***Any dialogue that appears in bold print is either Pashto or Dari. The distinction will be indicated within the paragraph.***
***TRIGGER WARNING***
Rape and loss of an infant is mentioned in regards to an original character.
John cursed under his breath. He knew better than to let his guard down.
To be fair, he also knew better than to exit the tube three stations early just because he thought maybe a brisk walk in the frigid, biting wind would help expend some nervous energy. Especially when he was completely exhausted after a twenty-four hour on-call shift at the hospital, and more than a little distracted.
Assess the situation. John strained to hear the footfall of the man who had been following him since he exited the station. Quick. Erratic. Light tread. Not a military bearing, so not likely one of Mycroft's. Poor job of matching steps, so not trying to hide. Not likely a professional henchman then. He watched the shadows cast by the streetlamps. Not a perfect indicator, but he could at least get a feel for what he was up against. Slight build. Definite height advantage. Likely male.
John weighed his options. Should he maintain his slightly slumped and exhausted posture, feign ignorance, wait for the next clear route of escape to present itself, and make a run for it? Or, he could go full military stance, face the threat head on. There were too many variables. He had no idea how many men he was actually facing. Was there an ambush waiting? If it was Mycroft, he'd find him no matter where he ran to. Was the other guy even armed? Based on his shadow and what John could hear of his approaching gait, he was fairly certain he could defend himself easily against the other man.
And John was never one to run from his problems.
He waited for the next clearly lit intersection and came to a complete halt. Assuming his full military stance, John called over his shoulder, "Don't come any closer, I'm armed." It was a lie, of course. John never took the Sig with him to work anyway, but lately he'd kept it locked up more than he normally would. For his own safety, and not so much anyone else's. He waited a beat, and the other man continued his approach.
Bluff called, then.
John clenched his hands into fists. Heart racing, nerves screaming, he took a deep breath, and then another. He wasn't afraid. Far from it. In that moment, facing the uncertainty of imminent danger, he felt more alive than he had since Sherlock had... Hmm... Yeah, since Sherlock.
"I'm warning you. You need to rethink taking another step closer." John made sure his voice was low, and he all but growled the threat. He started to turn slowly, his movements deliberate, so as not to spook his stalker into a rash reaction. "I swear to God, I will..." John froze, stunned by the sight before him. "Bill?" He barely managed to rasp the name out and maintain control of his knees at the same time. John sighed in relief.
"Hey, Doc... I... I uhm... Shezza, he said... back when...before..." The young man hung his head to avoid making contact with John.
"Bill, what is it? What's the matter?" John took a tiny step forward, but made certain to keep his distance, this time for Bill's sake. Bill Wiggins. The wiry, awkward, young twenty-something was one of the original members of Sherlock's homeless network. He was bright, thought quickly on his feet, had fast hands, and if he was ever afraid John had never seen it. Before now. Certainly he was skittish around authorities, but he had trusted Sherlock completely. By extension, Bill had grown to trust John, though the doctor knew the only reason for that trust was because Sherlock had grown to trust him too.
"There's a girl. A pregnant girl. She's ain't... She's not doing so well." Bill looked up then, with tear rimmed eyes, and John read true fear there. By the way he twitched and flinched when he moved, John could tell Bill was on edge, impatient. This girl, whoever she was, was important to him.
"All right, Bill. Can you take me to her? Is she somewhere I'll be allowed in?" John spoke softly in an effort to reassure the young man.
Bill nodded, though he appeared uncertain. "Been a long time, Doc, but we all still trust you. Shezza said it would be okay, if anything ever..."
"It's fine Bill. Show me where she is, yeah? Anyone call an ambulance?" John took another step toward Bill, in an effort to urge the young man on.
"No! No ambulance. She's scared..." Bill skidded to a halt and grabbed John by the arm. "It has to be you, Doc. Just you. She don't trust nobody but me. But she'll trust you."
John nodded grimly and motioned for Bill to lead on. "Tell me what you can, Bill." The other man took off at a jog. John rolled his eyes, and kept pace.
