A/N After suffering from slight writer's block and fairly severe Season 3 mental trauma, I'm back. And despite Season 3, I for one will insist on continuing with blatant Johnlock at all times.

COVER ART-the brilliant anyrei1 has created brilliant cover art for The Marksman. It can be seen on her Tumblr site (Google anyrei/Tumblr) It is also re-posted on my site as well. It's very emotional for me and just…well, stop now and go see for yourself…I'll wait.

Credit I used the fantastic transcript of Ariane DeVere to establish the rough timeline of The Blind Banker and also to incorporate some dialog. You should read her transcripts, they are so accurate and detailed (and her little transcriber's notes are a hoot.)

Warnings-just the usual adult topics and swearing

Chapter 28

John misunderstood Sherlock entirely. When Sherlock said he had to go to the bank, John thought he wanted to get some money. But no, they didn't go a regular bank and they didn't get any money, although they did leave the building with a large check, at least it seemed large to John. Sherlock could have cared less.

It turned out to be Shad Sanderson Bank, a gleaming edifice dedicated to international trading and money exchange and the lair of one Sebastian Wilkes. Wilkes was an old, university acquaintance of Sherlock's and now a client.

John didn't like Sebastian Wilkes. He didn't like the way Wilkes sneered at Sherlock Holmes. Wilkes was blatantly disrespectful to the consulting detective, and John suspected that he had probably been rude and even cruel to Sherlock when they were in college.

After Wilkes showed Sherlock the vandalized painting, the consulting detective went out on the balcony, seemingly to admire the view, and then he began prowling round the cubicles and desks.

Soon, Sherlock was dancing around the office. John watched as the tall detective peered around a pillar.

The former army captain was left standing with the self-satisfied banker. Wilkes continued to make snide little comments about Sherlock, which bordered on insults. John chewed on his lip and smiled blandly, hiding his fist in his pocket. John didn't want to screw up Sherlock's new case by punching the client, and maybe it wasn't his place to do so anyway. Sherlock Holmes seemed to be able to fend for himself.

Still….

"So, what are you?" Wilkes asked John. "Are you his keeper? You babysit him when they let him out of the loony bin?" Wilkes gave John a nudge and a patronizing grin, as the consulting detective crouched down behind a desk.

"No actually, I'm the muscle," said John standing at parade rest.

"You? You're the… muscle?" asked Sebastian looking down his nose at the ex-soldier.

"Yeah, when someone is a threat or maybe even a bit disrespectful, then I deal with them. Mr. Holmes is far too important to have to get his hands dirty, you know?" said John softly. "But of course I usually don't have to kill anyone; I usually just have to beat them up a little." John smiled insincerely.

"You can't be serious," said the banker incredulously.

"Of course I'm serious, I really don't have to kill anyone, most of the time. I mean I'm good at killing, of course, but I can't go around killing people all the time now, can I? No, I try to limit the carnage. Take you for instance. I probably wouldn't kill you right off. No, I'd just break your arm," John sniffed, " in a couple of spots." John smiled again.

"Are…are you threatening me?" asked Wilkes looking slightly pale.

"Good Lord, no," said the blond, with wide blue eyes. "What ever gave you that idea?" John's smile did not reach his eyes.

Sherlock finished his performance and waltzed out of the room.

"And, he's off," muttered John, nodding to himself. "Pleasure to meet you Mr. Wilkes," he added, making a gun with his fingers and firing at the banker's head.

John trotted out the door and caught up with his flat mate on the escalator.

"Two trips around the world this month," said John. "You didn't ask his secretary; you said that just to irritate him."

The brunet looked back with his enigmatic smile, which simultaneously irritated the blond and turned him on.

"How did you know?" persisted John.

"Did you see his watch?"

"His watch?"

"The time was right but the date was wrong," said the detective. "Said two days ago. Crossed the dateline twice but he didn't alter it."

