Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss.

The Good Doctor
Chapter 14

Madmen

Moran whistled a nameless tune as he polished his blades with a cloth. He had lost a couple in the woods and another one to that blasted mercenary, but all was well. He managed to get a bullet in the bugger's leg before he scampered away. The sky was dark and his spirits were high; his boss had called him, wanting Moran to personally report to him and give him an update of everything that had happened in the duration of his absence. Unfortunately, that included Miss Adler's forays as well. He sighed. Sometimes being the right hand man had its perks, but sometimes, it had its downfalls and dealing with Irene was one of them. The woman grated on his nerves. He stopped rubbing the blade and admired his work as it glinted in the moonlight streaming through the window blinds. He set the cloth down and was about to pick up another knife when his phone rang, an unlisted number lighting up the screen.

"Seb, why don't you ever answer your phone?" an irate voice greeted him. The sniper rolled his eyes. He had it on silent up until thirty minutes ago, that's why. "What do you want?"

"The boss wants me to come with you to see him tomorrow. Again," his partner answered. At this, the sniper stood up, indignant, not caring when the knives he so carefully attended to clattered onto the floor. Tomorrow was his time alone with the boss and his time only. Who was she to barge her low status in on his meeting that his superior had personally asked him to attend?

"What? Why?"

"I dunno. Something about a special assignment or something," she answered. He could sense her shrugging over the phone. "Anyway, 7 sharp. Oh, and by the by, was that completed successfully?"

"Yeah," he grumbled. "How about your end?"

"Done and done. Alright, Seb, I have to go. Duty calls. I think we have time to complete two hits tomorrow before 7, don't you think?" his partner passively ordered as she hung up.

Sebastian stood at the edge of his bed in the dark as a headache threatened to take over his senses. He wasn't quite sure if the sudden migraine was due to the polishing chemical he was using or if was spurred on by his partner and all women in general, but regardless of the cause, he decided he needed sleep. His sniper tendencies took over his body, forcing him to stay awake and alert for long periods at a time. He had taken out a diplomat in France a few hours ago and he hadn't slept in 48 hours. The one-eyed sniper yawned and began preparing himself for bed.

John waited until he was sure the detective and his subordinate left the flat. They had stayed for a cup of tea while the blond huddled by the door, his stomach rumbling, constantly reminding him that he didn't eat anything that day. He rubbed his leg and stood up when he heard footsteps on the stairs.

"John," Sherlock called.

The doctor cautiously opened the door.

"From the look on your face, I assume you heard everything that transpired."

"It wasn't me, I swear," John told him as they walked down back into Sherlock's flat. "I don't even know what they're talking about."

The detective went straight to the desk and resumed holding his violin and bow. He turned around and stood in front of the fireplace. He raised the bow and played a single, long note. "Well then, the only logical conclusion would be that you have been framed, but what for? What have you done, Watson?"

John set the cane he had borrowed from Mrs. Hudson down by the door and then poured himself a cup of tea and grabbed a few biscuits as he passed the coffee table before sitting down on an armchair. What had he done? A lot of things, that was for sure. He took a sip of tea and exhaled. It was time to get back into fighting shape. He needed to make a visit down to the black market he frequented.

John listened to Sherlock play an unknown sonata that was rather quite soothing, but he couldn't keep his mind off of his situation. In a period of 24 hours, his life was shot to hell.

"I...don't have anywhere to stay."

Sherlock continued to play his music with his eyes closed.

John realized he still had his pack on, so he unclipped it and set it down. The effects he had here in this flat was the only possessions he had now. A cane, a luggage case, a pack stuffed with weapons, and a broken cell phone. That was what his life came to.

The detective slowly rotated, still playing the melody. "Don't you have a sibling to call?"

John snapped his head up. "What?" He forgot. He forgot about Harry! "Oh, God. Wait, how did you know?" he asked. At this point, he should know better than to wonder, but his companion obliged. He stopped playing and used his bow as a pointer and jabbed the air towards the broken cellphone on the coffee table. At the blond's questioning face, he verbally explained.

"The cellphone is a bit of an older model, presumably one that was out when you came back from Afghanistan, given to you by an older sibling, a brother judging on the inscription on the back."

The doctor took a glance and saw that the back of the phone was upright, glinting in the firelight.

