No Warnings aside from M Rating for language and adult themes.

Chapter 21

Even laden with four heavy bags, John positively bounced as he walked back from Tesco's. Every time he sneezed or coughed it reminded him of his little victory. Sure it was only a minor skirmish, but a win was a win.

The newest denizen of 221b Baker Street hummed, as he cleaned the kitchen with a very strong disinfectant. He scoured the counters, singing off-tune, "Fiery mountain beneath the moon. The words unspoken, we'll be there soon…" *

At the best of times, John thought his voice belonged more to a frog then to a songbird, and today he croaked even more hoarsely than usual. But who cared? John had the flat to himself.

He assaulted the kitchen floor with a battle mop and repeated the rousing chorus, "Some folk we never forget, Some kind we never forgive, Haven't seen the back of us yet,"* Captain Watson lunged forward to attack the multicolored, sticky goo under the table, and his voice rose loudly, "We'll fight as long as we live…"*

He danced around wearing only socks, because his boots were wet, and he had been careful not to stain the rugs. People could become violently upset over stained rugs and carpeting. John forced those uncomfortable thoughts out of his mind. Instead, he imagined something more pleasant, such as fighting off goblins and trolls in the Misty Mountains.

Once it was clean, the floor surprised him. He had thought that the linoleum was brown or perhaps terracotta, to match the countertops. However, after the removal of dirt and probable hazardous wastes, he saw that it was actually sort of cream-colored with gold and reddish specks. It was still really rather ugly, but it was clean.

John dumped a bucket of filthy water and scoured the sink, still chanting under his breath. Then he began 'The Assault on the Refrigerator of Doom'. It was a grim battle, but the former soldier was not faint of heart. Cleaning meant that he had to remove the experiments. In other words, he was required to touch Sherlock's experiments even though the detective's requirements stated that John not touch them. It was a moral dilemma, and John paused for all of ten seconds. Unfortunately for Sherlock, hygiene trumped the spurious advancement of science. The determined doctor removed several bowls of human digits which floated in the water like macabre finger food.

And that thought was truly disgusting. Dr. Watson felt a distinct head rush despite years on the battlefield and in the OR. He retreated to the sitting room and sat. He sat while he gripped the arms of his chair. He sat while he put his head between his legs. He sat and practiced breathing for several minutes, before he felt fit enough to recommence combat. Muttering choice curses about detectives, sanitation and experiments, he marched back out to the kitchen. He glared at the bowls on the table; he cursed at the liver (God, please don't be a human liver). He returned to the refrigerator. Various unidentifiable items, that may once have been food, were binned, including some mummified pizza. At least the food remnants confirmed that his flatmate did, at some distant point in the past, attempt to eat spontaneously. At last, the refrigerator could now be scrubbed, first with disinfectant and then with bleach, just to be sure.

As he replaced the freshly sanitized vegetable drawer, which had probably never contained vegetables, John loudly sang the chorus for at least the sixth time; "We'll ride in the gathering storm. Until we get our long-forgotten gold." He mentally transported himself out of Middle Earth and back to London, England. Frankly, the goblins were less repulsive than his flatmate's 'experiments'. But John couldn't hide in his fantasies for ever.

The entire refrigerator had been cleansed. John's special shelf had been scraped, scrubbed, bleached and then bleached again. His shelf sparkled like new; he just had to ignore a few cracks, the dent in front, and that mysterious scotching that could not be scrubbed away. And how did Sherlock manage to set fire to the refrigerator anyway?

No matter. All body parts were now on their own shelves, in sealed containers, thanks to Tesco brand plastic wrap. John considered labeling the 'experiments' but decided to leave that to the resident genius, who had still not returned from the Met.

The blond soldier was tired and stiff. He had labored hard all morning but was pleased with what he surveyed. The counter tops, cabinets and floor gleamed, well gleamed might be a bit of an exaggeration, still and all, everything was clean and sanitized. Even the walls and stovetop had been rinsed with the disinfectant which promised to kill 99% of all household germs. He could only hope that the cleanser could kill this household's germs.