"With in a month? How did you get that part?
"New Breitling. Only came out this February," said Sherlock, as if everyone should know this bit of trivia.

"Extraordinary," muttered Sherlock's hired muscle.


John remained quietly impressed with the consulting detective deductive abilities, as Sherlock further explained what he had learned so far. Evidently, the pillars in the office had allowed Sherlock to deduce that the vandalism was a message for the Hong Kong trader, Edward Van Coons.

John was impressed, and a bit worried, at how easy it was for Sherlock to lie and get himself admitted to the locked block of flats so that he could get into Van Coons flat.

John was less impressed, the longer he waited for his mad flat mate to buzz him in.

However, the blond was very impressed at the efficiency with which he was kidnapped. While he waited at the front door of the building, two men came up along each side of him. They each grabbed an arm and, with his arms pinned down to his sides, the men half-carried him to a waiting car. Of course it was a sleek black sedan. Just once John thought it would be nice to get kidnapped in a red convertible.

John was wedged in between the two thugs, so fighting his way out of the car was not a good option. As he glowered, a little television screen switched on. John was not terribly surprised to see the debonair Irish lunatic.

"Hello Johnny! Did you miss me?" said Jim. "You are a very naughty boy, Johnny. You had an appointment, and you missed it."

John didn't know what the madman was on about now. "What are you on about now? Can you hear me?" asked John, who felt like an idiot talking to the miniature telly. His wrinkles deepened with his frown "Can he even hear me?" He asked the big man in an ill-fitting suit, who sat on his right.

"I know you're arguing with the telly by now, Johnny-boy, but I can't hear you!" sang the mastermind. John had almost forgotten that Jim could read his mind too. "And you are late! For a very important date!"

"No, I've had enough of all this," said John, at the word date. He wasn't going on any more dates with James 'The Demon' Moriarty. The short blond tried to stand in the backseat of the sedan.

"You are late for your fitting! All your nice, new clothes are ready, Johnny!" Moriarty clapped his hands gleefully. Now make sure you model your pretty clothes nicely, pet. Daddy will be watching!"

John sat down again. Okay, it wasn't a date. Trying on clothes for 'daddy' was creepy, but it was probably not worth dying for. And the ill-dressed thug was carrying-barely-concealed.

John took out his mobile, and the thug on his left, who had tied back hair, promptly appropriated it.

Jim blathered on for a few more minutes about fitted suits, and dressing for success. He may have mentioned some hair products. John tried to ignore the psychopath as much as possible.


The large and apparently mute thugs escorted John into the tailor's shop. At least, the better-dressed thug returned John's mobile phone.

John was welcomed back into the establishment like a VIP. Indeed, Toby greeted John like a long-lost cousin, giving a surprised John a hug and an air kiss on each cheek.

As soon as Toby had pulled off John's jacket, the former soldier turned his back on everyone to text Sherlock. He wasn't sure if Sherlock would have noticed his absence. Still, he didn't want the consulting detective coming here, fearing that Moriarty's goons might hurt him.

With Toby breathing down his neck, it was hard to find the right keys, and John's message was a mess,

Hey Sherlock. Tanks for locking me out of the flat. (that is sarcasm) I have been imvited to a fitting atmy tailors. I'llcall you later. John Watson

John was expected to disrobe in front of everyone. He politely declined. Jim's minions persuaded him otherwise, with a few painful punches and then a vague but life-threatening gesture directed at Toby

The ex-army doctor tried on everything. Occasionally more than once so that various color combinations could be explored. He had to model everything in front of a digital camera for 'daddy'. It was humiliating, although he had to admit the clothes made him look good.

Apparently, Toby agreed that John looked good, because he went into raptures no matter what John wore.

