A/N Yeah, OK. I lied. Maybe this is the penultimate chapter. I suppose I should go and change the A/N from chapter 20 so that it doesn't claim to be the penultimate chapter (Sighs deeply). Anyway, it's not entirely my fault. Sherlock and Ahsan made me redo the ending, and it simply made the chapter too long.
My apologies for inadvertently scaring "anon" nearly to death with my picture of the hedgehog. You have to watch out for hedgehogs, you know. They look so cute and adorable, and then BAM, they jump out and squeak at you or smother you with sweetness. Gah! Too saccharine!
So, onto …
Chapter 21
"No, I will not, for any reason, get into any cargo box, Sherlock." John paced back and forth like a trapped animal in their cheap motel room.
"John it is a large space, two refrigerator boxes strapped together. There will be plenty of room. You will have a knife and a box cutter, so that you can escape at any time. And obviously you'll have a light. And, John, listen," Sherlock put out a hand to stop the marching soldier. John flinched away, and continued pacing. "John, I will be in there with you," added the detective finally grasping his partner's shoulder.
John glared up at his supposed lover, who seemed to love locking John in, small, closet-like spaces. "You are going to lock yourself in a crate with me."
"Certainly, John. I would not ask you to face this alone. Not so soon after that debacle at the Delaware River. We will not really be locked in anyway. As I said," Sherlock continued, even going so far as to repeat himself, for John's sake. "You'll be able to cut your way out at any time. I imagine that we will need to hide for only a couple of hours," said the detective, using his false, reassuring voice and his fake sincere smile. John was not fooled.
"It could take all day. It probably will take all day just to get through customs. We'll be stuck in the back of some truck. We might get heat stroke or suffocate or fall in the Rio Grand River and then drown, again. That's assuming that we aren't trapped with brown recluse spiders or tarantulas. They do live in the Southwest of the United States of America you know," said the blond, pale with anger and stress. Of course he wasn't afraid. Soldiers were not afraid of packing crates or spiders.
"Alright, John. Well... there is only one other option," said the manipulative detective, closing the trap on his unsuspecting blogger. "I will disguise you as Ahsan's Pakistani grandmother."
"Oh no! Not the burqa! I refuse to be Burqa-Boy again. No, not happening!"barked the shorter man.
"You have some experience with this then?" asked Sherlock, trying to quell the smile forming on his lips.
"Too bloody right! Just because I am not abnormally tall, I always had to wear the burqas. Seb and Chas thought it was so funny to call me Burqa-Boy. HA. HA. Very funny, NOT!" fumed the soldier.
John stormed into the farthest corner of the room; he stood rigidly, with his arms crossed. Once more, the devious detective was barring the door with his body, making John's escape impossible.
Note to self, always find the exit and place yourself near it. John posted his mental note on the new, solid-metal, vault-style door to his Mind Fortress.
"John, you must choose between the box or the burqa," said the detective authoritatively.
"Absolutely not. Never. I refuse!" yelled John, his voice creeping upward in pitch. He glowered in fierce determination as he stuck a new cigar in his mouth. "No boxes and no burqas," he muttered.
"Good. I don't believe a burqa would be appropriate for you to wear anyway," said the smiling detective.
"Good," said John, still not trusting his partner.
I hate Sherlock Holmes. In fact, I hate Ahsan. In fact, I hate everyone, everywhere, thought John. But I especially hate The World's Most Devious Consulting Detective.
The gorgeous but detested man, stood at the front of the line waiting to pass through customs. To assist with their disguises, least fifteen people stood between him and John.
John sweat profusely under a grey wig and a heavy dark-print scarf that effectively hid most of his face. Dark sunglasses helped to mask his kohl-lined eyes. A thick, black shalwar kameez cloaked his frame, and gloves concealed his hands. The outfit was not a burqa, but it induced heat stroke just as effectively, thought the suffering doctor, who was dressed as an old woman.
Although it was not yet 10 am, the streets had begun to bake under a blazing sun at the border crossing between El Paso and Ciudad Juarez. John tried, in vain, to imagine a cool, rainy day in London. He tried to retreat into his Mind Fortress but found it simmering in the hot sun too. The imaginary cement blocks in the courtyard of his Mind Fortress were hot enough to cook an imaginary egg on.