"The use of an old phone suggests it was not you who chose or bought it as everything else you own is cutting edge, as your second 'occupation' necessitates your equipment to be. Your brother is recently divorced or recently single, as percieved by the notion of giving you a gift he was given by a female named 'Clara'. If they were married but separated, he wouldn't have gotten rid of effects that reminded him of her because separation means a break, a chance that they might continue to see each other. This was brought on by a drinking problem, clearly due to your brother, Harry, as evident by the scratches around the charging inlet which is usually caused by one's affected motor skills by inebriation. Clara wouldn't charge his phone, no, it was his phone, his drinking problems. Perhaps a night too many of indulgence forced Clara to turn away. He obviously cares for you, however, given that instead of effectively ridding himself of the phone entirely, he gave it to you, most likely to keep in touch. You're in London, alone, seeing as how your morality dictates that you'd refuse to intentionally put your loved ones in danger as well as your decision to moonlight as a mercenary illuminates the psychological issues you channel into a double identity because no one understands you because you've changed. You're trapped and going back into war is the only way you can feel like yourself. Am I wrong?"

John almost spilled his cup of tea. He stared at the detective, slack-jawed in awe. "That's..bloody fantastic! Except for one thing."

Sherlock tilted his head and furrowed his brows. "Which part?"

"Harry's my older sister."

The detective raised his eyebrows. "Ah. Well, one can't always one hundred percent accurate."

John put his cup down. "But that was bloody well the closest thing. Fantastic," he said to a smug Sherlock. The lanky man continued where he left off playing, the strings of the bow gliding across the instrument as he hid a small smile from his companion. It was that moment when they heard Mrs. Hudson come upstairs.

"Sherlock, I need to ask...oh," she stopped when she caught sight of the blond doctor. "John, dear, you've come back. Will you boys be needing one bedroom or two tonight? There's another one upstairs if you'll be needing it," she said. John coiled back slightly at her comment.

"Of course, we'll be needing it," he said in Sherlock's stead who ignored her completely. "Actually, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock, if you don't mind, would it be alright if I stayed here for the time being? I can pay rent, of course, but please, don't let anyone know I'm here," John asked. Mrs. Hudson said it was alright, not very curious as to why the man wished to be so discreet (perhaps it was a personal matter, she thought as she darted her eyes between the two men), so they turned to the detective who continued playing, giving a curt nod as he moved his bow up and down to the notes of the unknown melody.

"Well then, welcome to the flat, dear. I'll go fetch a fresh change of sheets."

"Wait, Mrs. Hudson," John said as he stood up, almost toppling over. The kind woman immediately came rushing to his side as his companion continued to ignore the two. She helped to steady him.

"The cane I borrowed, it's by the door," he concluded lamely. He had forgotten the injury on his leg and was about to walk over to hand it to her, but realized he couldn't when a stabbing pain shot through his thigh.

"You rest, now, dear," she said as she left the living room.

xxx

It had been a couple weeks since the night John had gotten his injuries and so he decided it was time for the stitches to come out. He had sent an email to his sister using Sherlock's laptop, telling her not to worry and he didn't do anything wrong, and had been diligently practicing walking around he flat, trying to bear weight down on his leg. The two had been getting along well, except for the occasional squabble mostly due to John's cabin fever. It also didn't help that Sherlock began refusing cases clients came with, figuring them out on the spot or refusing to take on such menial problems. Most of the two weeks were spent at each others' throats, but occasionally, Sherlock would leave for hours at a time and not return until late into the night, muttering something about St. Bart's.

On about the fifth lap around the room, Sherlock, clad in his pajamas, insisted for him to stop. "John, will you resist pacing around in incessant circles?! You're giving me a headache," he spat while rubbing his temples. He flopped onto his side on the couch where John usually slept at night and turned his back towards his flatmate. Since John wasn't sleeping there at the moment, Sherlock lounged on the exact spot he did every time he laid there which the doctor suspected was something of an obsessive compulsive habit as he always sought out that particular spot when thinking about a particularly taxing case or problem. Now that another person occupied the couch, Sherlock had no choice but to find another place to think. John would have slept in the room upstairs, but it was difficult to walk up and down the stairs, so he just made himself comfortable downstairs until he was able to get around without hobbling.