"Oh my God! That suit fits you like a glove. And that TIE! It's the same color as your eyes," Toby would gush,or, "Oh my God! You even look good in red. That red shirt is just perfect; it shows off your exquisite torso to such advantage…These jeans are just the thing for you! Look how they cling to your thighs and your pert little ass…"

"Will you stop that?" demanded John. He didn't care if the hired muscle didn't like it. After all, John was hired muscle too. "Look, I don't want you going on about my thighs or my, my anything, okay? Just don't."

Toby brushed his bleached blond bangs out of his eyes and glanced at the floor. "But it all fits so perfectly on your lovely, little body," muttered Toby.

The tailor tsk'ed, and the fitting continued.

Just when John was ready to quit, and thereby throw Toby under the bus, the tailor snapped his fingers. The assistants began folding, hanging boxing and bagging up John's new wardrobe, complete with new shoes, undergarments and a dress coat.

"Leave 'em on," said the thug, who had tied his brown hair back in a tail.

"Um, what?" asked John, surprised that the man could talk and unsure what he meant.

'Boss says y'can wear the new jeans and the burgundy shirt and jumper. An make sure y'wear the matching socks. And fix yor hair too."

John stared at the thug who could actually speak and who had just given John orders on what to wear. Then John leaned down and glared into the camera.

"You're honestly going to try to tell me what to wear now? Really?" John asked the camera.

"He says, yes," said the long-haired thug, who stood with his hands behind his back.

The ex-army doctor's brows lowered. "And if I don't?" John asked the camera.

"Then I gets to rip out his earrings. One by one," said the thug nodding his head at Toby. The skinny blond paled and handed John the burgundy shirt.

"Oh for the love of…." John muttered and shoved his arms into the sleeves. He let Toby dress him until it was time to pull on the tight jeans.

"Give me those. I can dress myself," grumbled John, shooting dark looks into the camera and at the thugs. "And you can just give me back my old clothes too."

The tailor handed John his suit trousers and the dress shirt already on hangers.

"Where's my jumper?" asked the short, blond fashion model.

The tailor looked over to the bin. John's (Sherlock's) favorite new jumper was in with the rubbish.

John's lips pursed and then flattened them. He stomped over and pulled his (Sherlock's) blue Nordic jumper out of the bin.

"But sir, it really doesn't fit you…" said the tailor obsequiously.

"It's mine and I want it," said John, clutching the jumper. He shoved his face into the camera. "It's mine, and I want it," he repeated.

"He says you can keep the jumper," said the thug.

John was ready to make a snarky comment, but chose not to risk Toby's earrings.

The former army doctor wasn't allowed to leave until Toby could arrange his hair properly. Toby insisted on gelling the blond's hair, but John balked when Toby pulled out concealer and eyeliner. John drew the line at eye makeup.

A small bag of skin and hair care products was added to the bags of clothes.

The fashion ordeal was finally over, along with the afternoon. The thugs disappeared. Sherlock had probably solved the case by now, thought John disconsolately, as Toby escorted John out to the darkening street.

"Now we'll send your clothes to the Baker Street address," gushed Toby. "I've packed another whole outfit in this bag with coordinating socks for tomorrow. I put in that gorgeous blue jumper you had on, too. Thank God, you didn't let them throw it away. It matches your eyes so well!"

"Right, um thanks," said John with the shopping bags in one hand and the small bag of toiletries in the other.

"Now I put the concealer in your package, Johnny. You are too handsome to have those bags under your eyes."

"Right," said John, desperately trying to flag down a taxi.

"Remember to use the wrinkle cream at night and the moisturizer in the morning. Then put on the concealer…"

"Right. Taxi!" yelled John, waving his bag of toiletries in the air. Miraculously, a taxi pulled over.

"I put my card in there too, Johnny. Let's get together!"

John pulled the door open and shoved his bags in.

"Don't worry, I'm not trying to hook up. I have a boyfriend and so do you. I just want to show you off at the clubs!" Toby winked.

"Right, um bye!" said John slamming the door on his new best friend.

