A/N Guess what, this is a real update, chapter 25 in fact. I hope you enjoy it.
Warnings Language, adult references and unrealistic (almost comic book type) violence and a tiny bit of gratuitous pre-smut (is that a word? probably not)
Chapter 25
"Did you honestly think that he wouldn't tell me? Of course John told me! He told me everything! I hate you, Mycroft. I promise you…" Sherlock spat into his mobile, "I promise you, if you ever threaten John Watson again…if your minions ever point so much as their fingers at him. If…"
"Sherlock, it was necessary for security…" said the British Government.
"Snipers? Snipers were necessary? Don't make me laugh. It was a heavy-handed attempt to intimidate him. I thought that you could do nothing that would surprise me anymore. But even I can't believe that you had snipers pointed at my doctor. I hate you with all the breath in my body!" snarled the World's Only Naked Consulting Detective as he paced in the very dark sitting room.
Sherlock was pleased that the cameras were rendered all but useless in the dark. Not that Sherlock was concerned by his nudity. After all, it was only transport, but obviously Sherlock did not wish any spies to read his lips as he ripped into his fat, interfering prat of a sibling.
"You have gone too far this time, Mycroft. I will not forgive this trespass. I hate..."
"You are repeating yourself, brother," said the smug British Government. This momentarily silenced the consulting detective who despised repetition.
"Now, Sherlock," continued Mycroft, using his oh so reasonable voice. "given John Watson's past record of participation in covert military missions, I felt it was my duty to meet with him again and so that I could ensure that we can trust him."
"Oh certainly," continued the enraged detective. "Because I am well-known for not being able to read people and deduce their motives," snapped Sherlock sarcastically. "And you thought that you could understand John Watson better than me? You thought that you could gain an advantage by threatening and bribing him? Well, it didn't work, did it? I could have told you that it wouldn't work. John accept a bribe? Ridiculous. John could not be bribed to spy on anyone, not even someone he doesn't like, such as you for instance. And even an idiot could have predicted that a direct, armed threat would only stiffen his resolve. He was in the army, for God's sake! And on top of everything, you couldn't even hire competent snipers. John could have been hurt or killed by one their of their incompetent mistakes. Oh yes, John told me everything, brother. I hate you and I will…"
"Enough, Sherlock. No harm was done, and in fact, I do feel that I understand Doctor Watson better now," broke in Mycroft silkily. "Let's let bygones be bygones," Mycroft ignored the muttered curse from his younger brother. "Now, later this morning a phone will arrive for your doctor, to replace the one he broke. Incidentally, Anthea was not impressed with Watson's mobile phone capabilities…" Mycroft had to speak over an angry growl from his sibling. "But to continue, in addition to all the latest me-phone features, the mobile will have a GPS feature that will allow you to track him should you misplace him again."
"I have never misplaced him, Mycroft," Sherlock hissed. "You stole him…"
"In addition, I am sending our latest, state-of-the art personal GPS device," continued the British Government smoothly. "It is called EMIT- for Experimental Miniaturized Individual Transmitter. You can insert this device under your doctor's skin. In the event that he goes missing, this device will track him. Even without his phone, he can be traced within minutes, seconds actually. It is virtually foolproof, and its signal is powerful enough to work greater than ten feet underground. The battery will last more than a year, which is unheard of, I assure you. I will provide you with the necessary equipment to install the chip and the software to utilize the tracking at all times." Sherlock did not interrupt, which was a very good sign, considered Mycroft. "It is very expensive. I had originally planned to place it on Gregory. However, seeing how distressed you became in Doctor Watson's absence, I shall allow you to tag your partner first…It is, as I said, one of a kind…"
"He will refuse to wear it. He will complain that it makes him… a pet or something…" muttered Sherlock, who desperately wanted to place the tracker on his soldier as soon as possible.
"For God's sake, Sherlock. Surely you can persuade the good doctor to see reason," cajoled the British Government. "After all, who wears the pants in your house?"