"Name's Aroos. She doesn't speak much English at all. Ithink she's from Afghanistan..."
"Symptoms, Bill. I need to know what's wrong. How far along is she? Is she bleeding? Having contractions?" John interrupted.
"Right. Right... I'm not sure how far along she is. I think it's too soon though. She's in a lot of pain, but it didn't seem like contractions. At least, not like I've seen. And there was... blood..." Bill led them down another alley, in what was quickly becoming a convoluted, maze of a route. A convoluted maze of a route that looked vaguely familiar, as if from a dream.
"Bill," John tugged on the back of the younger man's threadbare coat just as he ducked behind a skip and dislodged a ventilation grate. "How did you know about this place?"
"Shezza... He showed me. I was in trouble, and he told me about it. Been using it since... You know..." Bill shrugged and looked at him sheepishly. "It's okay, Doc?"
"Yes. Yeah, of course. I'm glad you... It's good you can use it. I just haven't been here since before..." John drew in a controlled deep breath. "Lots of memories, you know?" Bill nodded and John waved him on. "Off you go, then." John ducked in through the opening in the wall behind Bill. They had to crawl for a few metres, but the duct work finally gave way to a small room.
There were no windows, as it was really more of a crawl space than a room, but it was dry and surprisingly warm. It had been one of only a handful of Sherlock's boltholes he'd shared with John in the course of their partnership. John knew there were dozens more, but they'd not had enough time to need them all.
They'd used this particular hiding spot twice. Both experiences had been decidedly less miserable for John than they had for Sherlock, as the ceiling was low enough that Sherlock had to duck if he chose to stand, or pace as he was wont to do, but John was able to stand at full height. He was also more adapted to hunkering down in bare dirt rooms than Sherlock. Though, after the first time they'd needed to hide in the room, Sherlock had made sure to stock all of his hiding places with essentials (his idea of essential varied a great deal from John's, so John made sure there were at least first aid kits available).
There was a battery powered camp lantern lit in one corner, and another corner was stacked with the remaining supplies; John was surprised to see any of it still there. In the center of the room was an air mattress, and in the center of the air mattress, a girl.
"Aroos?" Bill whispered, though John could hear how truly frantic the man was. "Aroos, c'mon, are you awake? This is Doc... Uhm, Doctor Watson. He's our friend. He can help you." Bill took one if her hands in his and spoke a little more loudly. "Please, Aroos."
With a whimper Aroos stirred awake. "Bill?" Her voice was weak and her breath labored.
"I'm here, love," Bill's voice broke and John looked up at him sharply.
"Bill, is this your baby?"
"No, Doc. I just..." Bill shook his head and brought Aroos' hand up to his lips.
"Yeah, okay." John scrubbed his hand over his face. "Do you know where in Afghanistan she's from?"
"No. It never really came up... language barrier and all." Bill shrugged.
"Aroos, do you speak Pashto or Dari?" John asked in Pashto. He knelt beside Bill so that he would be in the girl's line of sight.
Aroos glared in response, and instinctively pulled her hand away from Bill so she could wrap her arms around her middle. "Dari."
John sighed but forced a smile. "You do understand Pashto?"
"You will address me in Dari." Aroos condescended in Dari.
"I apologize, Aroos, but my Dari is terrible. If you'll let me, I can help you, but it will be easier if we can use Pashto." John stayed very still, so as not to appear threatening in any way.
"No! I know what you are. You are a soldier. You will take me away again." Aroos shouted in Dari. She was in a full panic, near hyperventilating. She doubled over in pain and cried out. "Bill! Help... Please."
"Aroos, love," Bill placed a hand on John's shoulder. "Doctor. Friend. He can help."
"Soldier." Aroos whimpered. She looked up at Bill, her eyes full of pleading and fear. She pointed at John and hissed, "soldier."
"I was a soldier. But I'm a doctor. Doctor?" John placed a hand on his own chest. "Please, Aroos, let me help you."
"No!" Working herself into a proper frenzy, Aroos screamed at John. "You will not touch me!"