The doctor stopped his pacing. "Well, excuse me, but I can't go outside because you won't let me!" John retaliated.

"There's a sniper after your head!" He had figured whoever shot at the shorter man was particularly skilled in that area of expertise.

"I'm a trained soldier! I think I can handle myself."

"Fat lot of good that training did. If you were more careful you wouldn't be in this position in the first place. Think, John, think," Sherlock said as he threw one of his hands in the air. His back was still turned.

The soldier grit his teeth. The detective was a prick, that much was for sure, but his genuine concern (or whatever it was), made him remember that the detective had carried him to safety. Twice. Once in the forest and again when that silver-haired Inspector Detective came for a visit. The room he had hidden in was supposed to be his. He paid Mrs. Hudson the appropriate rent, setting up an automatic payment plan from his numerous scattered off-shore bank accounts.

The man sighed and flopped down onto an armchair. He was getting better, but it still pained him to walk or excessively move his torso. The wound on his ribs would definitely heal slower than the one on his leg. John hobbled to Sherlock's room and grabbed a pair of scissors and proceeded to the kitchen where he found a bottle of rubbing alcohol and chose to stay there instead of venturing towards the living room to take out his stitches. It was more polite. After he was done, he pulled up the hem of his jumper to take a good look. His wounds were itchy, that much was for sure, but it was a good sign as it indicated that they were certainly healing. It was right then he decided it was time to visit the underground market. He knew Sherlock was going to Scotland Yard to speak with the man named Lestrade; he had spent the previous two weeks creating trails and dead ends for the police to give off the illusion that John was alive and well, moving around to avoid capture.

The doctor couldn't help but to thank God this occupation was the one his companion chose to do; who knew what the world of crime would be like if Sherlock became a professional..crime consultant? That was what he would have called it, John thought, as he recalled a conversation they had when random clients first started showing up at their door.

"Sherlock, another one!" Mrs. Hudson called up as she directed the people up towards their living room. John sat on the armchair, sunglasses on (a pair he had ordered online after the loss of his own in the forest), as well as the hat. His cane rested by his hand. The detective, on the other hand, was standing up, arms folded behind his back, hands clasped.

He patiently listened (or as patiently as he could) to the fourth client that day before interrupting their explanation with, "Dull. It was the groundskeeper. Check the shed," before turning away, walking into his bedroom.

"Um...sorry," he told the shocked couple before him. "Check your shed and come back, I suppose," John said awkwardly, unsure if what he was supposed to do. He waited until the people left before slowly making his way down towards his flatmate's room. After knocking, he heard no sound.

"Sherlock?" he called as he opened the door. By now, he had gotten a good grasp of what the man was like, so it was no surprise when he found the man sprawled face-down across his mattress. He muttered something unintelligible. "Sorry, what?" John asked as he came closer. The detective turned his head to face the blond.

"Dull. Dull. Go bring me an interesting case, John."

"Well, that was rude to the clients. I don't care if it's dull. Stop acting like..like a prick."

Sherlock glared at him. "Idiots, the lot of them. Find me a case."

As much as Sherlock's attitude bothered John, he was more curious on what the hell was going on that day. "Why are random strangers coming to our door, anyway?" he asked.

John's flatmate's hair tousled as he flipped around on his back, his arms spread out. Sherlock stared at the ceiling. "Consulting detective."

"What?"

The man flashed him a look of annoyance. "Consulting detective. People need help, they come to me, including Scotland Yard. When the police are in a jam (which is most of the time), and don't know what to do, they ask for help. Consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented it," he explained, closing his eyes.

John, whose hand was still on the doorknob, used his other hand to scratch his head. "Well, whatever you are, it's no excuse to be acting like such a child."

"Fetch me tea."

The doctor turned around to leave. "I'm not your housekeeper," he said, mimicking words he heard Mrs. Hudson utter almost every day. Just before he was about to leave, the dark-haired man shot up and scrambled to the other side of the room and rummaged through multiple books before he found a piece of scrap paper. He scribbled on it and headed towards John.

"Tape this on the door."

John took a look at it and read, "If a crime is in progress, do disturb. If not, go away."