"Don't be so obnoxious, Mycroft. Just because you and Lestrade can't have sex without playing politics, doesn't mean the rest of us have that problem. And I still hate you," said Sherlock, but with less animosity. He was distracted as he marshalled the necessary arguments which would convince John to wear the tag, "So, what did Lestrade say when you suggested tracking him?" murmured Sherlock.
"I have not had the opportunity to make such a suggestion," said Mycroft stiffly.
Sherlock sniffed in contempt. "You never got up the nerve to tell him, did you. Perhaps if you ask nicely, Mummy will lend you one of her skirts and maybe even an apron."
"Stop being so childish," snapped the British Government.
Sherlock was on a roll and had no intention of stopping. "And I presume Lestrade forced you offer these bribes as an apology for kidnapping John?"
"Gregory doesn't even know that I am offering these tokens of my good will," said Mycroft.
"Oh. Oh!" said the detective gleefully, his anger temporarily subdued. "Oh, giving you the cold shoulder, is he? I knew there was a reason that I liked Lestrade. Brilliant. You're on the couch again, Mycroft!"
"Don't be absurd. Gregory was needed at the MET. He was unable to come home lastnight…"
"Even better than the couch! He's sleeping at work," chortled the snide consulting detective. "And I suppose now, you will want me to put in a good word for you?"
"That is preposterous," said the British Government, his voice icy. "Gregory and I are fine. I simply wished to replace the doctor's phone and offer a means to track him both for your peace of mind and as a means to track down Moriarty."
"I do not wish to use John Watson as bait," snapped Sherlock, good humor evaporated.
"And have you a better plan, Sherlock?" asked the British Government, relieved to have his personal life left well alone. He did not need Sherlock to rub salt into his wounds. He missed Gregory, who had refused his phone calls after a brief and acrimonious discussion of Mycroft's unorthodox but highly effective methods.
"I always have better plans. I have narrowed down the possible sites for Moriarty's lair," stated the younger Holmes. "I am waiting on two reports from Lestrade's semi-competent team. I scouted out the first site yesterday…"
"No one will be more thrilled than I, should your investigation bear fruit," said the silky tongued politician. "Nonetheless, you must admit that the tracking device will be invaluable should Moriarty escape our net and somehow recapture Doctor Watson."
"Fine. Send your device over, not that it will ever be needed," snapped Sherlock. "And the phone. And don't forget to send a protective case for the phone, a simple, elegant steel-grey or gun metal-blue case would probably appeal to Doctor Watson. And make sure you send it over at first light. And send over some chocolate croissants and fresh rolls and some pots of jam and honey…and fruit. Lots of fruit."
"What kind of fruit, Sherlock?" sighed Mycroft. At least they were finally negotiating the new treaty. which would be the price of Sherlock's forgiveness. Unlike Doctor Watson, Sherlock Holmes was more than willing to accept a bribe. Unfortunately, the consulting detective did not always stay bribed, but this was all Mycroft had to work with right now.
"I don't know what kind of fruit," replied Sherlock. "I don't care. Fruit. Just fruit. Expensive fruit. Exotic fruit. Fruit that is convenient, not those big pineapples, I refuse to deal with pineapples. Fruit that John will like," snapped the consulting detective, who had accidentally on purpose used all of John's fresh fruit in an impromptu experiment. In other words he had thrown the fruit out of the window and watched the splash patterns. The main purpose of the experiment had been to divert Sherlock last evening, when John was missing. It had also been payback to John for becoming missing in the first place. Now John was back, and the fruit needed to be replaced before the soldier noticed its absence. Which reminded Sherlock that the biscuits were gone too. They had been quite tasty, actually.
"And biscuits for this afternoons"tea added the detective. "Make sure that you send chocolate biscuits."
"Trying to fatten up your doctor?" asked the bureaucrat snidely.
"If I was, I promise that I would come to you for advice, Mycroft. You are an expert getting fattened up," growled Sherlock. "John also needs a new electric kettle and a new dressing gown. I think he'd prefer something plebian, like those robes you make Lestrade wear."