Stupid Sherlock could probably imagine that his Mind Palace was in a nice temperate zone with a lovely cool breeze. He had probably installed central air conditioning in his Mind Palace too. John could not even imagine shade or a portable fan for his Mind Fortress. Stupid, useless, mental fortress of doom.
He glared at Ahsan, his supposed grandson. John was miserable, and Ahsan was a convenient target.
Ahsan, once more with black hair, ignored his glowering Nani. He produced false ID's for himself and his grandmother. The customs agents gave their passports a cursory glance . Understandably, the agents were more interested in the pretty, young, scantily clad, female tourists who were, coincidentally, next in line. Understandably, Ahsan was also more interested in the young ladies, and he virtually ignored his Nani.
Eventually, Ahsan finished chatting up the cute blonde wearing a multicolored tank top, and he led his Nani across the Zaragoza Bridge into Ciudad Juarez, Mexico. His Nani stomped alongside him with a heavy limp, using a cane.
His Nani wanted to use the cane to smack Ahsan a few times. He even imagined swinging it at the giggling girls who were still flirting with the attractive young man.
Girls used to flirt with me, thought John in dismay. Now look at me, dressed-up as an old woman with bloody eye make-up. And a kid young enough to be my son gets to lead me around like a dog. Well, maybe he's not young enough to be my son. But it still sucks.
John sweat profusely under the heavy clothing. He sweat from nerves and from the hot sun beating down on his covered head. He was too hot to feel gratitude or relief when they successfully passed into Mexico.
The multilingual crowd chattered loudly, and the noise hurt John's head. The smells assaulted his already nervous stomach. The smells of hot, sweaty people, crammed close together mingled unpleasantly with the smells of hot melting asphalt and greasy Tex-Mex foods. The whole thing makes me nauseous, actually, nauseous and dizzy. Thank God I did not eat any breakfast, thought John.
Ahsan led his grumbling Nani to join Ahsan's tall, thin, dark-haired 'cousin', who chatted with Ahsan in fluent Urdu. They thought John did not understand Urdu. Well, he understood Urdu well enough to grasp that they were on their way to the market. He also understood that Sherlock and Ahsan were joking that John made an excellent old woman. John gripped the cane tighter; he really wanted to knock the smiles off of each of their faces.
To add insult to injury, the urbane cousin managed to look cool and comfortable in his expensive linen suit, despite the hot sun beating down on them. Yup, his Mind Palace has air conditioning and ceiling fans, thought John.
They strolled to the market for Ahsan's shopping trip and to allow Sherlock to check for anyone tailing them. The detective periodically scanned the crowds for anyone who might be following them.
John tried looking around too but received a dismissive glare from the consulting detective. Evidently, John was too stupid to aid in the surveillance. Stupid, consulting dick.
This was not, definitely not, what John had envisioned for a shopping trip. He needed some water but had no money. His rude friends had left him in the dust, literally in the hot, dry dust. John was probably dying of dehydration right, surrounded by strangers.
Ha, the local coroner or whatever they were called in Mexico will get a rude shock when they start the autopsy on a little old lady who ends up being a little, old, man. Not that John was little or even old, really. But he was a man who was going to die dressed as woman and wearing eye make-up. Think of the humiliation. Please God, just let them bury me here in Mexico; please don't let the guys back home hear of this disgrace.
Once they reached the crowded market, they were out of the sun. It was still very hot and stuffy, according to the army doctor dressed as an old Pakistani woman. Christ, I'm really going to pass out from heat exhaustion soon, thought John. He tried to catch the detective's eye, but Sherlock was buying something. Something ridiculous. It looked like a mummified snake and some other repulsive curiosity. Was it a bat, a dried out bat? It will probably make the luggage stink to high heaven, thought John with disgust.
Well it can go in Sherlock's garment bag, decided John. He watched a child pass by, eagerly eating a cup of shaved ice. He actually considered stealing it from the poor little girl.