Returning back to the present, the doctor picked up Sherlock's laptop from the floor beside him to borrow it and opened up his new email account. There were countless letters from Mary, but he didn't know if he should answer them and put her at risk. Of course Harry bombarded him with questions, but he told her not to contact him anymore and changed his address. All the emails from his old one were forwarded to his new one, but to the senders, it seemed as if his address was merely deleted.

Mary.

He closed his eyes as he thought of her wavy golden hair, the smell of peaches, her soft skin. Her soft lips.

He groaned and sighed. It had been a while since he'd been with a woman, and he was sure he never felt anything like he felt for her. If only his other life hadn't gotten in the way, perhaps he would've had a future with her. Mary Morstan. He missed her terribly and they had only been on one actual date.

But then if he didn't do his mercenary work...he was sure he would have gone mad.

"Mycroft's coming," Sherlock said as he read a text from his brother.

John looked at his friend. "Why?"

The front door opened and the older Holmes made his way upstairs.

"Well, aren't you two in domestic bliss," he said the moment he caught sight of the two lounging about. The doctor noticed that he still carried his blasted umbrella (why, John didn't know; it wasn't even rainy).

Sherlock made no notion to get up and greet his sibling.

Mycroft sat down on the armchair across from John's left and stared at his little brother. "Really, Sherlock. This is how you greet your older brother?" he tutted. "You're not a child anymore."

"Neither are you," John muttered, "yet you still insist on mothering him." At this comment, Sherlock's ears perked in interest.

Mycroft turned to look at the veteran. "Ah, John. Sticking up for him already? Might I expect a happy announcement towards the end of the week? Or has it happened already without my knowledge?"

John gave him a look of annoyance and his face deadpanned.

Sherlock abruptly sat up. "Nothing happens without your knowledge." He turned to John. "He's the British government."

Mycroft lifted his right hand and stared at his fingernails, picking at them. "Don't be silly, little brother. I occupy a...minor position in the British government," he retorted, a statement that only earned an eyeroll from Sherlock.

"What do you want?" the younger Holmes asked.

Mycroft put his hand down. "Just checking in."

"No, there has to be a reason. You wouldn't just check in. You're a man with purpose, so obviously, you've come to speak about something important. Seeing as you texted Sherlock instead of calling which you usually do, and of which you've done only once since I've been here means that you probably did it so that he'd tell me...which means you probably have business with me...right?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and turned to his brother. "He's learning." The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked upwards.

"Mm, John, yes. I need...a favor."

At this, both men turned their full attention to the older Holmes. "I've run into a bit of-let's call it a small matter of international security, yes?"John tilted his head. Mycroft continued, "It has come to my attention that our country has a few, outliers, for the lack of a better term, that must be dealt with. I need you to assist in detaining certain individuals. Outside of the government's official knowledge, of course."

Sherlock scoffed. "You are the government," he said, which his brother ignored.

"I am prepared to pay your price."

John was about to accept (as he was itching to get back out there) before something clicked in his mind at his words. "Wait a minute. Have I done this for you before?"

"What are you talking about?" he asked innocently.

"You hired John?" Sherlock asked incredulously. He wouldn't put it past his brother; he probably did.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," the older Holmes responded coolly as he stood up. "Well, I must be going. I'll keep in touch. Think it over."

Knowing Mycroft, he probably already knew his new email address, John thought. The two men watched as Sherlock's brother descended the steps and out the door. The blond turned to the detective after glancing out the window and realizing how dark it was outside. "Don't you have to go see what's-his-name, Lestrade?"

Sherlock laid back down. "Aren't you going out?"

John halted in his action of picking up his tea cup. "How'd you know? Stop that," he ordered as if Sherlock's deducting was some sort of novelty magic trick he could stop doing at any moment. Unfortunately, he knew fully well that Sherlock's "gift" was also a curse. It was something he couldn't help at all.

"I'm not stopping you, if that's what you're concerned about."

John stood up to fetch a change of clothes. "It wouldn't matter anyway," he said as he began changing into his nice under armor in Sherlock's room. For good measure, he grabbed his thin kevlar vest, just in case. The black market was, after all, an extremely dangerous place to be. After he suited up in his usual nightly attire, he walked back out to the living room. After a couple weeks being holed up in the flat, his things had found their way mixed into Sherlock's various possessions as if they'd always been there. The doctor groaned as he was trouble finding his Walther PPK.