"Gregory's robe is fashioned from the finest, high-pile Turkish cotton…"
"Yes and now I want John to have one," decided the detective. "But not one of those stupid long ones, like you stick your partner in. I want a short one that only comes down to mid-thigh. To John's mid-thigh mind you; remember, he is compact."
"Well, if you're planning on ogling the short, little man…"
"John Watson is compact, not short," snapped Sherlock, "and I assure you he is anything but little," he added smugly.
Mycroft sighed deeply, "Well, why stop there? Why give him a thick, cotton robe when you could get him something... clingy? Why don't you get silk or better yet something sheer…"
"Excellent idea, Mycroft. Even you can come up with a really good idea now and then," said Sherlock sprawling naked on the settee. He was imagining John in a sheer black or red robe and it was making him hard again. He absently stroked himself. "So send both robes, Mycroft, the terry for everyday and the sheer silk for recreation. The silk should be in black…no. No, I want the sheer robe in midnight blue silk." Blue like John's eyes, thought the consulting detective. "And a matching silk thong I think?"
"Sherlock," said his brother in a strangled voice.
"Oh, and a gun. I want him to have his old browning back with a licence to carry concealed," said Sherlock sharply, finally getting down to what he really wanted.
"Sherlock, you may have to wait…"
"Fine. And while I am waiting, I shall have time to call Lestrade. I can tell him how upset John was by the kidnapping and threats and then by your abandonment of him in the rain at night, which allowed him to be mugged. I shall inform him that all of this has exacerbated John's PTSD and…"
"Enough!" snapped the British Government. "Are we quite finished?"
"I don't know, Mycroft. Do accede to my demands?" demanded the tall detective, arching up into his hand as he fondled himself.
"Yes!" Mycroft bit off the words. "I shall send everything over this morning. And for God's sake, take yourself into another room!"
"I like this room, the settee is very comfortable. If it bothers you, brother, you should remove the cameras," said Sherlock, making a show of stroking himself. "It must be later than I thought. Apparently it is getting on toward dawn, if you can see me so clearly. I shall have to be more careful with what I say…" Sherlock suddenly realized that the phone call had been disconnected.
He stroked him self again, imagining the silk clad doctor's hand touching him. Perhaps… perhaps John would not mind if Sherlock woke him up early. It was so much better when John touched him; surely John would be willing to give him a hand.
And indeed, John was willing to lend him a hand.
John was running, desperately trying to get to the wounded soldier before the evil cabbie got to him. The sounds of automatic gunfire surrounded the medic. There was the not so distant sound of an explosion followed by the clanging of metal parts. Oh dear God! An IED probably blew up another lorry.
John's heart galloped in his chest. and sweat ran down his face and neck. He could smell his own fear, in spite of the thick smoke and gunpowder.
The medic kept running, bent low to avoid the rounds which whizzed overhead like swarms of wasps. And Captain Watson was no nearer the dark-haired soldier lying lifeless with a pill bottle in his pale out stretched hand. Oh God, oh God, poison! The soldier had been poisoned…but then why was he bleeding? Meanwhile, the cabbie and Colonel Moran laughed uproariously.
There were more explosions and screaming. In vain, John ran toward the dying soldier. John glanced down at the gun in his own hand. Had he shot the soldier? He had. He had shot the soldier. John shot the soldier when he was supposed to have shot the cabbie. He missed and shot the dying soldier. John missed because of the damned tremor and because of his shoulder wound, which was bleeding. John stood in a pool of his own blood, and it hurt. John screamed. He screamed from the pain and because Captain Holmes was dying... and…
John sat up covered in sweat and gasping for breath. His face twisted into a grimace as he forced himself not to cry…again.
Disorientation. Where the fuck? Bedroom. Not Afghanistan…London.
