"Doctor Tricia Remsen?"
"That's me," Tricia said, not looking up. The voices were unfamiliar but that wasn't out of the ordinary. "Unless you're bringing blood, you will get out of my operating room and out of the way of the people who are. God help you if you aren't scrubbed."
She kept her eyes on her work and heard the faint sound of two sets of feet walking away – she'd thought so. Her eyes narrowed somewhat but her focus wasn't lost.
Idiots, she thought, giving herself that half-second of contempt before she forgot them, pushing them out of her mind. Right now, they could not and would not matter.
It was always a shock when she finished, waiting for the next one only to find out there were no more, at least not for the moment. Tricia raised her eyes and met those of the nurse across from her who wore the same expression.
Two lost and she didn't know how many saved. She couldn't keep track of that – although she used to try back she'd started her first tour. It had quickly become impossible and impractical so she'd stopped, but she'd never stopped counting the ones who died on her table. Each time, she felt a piece of her heart go with them. No matter how often it happened, she hadn't got used to it. Part of her hoped she never would.
But this time, another one came back under the heels of her hands, under the steady onslaught of compressions and she'd laughed a sharp, triumphant laugh, only one short sound, before going back to work on him. Tricia thought he might have been an American, judging from the shredded uniform they'd to cut off of him, but she wasn't sure. That might have been someone else.
She left the OR, pulling her mask down when the doors swung shut behind her and found a bench to sit down on. For a moment, her legs protested, too used to being standing after so many hours – she didn't even know how many. The sun had been up when the "all medics out!" call had been shouted down the hallway, bouncing off the concrete walls, so it must be dark by now. She'd never been able to track the hours instinctively like John had; for her, it was all a moment at a time when she was in there, then a blur when she came out.
She stripped off her mask and gloves, binning them, then leaned forward with a heavy sigh, holding her head in her hands for a minute. Her scrubs were soaked in blood and it began to bother her, so she stood, groaning, and stripped down the rest of the way to her fatigues, which would have be washed as well.
Hell, she needed a wash.
Shower, she thought. The idea always seemed to be a bit delayed, as if she forgot about running water despite all the pre-op scrubbing she had to do. She needed a good scrubbing right now.
"Doctor Remsen?" someone asked.
Tricia spun fast – she hadn't heard anyone come up behind her and was confronted suddenly by two men whom she didn't know. Acute awareness that she was not wearing her sidearm hit her, followed by the realisation that both men were standing at attention. Their uniforms were not quite familiar but their bearing was; they weren't going to hurt her. They were waiting for her.
They were also lower-ranking than her.
"That's Captain Remsen to you," she snapped, putting the trained weight of authority in her voice. She took a deep breath to quell the sudden adrenaline spike and let it out slowly.
One of them, the one who had spoken, shifted uneasily. At first glance, they looked alike, kind of like American Marines always did to her, but she began to see differences. They were almost the same height, maybe a centimetres difference, but one had a lighter complexion and lighter eyes. Probably lighter hair, too, but she couldn't tell beneath the helmet.
"Sorry, ma'am," he apologised and she huffed. He should have known better.
He was English, that much was obvious from his voice. But she didn't recognise the uniform as one of their boys, or navy or air force.
She placed the voice then; he'd come into the OR looking for her earlier. Tricia's blue eyes narrowed – she disliked the fact that he'd come back with his mate and that their uniforms weren't immediately identifiable. It probably meant they were MI5 or something equally pompous.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
"Lieutenants John Adamson and Malcolm Davies," he said. "Ma'am, we need you to come with us."
Tricia stared at him a moment, then give her head a shake to return herself to reality.
"No," she replied flatly. They couldn't argue; she outranked them.
"Ma'am –"
"Lieutenant Adamson, you will kindly shut up and listen to me. I don't know who you are, I don't know what you want. Two strange men show up unexpectedly and want me to accompany them – where? Care to tell me where, Lieutenant?"
Adamson's eyes flickered to Davies, who cleared his throat slightly uncomfortably.
"We have orders –"
"And I do not. Sorry, Lieutenant, but not a chance in hell. I don't even know what time it is but I suspect it's already night, and I'm definitely not going anywhere with you by myself when no one knows you're even here talking to me, let alone that you want me to go with you. That would be an unbelievably stupid thing for me to do – do you even realise what you're asking me to do? Take that question back to whoever gave you those orders. If someone needs to see me, they can come through my CO because I am not going anywhere alone."
She paused and drew a deep breath, recognising that her patience was strained under the weight of fatigue, dehydration and lack of food. She needed a shower, water, something to eat and her bunk, in that order.
