~India~
John's first two weeks in India, were far more eventful then he had anticipated. For one he hadn't thought in his first few days as an illegal pharmaceutical manufacturer and distributor, that he would find himself in a fire fight on an illegal airstrip with Moran or should he say "Doyle" by his side. But needless to say: he had.
John pounded a savage elbow once, twice, three, times into the side of the mans face, the man staggered reaching wildly for balance, John ripped the gun from his grip turned it on him and fired twice. John barely ducked a vicious in coming blow from behind seeing the burly man in his peripheral vision, John spun abruptly and forced his knife up into the mans solar plexus. He could feel the bone crack with the force of the blow and could have easily ripped the mans rib cage straight up and open. He didn't.
"Impressive but..no need for dick measuring Watson." Moran shouldered his rifle and squeezed off two shots that leveled the remaining gunman and flashed John an arrogant smile. "I hear tell we're well matched. It would seem you and I traveled in the same circles."
"I wouldn't say same circles." John stabbed his knife into the dirt effectively cleaning it of blood and gore. "Perhaps they overlap a bit, but not the same."
"True, you like your boys on the posh side."
"Fuck all if you don't too." John countered sounding a bit less outraged then he'd intended. They both laughed.
Second, John hadn't really expected anyone to be foolish enough to try to execute a hit on him while he was on a job. He'd been wrong about that too. But not expecting something and not being prepared were two vastly different things. John was always prepared.
John cut through an ally leading the would be assassin who had been following him for the better part of ten minutes. The streets of Jaipur where still a bit of a tangle for John so it had taken him a moment to find a secluded enough spot for their meeting.
Once John was deep in the shadows of a dark and dusty back street he stopped and pulled out his mobile, just as he'd suspected, the man made his move.
The assassin literally jumped from the shadows dressed like a ninja. He was not a ninja. John had fought real ninja. This man in costume was a far cry from the real thing. The fight was quick, and completely unwinable. SAS, didn't stand for Always prepared, but it may as well have.
~Two Months Later~
London
Sherlock slid into the back of the taxi oblivious to anything aside from the message he was frantically tying out to Lestrade.
"Hello there." A young man, a very young man, early twenties, dark brown eyes, chocolate brown hair, his dicription was plan, the man himself was anything but. His eyes were dark brown yes, but not so brown as to be black these wild eyes were the color of jewel enstatite, and the chocolate hair was shot through with gold, and there was an engery about him that made Sherlock pay attention even more then his looks did. The man Sherlock thought was a spring wound too tight. Thats when it hit him...
"Voltaire." John's demolitions specialist. Still recovering from the Boko Haram affair, but leaving London soon.
"Yes. Why yes that's me." He didn't say another word just quietly gazed out the window. Sherlock could relate. "Where are you headed?" He asked after a time.
"New Scotland Yard. Can I help you with anything else?" Sherlock frowned.
"Oh no." Silence again.
"Fine. So is this how things are going to go while he's gone? One of you dropping in every so often to look in on me?"
"We don't have to drop in to look in on you..."
"I'm aware that my flat is bugged, thank goodness you had the decency to only go as far as the sitting room."
"J, wouldn't let Pope wire the whole place. Too bad." Voltaire's smile was cheeky and made his eyes playful he leaned towards Sherlock with an out stretched hand, offering him an old Nokia mobile phone. There was one voice mail. The taxi came to a light and Voltaire slipped out without so much as a nod.
The voice mail was short. Too short. But it was John, and Sherlock held that dear.
"Hello Love. I know you already live under a certain level of surveillance and protection, but if you don't mind, I'd like to sleep at night. And I can't do that unless my people have eyes on you while I can't. So I've taken the liberty of setting up a few things in my absence. Please understand."
Sherlock listened to the message twice more. Each time filling in the missing words at the end they were right there, so close, he could hear John holding them back. Sherlock whispered his response into the universe.
~India, Pakistan Broader~
Five Months In
John grimaced and turned his head pressing himself against the wall as tight as he could waiting for the hail of bullets tearing the air right in front of his face to subside. Stop. Three seconds, dead silence. John sprinted to Moran's location, laying down his own steady barrage of bullets as he went sliding into the dirt right next to the down man. John hastily pulled a L109A1 hand grenade from his pocket and tossed it into the windows with whatever terrorist still remained. John's gaze remained focused on the building in front of him as he groped blindly trying to find a pulse on Moran silently praying to the old Gods that he hadn't inadvertently killed a psychopaths boyfriend. What he got for his troubles was his hand smacked away.
"Not that easy." Moran's voice was choked and betrayed his pain. "Just a little rattled." The grenade ripped the night air with lethal blinding force.
John scrambled to his feet but stayed as low as he could helping an unsteady Moran up. "Brilliant now let's move out before we're over run yeah." John shouldered Moran's weight and they headed away from strike zone.
"Hello Mercy."
