Author's Note: This chapter is either penultimate, or the second before last.
The translations of the lines in Russian are after the chapter.
Best,
kkolmakov
John came back to his senses, and immediately felt irritated. How many times in the last years that he had had the pleasure of knowing the overbearing, prickish git of Sherlock Holmes had he woken up in the middle of some aggro that clearly had nothing to do with him? Sherlock might have thought him dim - and most were compared to the prick - but even Watson knew that him being gagged and tied to a chair, with two hard looking men in black standing nearby, couldn't possibly have anything to do with him - a simple doctor - and had everything to do with a skinny ginger librarian, presumably, Russian special forces, and a memory stick with state secrets.
"Он проснулся. Говорил я тебе, нормально я бил, а ты 'Череп проломил! Череп проломил!'"
So Russians, indeed. Watson quickly looked around. It was a basement, of some living building probably. One door, a small window under the ceiling, painted black.
"Где эта сволочь? Опаздывает…" one of them mumbled, looking at the very military looking watch on his wrist.
"Нет, еще пять минут," the second answered in a mollifying tone.
Then a mobile of the first Russian bleeped in his pocket, and he pulled it out.
"Прибыл. Говорит, что он снаружи. Вместе пойдем?" He asked something, and pointed at the door with his gun, and the second one nodded, and then pulled down the balaclavas.
They didn't get a chance to open the door. One of them had his hand on the handle, when a kick - it could hardly have been anything but - came from outside, smashing the metal door into his shoulder, and at the next moment a heavy body propelled inside, preceded by a fist. The first Russian deftly impersonated a flour sack, like one of those Mr Chatterjee dragged at the back of his shop. He flopped on the floor, still moving away from the door with a rustle, on inertia. The second Russian tried to address the situation but received a gun handle treatment to his temple, and followed the example of his mate.
The following events were out of sequence for Watson, it was just too fast. He later remembered Sherlock rushing in, his pretentious coat flashing in the light of a small bare bulb under the ceiling, the first Russian cutting the man who had broken in under his knees, a flash of a gun - strangely enough, Watson later didn't remember the sound - and Sherlock socking the second Russian in a jaw. There was a lot of movement, there was at least one more gun shot, a lot of swearing in Russian, and then of course one of the morons had to topple Watson's chair on the floor.
The fall was clumsy, and included a sensitive blow to the back of Watson's head, and if not for the gag, he'd introduce the men around him to his opinion on their parentage. He wiggled and squirmed, and managed to roll onto his side.
Sherlock was by the wall, half sitting, half lying, pressing his hand to the shoulder. Even in the dimness of the basement, Watson could see blood running between his splayed fingers, his palm firmly pressed into a - supposedly - gun wound.
One Russian was on the floor, heaving heavily, and somehow Watson knew he'd been knocked out by the man who was probably on their side. He was large, over six four, and watching him disarm the second Russian was like a film with Jason Statham. Except it looked real and not at all exciting. And then the Russian pulled out a knife, and it became ugly. Both men moved swiftly, fluidly, and when the knife slashed across the other man's arm, Watson could hear the familiar sound of flesh being cut deeply. Nausea rose, and then the tall man lunged ahead, and the knife was in his hand, and then buried deep into the Russian's hip.
The Russian fell, and the other man barked at him, "На пол, сволочь! И не дрыгайся!" The voice was calm and authoritative, and the Russian pressed his hands into the wound, around the blade still sticking out of him.
"Дерни свою зубочистку, истечешь кровью минут за семь." There was no accent, but then John recognised the face. It was in Sherlock's mobile, on the photo of the portrait from Ms Leary's flat. John Thorington. "Я бы поостерегся..." the man sneered sardonically, through bared teeth. The Russian glared at him, not moving anymore.
"How are you, Mr Holmes?" the man asked, without looking back at Sherlock, his eyes trained on the two immobile Russians.
"Quite well, thank you," Sherlock answered, and heavily rose. "It just grazed me, I would be alright on time for John's wedding."
"Mazel tov," Thorington gleefully announced, and pointed at Watson with the gun in his hand. "You should untie your friend. Based on my personal experience, our friends from Krasnodar here are a bit too enthusiastic about knots. Cut my circulation couple times, before they'd found just the right amount of pressure."