"Go. Drive, please just drive," said John to the cabbie. The blond leaned back, breathing out a sigh of relief as the cab pulled out into the traffic.

"John, are you all right?" asked the middle-aged cabbie, who suddenly turned into Sherlock Holmes.

John jumped up and dropped his bag of lotions, gels and creams.

"Jesus, Sherlock, you startled me," said John. He rubbed his face and slouched down into his seat.

The brunet smirked, pleased at surprising John. "You missed finding Eddie's corpse," accused the consulting taxi driver. "It was meant to look like a suicide, but it was murder. The police didn't understand at first, idiots. And then you missed meeting with Sebastian again. He was not very useful. He still thinks it was suicide. It was a bit odd, he fell all over himself trying to be ingratiating. He was very concerned about you, John."

"Oh? Well. Really?"

"Yes. It seemed as though he was worried that I had you stashed somewhere in the men's toilet, ready to pop him off. Now where did he get that idea, John?"

"I really wouldn't know," said John loudly.

Sherlock sighed dramatically, "Obviously, you were issuing threats to him earlier. I cannot imagine why you felt the need to flex your muscles, John…"

"I do not flex my muscles…"

"Yes you do," said Sherlock firmly. "I also don't understand why you left in the middle of the investigation. Surely…"

"I did not leave on purpose, Sherlock," snapped John. "I was kidnapped. I was forced under threat of bodily harm to go and visit the tailors. Which was just stupid and bizarre. I mean, who ever heard of some one getting forced into a fitting? No one! That's who. I am the only person who gets abducted to try on clothes in front of a camera."

Sherlock made no response. At first John sat back and relaxed. Then he worried that his silent flat mate/cabbie might be entering his mind palace while driving.

"Sherlock? You okay? You awake?"

"Yes of course I'm awake, John. Don't be an idiot," said the detective, "I had not realized, that you were kidnapped. Your text did not indicate that you were in any danger. Had I known, I would have come sooner."

"I don't think I was in any danger. They only hit me a few times. Toby was the one that was threatened mostly. And I didn't see the need to interrupt your case for clothes fittings and hair gelling. So did you use your tracking emission impossible thing?"

"I did use EMIT, but only to confirm my suspicions. I was fairly certain that you'd be on Savile Row for a clothes fitting, so I borrowed the taxi and came to collect you. And you are deflecting. I suspect that you were in fact injured yet again, albeit not severely, and no doubt you feel traumatized over the threats made to Toby. You should have told me what was happening, John."

"Why did you?" asked John.

"Why what? Why use EMIT or why borrow a cab?

"Both. Seems like a lot of trouble," mused John aloud. "I mean, you said you didn't think I was in any danger, so why were you here pretending to be a cabbie?"

"I was at a temporary stand still with the case. I am aware that you have some obscure difficulty with hailing cabs. I was able to borrow the cab because the owner owes me a favor and came to fetch you."

The lines between John's eyebrows deepened, as he pondered this unsatisfying answer.

"Obviously, Moriarty is still reluctant to come near you, presumably fearing contagion," deflected the consulting detective.

"Yeah, I suppose," said John. "Wait, how did you know he wasn't there?"

John could see the look of disdain on Sherlock's face even from the back seat. It was the only answer he got.

"Hair gelling," murmured Sherlock. "That explains the hair spikes."

"Yeah, I suppose."

"It doesn't suit you, John."

"What?"

"The spikes, the hair product…not really your style, John," said Sherlock. "I suppose you're trying to look younger."

"It wasn't my damn idea. I was trying to comply with the demands from the damn camera, so Toby could keep his damn earrings," snapped John, who was slowly turning a lovely claret color that nicely complimented his burgundy shirt.

The consulting detective took some time to analyze this statement. Beginning with the demanding camera.

After roughly translating his companion's statement, he said, "It doesn't sound as if you were not 'not in danger' John. I don't think you are capable of appropriately gauging danger in this situation, John."