The kitchen would never have passed a real army inspection, thanks to Sherlock's mess, aka experiments, that covered the kitchen table, but the rest of the room was satisfactory. He was momentarily tempted to set it all to rights but John would try to honor Sherlock's request, aka demand, that all experiments remain untouched. Besides, he was loath to touch the unlabeled bottles for fear of setting off some bizarre and potentially fatal chemical reaction.

Before he could relax, John had to retrieve the fresh cold foods which he had stored in Mrs. Hudson's refrigerator. It took nearly half an hour, because his landlady felt compelled to lecture John on his health again. She seemed fairly certain that he had one foot in the grave already. She also seemed to doubt that he had actually attended a real medical school.

Once safely back in his new flat (he beamed as silently repeated those words to himself, his new flat). John stored his milk and cold foods on the now sparkling clean refrigerator shelf. The special 'food only' shelf, which was clearly labeled with a tag: FOOD ONLY, with a second tag, NO EXCEPTIONS.

John pegged Sherlock as a visual learner. One who might ignore verbal orders. The written instructions would reinforce John's stated requirements. Yes, best to put everything in writing, thought John, tapping the pen against his lips.

Then John had a horrid thought. This was Sherlock's pen. God only knew where it had been or what it had touched and now it touched his lips. John swallowed heavily and rinsed his mouth out twice, just to be sure. Then he carefully disinfected the writing instrument.

Once his stomach settled, John put his canned goods, tea and digestive biscuits (both vanilla and chocolate) in the cupboard also labeled, FOOD ONLY with a second tag OR JOHN'S DISHES, with a third tag, NO EXCEPTIONS.

John tossed his soiled, sticky, wet socks in the now full hamper, full because John had picked up his flatmate's clothes from odd locations all over the flat. Now, however, John had no socks.

Greatly daring, the soldier entered Sherlock's private lair to commandeer a pair of socks. Unlike the chaos throughout the rest of the flat, the bedroom, Sherlock's bedroom was fairly neat. Indeed, the sock drawer was very well organized. Actually, all the clothes seemed to be in some kind of order. John couldn't quite divine the organizing principles used, and to be honest, it was sort of creepy to be looking through his flatmate's clothes. He retreated back to the now welcoming kitchen. The ex-soldier put on the confiscated pair of socks with a clear conscience, because his socks had become soiled cleaning up his flatmate's mess. Also, the flat was damned drafty which meant his feet were bloody cold.

John's stomach protested loudly. It was no longer unsettled; it was just empty. He was starving now. It may have been lunchtime, but John had been cheated out of his breakfast. He deserved a nice breakfast. He had earned it.

Sneezes and sniffles interrupted his singing but not his cooking. John made himself scrambled eggs and toast (after closely examining the toaster first and then discarding the first two pieces of toast anyway, just in case).

After his very satisfying meal, he cleaned up and then relaxed for an hour with a fresh cup of tea. Of course, he carefully cleaned the tea kettle twice and went so far as to discard the first batch of boiling water, just in case. In the end, he had three cups of tea, but John felt that he had earned them too.

There was no sign of his sexy madman. He missed the excitement that seemed to constantly swirl around the consulting detective. The ex-army doctor also missed those piercing grey eyes, or were they really blue? He missed those razor-sharp cheekbones, which contrasted with that soft, floppy hair. He even missed the razor-sharp comments and thinly veiled insults. He very deliberately did not think about last night. He did not sit and recall the slide of lips against lips, the way large hands caressed his skin and the feel of smooth skin and firm muscles under his own calloused hands.

John had it bad; he nodded to himself. He did not ever remember falling this hard, this fast for anyone. His old counselor would probably say that is was a sign of something bad, like some co-dependent post-PTSD obsession thingy.

No doubt she would advise John to back off, slow down. She would say it was 'too soon' or 'too late' or 'don't become so emotionally invested'. She had loved using terms like that, writing them down in her little notebook, which John could read upside-down.