"Hello J. Sitrep."
"Twenty six dead at the location you gave us, but I'm certain it's not their main base of operations."
"Well I'm only as good as my intel. Nothing beats actual boots on the ground. So you tell me."
"Do a satellite search for heat signatures in a twenty mile radius in all directions. Tell me what that brings back and Mercy...call up the rest of Methos."
"Done."
"This isn't turning out to be the opt we planned."
"No it isn't." Mercy was conciliatory.
"We need to find out why." There was frustration in his tone but not for her and she knew it.
"Copy that J." What had been slated as a long term deep cover opt had turned into a near constant battle with every terrorist on the India Pakistan boarder.
"Thank you Mercy."
"Could you give this to John please?" Sherlock's arm abruptly shot out towards the man behind the news paper.
Quizzical blue eyes peeked over the edge. The man cleared his throat. "Excuse me?"
"When you see him. Can you give him my letter. Hand delivery is so much more personal wouldn't you say?" Sherlock was all charm.
The paper slowly lowered. "Young man I don't know who you think I am..."
"Flattery. How de rigueur. I think you're John's communications specialist. Pope."
The blue eyes narrowed. "I have no idea who you mean."
"Don't you? You've sat here at Speedy's three days doing what?"
"Reading the paper and drinking tea." The man said in his defense.
"Exactly. Three days, three papers, from three different counties. Your shoes are French. Not just French made, but come from France exclusively, yesterday you answer the phone in Spanish, your blue eyes say that clearly that's not your native tongue, and each day your tea of choice has been an Indian favorite Darjeeling. Conclusion: world traveled multi lingual cryptologist and communications specialist. Now will you be delivering my letter?"
The man stood folded his paper tucked it under his arm, took Sherlock's letter and walked off.
Sherlock could only assume that was a yes.
John
I know that this is an archaic form of communication that is basically going the way of the proverbial dinosaur but there's something to be said about ink on paper that creates a visceral connection between the words and the reader. I myself have only recently come to realize this. That being said: I hope my words reach you in the same way yours have me. I miss you so much more then I thought possible. Please don't mistake my meaning. Natural I'd known your absence would have an impact but this...is cruel. I can only hope that you're not as tortured as I am. Keep your head down.
Yours
~William Sherlock Scott Holmes~
John stretched absentmindedly at his scruffy beard as he contemplated the last line of Sherlock's letter. It was getting increasingly difficult to keep his head down these days. It seemed as if India wanted him dead in the worst way. But he couldn't dwell on that right now. Moran/Doyle was haded his way with news.
"William you old so and so." Moran was loud but that was the plan draw attention. Moran was putting on a show for his buyers with his rich Scottish contact.
"Their not here yet." John/William smiled and rose to greet him.
"I know just warning up the crowd." Moran slouched down comfortably in his chair lit up a fag and singled for a coffee, the man was totally at home in this land. He knew the language and the coutumes as if he were born to them. That fact certainly gave him the upper hand in this opt. This long fucking opt that was falling apart at John's feet. It seemed that everything that could go wrong had. It was no wonder then that things were not progressing as scheduled and it looked more and more like John would be here longer then expect. Fuck. All he wanted was to get back to somewhere even close to Sherlock. Fuck. But first things first.
~Jaipur, India~
Two Months Later
The Nehru Bazaar, buzzed with its brightly colored whirlwind of people, sights, sounds, and smells. Families, tourist and merchants crowed the paths that led from one intoxicating, exotic discovery to the next. John wondered past booths of delights without a second glance at the wares. This place had become part of his day, strolling in for a bit of fruit or end of day Pad Thai. This day was no different, John played his role of criminal pharmaceutical rep stepping out form the Hotel Sweet Dream and off on his daily trip to the market. He needed to be seem. But more importantly he needed to see. His opt was going badly. Had been since the onset and John intended to find out why. But first he had to find out who. So he walked the market looking like any other out of place tourist but this was recon. John looked for the subtle little oddities. He fanned interest in a bolt of fabric with a mind boggling array of colors when a boy of seven or eight ran past him in a flash bumping him hard on the way. John watched the boy run away backwards yelling "Sorry English!" as he went. John smirked at the whelp and felt at his pockets, the weight was off but not in the minus as he'd expect, heavier. John reached a hand inside to grab cash to pay for the nuts and fruit he'd move to and felt the distinct weight of a mobile phone. What the hell?
John stared down at the GPS coordinence 20.0225 latitude, 75.1742 longitude. Off the top of his head he knew it to be somewhere in Maharashtra, where exactly he couldn't say.
His mobile buzzed.
"Hello J."
"Hello Mercy."
"Did you receive the intel?"
"I did."
"Good. You have six hours including your turnaround. Not a second long."
"Alright. Anything else I should know?"
"Hit your coordinates."
"Copy that."
"Good luck J."
"Thank you Mercy."