John looked at the clock. O913 hrs. Overslept then? Oh. Oh yeah, he and Sherlock had been up most of last night elaborating, and there was sex, lots of sex. He exhaled a shuddery breath, trying to breathe slowly, deeply, trying block out the last of the nightmare. He tried to think about last night when John Watson gave a blow job…breathe in… and then again early this morning breathe out…and…
There was another explosion. Well, not an explosion, more like crashing, glass shattering and there was banging and a sharp yell. Sounded like a battle. Sherlock was…FUCK! Sherlock was fighting with someone?
John slid out of bed and grabbed his army knife. He half shoved on the robe and was running and falling down the stairs. He caught himself at the bottom. Without further thought, John turned the corner and froze. A man in some Middle Eastern garb flew past the door with a large sword in his hand. He bounced off the sitting room wall and then turned to attack Sherlock Holmes.
The fancy dress attacker raised his sword to finish off the unarmed consulting detective, and John raised his knife. The blond rapped the assailant smartly on the base of his skull with the hilt. The man in the Arabian Nights get-up crashed forward, face first on the floor.
John's very first thought was that there was no blood to stain the carpet. Good. That's very good. People had been known to die because of stained carpets.
His second thought was for Sherlock. Oh God, was Sherlock hurt? No, the git was smirking; there was no obvious bleeding. The grinning git only sported a couple minor abrasions. Well…good. That was good.
Third thought, maybe John should have asked questions first. This cannot have been for real. Real people don't fight with swords anymore. In fact, real people don't dress like this in London nor even in Saudi Arabia. This was more like a costume. Bloody hell…
"Thank you, John," said Sherlock smoothing the front of his suit and trying (unsuccessfully) to tame his wild hair. "Although I did have things under control, your assistance is appreciated."
Muttering to himself about some people's definitions of 'under control', John crouched to check the assailant's vitals. The man's pulse was steady and his breathing was regular. Just then, the stranger moaned and twitched; he seemed to be on the verge of regaining consciousness. The army veteran yanked one of those ridiculous scarves off the man's head and used it to tie the assailant's hands behind his back. Finally, he rolled the mystery man onto his side, in case he vomited.
Sherlock crouched next to John, checking pockets. Huh, thought John apparently, there were pockets in this bizarre costume. Clearly the consulting detective was rooting around for something in particular.
John leaned back on his heels. Well, at least John had been right to knock the man out? Right? Hell, what choice did he have? John wasn't just going to stand there while some lunatic with a giant knife attacked his lover…boyfriend…lover? Confused. Need tea. Need tea now.
The blond shook his head with pursed lips and furrowed brow. Maybe, thought John with a flash of hope, I'm still dreaming?
"And here's the proof," muttered the smug detective holding an old, well-creased letter. Sherlock did not even look up at John again but added, "Fetching as always, Doctor Watson. But you might want to cover yourself, as he is awakening."
John swiftly and a bit angrily tied the robe shut. He commandeered the pig sticker, ignoring his flatmate's loud 'tsk'. John moved into the kitchen or what was left of the kitchen. Pots, fingers, broken test tubes and glass bowls littered the floor. A chair was overturned and the there was a deep score in the tabletop, obviously from the pig sticker. John's nose was still stuffy, and yet he could smell something nasty. Probably the fingers, thought John, which means this isn't a dream then. More's the pity.
John bit his lip to keep from screaming. He decided that he did not like waking up to a homicidal Arabian Nightmare, he did not like having to assault someone before having his morning tea, he did not like having his kitchen covered in broken glass, chemicals and body parts. He glared at his flatmate who acted like this was all normal. At this moment, John did not like his flatmate either. John Watson did not like Sherlock Holmes at all even if he did wake John up with the world's best blow job in the history of mankind...Nope, he did not like Sherl...well, okay, maybe he liked Sherlock a little bit.
The angry blond pulled the robe shut again; it never seemed to stay shut. He stood between the kitchen and the sitting room trying to think but everything was muddled.