But, John didn't want to slow down. And he was already pretty damn invested, emotionally speaking. It was too late to stop now, much too late. So it was a good thing that he wasn't going to counseling anymore, right?

Right. But here he was, being very lazy, all curled up on a chair mooning over another man… mooning over another man, that still seemed just a bit weird, after all these years. Weird, but titillating.

Yup, John had it bad, and he had definitely spent enough time obsessing over his flatmate.

It was time to be up and doing! Bilbo didn't escape from the goblin mines by sitting around and sighing like a Victorian maiden with the vapors.

Well, but those didn't quite fit together. John was mixing his metaphors again. Or was it allusions. And it was details like this, that kept John from writing a blockbuster novel with options for a movie. John scowled. He always confused himself with…Never mind.

Right. The soldier finally got up out of his too comfortable chair, hoping that he could always use this soft, cloth upholstered chair and not that stiff, leather chair. He put on his new leather jacket and carried his boots down to the front door, so as to keep the carpeting clean.

It was time for John to run over to his miserable old bedsit. It was depressing just to think about having to return to the cinderblock rat trap. But, on the bright side, he'd be moving out of it for good. He was moving into his new flat with his new flatmate. That made him smile softly as he headed toward the tubes.

John figured he could move everything out of his bedsit in just two trips, since he owned very little. He had some stuff still stored Harry's, mostly just junk- battered textbooks, a photo album or two, some hideous clothes from the '90s and some really cool CD's from the '90s. She probably still had his old skateboard and his old teddy bear too.

Then again, he considered resentfully, she might have sold off all his stuff during one of her "bad times". This was quite possible, even probable.

He'd miss his really cool CD collection and his skateboard, and the teddy bear. But he could probably live without them. Yeah, he'd hardly be able to keep his balance on a skateboard, not that he wanted to anyway.

Riding the tube, John suffered yet another sneeze attack. He received some funny looks when he pulled out his silk hankie; maybe everyone noticed that it clashed with his purple jumper. He self-consciously zipped his leather jacket shut to hide the neon-lavender monstrosity from view and dabbed his nose with the silk square. It was very gentle on his nose. Maybe he should get some more silk hankies but, perhaps, not red.

From the tube, the short blond walked a few blocks to the rundown building, which housed his flat. The exterior was an odd pinkish-beige color, sort of a glistening pancreatic-tan. And that, thought the doctor, just goes to show the unwholesome influence that Sherlock Holmes had on John Watson. John climbed the stairs to the third floor bedsit, without the benefit of his cane. He realized he couldn't even remember where the bloody cane was, which was fine.

As soon as he entered the flat, he felt a bit depressed. The dark, drab, barren room sucked all the life and happiness out of the ex-soldier. The sooner he left this place, the better.

He turned a blind eye to the only spot of vivid color in the room. He ignored the vase, which was full of fresh, blood-red roses. It sat on the tiny, lopsided table/desk. Instead, he began packing his duffel. It soon held his laptop, most of his clothes and all his toiletries. He packed his new, (recently dry-cleaned without his knowledge) Westwood suit in the special garment bag that had magically appeared in his closet. He added his new shirt, tie and shoes.

Oddly, his old suit and his two older dress shirts were missing. Right. The psycho-demon boyfriend strikes again. Upon further examination, several articles of clothing had skipped off on their own, including several jumpers, his favorite baggy jeans and his beloved terry robe.

"Dammit, Jim," muttered the blond. "I loved that robe. Had it for years…Yeah, decades even. Stupid, psycho-bastard from hell, stupid fashion Nazi, stupid, bossy…" John only broke off his grumbling when a fit of sneezing hit him.

John looked around the flat but there was very little else that he actually owned. He poured out his milk and tossed the stale bread in the bin. He packed a couple of apples and a tin of beans into a shopping bag. He added his two mugs (one said RAMC and the other said Whinny-the-Pooh), a couple of tea towels, which his sister had inexplicably sent him for his birthday and his electric kettle.