"Bill, she has to calm down. She's going to cause harm to the baby, and herself. We could lose them both. Talk to her. She's not going to let me help her, but if we can get her to calm down, I can get someone here who can." John scooted away from the mattress and toward the ventilation duct. Bill nodded in understanding, crawled around to kneel near Aroos' head, and began whispering nonsense next to her ear. "I'll be right back, Bill. I promise, I'm not leaving." The other man just nodded and continued consoling the hysterical girl.
John crawled his way back out to the alley, only to be stopped short by a stylish yet sensible pair of pumps and a stocking clad set of very shapely legs blocking his exit. Without looking up, John growled. "Get your boss on the phone."
"Mr. Holmes would like for you to report immediately, Doctor Watson." Anthea (John had long ago stopped caring about her many aliases, and just stuck with the one he knew first) stepped slightly aside to give John room to stand, though she never took her eyes from her mobile.
"Well, I have a bit of a situation here. And I think he's going to want to know about it. But we need a doctor first." John stood and rolled his shoulders. Anthea looked up from her mobile long enough to raise an eyebrow in question at him. "I know I'm a doctor, thank you. There is a young woman, Aroos, from Afghanistan, in there who is, by my best guess, seven months pregnant. I believe the baby is in a breech position, and that there are other complications, but she won't let me examine her. She speaks Dari, I only know Pashto, so she refuses to cooperate with me. Culturally, she will want a female doctor. And," John exhaled deeply, "she didn't say much, but I think she may have been caught up in that human trafficking ring." Anthea looked up sharply from transcribing John's explanation.
"We're to take her with us." Anthea responded in Dari.
"You speak Dari. Of course you do. I should probably be surprised, but I'm really not." John shook his head and chuckled despite himself. "No ambulances. Nothing with any sort of resemblance to a military transport. And Bill, the young man with her, comes too." Anthea nodded her agreement. She finished entering something on her mobile, dropped it into her pocket, and crawled through the opening in the wall without any hesitation. John shrugged and followed after her.
Anthea was already explaining to Aroos that they were taking her to get help for her baby when John entered. The younger woman had calmed noticeably, though she remained tense. Making an effort to stay out of her direct line of sight, John skirted around the edge of the room to the pile of supplies, and located a thick sleeping bag. "If we can get her onto that, we can pull her through the tunnel and out to the alley."
Bill nodded, and John tossed the sleeping bag to him. He'd let Anthea talk Aroos through the process, as she seemed to be responding well to the female presence. As Bill and Anthea helped Aroos shift glacially, John dug through the supplies for the first aid kit. He cursed under his breath when he found the kit, but discovered the canvas pouch had been emptied of everything. John dug through the supplies in hopes of finding gloves, or anything that may be useful if the worst happened as they were in transit. He found no gloves, but did manage to find some antiseptic, a towel, and few still clean flannels. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. He shoved his supplies into the first aid bag.
"Ready?" John turned to see a thoroughly exhausted and peaked Aroos bundled onto the sleeping bag, and a stricken Bill caressing her hair.
"Car's here." Anthea responded. She turned immediately and crawled into the duct.
"Bill, can you pull her? She'll stay calm if you're by her head. And I'll follow after, to make sure everything is okay."
Without responding, Bill grabbed the corners of the sleeping bag and backed into the duct. Aroos whimpered, but stayed very still. John grabbed the camp lantern and used it to light the tunnel. He could see Anthea and another set of female legs waiting for them at the exit. As John finally stood, he recognized the other woman as one of the doctors from the staff medical facility at MI6. They'd worked together on a series of health assessments run on agents. "Andrea," John nodded in acknowledgment. Andrea nodded in return, and then set straight to work coordinating lifting Aroos into the backseat of the waiting SUV.
"I've got it from here, John." Andrea patted John's shoulder and ushered Bill into the SUV ahead of her. John could hear her speaking soothingly to Aroos in Dari as the door was slammed shut behind her. He sighed as he watched them pull out into traffic, and realized he was clutching the first aid bag to his chest.