They were standing side-by-side, taking up the entire width of the narrow hallway but she strode toward them, forcing Davies to stand aside. Tricia didn't look back; she was frankly uninterested in what they wanted. A shower was much more appealing than puzzling out why they were there, and she wished – as she did every time – that she'd have clean clothes to change into when she was finished. Well, nothing for it. She wasn't much looking forward to walking back to her bunk with freezing hair, either, but the idea of waiting for a shower until she got back to her tiny shared room didn't sit well. The OR showers had consistent hot water almost more often than not. Even lukewarm would be fine.
"Ma'am, please, we need –"
Tricia turned back.
"What you need is irrelevant, Lieutenant. I'm the captain here, so I will call the shots. Just because there are two of you doesn't mean that combined you outrank me. I told you to tell your CO to go through mine. Whatever it is you need, it can wait."
It had to. She felt like she might collapse if she didn't keep walking. They either had poor timing or no experience with combat surgeons. It took about ten minutes for her before the adrenaline crashed and she was usually all right if she was in the shower, where she could lean against the wall and let the water take the rush with it as it drained away.
She saw the two men stiffen even more to attention the moment before she turned away and it made her pause, her features shifting into a frown.
"Captain Watson," Adamson said, giving a slight nod.
There was a moment of terrible elation as utter denial and searing relief warred in Tricia.
No no please oh let it be – she thought and turned slowly, relief and disappointment mingling, colliding, their dual impacts just barely keeping her upright.
A woman in a uniform similar to the lieutenants was standing behind her, smiling gently at her, holding a set of clean, folded clothes and looking unperturbed by Tricia's shocked expression. Tricia put the newcomer – Captain Watson – at a year or two older than herself, closer to the age of the Captain Watson whom she knew.
"Lieutenants," Watson said. "Dismissed."
They saluted and hurried away. Watson turned her head slightly to watch them go, a small, amused smile tugging on her lips. She was thin and delicate-looking, with pale eyebrows and light brown hair tied back in a sensible braid. She wasn't wearing a helmet – she hadn't just come here from somewhere else. Or she'd removed it. Her hair was clean but still damp in its braid, so she'd just showered and she had a look that Tricia recognised. She saw it all the time.
"Doctor or nurse?" she asked.
"Nurse," Watson replied. "I apologise for Adamson and Davies; they're only acting under orders."
"Aren't we all?" Tricia murmured to which Watson raised an eyebrow.
"I'm afraid their orders were pretty vague. 'Go get Doctor Remsen and bring her here.' Sometimes, they forget that a little finesse may be required."
Sometimes they don't think that a woman might not want to go with strange men, is what Tricia interpreted. She nodded.
"Who are you, anyway?"
"Captain Sarah Watson," the nurse replied.
"Yes, I did get most of that from what Adamson said. I mean, who are you with? I don't recognise the uniform."
Watson gave her a level look that Tricia returned without any hesitation or problem – two captains, sizing each other up. Determining who was in charge here would be difficult, but then she wondered why it would matter. She was finished with surgery. She wanted a shower. Everything else could wait.
"Oh, of course, I'm sorry. MI5."
Knew it! Tricia thought. She took a calculated step back and saw Watson note it.
"And what does MI5 want with me? I know I haven't done anything, because I've been elbow-deep in blood and internal organs for the last – I don't know how many hours."
"Thirteen," Watson supplied.
"Thirteen hours, then. I know I couldn't have got up to much more than saving lives."
Watson sighed.
"They didn't tell you?"
"No," Tricia replied and now she began to worry. MI5 wanted her – this wasn't because of something she'd done. But had something happened? Had someone died? Her thoughts flashed to London – her father and Jamie and John – and her legs felt weak suddenly. Watson looked alarmed when Tricia put a hand against the wall and reached out with a hand of her own in a steadying gesture.
"Captain Remsen, we have orders from very high up to give you thirty minutes of video conference time on our system with John Watson and James McTavish back in London."
"What?" Tricia demanded, certain she'd heard wrong. "Why would MI5 want to give me time on their system? I have Skype anyway."
"Yes, and our system is significantly better, believe me. Not only is the software far superior, our Internet connection isn't subject to the same traffic problems."
Tricia stared at Watson, at a loss for words. She wondered briefly if she were dreaming – maybe she'd fallen asleep in the shower or had actually made it back to her bunk and collapsed into bed. The situation seemed to make about as much sense as a dream would.
"I took the liberty of getting you some fresh clothes from your bunk," Watson continued. "I apologise for going in uninvited, but I thought you might want to wear something not covered in blood and sweat."
Tricia just stared at her a moment longer, then shook her head.
"Are you – are you bloody serious?"
"Yes, ma'am, I am," Watson said with a gentle smile. "We can only give you half an hour, but the clock doesn't start until you get there. You have time to shower."
Tricia showered in record time nonetheless; none of her post-surgery ablutions had ever been that quick and she was towelling her short hair roughly and pulling on her fatigues before she knew it, hurrying out to join Watson again, who smiled at her.