He stared around at the floor then sifted through the contents on the messy desk. "Have you seen my gun? Either of them? Or my daggers?" he asked his flatmate.

Sherlock, trying to sleep, muttered something about an experiment with the guns, but pointed at the mantle on the fireplace. He had used them to stab a pile of letters. John shot him a glare (unknownst to the detective) and pulled them out, shoving them in their respective places on specific areas of his hidden holsters. The mercenary still couldn't find his guns, so he grabbed Sherlock's after checking there was ammunition. Since his special night-vision sunglasses were thrown away in the forest, the mercenary needed something to help hide his face, so he grabbed some ash from the fireplace and smeared it on his face from his right temple, to his eyelid, the bridge of his nose, to his left eyelid, all the way across to his left temple. It created a crude, but working mask that helped a little bit. It would also help him hide better in the dark, but his hooded cape was good enough for that. He put it on and laced up his boots and stole away into the night, leaving behind a slumbering Sherlock.

"How much for that?" John asked as he pointed to a pistol that caught his eye after he roamed over to the weapons table from the gadgets where he purchased a new pair of night-vision sungalsses.

"Ah, the Sig Sauer P226R. Excellen' choice," the sleezy vendor wheezed as he picked it up and handed it to John. The doctor recognized it as the pistol he used when he was in Afghanistan. It was no ordinary gun; it was a military issued L106A1 which was impossible to get when not in the service. "Nine milimeters. Sleek. Semi-automatic .22 and works like a beaut."

"I know. How much?" He really wanted it. John had one when he was in the army and it felt right at home in his hands. As much as he loved his Walther PPK and his glock, the Sig Sauer reminded him of better times, albeit some of the worst ones as well. Those memories, good or bad, were apart of him, and he felt a bit nostalgic for the old days. Minus all the terror. Holding it in his hand, he felt adrenaline surge through his body due to a subconscious response.

The greasy-haired man pursed his lips. "Since it's a rare gun, I'd say...₤5,000."

John gaped at him. "Are you mad?"

"Hey, I've gotta make a livin'. Take it or leave it." All the vendors at the underground black market had unreasonable prices, but none as unreasonable as this. "It's a military-issued gun. D'you know what I had to do to get this?"

John snorted. "You didn't do a thing. Someone sold it to you."

"Well," he stammered, "the seller pried it from an ex-soldier's dead, cold, hands, I'll tell you that much."

"Yeah, whatever. I'll pay ₤3,000. Final offer," John haggled, disbelieving a word out of the man's mouth, but it was a rare opportunity to stumble across this particular model for sale.

"Fine. Deal."

John logged into his bank account on the man's computer and transferred the money which showed up automatically on the vendor's own offshore account. "Here you go," the ,am said, handing the weapon over. The veteran really didn't care that it cost ₤3,000 as it was more like chump change to him, but regardless, he didn't want to waste it all. However, he thought this gun was worth the price. The mercenary received the pistol along with a complimentary set of cartridges to put in the magazine and loaded it. The men in the underground black market weren't too concerned about being murdered down there because there were 'security' men that wouldn't hesitate to put bullet through their heads at a second's notice. Evil lurked in all the corners.

"Mercenary, eh?" the vendor asked as he eyed his customer's attire. "Might wanna check the bounty board. Heard there's a 'uge one on that blond bloke's name. Williams or Wilson, or somethin' like that."

John stuck the gun in the holster not carrying Sherlock's pistol. Hood still covering his face, he lifted his head. "Watson? Captain John Watson?" he asked.

The hook-nosed vendor lifted a finger to his chin thoughtfully. "Hmm.. I think that's it." John thanked him, said his goodbyes, and scrambled over to the tattered papers taped onto the wall. His stomach dropped as the same picture of himself in his military photo was taped all over the board. Underneath the picture in bold read 'WANTED: Dead or Alive. ₤7000,000'.

Someone was really after his head. And apparently, so was every single madman in London.

A/N:

I almost forgot to write & post today. For some reason, I've been really out of it and didn't realize today was Friday.
If I made any mistakes, it's because I didn't read over this. I'm dead tired. So it might be weirdly written and not flow-y.

Thank you so much for reading, my fellow Holmies! Or Sherlockians. Take your pick.