Yes, he was suffering mental deterioration, a certain symptom of heat exhaustion.
John realized with a start that Sherlock and Ahsan had begun to move far ahead. He stumbled after his supposed grandson and cousin. He just wanted to go to the hotel. John couldn't remember what time they could check into their hotel room. He couldn't remember what time it was now. He didn't know how to say, 'I'm bloody dying, get me out of here', in Urdu. John could probably say it in Pashto, but neither of his bloody, so-called friends spoke Pashto. Maybe he could say it in Arabic. Didn't Ahsan speak Arabic?
Oh God, now what is that git buying? Look at them, both of them, buying snake-skin belts or something equally stupid, while their 'Nani' passes out in the heat. Stupid, self-centered brutes. What do they care if Nani dies, surrounded by complete strangers?
A group of tourists shoved John into a table covered with large beetles, large living bugs decorated with paint and cheap jewels. Oh, God, some kind of living jewelry! The salesman held one out to the horrified 'old woman'.
It was a large Maquech Beetle, with a thin, chain leash glued on to its decorated body. The beetle was painted with gold and studded with sequins and rhinestones. "A living brooch," said the man, as the poor insect wiggled its poor legs. Good God! It's animal cruelty, thought John angrily. His gloved hands became fists beneath the heavy, long, loose blouse. He shook his head furiously and stormed away.
Where the hell were Sherlock and Ahsan? John fumed, as the crowd pushed him past more shops. He was shoved in front of a store selling birds and parrots. More animal cruelty, John decided. He was jostled into the shop and shoved against another display table. He muttered curses in Pashto, Arabic and English.
He turned and saw that the table held pet tarantulas. The zealous huckster actually handed one to John. It dropped heavily onto his arm. Bloody hell! A great, giant hairy spider is crawling on my arm. "No!" croaked John, aka Nani.
He shook his arm and it clung to him. Were those fangs? The shopkeeper was yelling about his precious bloody spider. Someone else shouted about mistreating a about a poor old lady. What poor old lady? Wait, I'm the poor old lady, thought John in where the fuck is my gun? Everyone seemed to be yelling now in several languages. John barely managed to stifle his moan.
The giant spider crawled up his arm. The brightly colored storefronts and canvas awnings blurred together like children's finger paints. John remembered that he used to like finger paints; they were so bright and colorful and cool and squishy. Cool and squishy sounded pretty nice actually. And he was falling, and it didn't really seem that unpleasant, not with all the pretty bright colors spinning together.
John, aka Nani, fell back into the arms of a tall, kind, German woman, who supported the surprisingly heavy old woman. Suddenly, two young men appeared. They each took a hold of Nani while thanking the Good Samaritan in heavily accented English.
The taller man glanced to the side, glaring death at the instantly quiet spider seller. He thoughtfully adjusted Nani's scarf, which was in danger of falling off. Then Nani was whisked out of the market. A young man supported her on each side, despite her apparent protests. The tall, handsome cousin magically summoned a taxi to take them all to their hotel in Juarez, Mexico.
They checked in at a small, older hotel. Climbing the stairs, they murmured soothing reassurances to the old woman. She angrily hissed back at them when she bothered to respond to them at all. At the door to her hotel room, she ungratefully snatched her luggage from the hands of her grandson and then slammed the door in their faces.
John locked and bolted the door, throwing his duffel and backpack to the floor as hard as possible.
With a vicious growl, John yanked the headscarf and scratchy wig off his head and threw them on the ground. The soldier was sorely tempted to shoot the wig with the gun in his backpack. He stomped on the wig a couple of times, just to be sure there were no giant spiders in it.
Why am I always, always, the one who ends up dressed as the woman? He tore off each piece of the hateful shalwar kameez. The blouse and loose pants joined the wig and headscarf on the floor of the hotel room. He kicked the pile into the corner for good measure.
Dragged through the hot, blazing streets wearing enough clothes for winter and then abandoned by his friends, only to be attacked by giant spiders. God! Bloody Hell! Giant spiders! And think of those poor bizarre beetles.