Nothing like feeling completely useless and obsolete in the time of crisis John thought to himself wistfully.
"Mr. Holmes is waiting for you, Doctor." John jumped as Anthea suddenly reappeared at his side.
"Right. Of course." John sighed and followed Anthea to the car he hadn't noticed waiting on them. Once settled in the plush leather seat, John glanced at Anthea. "Do you think he'd allow a little time for a quick shower? I did just get off a twenty-four hour shift at the hospital, and I've been crawling around in a hole in the ground."
Anthea typed away at her mobile for a few moments, and responded without looking up. "There will be a fresh set of clothes waiting for you in the locker room on the third floor. You'll have thirty minutes, and then be escorted upstairs."
"Splendid." John huffed sarcastically, though he suspected he'd not even been heard.
It took twenty minutes to get to their destination. Twenty excruciating minutes in which John had to fight off the fatigue that tried to overtake him, and the errant memories that threatened to break him. Tonight... or tomorrow... or whenever the opportunity to finally sleep presented itself, it was not going to be peaceful. He recognized the anxiety building just under the surface for what it was, and let the memories take him.
He thought of the first time they'd been holed up there, in the hidden room, just for a few hours. They'd spent most of the time bickering about the most likely way to corner their suspect. In the end, they had both been wrong, Sherlock had ended up with a sprained wrist and tossed in the skip, and John had been forced to use the Sig (not to fire a shot, but as a blunt instrument). As it was early in their friendship, Sherlock had whined about his wrist and taken advantage of John's compassionate doctor side for a full week before John had had enough and put his foot down.
He thought about all the mad things his mad flatmate had done... All the mad things he in turn had agreed to and encouraged. How he had finally felt alive. How there hadn't been enough time. Just... not enough. John had just worked himself up to a rather indulgent bout of self pity, tinged with self loathing, when they arrived, and he was ushered quickly to the third floor locker room. He thanked the minion - Kevin was it? - who showed him up, and then stood post at the door.
John thought perhaps he should be incensed by the presence of the guard, whose obvious task it was to keep him in, or perhaps even embarrassed by the lack of privacy, but he was just too exhausted to actually care. He found the tidy stack of neatly folded clothes, none of which were actually his, and all of which looked more expensive than his entire wardrobe combined. He rolled his eyes at the lavishness, picked up the wash kit and towels that had been laid out for him, and stumbled off to the shower.
He had thirty minutes and he fully intended to use it. Turning the water up just a little too hot, John stood under the flow and tried to work the ache from his shoulder. He tried to let the warmth ease away his tension, but he found he couldn't shut his off his mind. What he really needed was a stiff drink, or four. The longer he took, the longer he would be stuck here at Mycroft's will. John washed quickly and wrapped himself in one of the towels that was entirely too fluffy for his practical sensibilities, and stepped out from the shower.
The stack of his own clothes had been taken away, his wallet, keys, belt and mobile were all that was left of the pile. He wasn't too concerned. He'd learned early on that everything would show up in a day or two, cleaned and pressed (better than he could ever hope to do), in his work station. Dressing quickly, John marveled at the attention paid to the style and cut of the clothing, the softness of the ridiculously luxuriant jumper, and shade of blue in the plaid pattern of the button up shirt that he couldn't deny highlighted his eyes, despite their sunken and over tired appearance. "Bloody hell, Mycroft." John mumbled as pulled up the ludicrously soft socks that matched the grey jumper exactly.
"Well, I guess that's it..." John turned to... Kevin?... "No need to prolong the inevitable, yeah?"
"Right this way, Doctor." Kevin (it had to be Kevin... but John was in no mood for small talk) led John to a lift, punched in a code and stood aside as John entered. Kevin entered another code, and the doors whisked shut and the elevator shot up. Odd that he'd been left alone. John glanced around the small space, and considered the possibility of popping out a ceiling tile and making a break for it when suddenly the lift eased to a gentle stop and the doors slid open to reveal Anthea tapping away at her mobile.
