Sherlock traced patterns on his phone, sending out text messages for John.
«What happened? –SH»
«How many are they? –SH»
«Don't ignore me! –SH»
«John, if you don't answer, I'm going there! –SH»
«JOHN! –SH»
No answer to any of them, and the last one bounced back from a phone switched off.
'Turn back!' he demanded to a stunned Molly in the driver's seat.
'No.' Mary, calmly and in control, halted Molly with a reassuring gesture over her arm. 'Not until we know what is going on.'
'John's in trouble.'
'We don't know that', Mary reminded him bravely.
They were immediately interrupted by a text sound. Sherlock looked at the screen.
«We're fine. Piss off. Let us breath. Lestrade.»
Relief washed over Sherlock, as he reported the text.
-ooo-
Greg lowered his phone, knowing perfectly well that what he had just sent was a factual lie. They weren't fine. John wasn't fine yet. He'd be, though, in due time.
-ooo-
Greg hasted to help John off the stream, that flowed deeper under a pedestrian bridge by river. The doctor was wet to the bones, his drenched clothes clinging to his body, much leaner these days, his stiff shoulder locked stiff as pain emanated for every trait of his expression. Greg thought back on the recent events.
They had been walking alongside the margin of the road, taking advantage of the shallow ditch that ran along it to keep some cover. Of course they had started before the van had taken off and by the middle of the path the van had passed them by. Fine by John's standards, that seemed to believe that as long as them and the van were, at all times, within shooting distance, then they'd be fine.
And John had a good shooting range, too.
Just as they were reaching that pedestrian bridge, a simple unpretentious arched construction of wood, John had seen them.
Two military men, guns drawn by their sides, furtively stepping forward to the road and the passing van.
John hadn't hesitated.
He hadn't been particularly vocal or forthcoming either.
John had zoomed in on the bridge, walking into the stream until he was mid-waist in water and under the shadows the construction casted. He had taken his gun out and closely monitored the men's progress.
The unassuming mild-mannered doctor was gone. In his place was a strict lines dominant army captain in an incongruously comfy jumper, that had his right arm extended in a perfect line, two eyes locked on the target (only rookies close one eye, that's too straining on the open eye) and a domineering smirk.
'John?'
John hadn't even reacted. His right hand had followed slowly the men. Greg had cursed under his breath and hid behind an old tree, drawing his gun out as well. John would need backup. But that shot, the one that John was planning and Greg would have to mimic, was a 50/50 percent chance of hitting for the DI.
Before Greg had been able to talk, one of the men up ahead had taken his gun up, levelling it with the van, their friends, endangering Sherlock, Molly, Mary's lives.
Not in front of one former army captain, apparently.
John had shot first.
The man's gun had fallen down as the bullet got him in the shoulder. Immediately the second gunman had turned back at John and aimed.
Before John could do anything, Greg had shot his gun.
And he missed.
He had further alerted the enemy of their location. The gunman ignored his fallen partner and taken a dive behind a nearby tree. Immediately he had opened fire on John. He must have had spotted John and attributed him Greg's shot.
There was a very inappropriate giggle coming from John, that had been holding a gun in one hand, and his phone in the other.
(Why not read the newspaper while you're at it, John? You're allowing yourself to get distracted.) Greg had cursed him. And sure enough a new shot had cut John off his balance and into the stream's water. All the way in. John surfaced with a rapid blink, spitting the muddy water, stunned, dark blond hair plastered to his forehead.
Great, now both his phone and his gun were waterlogged. He was virtually defenceless, had realised Greg, grabbing his own gun tighter in his hand.
John had searched Greg in the margin with a look and cheekily winked at him, before diving back in the muddy waters, completely disappearing before Greg's eyes.
How was Greg supposed to follow that plan? Was there a plan? What would Sherlock have done? (Damn, John!)
Suddenly John had emerged on the other side of the bridge, just by the approaching gunman's side, jumping on him with a good punch and effectively managing to yank his gun off to the stream.
Greg had immediately run to the two men physically squaring their fight off. When he arrived by their side the enemy was out cold and John was smiling.
A very weak smile. Next second he had closed his blue eyes, his brows had knit together in a vulnerable expression that Greg wished he'd never see again, and fallen backwards into the stream.
Greg was already grabbing him under the arms to pull a breathing steadily but unconscious John from the muddy waters when his own phone biped. Damn it, Sherlock!
He had to lie, he couldn't waste time on consulting geniuses right now.
«We're fine. Piss off. Let us breathe. Lestrade»