He stripped his bed and took the bed linens and towels down to the laundry unit. Three framed photos, his shemagh, two paperbacks, a notebook, pens (that did not require disinfecting) and his trainers were stuffed into the garment bag. Ha, Jim would probably have a fit if he saw the dirty trainers in that special garment bag, thought John with relish.

Considering that most of his undergarments, socks and PJ's had joined the missing robe, there really wasn't much left.

He could move everything he owned in one go, after all. John squeezed the rest of his clothes, mostly jumpers, in to a second shopping bag.

He left behind the bouquet of blood-red roses with the handwritten card that said, 'To my precious little pet. Get well soon, or else, love DADDY'.

Yeah, right. Only Jim Moriarty would think that threats would help John get over his cold faster.

Actually, the former army doctor was impressed with Jim's efficiency at arranging for the break-ins and petty theft of John's clothing. The crazy Irish bastard had gotten John's new suit cleaned, the shoes polished and undesirable clothes removed-undesirable in Jim's opinion, not John's. And although the demonic genius had only learned about John's illness this morning, someone, in the last few hours, had broken into John's bedsit and placed those flowers on John's table. It would be touching, if it wasn't so creepy.

And this 'Daddy' nonsense? Very creepy, very sick. Luckily, John did not have fond memories of his real father, because this "Daddy' crap could really mess with your mind, thought the doctor.

John really, really needed to come up with a plan to deal with 'Daddy'. It couldn't go on like this forever. Maybe the genius detective will have some good news on that front.

John Watson sneezed, violently and with intent, onto the roses and then glared at the inoffensive blooms one last time. He gratefully said good-bye to the ugly bedsit with its gold-vomit-brown curtains and its puce rug. He marched down the stairway that smelled of stale smoke and something much worse.

It was a positive relief to step out into the cold drizzle. Fresh air filled his lungs and he began marching back to his new home…well his new flat really. Bit soon to be calling it home. John was not prepared to admit that he was that emotionally invested in this new relationship. Nope.

After marching a few blocks with all his worldly goods, John was no longer quite so energized. He no longer appreciated the very damp, fresh air. Naturally, since John was over-loaded with baggage, no taxi would stop for him.

John was more than passing familiar with forced marches while carrying his kit, gun and body armor. Unfortunately, John had to admit he was also a bit older now and a wee bit out of shape. His back ached, and his right leg began sending twinges of pain. He reminded himself severely that the leg pain was just psychosomatic, and he continued his long, slow, increasingly wet trek back to the tubes.

A red Porsche sped by spaying him and all his worldly goods with grimy water. John didn't have a chance to voice his curse aloud, when a sleek, black car with telltale, tinted windows pulled up. John, on the alert for possible kidnappings, abandoned his baggage in favor of arming himself with his old combat knife. He placed the nearest building at his back so that the enemy couldn't attack him from behind. He faced this new threat with grim determination.

The driver, a large, muscle-bound blond who wore a clichéd black suit, exited from the driver's side and opened the back door. A beautiful, brunette, who continued to type on her smart phone, leaned out of the car.

"Hello, Doctor Watson," she said, sounding bored. "Please get in."

"Hello? Um..." John said to her, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. She was not who he had expected. Then he turned back to the behemoth, "Oi, you there, leave m' stuff alone." The stupid, giant blond was gathering the ex-army doctor's baggage in one large paw.

"Sorry, sir, orders," said the behemoth, unfairly using John's ploy against him. Well, John was no push–over.

"Who? Whose orders?" the former captain asked. He cut right to the chase. "Do y' have any paperwork? I'll need to see your paperwork."

Two more smartly dressed men-in-black, who were carrying barely concealed hardware, appeared out of nowhere. They took up posts on either side of John. The building at his back had not, in fact, protected him. It only blocked his escape, dammit.

The foot traffic had miraculously disappeared, no doubt sensing the latent violence, and John was alone. Dammit, thought John, dammit, dammit, dammit. He was outnumbered, outflanked and outgunned.