Stunned, John's mouth opened a bit, but nothing came out.

"John, this isn't going to work. If you keep getting kidnapped, it will distract from the case," murmured the consulting detective. "It's bad enough that I have to be distracted by your muscle flexing and blue jumpers."

"Really?" said John.

"Yes, John. You have to understand that while I am on a case, I need to focus on it entirely," said Sherlock. "I cannot allow distractions. I will not allow outside distractions or my own transport to interfere with brainwork.

"What does that even mean, Sherlock?" asked the doctor, rubbing between his eyes.

"It means that I must avoid any distraction. To begin with, you must try not to get kidnapped."

John snorted in disbelief.

"It would be best if you stayed at the flat, unless you accompany me while on a case. Much as I dislike stating the obvious,it also means that I will not indulge in eating, sleeping or carnal activities while I am on a case. On that note, I hope that despite your average mental capacity, you will be able to reign in your transport, so that you present less of a sensual distraction. Now, I understand that a man, such as yourself, may expect frequent sexual stimulation…

"Stop! Stop talking now," yelled John. "I don't know what the hell you mean by a "man such as myself' but I can assure you, Sherlock Holmes, I am in full control of my transport. Maybe I should break the no repeating rule, and point out that I was in the army and on some missions I went weeks and even months without requiring any outside stimulation."

Sherlock sighed in annoyance, "I only meant that while I am working on a case I will not indulge in any intimacy. I do not want you to attempt to engage in…"

"Bloody hell! D'ya think I'm going to try to cop a feel at a crime scene? Y'think I'll start snogging you in front of a bloody corpse?"

"I would prefer that you do not attempt to 'snog' in front of any corpses, bloody or otherwise, at least not if they are part of a case." asserted Sherlock.

John glared and then spat out, "Sod the corpses! Now you listen to me," yelled John leaning over the seat. "I was in the army. I know about self-discipline,"

"So you keep saying, John, but…"

"Let me make this clear for you. I did not stop in the middle of a mission for sexual stimulation. I never paused in the middle of surgery to kiss the nearest warm body. So I think I can control my urges during a bloody case. In fact, being a normal, dull idiot, I probably won't have any urges in the middle of a case..."

"That is all well and good…"

"…because corpses put me off!"

"Actually, John I meant during the down times, when I'll be busy thinking," said the consulting detective through gritted teeth.

"Good. Good, that's great," said John. "You'll be busy thinking. When the hell are you not busy thinking? But no worries here. It's not like I didn't manage to control myself even during down times while I was ON MISSIONS IN AFGANISTAN!" he ended with a shout.

"Fine, then we are agreed," said Sherlock, his eyes narrowed from John's outburst. "That includes touching too."

"Oh really? Can I touch you to give you a hand if you're falling off the train?" asked John snarkily.

"John."

"Can I touch you if you're bleeding to death?"

"Yes, fine," said Sherlock, feeling very irritable, because now he wanted to touch John's spiky hair. "In fact you can touch me if I'm bleeding all over a carpet. Staining it," he added, cruelly playing on John's PTSD over Moriarty's casual murder of a man in front of John.

John gasped; he held his fists tightly in his lap. Then he sat back, pale, tense and smiling at nothing.

Sherlock bit his lip because he knew that he had overstepped a line, but he was uncertain what to do now.

John was seriously thinking about calling Toby, just to get away from geniuses for a while.

The couple rode in silence until Sherlock parked the cab in a loading zone near the flat. John grabbed his parcels and stomped over to the front door. He was angry over Sherlock's rejection, Sherlock's insinuation that John was some kind of sex-crazed caveman and over Sherlock's taunting him about rug stains. He fumbled at the door, managed to unlock it, and he stormed up to the flat.

As far as John was concerned, Sherlock could ignore his transport as long as he wanted. John decided to spoil his transport out of pure spite. He began by making himself beans, toast and eggs. He put on a kettle for fresh tea.