With another growl, John threw himself on the bed wearing only his black pants. He tossed and turned in the heat. The thin, lacy curtains allowed the searing sun in to bake the room.
He wasn't allowed to leave the room, "For security purposes" said Sherlock bloody Holmes. He wasn't supposed to open his windows either. No John was trapped in this oven of a room. I'll probably die from heat stroke even in here. John sat up to drink his second tasteless warm bottle of water.
It was impossible to get comfortable. Even with the damned costume off, and even under the fan, John was dying. How had he ever survived Afghanistan? Well, at least in Afghanistan he wasn't dressed as an old woman in heavy black clothes and a wig. At least in Afghanistan he had plenty of water to drink. At least in Afghanistan he only faced insurgents and Taliban and snipers and snakes, not bloody great spiders, the spawn of Ungoliant*.
Yeah, the spawn of Ungoliant, he thought, restlessly kicking his socks off.
He was left alone in a steaming hot room with no food and nothing to drink, except the stupid tepid water.
No one cares if I die in here. I should just sneak out the window. Yeah, I'd show him, thought John, angrily.
Unfortunately, John was just too tired and dizzy to try to escape his over-heated prison. Anyway, it would further inflame the consulting dick, who was already furious at John for fainting in the market.
John flopped back on the bed, his legs dangling over the edge. It's not as though I really fainted, thought John sourly.
John had tried to explain about heat exhaustion and syncopal episodes, and how they were completely different from fainting. The detective ignored his explanations. I'm the doctor. I should know if I fainted or not...
Oh bloody hell. Who am I trying to kid? I fainted, in public and dressed as a woman. It's mortifying. Sherlock probably thinks I'm a twat. I am a twat, and there's nothing lovable or sexy about a twat who faints in public.
John stared miserably at the few shadows in the too bright room and watched the fan spin round and round. Stupid fan, blowing stupid hot air and spinning round and round. Stupid Sherlock, just leaving me again. It's his fault I had to slam the door in his face. He told me to lock the door after all.
John finally passed out in the fan's warm breeze, still muttering about stupid detectives and stupid fans and stupid Ungoliant and her stupid nasty spawn.
John woke up in the soft purple light of dusk. It was still hot, but at least, it was no longer an inferno. A breeze carried in the scents of the dusty street and the smoke from a street vender's grill. He smelled some kind of food on that breeze. What ever they were selling, it smelled good.
He could hear the traffic and a group of people gabbling and laughing under his window. His breath caught in his throat. The warm breeze blew the curtains gently into the room; his window was open. Someone had opened his window. Someone was in his room.
After only a moment's hesitation, the soldier slowly lifted his head. His eyes locked onto the silvery eyes of Sherlock Holmes. The detective sat in the room's only chair. He was in his thinking pose, fingers steepled in front of his face, staring at his blogger.
John looked over at the door that he had bolted; it was still bolted, of course.
"How? How did you get in here?" asked John, his voice scratchy from his long siesta.
Sherlock enigmatically raised an eyebrow.
"I hate that. I hate when you do that, looking all enigmatic and mysterious" Sherlock remained silent. "How long have you been sitting there? Why? Why are you just sitting there?" demanded John hoarsely. The only sounds were the whirring of the fan and the sound of passing traffic in the street.
"I was watching you, of course," Sherlock finally answered enigmatically. "I brought you some iced tea and fresh juice, John. Your choice," he licked his lips. "They are both still cold."
The detective looked fresh and cool as always. He had removed his dark suit jacket and hung it on a hanger on the back of the door. The sleeves of his purple shirt were rolled up to his elbows. Just how many purple shirts did the man have? He leaned forward onto his elbows, eyes intent on the man in front of him.
Sherlock had sat and watched over his blogger for hours. He needed to be sure that John suffered no ill effects from heat exhaustion. He woke John only once, to make him drink some more water. John had barely roused, but he had dutifully swallowed all the water, before he fell back down in deep slumber.
Having Googled heat stress disorders, Sherlock only became more concerned. He had allowed his blogger to suffer from dehydration and over-heating. It was inexcusable. Fortunately, rest and fluids seemed to have provided relief. Still he worried; so he sat watch over his sleeping partner.