Then the huge blond played his ace in the hole. He showed John the paperwork. Some damn, cryptic warrant for Captain John H. Watson RAMC, Retired. Dammit. It wasn't an arrest warrant and they weren't orders per se…but they seemed official. John wondered if he had been recommissioned somehow. He seriously wondered if he needed a solicitor?

Captain Watson eyed the official looking paperwork, the large bodyguards, the poorly concealed handguns and the deteriorating weather, before he admitted defeat. Fine. It was all fine. Orders were orders, after all, even if he didn't quite understand them. And it wasn't as if he had a choice, not against three large men who had guns and a woman armed with a smart phone.

At least the paperwork meant that the handsome, but very unstable, Jim wasn't involved. Probably. Maybe.

John was politely, but firmly, re-invited to join the smart-phone lady in the back of the limo. None of them seemed particularly interested in John's kidnapping. In fact, they all seemed rather bored with the entire operation. John wondered if he should make a run for it after all, but the blond behemoth read his mind and stepped forward, looming in a silent yet threatening way.

The stupid threat was un-necessary and insulting. It was not as though, the former soldier would ever willfully disobey written orders, although John might have delayed implementing these psuedo-orders if the behemoth had not gotten in his way. Then too, there were a few times in the past when John had been forced to disobey orders …but he'd had no choice. And anyway, all of that was in the past and not important right now. John glowered fiercely, sheathed his knife, which, insultingly, no one even tried to take from him and slid into the limo next to the smart phone lady.

The two bodyguards, who were surely ex-military, got into a second car driven by a large, dour blond who was practically a clone of the first driver. Maybe the drivers were pod-people. Maybe all these people were pod-people; it would explain their weird lack of affect.

John turned to the lovely, emotionless woman who was immersed in her mobile. "Hello," he said.

"Hi," she said.

"What's your name, then?" asked John.

"…Anthea," she answered, as if she herself was uncertain.

"Is that your real name?" asked John, knowing the answer already.

"No," she said with a small smile, her fingers kept typing at the phone. Well, she could smile then; that was good.

"I'm John."

"Yes. I know"

"Any point in asking where I'm going?"

"None at all. John," she smiled again, then returned to her messaging.

"Okay," said John. He sat back; hands on his knees. Could this be another Jim kidnapping. He had kidnapped John a few times, and this just didn't feel like a Jim kidnapping. To begin with, there were not enough threats, and Jim didn't seem the type to provide paperwork either. Still, who else would abduct John Watson?

John still had his knife, so he could fight back. He pursed his lips as he considered. He should fight back; but he didn't want to hurt the pretty, smart-phone lady, and besides, the doors were probably locked. John would have locked the doors, definitely. John decided to wait a bit.

As time passed and they left central London, John recalled that his mission, so to speak, was to gain info on Jim Moriarty. He probably shouldn't be fighting back then, not if they were taking him to see the lunatic, criminal mastermind. The soldier had sort of forgotten his mission to infiltrate Moriarty's base and all. He'd forgotten his job, because he let Jim get under his skin. Then there were other distractions too, John thought with a smile. The doctor had let Sherlock get a lot more than under his skin…

Right, never mind, this was neither the time nor the place for thinking about that. The ex-captain devoutly hoped that he wasn't blushing in front of the pretty pod-lady.

John Watson should keep his mind on his original mission, which was to trap Moriarty and Moran. John was a covert double agent, sort of. Actually, John had not received much guidance from the chain of command, and he really didn't know what they expected from him. It was frustrating, and he stewed in silence, aside from sneezing. Anthea, or whoever she really was, handed him a pack of facial tissues.

The smart phone woman played with her mobile the entire time. John envied her agile fingers. John himself could barely pick out a short text message with his stupid, pokey, old fingers. That was sort of frustrating too. Everything was frustrating this afternoon.

John tried to imagine what was coming next. Who, other than Jim, would want to kidnap him? Maybe The Colonel, well versed in military bureaucracy, came up with the paperwork angle. Maybe John was about to be punished for interfering with Jim's serial-killer-cabbie game last night? And John would never even be able to say good-bye to Sherlock.