Sherlock was nattering on about some diamond and inheritance law and tobacco ash. The perp was muttering curses in Arabic; so the man was probably Middle Eastern after all, so why didn't he know the difference between a costume headpiece and a keffiyeh. Weird.
Feeling more disoriented than ever, John put on his still damp boots so that he wouldn't cut his feet on the glass or worse, step on those God-awful fingers. He found a pot that seemed uncontaminated; he rinsed the pot a couple of times, just to be sure. Then John put water on to boil.
It seemed like only minutes had passed, or maybe it was tomorrow. Somehow, John really didn't care. This was probably because he was suffering some sort of mental break down. or maybe he was in shock. Yeah, shock.
The soldier sat in what he liked to call 'his chair' and sipped his tea. Sherlock was typing madly away on his laptop and muttering about family heirlooms and bad blood. Someone, (Mycroft's minions? Members of a local Masonic Lodge? Perhaps the Loyal Order of the Pig Stickers Society?) anyway someone not the police, came and took the oddly dressed assailant away. No questions asked. Just another day in paradise, apparently.
"You have questions?" asked Sherlock, acknowledging his flatmate.
No, John did not have questions. The blond sipped his tea. John was definitely in shock, because he really should have questions. However, he had no questions at all. Sherlock was apparently unhurt. John was apparently not about to be arrested for assault for the second time in as many days. And the tea was hot, and there had been just enough milk... So everything was fine. Questions? Ha, why bother?
"No. Nope. No questions. I'll go take a shower now," he said, his voice had just a touch of a squeak to it. Must try to stop that, thought the doctor. He wandered through the debris field in the kitchen. "We'll, um, clean this up in a bit, I suppose. Mrs Hudson won't much care for that scratch on the table," John called to the detective, who, not surprisingly, ignored him.
John wandered into the bathroom and then spun around, "Sherlock!" he yelled. "Are there any more coming over?"
Silence.
John hurried back to the shambles of the kitchen again, keeping well away from the quietly hissing chemicals in the puddle by the wall. Hopefully the fumes weren't deadly.
"Hmm?" asked Sherlock, looking up at the heavily breathing soldier.
"Any more knife wielding assassins in fancy dress? Any more attackers coming today? " asked John fiercely. The consulting detective's eyebrow rose. It was a fair question, thought John Watson. He didn't want to get run through while he was in the shower for fuck's sake. "Is anyone else coming over today to kill you, especially while I'm in the bloody shower!"
"Oh, no. No one is coming over John. Shower away," said the younger man waving his hand dismissively.
John returned to the bathroom, rubbing the skin between his eyes. The weirdest thing about this whole morning was that Sherlock had a laptop identical to John's. The bloody detective must have more than one laptop, silly rich git.
While, he started running the water, John wondered if he should start blogging about his new and insane life. Ella used to nag him about blogging. It might be interesting. People might want to read about it, yeah? 'Course they probably wouldn't believe a word of it, now would they? John didn't believe it. The ex-army doctor stepped into the shower and let the hot water wash away his troubles.
John really ought to be upset, but he just wasn't. Most likely I'm in shock, decided the former army physician. After his shower, more tea would be required. Pity the milk was all gone now. And that upset John.
Yep, shock. I shall make tea. A lot more tea.
A/N My goodness, I have nothing new to go on about. Wait, I was wrong. The Hobbit, The Desolation of Smaug comes out Dec.13, here in the states. But it looks like I will have to wait for at least three days before I can see it. RATS! Oh, well. The point is, it is less than one month before we can see Martin Freeman strut his stuff, playing the plucky little Hobbit who stands up to Smaug the Terrible (who will have a very sexy voice, mind you). So, yeah! :D
Thank you for reading, favoriting and following this fic. You are all awesome.
Special thanks, with virtual cakes and roses (no black roses) to SamuelE8688, dana-san, 107602, TigerInTheMoonlight, anyrei1 and EJ 12212012.
Disclaimer- I do not own the rights to SHERLOCK.