At least in sleep, John wasn't angry. As if it was Sherlock's fault that John had managed to misplace himself. Surely even John must realize that John had perfected the ability to get into trouble entirely on his own. Sherlock suppressed a shudder, remembering his panic when John had disappeared for five minutes.
Sherlock had shoved his way though the throng, attracted to shouts from a pet store. He assumed, correctly of course, that if there was a disturbance, then his blogger would somehow be involved.
He had found his disguised doctor only semiconscious, in the arms of a beautiful, German blonde. Sherlock had torn his wilting blogger from the Good Samaritan. He and Ahsan had dragged John to a taxi, but Sherlock's fear and jealousy had made him treat his partner a bit too harshly.
During the long hot afternoon, Sherlock had considered moving John's legs to a more comfortable position but was reluctant to wake his blogger a second time.
Besides, John was exceedingly attractive, sprawled out on the bed. His legs hanging over the bed and parted, as if waiting for Sherlock. He had admired John's firm, muscled legs with the light brown hair that occasionally blew in the breeze. He visually memorized as much of John as possible. Each time he considered John's form, there was something that he had missed on previous examinations. For instance, how had he missed that scar on John's thigh? It was old and pale but several inches long. There was always something.
And John lay there for hours, softly snoring in the late afternoon sun. A beautiful, golden man, and he belonged to Sherlock Holmes. The thought made Sherlock's breath hitch and set his chest on fire, again.
John didn't truly wake up until evening, when a group of tourists passed by laughing and calling out to one another. Sherlock glared at the window, furious at the rude people who disturbed his John.
John roused slowly, deliberately, only gradually realizing that he had company. He was such an innocent, thought the detective. And that worried the detective excessively.
John sat up and scratched at his sleep-tousled hair. Silly, enigmatic detective. The army doctor looked down, suddenly remembering that he was naked except for his pants.
"Well, you must be bored with only me to watch," joked the army doctor, feeling a bit embarrassed in front of the fully clothed detctive.
John decided to have some juice. Naturally, the consulting detective had read his mind and handed the glass to him, his fingers brushing John's. The simple touch sent an electric jolt up John's arm. The doctor gratefully sipped his cold orange juice, while the water condensate dripped off the glass and onto John's bare thigh.
"You are not boring John. You are endlessly fascinating," Sherlock licked his lips again, glancing at the water droplets on John's skin, then back up to John's eyes. His blogger's eyes were dilated, with only narrow bands of dark blue iris visible, dark blue like the shadows of the room.
John glanced up from under his crinkled brow, thinking that Sherlock was making fun of him. John met the silvery eyes and then unconsciously mimicked the detective, when he slowly licked his own lips. Maybe Sherlock wasn't making fun of him.
John cleared his throat. "Um, I see you have your laptop. Any news?" asked the soldier, feeling increasingly self-conscious. Sherlock kept staring at him, for God's sake.
"I am concerned. The chatter picked up by the CIA and MI6 includes frequent references to Juarez. There were mentions of the Russian coming to Juarez as well," said Sherlock leaning on his elbows again, his whipcord forearms exposed. As usual, being alone, with Sherlock so close, made it hard for John to think. He had to get over this. He had to learn to worship the gorgeous detective only At the Appropriate Time.
"So do we make a run for it?" God the man was so distracting, with his elfin eyes and that hair drooping into his eyes. And those hands that could play John like a violin. "Um, maybe I should head out on my own. I'd have no problem crossing the desert on foot, as long as I traveled at night and carried water," suggested John.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes; in the shadows he looked a bit dangerous. Well, he was dangerous, and John loved danger.
"You will not hare off across the desert alone, John. We are partners. That has been established," snapped the consulting detective. "We will get up at 3am and leave here before sunrise. I have planned a diversion that should help us escape without being followed. Ahsan has already acquired a jeep and we will drive further south before attempting to board a plane to India or possibly Asia. It is entirely possible that our disguises have worked, and we are already safe. I just feel we should exercise extreme caution."