The doctor consciously decided to be the bigger man, and he graciously gave a plate of food and a cup of tea to his flat mate, who was a dick. He did not, however, speak to the dick.

John had a lovely supper, which tasted like sand, since he was so angry. He pretended to enjoy his food and then surreptitiously threw half of his dinner away.

John continued not to talk to the consulting detective, but the git apparently didn't even notice John not talking to him, since he was apparently in his catatonic/mind palace place. This was intensely frustrating to the doctor. Might as well be angry at a brick wall, he thought glumly.

After a quick wash up, John decided to be really decadent and take a bath. Yes a long, hot, relaxing, transport-spoiling bath. With bubbles.

The ex-army doctor sulked in his bubble bath and pretended that it made his transport relaxed and happy.

Eventually he got bored with pretending, and the water was getting cold. John decided that he was behaving as foolishly as the dick in the sitting room.

Sherlock was just being Sherlock, and there was no point in getting so worked up about it. John was going to go to bed, so that his transport would be healthy. Anyway, he wanted to be well rested for the case tomorrow and for any more unscheduled kidnappings.

John got out of the tub and put on the silk robe that he hated (loved). He padded into the sitting room to check on his flat mate.

The tea had been consumed along with a bit of food. John pretended that he hadn't noticed that the consulting detective had fed his transport. He made the git some more tea, and went up to bed.

Sherlock slammed the door of the room in his mind palace. He'd opened it expecting to see Van Coons flat again, but standing in the flat was his distracting flat mate who had washed his hair! Now Sherlock would never get to know what that spikey hair felt like. It was insufferable.

The consulting detective sat up and drank the fresh hot tea that was miraculously at his elbow. He even ate the chocolate biscuits that had appeared with the tea. He tried sitting up to concentrate better and did really well for a couple of hours.

Then his ridiculous flat mate started to sneak around his mind palace, popping out from behind all the wrong doors and wearing that blue silk robe...and nothing else. Tonight the robe wasn't even tied shut. The blond soldier was flaunting himself; it was not to be borne. Sherlock stood abruptly and ran to the top floor bedroom to deal with this distraction.

A/N Thank you to everyone who encouraged me to get on with it and finish chapter 28. Do threats of strangulation count as encouragement? They did say strangulation done with love, so I'm not too worried. (You know who you are.)(LOL)

I admit that I had a slight writer's block, and I required some time off so that I (meaning John and Sherlock) could decide where this fic was heading. I also got side-tracked by trying to write a Christmas fic and two one shots, and before I get in to trouble, I promise to try to finish the Christmas fic next week...only one month late. GACK!

I was also got distracted by Season 3, which I will not discuss because it only starts in the US on Jan. 19. I will say that I loved parts of it and was disappointed in others and thoroughly confused at times.

I would like to find a tee-shirt that says, "I don't understand." You'll understand in a few weeks.

Now everyone knows about the mustache so I feel that I can include this little dialog that I got from DrGregor:

Sherlock: John.

John: What, Sherlock?

Sherlock: John, I MUSTACHE you a question...

John: God, Sherlock, no, don't..stop.

Sherlock: But I'll SHAVE it for later!

Lestrade: No seriously. Shave it off. All off. (LOL) and more (LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL) and then a bit more

(LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL)

Thank you for waiting patiently and then reading this fic. Thank you for following and favoriting. (Yes, thank you I know favoriting is not really a word, Sherlock.)

Thank you to everyone who reviewed Chapter 27 including, Erenem, 107602, G0dC0mplex, sweet-chaos-chan, dana-san, EJ12212012, Shannon, foxeeflame, DarkDAmson, DrGregor, Samuel28688, anyrei1, Quiet Time, blueheart93, My Annabelle Lee, The Happiest.

Disclaimer I do not own the rights to SHERLOCK, because if I did I can assure you that there would be serious JOHNLOCK in Season 3.