"He's waiting." Was all the recognition John got, and he followed her silently, ignoring entirely the opulence of the decor and furnishing they passed. John's own security clearance was barely enough to get him in the building of his own volition, his work station was literally a broom closet (albeit, surprisingly spacious) turned windowless office. But he'd been summoned to Mycroft's office on the top floor (it wasn't actually the top floor, there were another two floors above this one, though only security, had access to those) often enough to no longer be shocked by the excess.
Anthea led John through a door into an outer office, a space he had deemed Anthea's Realm, and knocked twice sharply on the door at the back of the room. A muffled response, and Anthea pushed the door open for John.
"Mycroft." John nodded once at the British government.
"John." Without looking away from the computer monitor in front of him, Mycroft motioned for John to have a seat. "Tea?"
"Anything a little stronger?"
Mycroft glanced up at John with both eyebrows raised. Clearing his throat, he nodded to Anthea. The two men sat in silence, Mycroft staring at his computer monitor, and John staring at nothing in particular, until Anthea returned with a tray containing two tumblers of brandy, a plate of sandwiches, and a tea service. She placed a tumbler at Mycroft's elbow and handed one to John, then offered them each a sandwich. Mycroft accepted, John declined. They sat in silence a moment longer as Anthea excused herself and John sipped his drink.
"I suppose I have you to thank for the clothes?" John swirled his tumbler causing the liquid inside to splash up the sides.
"Consider them a Christmas gift." Mycroft waved his hand dismissively and finished off his sandwich.
John scoffed. "And here, I didn't get you anything."
"Actually," Mycroft sipped at his drink. "You might be surprised to learn that the assessments you provided last week led our agents to identify a cafe in Turkey being used as a front for that human trafficking ring we've been tracking. Mere hours ago our men took the facility, captured the ring leader, as well as several of his men, and liberated dozens of captives."
"And the shop here in London?" John placed his empty tumbler on the side table and pulled his chair a little closer to Mycroft's desk.
"It was a good tip. The leader admitted it was a front to our undercover agent before the raid even happened." Mycroft grinned a knowing smile, a smile that meant he knew far more than he was letting on. It was a look Sherlock had employed often. It was a look that annoyed John to his very core.
"Wait... The agent encountered the leader? Are they secure?"
"The agent made it to safety before the raid. The location is classified above your security level." John seethed at Mycroft's smugness. "There was, however, a credible threat made against..." Mycroft paused to consider his words. "Home base."
"What the hell does that even mean, Mycroft?" Agitated, John stood and prepared two cups of tea. Mycroft watched with a haughty smirk on his face.
"It means it was necessary to raid the London shop this afternoon as well. There were only low level underlings present, no captives, though there was evidence of them having been there recently. Also, it required that extra security precautions be taken." Mycroft took the cup of tea from John, and the two shared a meaningful glance.
"Me? He threatened me?" John laughed in disbelief. "Why? Did he say why?"
"You were spotted on the security footage of the London shop. The ring leader is originally from London, and recognized you from the papers. His threat was made based on your partnership with my brother." Mycroft's voice wavered.
"Oh." John swallowed hard. "I... I think I can figure the rest out from there." He scrubbed his hand over his face. "God.Is... Is there still a threat?"
"Our intelligence revealed there are still a few men here in the city. The leader is, as you can imagine, not being cooperative. I've reviewed the reports, and I am of the opinion there is still a reasonable amount of danger if you attempt to return to Baker Street." Mycroft dropped his chin, and looked at John squarely. "I would be remiss if I didn't offer to allow you to stay in secure housing until the threat has been eliminated."
"Is Mrs. Hudson safe?" John slumped into his chair, tea forgotten on the tray.
"She has gone to visit her sister, and will be gone for the next two weeks." Mycroft folded his hands on the desk. "We believe that to be more than sufficient."
John cursed and exhaled slowly. "Right. Well, what choice do I have? Can I contact the clinic? And Greg?""
"You can... You know the protocols."
John nodded numbly, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. "Is there time for me to try to sleep before I report to work?"