"Ha, that doesn't sound like you. You and caution don't go together," said John, trying to lighten the mood.
Water from the outside of his glass dripped again, onto his leg, setting off a chill and raising goose-flesh on his thigh.
The water beading on the soldier's hot flesh mesmerized the consulting detective.
Sherlock slowly unfolded from his chair, graceful, beautiful and predatory, like a stalking panther. Which makes me the prey, thought John. But further thought was virtually impossible with the World's Sexiest Detective looming over him. Why did Sherlock always jam his command and control centers?
John tried to look casual and sip his drink, but his heart was racing and his skin was suddenly on fire. Did Sherlock know? Of course he knew. He knew everything; he …
Sherlock stood between John's legs, which still dangled over the bed. His trousers gently brushed John's burning skin, inflaming the soldier more.
With one, long, pale finger, Sherlock wiped up the water droplets on John's thigh and then slowly licked his finger. It tasted salty, and musky.
His blogger's hand trembled. I make John tremble, thought the detective with a wave of possessiveness and desire. He took the glass from his blogger and set the cold, wet glass against John's neck. The bruises from two nights ago were already fading. That would have to be rectified. He slowly trailed the dripping glass over John's collar-bone, water pooled in the hollow above the clavicle, then slowly dripped down John's chest, losing itself in his golden hair.
John's entire body shuddered.
Enraptured, Sherlock dragged the cold glass over John's tense nipple, now glistening with water. He bent down to slowly lap at the dusky pink nipple. John's eyes finally closed; he moaned as his head dropped back. He braced his hands behind him so that he wouldn't fall back.
Sherlock's tongue followed the track of cool water down his bloggers chest and over the rigid muscles of his abdomen. His tongue left a trail of fire behind it. It stopped at John's pants. Sherlock stood back up, looking at the golden man splayed in front of him, for him.
"John," whispered the tall man, tilting his head. How did John stir his lust by just sitting on a bed? How had John become so important? He could not imagine living with out his blogger. "John, you must never leave me," demanded Sherlock.
"Never," agreed John, his voice cracking. But they both knew how these things worked, didn't they, wondered John? After all, Moriarty had taught them that hearts could be burned; Mycroft had told them, all hearts are broken. It was inevitable; something you could really trust.
Sherlock's pale hands held John's face. John gazed up, his dark eyes pleading, needing. Sherlock sank down to bury his head against John's chest, wrecked by John's look of love and lust.
John pulled himself up to embrace his young, dark-haired demigod. He buried his hands in the dark curls; he buried his face in the cinnamon and sweat scented curls.
"Sherl," said John, suppressing a sob. And, where the hell did that come from, wondered John. God, don't let me cry on top of all the other stupid things I've done today. " Sherl, take me. Make me yours. Make me yours forever."
Sherlock looked up and lost himself in the dark night skies of his John's eyes. John was so trusting, so vulnerable. He needed to protect this man. He was frightened by his need for this man.
He looks so young and lost tonight, thought John. My God.
"My God, Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherl." John kissed his detective's forehead, his eyes, his razor-sharp cheekbones his Cupid's bow mouth, oh his mouth with the sexy-pouty lip. John gave comfort and love to his dark lover. The army doctor moaned and deepened the kiss. His demanding tongue pushed into Sherlock's mouth.
Sherlock descended onto his blogger, the dark night settling on the desert sands. He took John Watson and made him his own. And then he did it again fiercely in the dark night of Juarez.
A/N
*Ungoliant-an evil spirit, in spider form, from the Silmarillion by JRR Tolkien. Also mentioned in LOTR
Thank you to everyone who reviewed Chapter 20 including Rose O'Sharon, Wicked Winter, InuChimera7410, power0girl, darkhearted243 and also 'anon'. Everyone, who comments or reviews, helps me to write better and gives me the confidence to keep trying. My Thanks.
Thank you also to everyone who follows my work or favorites it- what a compliment! THANKS
Disclaimer I do not own the rights to Sherlock Holmes, John Watson or any characters from the Sherlock BBC series or Sherlock Holmes books. But I love them as if they were my own; I can't help it!