"What the hell is going on?" she asked, falling into pace beside Watson who kept them moving at a good clip. "Why is MI5 at all interested in letting me talk to Jamie and John?"
"That I don't know, Doctor," Watson replied. "I wasn't actually given the orders, I just happened to be there when they were issued. I thought maybe you might be more willing to trust a single woman against whom you stood a fair fighting chance than two strange men."
"You've got that right," Tricia snapped. "Are they okay? Nothing happened to them?"
"As far as I know, they're fine, but I don't know either of them."
"Then what's going on?" Tricia murmured to herself but part of her didn't care. She so rarely got to see Jamie and John and each time she did, she was stunned by how different they looked from how she remembered them. Not as drugged up injured patients on their way to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham, but as she'd always known them. Tanned, in uniform, faces and hands smeared with dirt more often than not, hair bleached lighter by the sun – blond for John, lighter brown for Jamie. Now it was paler skin and darker hair and civilian clothing. And scars – at least on Jamie because John's were hidden by his clothing.
And Sarah Watson was right – the video function on Skype wasn't always reliable. More than once, she'd had to end a conversation because the image had frozen. It was always disappointing and left her staring at her laptop screen, feeling wistful and lonely.
She followed Watson through the camp, grateful the other captain had thought to bring her sidearm and helmet for her, as well as her parka. It was night and February and bloody freezing. She felt the ends of her hair turning to ice and was glad she kept it fairly short.
"In here," Watson said once they'd made their way inside the MI5 offices. At first glance, they seemed no different than any of the other military offices on the base, but Tricia noticed that the equipment seemed newer and more expensive. She shed her parka as Watson ushered her into a small room cluttered with computers and several monitors. There was a corporal sitting in front of one of the screens and he looked up when they came in.
"Ready, ma'am?" he asked, pushing his chair back a bit and giving them each a respectful nod.
Watson looked at Tricia.
"Ready?"
Tricia pulled off her helmet and ran her hands through her hair. It probably didn't help, but it would have to do. She wondered again if she were dreaming, but gave a nod.
"Ready," she replied.
"Give us the link-up, Corporal," Watson replied. "Then you can go."
"Yes, ma'am," he agreed and set to work. After a minute or so, he got up and gestured to the chair.
"Ready when you are, ma'am. Just click on the 'connect' link at the top right and that will put the call through."
Tricia hesitated another moment, then draped her parka across another chair and sat down. The corporal left the room, shutting the door behind him. Tricia watched him go, then turned back to Watson.
"Any chance of you explaining what the hell is going on?" she asked.
Watson just smiled.
"I'll be back in thirty minutes," she replied. "Enjoy."
She left as well and Tricia was alone. She stared at the monitor, then clicked the connect link as instructed. A moment later, the blank screen the programme was displaying jumped and a new image appeared. Jamie was grinning at her, hazel eyes dancing, then he looked away and thumped a hand on the table before making an impatient beckoning gesture to someone off screen.
"Is that her?" she heard John calling.
Jamie nodded, mouthing "yes" in reply. Tricia heard John approaching and Jamie turned back to her, still grinning. Another moment and John was there, smiling just as widely. She stared at them, speechless, for a second or two, then started to laugh to keep from crying.
"Oh my God," Tricia said. "It's so good to see you."
"You wanted to see me, Colonel?" Sarah Watson asked, stepping into her CO's office and saluting.
"At ease, Captain," Marsh replied. There was a weary hint in his voice with which Sarah was long familiar. She raised her eyebrows curiously but had a very firm idea of what was going on, given that he was holding his phone receiver in his right hand, his left hand pressed over the mouthpiece.
"For you," he continued, extending the phone to her. She took it and waited until he'd left. There was nothing pointed or expectant in her stance – he was her commanding officer, after all. But she knew who was on the phone now and knew Marsh would have been given orders to leave. When the door clicked shut, Sarah put the receiver to her ear.
"Yes, Mister Holmes?" she asked.
"Did you find her?" her boss enquired.
"Yes, sir, I did. She's talking to McTavish and Watson now."
"Good," Mycroft Holmes sighed on the other end of the line. In London, most likely. Sarah gave herself half a moment to miss the city and then refocused. "Can you do six months as regular army, Captain?"
"If that's what my orders are, sir," she replied.
"No, Captain, I need you to tell me if you can do this or not. This goes beyond me simply giving you orders. If you have any reservations, you will tell me immediately."
Sarah smiled.
"It's where I started, sir," she reminded him. "No reservations."
"Very good," Mycroft said and she thought she might have detected a twinge of relief in his voice but it may just have been her imagination. "Your orders are as follows."
A/N: The next chapter is all John and Sherlock, I promise. This chapter was supposed to come later but fit better timing-wise here. Also, yes, it is Sarah. (HOS70: bet you didn't see that one coming!)