John took out his own mobile phone. John considered texting the police, but refrained, since that would interfere with the mission. He could always contact the police later. Instead, he tried to poke out a message to the World's Only Consulting Detective. Anthea didn't seem to care that he was texting, which was weird, since she was supposedly abducting him.

John's texts almost always took a great deal of time. His fingers were clumsy, and John never knew what to type, especially today.

He wanted to convey affection, but didn't want to sound clingy or pathetic. He also didn't want to be overly alarming or seem paranoid, because maybe he wasn't about to die. There could be a perfectly reasonable and innocent explanation for his kidnapping, right?

It didn't help that he still kind of questioned how Sherlock really felt. The man had been very aloof this morning. Still, John felt he should send some final message, just in case. He needed to leave a sort of note, that's what people did, wasn't it?

Hey, Sherlock. Ths is John. In case something hapens I just wanted to tell you that I lov you.

Way too needy. And it was way, way too soon for the 'L' word. And it was full of typos.

[delete]

Hey Sherlokk. I had a lovely tim last night. This is John btw

Sounds dumb even before it's done.

[delete]

Hey Shercock

Whoops. Typo. Sher-cock. That's a good one. John smirked and then blushed deeply. Once again, he hoped that the pod lady didn't notice.

[delete]

He Sherock. It's me. Joh, Ive been kidnapped agan and will probbly never see you again. So I...

Needy and paranoid. Not good at all.

[delete]

John sighed; the tip of his tongue poked out, as he concentrated on texting.

Hey Sherlock. Ur probably busy,, I mght be detained. Don't worry abut me

Still not right.

[delete]

Hey Sherlock. Jut wanted ot say HI.,

[send]

this is From John. hi.

[send]

Shite. Those were the two lamest text messages John had ever sent. They didn't say anything. They were, without a doubt, the lamest messages anyone ever sent. Those might be his final messages to anyone, and they were just so lame. Now Sherlock would know that John was lame. But if John sent another message; it would just make matters worse. The whole texting idea had been a terrible idea. And Sherlock wasn't even going to bother to send an answer. John pressed his lips together and frowned at the rain drenched streets.

To distract himself from thoughts about lame texts and his possible imminent death, John began humming under his breath, "Fiery mountain beneath the moon…"

They were now in an exceptionally dreary part of London. The sky was darker here and the streets were grimier than in any other part of the city. The fog was even thicker in this part of London. The fog was half-alive, evil faces formed in the swirling mist, leering at the doomed idiot in the limo. The mostly vacant buildings loomed overhead, threatening to fall down and bury them all alive. John and the ever-silent pod-people would all share a dark, wet, grimy tomb. God, what a lame way to die. John sighed disconsolately.

He glanced at the pod-woman out of the corner of his eye. Anthea, what the hell kind of name was Anthea? Like everything else this afternoon, her name was sort of lame.

Anthea looked up, and John looked up too. They passed through a tall, rusty gate and slowly pulled into a dark warehouse. After the second car pulled in, the metal garage doors were pulled shut with an echoing clang. John breathed in slowly. This did not bode well at all.

A/N*From "Song of the Lonely Mountain" by Howard Shore and performed by Neil Finn in the movie, The Hobbit.

Thank you to everyone who reads this fic. Please let me know if something is off, incorrect, needs improvement etc. I appreciate constructive criticism.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you to those who reviewed chapter 20 including: foxeeflame, dana-san, SamuelE8688, consulting smartass, 107602, Quiet Time, 8of9, Wicked Winter, EJ 12212012, TheSherlockianGoddess(who has a lovely hand-drawn avatar),G0dC0mplex, and anyrei1.

Disclaimer This will come as a surprise to no one, but I do not own the rights to SHERLOCK. Perhaps, someday, I will wake up in an AU where I do own the rights to SHERLOCK. If that happens, I promise to produce many more than three episodes per season and Johnlock will be included, tastefully, of course.