"Take the whole day. I cannot fathom how it is you are still functioning now as it is. You've worked a full twenty-four hours at the hospital, and spent several hours here and handling the girl..."
"Aroos..." John sat up and placed both hands on Mycroft's desk. "How is Aroos? And the baby?"
Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "The girl will recover."
"Oh God. The baby didn't make it?" John groaned.
"I'm afraid not." Mycroft's pained expression was clearly feigned. John bit his tongue. "You mentioned something to Anthea about her being caught up in the human trafficking ring?"
"Just a hunch, I guess." John shrugged. "She wouldn't say much. But she had a definite aversion to soldiers, and when she figured out that I was a soldier, she was afraid that I would take her again. Again. With the exception of the ring leader, most of his men we caught on CCTV and security footage wore military style clothing."
Mycroft nodded. "Do you have any other insight?"
"Well, I only know Pashto, but I've picked up enough Dari to recognize words, though not well enough to speak it fluently. I know that more people speak Pashto in Afghanistan, but that most University curriculum is taught in Dari. That Aroos spoke Dari revealed her upbringing. He father is educated, and has chosen Dari as the primary language for his family. But she understood Pashto enough to discriminate against it, meaning that his chosen career field is one where he interacts with people who also speak Pashto. He could be a doctor, but more likely his career is one that would lend itself to having visitors in his home, most possibly business, as most associates in finance or politics would also speak Dari. Aroos wouldn't have been take without the security that she would bring either a high ransom, or a steep payout on the market. So her father is some sort of business mogul. If we identify him, we will likely be able to find the branch of the ring in operation in Afghanistan." John sat back in his chair and stared at Mycroft.
"Excellent, John." Mycroft's smile was genuine. "We are searching for intelligence now." He opened a desk drawer and retrieved a business journal. He tossed it onto the desk and pushed it toward John. "That." He pointed to the man on the cover. "Is the girl's father."
John whistled low when he recognized the executive. "Did Aroos confirm?"
"She did." Mycroft nodded. "She also corroborated your theory that men dressed in military attire, shouting in Pashto, were the ones who took her, and that she was kept at the location here in London where, in their leader's absence, his team abused and raped the girl. The young man..."
"Bill Wiggins. One of Sherlock's homeless network." John supplied.
"Indeed. Mr. Wiggins, it appears, aided in her escape. We're still working out all the details of how they managed it."
John smiled fondly. "Will Aroos return to Afghanistan?"
Mycroft checked his watch. "Her father is on his way here as we speak."
John hummed in acknowledgment. "Poor Bill. I think he was rather smitten."
"Unless the girl's father is amenable to his daughter living rough in the alleys of London, I don't see that there is anything Mr. Wiggins can do about it." Mycroft scrunched his face in disgust.
"He'll still be broken hearted." John frowned at Mycroft's reaction.
"All hearts are broken." Mycroft shrugged.
"Yeah, and caring is not an advantage. I'm well aware of your opinion on the matter, Mycroft." John attempted, unsuccessfully, to stifle a yawn.
"Perhaps you would like to retire to your quarters? You'll find everything you need as far as clothing and toiletries already in place."
John yawned once more. "I think I ought to." He stood and stretched out his hand to Mycroft. The other man stared at him blankly. "Thank you, Mycroft."
"Ah..." Mycroft cleared his throat and stood to shake John's hand.
"Just a show of goodwill, yeah? I appreciate the security, even though I bluster and fuss about it. I know this is hard," he pointed first to Mycroft and then back to himself. "It's hard for me too. I look at you and all I can see... all I can hear... is him. Just know, I miss him too. And I know he would want you to ensure my safety if you were in a position to do so. I know that's why you hired me on, and I know that's why you're doing all of this. It's the only reason I'm accepting. So, for the sake of the memory of that great pain in the arse, your brother, and my friend... Thank you."
Mycroft hummed in agreement. Anthea entered then, face buried in her mobile, and waited for John to follow her.
"Happy Christmas, John."
"It's not really, is it?" John shrugged. "Perhaps next year."
"Indeed."