Sherlock was already near Watson, jerking at the ropes. Watson surely had a lot to say to him, about this whole aggro. He had been peacefully going down to his car from the clinic, when they came up to him. He'd only seen one, the other deftly turned off the lights in Watson's head with a precise blow to the back of it.
Ropes were off, and the gag pulled out.
"Sherlock… What's…?"
"It's OK, John," the git mumbled absentmindedly, quickly texting. To his brother, Watson assumed.
And then the Russian - not the one with the arse scary knife sticking out of his leg, the other one - stirred, and jumped up, and rushed ahead.
Everything went into slow-mo, and then it was already not like Transporter, but more John Woo. Thorington twirled on one spot, his military jacket drawing a ridiculous - almost theatrical - arch in the air, and the long arm with a Glock flew up, and…
The gun was pressed to the Russian's forehead, and all five men in the basement froze.
"It would be so easy..." Thorington spoke in the silence of the basement, his eyes strangely unfocused, and Watson heard Sherlock draw a shallow breath in. "And so satisfying…" The cold blue eyes grew sharp, and he tilted his head lightly, addressing the Russian, "Страшно тебе, братишка?" The Russian's throat bobbed, and John saw him shudder. "Молодец, так и надо... Только вот курок потяну, и все... Хана... Мозги твои феерверком полетят..."
"Thorington…" Sherlock's tone was soft, careful, and strange smirk jerked at the former officer's lips.
"Even with you and Mr Watson here as witnesses, it wouldn't change anything. I've killed enough for this country, I'll still get my retirement. One more death hardly counts..." Thorington's voice was even, business like, as if he were actually weighing the deaths in his head.
And then the hand with the gun moved, and he deftly knocked the man out.
"No need to tempt the fate. She might still find out…"
Watson exhaled in the relief. And then the door flew open, and several men rushed in.
"Queen and country..." Sherlock mumbled near him, and Thorington threw the gun aside, lifting his hands.
It was of course Mycroft, and they were loaded into Jags, and as usual delivered to Baker Street. Not before Sherlock's shoulder was examined, just as Thorington's arm; both were patched up, Watson was offered painkillers. Through the procedures Mycroft stood with a bored face, leaning on his umbrella.
"That was bloody quick, even for your brother," Watson addressed Sherlock, and Thorington snorted nearby.
"He probably has your flat wired, or at least keeping visual on you. I'd hoped he'd have shown up earlier. How often does he let you have the illusions of an adventure?" Watson saw Sherlock glare at the tall man. He needed to substantially lift his chin for that. "I'm asking for Wren's sake of course. I'd like to know she'll be looked after if she stays."
Sherlock didn't grant the man an answer, but it was hardly expected.
The two suits in the hall were new, Mrs Hudson squawking and rushing to them - sadly - wasn't.
"Oh dear, Sherlock, are you alright? And John here, too!"
"We are fine, Mrs Hudson. It's just a scratch."
"Indeed it is," Mycroft offered a sardonic line from behind them. "And my cue to leave. Since our John here is your only friend, brother dear, and thus you'll be hardly inclined to perform another stunt of the sort, I presume you are safe to be left alone now."
The detective made a derisive scoff noise, and Mycroft mumbled his goodbyes and left.
Sherlock was going up the stairs, Watson followed, simultaneously answering to Mrs Hudson's questions, and then he realised that Thorington still stood at the bottom of the stairs.
"Sherlock?" Watson called after the detective, and they both looked at the former SAS officer. His face was dark.
"You owe me a favour, Mr Holmes. I need your deductions now."
Watson saw the eyes of the two men lock.
"You know her better than I do. What do I say?"
Translation:
"He woke up. I told you I hit him right. And you were like 'Cracked his skull! Cracked his skull!'"
"Where is that bellend? He's late..."
"No, five more minutes..."
"He's here. Says he's outside. Shall we go together?"
"To the floor, you fucker! And don't twitch!"
"Pull out the toothpick, and you'll bleed out in about seven minutes. I'd refrain."
"Are you scared, brother? You should be. All I need to do is to pull the trigger... And done... The fireworks of your brain on the wall..."
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Summary: Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.
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Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom.
John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm.
Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more.
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