A/N: Another half-cooked story that shot out of my pen, and that I suppose I wish I could have written into a full story. (Maybe one day?) I've therefore let myself get carried away, length and plot-wise. (Sorry.) -csf

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No, Sherlock, I can't pick up, not right now, I'm working.

The phone on my pocket keeps vibrating from incoming calls, one right after the other. At first they were short bursts of impatience, then maybe another three in longer nagging. Now he's back at short ones if I can tell.

Not good. He knows I can't pick up while at work, and I happen to know he's not in immediate danger.

Lestrade will pick up.

My last patient is leaving the examination room in handcuffs. I've been doing check-ups in the prison population today. Not very usual for a GP like I am these days. I suppose I was asked to join in due to my background as an Army Doctor. Two good expertise to have when you're checking the blood pressure of a cold-blooded murderer as two guards stand and watch by the door.

Better me than my colleagues at the Health Centre; I can handle this.

Sherlock is still impatiently ringing me. For the ninth time. I—

It spells SOS. Three dots, three dashes, three dots again. What on Earth—

I grab the phone I should have handed over at the entrance but neglected to, glancing at the screen. An ominous message is waiting for me:

"You're in danger. Leave. Now. –SH"

In danger? How? I'm alone as it is. The patient has left.

I look over my shoulder at the door...

Oh...

I can recognise the two armed guards' expressions. It's cold-blooded greed. I'm their catch prize.

Sherlock was warning me the best way he could and I ignored him.

The two armed guards are out to get me. There's no way out of this medical ward. They have me.

They'll want to take me out of here. To their leader. I need to stand ground. Till someone else knows I'm in danger. I'll hold them off till help arrives. It's not that easy to take down Captain John H. Watson.

They can try.

No weapons on my side, and my body to body combat skills aren't at its peak, making me, the short guy, at a disadvantage against two large goons. The medical ward is minimalist at best; for a real medical emergency the patient is transferred out of the prison.

I'm in trouble.

The two guards lock the only door behind them, making their intentions quite clear. Who sent them? Why me? It's got to be about Sherlock, it always is. A prison is a haven for criminals out to get to my friend for payback. I'm their best way to get to Sherlock. I'll never allow that.

'You don't need to do this', I remind them in a cold voice. They can still back out.

The taller man laughs derisively. So he's the leader in our little farce. Blonder, slight military stance. The second man obeys his sharp command with a nod, and approaching me.

I roll my eyes at them. Let's get this over with, shall we?

The second man leans to me, to force me into submission, under the supervision of the first man. I realise the man leaning over me with his handcuffs ready is a feet taller and another wider than me. Plus he's armed as well. Tactical one on one combat rules tell me to keep low and avoid a sparkle. I'm playing it cool. Sherlock knows. If there's someone that can fix this now, it's Sherlock.

The man delays the handcuffing and grabs me by my shirt collar with one hand, half-lifting me from my chair. He's stinky breath is upon me as he mutters: 'Boss wants you alive. He didn't' insist on you being all in one piece, John.'

'And yet...' I taunt back.

'You won't be so smart when we're done with you. Holmes needs a lesson.'

Calling me by my first name, calling Sherlock by his last. Wanting to throw me off balance, then.

Takes more than that.

He punches me hard. I half-expected it, but I still lost ended up crashing against the desk. Out of balance, with a sharp pain on my side and a throbbing at my temple I look back at my enemy. He's smiling like an idiot. I just want to dare him to do that again, but I need to hold off, that's the plan.

'So, who wants Sherlock?' I ask blatantly. Forgot to keep my cards to myself. Maybe I got my head banged up harder than I thought.

'Chandler. Remember him, John?'

Well, it worked. As the man reaches to me and yanks me back to my feet I watch him recoil his arm and tense his muscles. Not punching me again, sorry.

I stab him on his leg artery with an insulin syringe in one swift movement.

'Doctor Watson to you, idiot.'

He stumbles back, stunned, looking down on his leg. I assure him as I take hold of his gun and point it back at him: 'Insulin. It won't kill you, provided you seek proper medical attention within the hour. It should leave you nauseated, weak, sweaty palms, heart palpitations, the lot. Better not try to fight back.'

I glance over at the man at the door, who has been eyeing us carefully, keeping his distance.

'Chandler, I presume?'

'Just an alias', he assures me calmly. 'We've met once before, do you remember, John?'

'No', I assure him.

Hurry up, Sherlock.

'Back in the Sand', he adds.

I frown. I know what he means. Afghanistan. A mercenary for hire?

'Which side?'

'Yours. But not for long.'

A despicable double-crosser that went into the other side. A mercenary for hire, exploring the poor people of the land and selling his services, his country for money.

'Then perhaps I should know your name', I add.

He laughs coldly. 'What's a name, John? Are you just waiting for Holmes? You've always been the quiet loyal type. Found yourself a new hero? Does Holmes come next, after Queen and Country?'

'And you? What are you waiting for? You think Sherlock Holmes is going to come in through that door and save us?'

His mouth twisted slightly.

'No, I think you believe that.'

I tilt my head to the side. 'I can shoot you right now. So can you. We're at a standstill. Time only works in my favour, Moran.'

His smile is as wild as it is genuine.

'You do remember me.'

'I've got a knack for remembering scum.'

'Well, keep me in mind, will you? I'm getting Sherlock Holmes for my boss, and then we'll settle our own scores, John.'

Suddenly all electrical lights went out, followed by the blaring sound of emergency sirens. I took out my phone to light as a torch, but even then I knew it was too late. Moran is gone. Like an over-dramatic theatre play, he planned his escape.

A warning.

Next thing I know my name is being called by a familiar voice. Sherlock is running up the hall, with Lestrade on his tail. Sherlock's light eyes are maniac as he runs his gaze over me again and again. 'Are you hurt, John? Tell me you're not hurt!'

Nonsense. I shake my head. 'I'm fine, Sherlock. He's left.'

Sherlock and Greg share a look. 'Who?' he insists.

'Moran.'

'Who is he?' Greg presses me. Sherlock is drawing blanks as well.

I don't know what to say. Finally I settle upon: 'A ghost from the past. He's after you too, Sherlock.'

'John?' Greg calls me, I ignore him. I keep staring hard at Sherlock as he tries to read in my face all I haven't said. Probably he can. 'Sherlock, let's get John a sit, he's dead pale. Maybe he's in shock.'

We both shake our heads. No shock.

'What have you got in your hand, John?' Sherlock asks me in a soothing voice. I look down. I've got the fake guard's gun. For the first time I realise it's not standard issue. Moran must have brought it along and passed it to his accomplice. It's a neat piece of handgun, sharp in lines, heavy in order to stabilise the aim at a longer range. It's a custom made piece, a deadly work of art. I shiver. I've seen it before. I know that gun.

I could use that sit now, Greg.

Sherlock is the one holding me up, as he tries to disengage my fingers from the metal I'm clutching at as if to save my life.

I've seen that gun before.

I've seen it at work.

I still carry its burden in my left shoulder.

'I got it, John. Let go. Breathe, John. Deep breaths. Just drop it, John. Give it to me. I'll take it for you.'

You can't take it. It's inside me. It's been there for a long time now. It'll never go away.

Greg is calling out something about a man in shock. Not the man I neutralised with an insulin jab, he's being looked after already. Haven't a clue. Wish Greg would just shut up. His noise, and the ghost war noises invading me are just too much for me right now. Sherlock's touch is the only thing keeping me grounded right now.

I think Sherlock knows.

'We'll get him, John', he promises me. His voice is only partially audible through the haze. I need to trust him on that. I always do. Trust him, I mean.

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