Low on self-esteem, so you run on gasoline.
So, uh, apologies about that last chapter…Even I'm sad…But we still have more, so don't fret! And the next few chapters are nice and long! I am going on a holiday soon though, so there's gonna be a bit of a wait until the next chapter. Until then, enjoy!
Guest – Thank you! Gotta love Coulson!
Celestial Glowhead – I've had a lot of fun developing these villains (all my OCs, really). Walton was definitely a good one. I actually just realized John has killed both of the villains in the last two stories… Whoa. Even writing the chapter I was cringing – the writer suffers too. Thank you so much!
When Sherlock woke up, the last person he wanted to see was his brother. Once he finally came back around what did he find but Mycroft sitting beside his bed. Sherlock glared. "Whe—" He stopped, grimacing. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Sherlock shot his brother a look. "Wh'r's J'hn?" he mumbled.
Mycroft sighed, leaning back in his seat. "I doubt talking feels too peasant. I suggest you don't do it."
Sherlock glared and persisted. "Wh'r's J'hn?" he repeated.
"Safe." Sherlock relaxed ever so slightly. "He did do a number on you though. Be glad the doctors didn't have to wire your mouth shut. That would have been quiet unfortunate, now wouldn't it?"
"P'ss 'ff."
Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Your jaw is incredibly damaged nonetheless, yet you continue to speak." Sherlock attempted to sit up. "Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft snapped, "you aren't going anywhere." Sherlock sunk back into the bed – not that he'd gotten far to begin with.
"How l'ng?"
"How long have you been here, or how long will you be here?" Sherlock simply rolled his eyes. "You and Doctor Watson were admitted two days ago. As for how long you'll be here, the doctor's suspect at least three more days. At least," he emphasized.
"Wh'n c'n I s' J'hn?"
Mycroft's brow furrowed. "Pardon?"
"J'hn!" Sherlock finally found the bed controls and sat it up.
"He's being kept in a secure ward. They've been keeping him sedated since he arrived."
Sherlock frowned. "Why?" he grumbled.
"Sherlock, do you not remember what he did?" Mycroft said, voice slightly raised. "He's killed a number of people in the past several months. His last target was you!" Mycroft quickly composed himself and his emotionless mask fell easily into place. "Luckily, it would seem what SIP did to him was not nearly as successful as what Hydra did to Sergeant James Barnes. SHIELD has hope for a full recovery. As to how long it will take, no one is certain."
A figure appeared in the doorway. "Sherlock!" said Lestrade. "You're up!" Sherlock huffed. "Jaw giving you trouble?"
"Wh't're you doin' h're?"
"Checking up on you, you idiot." He gestured down the hall. "Phil got me a…visitor's pass, so to speak."
"Ph'l?"
"Agent Coulson."
Mycroft got to his feet. "Well, brother dear, now that you're awake I'll leave you in the capable hands of SHIELD. Update me if anything changes." He gave Greg a polite nod before leaving.
Lestrade took the now vacated seat beside Sherlock's hospital bed. "How are you feeling?" Sherlock simply rolled his eyes. "That bad, huh?" He leaned forward. "I've been talking to Phil about John's…state." Sherlock perked up. "They decided you should be there when they take him off the sedatives. You were almost enough to get through to him the other day so they figured you're our best bet."
"Wh'n?"
"When?" Sherlock nodded. "Not sure. Probably when you can speak a little bit better." Sherlock made a face. "Hey, they didn't have to perform surgery on your jaw, so that's good. You're already talking; it shouldn't take too long for you to get back to your normal speaking speed. The knife in your stomach was a different story."
Sherlock looked down at where his wound would be under the blanket. The area was completely numb so it was hard for Sherlock to tell exactly how bad it was. "You're going to need to take it easy for a while, understand? You were in surgery for six hours. It was bad." Lestrade smiled. "Yet here you are, alive and kicking." Greg sighed and shook his head. "God what am I going to do with you two? I swear you'll be the death of me. One day you two are going to give me a heart attack!" Sherlock looked a bit smug. "I must've aged three years in just the last five months." The expression on the consulting detective's face turned into a frown. Lestrade shook his head. "God…it's been five months since we've seen him," he said softly. "What a reunion."
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Finally, the day for waking John came. Sherlock was still required to stay off his feet and the wheelchair definitely put a dent in his pride. He was parked right at John's side. John had cuffs attached to both sides of the hospital bed. "He's broken out of these before," Sherlock said.
"Yes," said Coulson, "but do you really think SIP has the technology equivalent to SHIELD? Ours are higher quality, he won't be going anywhere."
The doctor on John's case turned to Sherlock and Coulson. "Are we ready?"
"As we'll ever be," said Coulson.
The doctor nodded and began turning down the knobs on the various machines John was hooked up to. They all waited tensely for a few minutes, the guards at the front of the room on standby. Eventually, John began to come around. His eyelids fluttered a few times, and eventually opened. As soon as he registered his surroundings John took a sharp breath. He looked around wildly and began tugging on the restraints. "John!" John's head whipped over and he looked at Sherlock. While he seemed to calm ever so slightly, he still continued to tug on his restraints. "John, you need to calm down." John looked away and tried to sit up. His panic was growing.
Sherlock reached out but didn't touch him. "John, do you know where you are?" The former SIP assassin stared at the detective but made no noise. "Do you know who I am?" Sherlock tried.
John looked around the room, taking in the doctor, Coulson, and the guards by the door. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. John was analyzing, reading the room. Looking for all possible forms of escape and anything that could be used as a weapon. "Okay then, we'll start small. I need you to calm down for me. Can you do that?"
John locked eyes with Sherlock once again. He stopped pulling at the restraints. Sherlock slowly nodded. "Alright then. That's a start." He leaned forward, aggravating his knife wound. The detective ignored it. "Can you tell us your name?"
John looked up at Coulson suspiciously, then back at Sherlock. "John." Sherlock would never admit how relieved he was to hear John say his own name.
Sherlock nodded. "Good. That's good. Last name?"
John hesitated before shaking his head. Sherlock felt a sharp pang of…something. Guilt? Worry? "Watson," said Sherlock. "John Watson." John made no reaction. Sherlock nodded along. "Your name is John Hamish Watson. Do you know that?"
John shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. "Are you in pain?" the doctor asked. John continued to shake his head. Sherlock and Coulson shared a look.
"What do you remember?" Sherlock asked. Broad question, open ended – it should get something out of John.
"SIP." Sherlock nodded.
"And what about SIP?"
John clenched his fists. "I…I worked for them. I-I killed for them."
Sherlock and Coulson shared a look. "Do you remember anything else?" Sherlock asked.
John hesitated, looking around the room. "…No." He looked up at Coulson.
Sherlock reached into his pocket and took out his phone. He scrolled through a few photos before finding the one he wanted. "Here." He turned the phone around to show John. It was the two of them, just after another successful case. "Do you know what this is?" John looked up from the picture and at Sherlock. "This was the last case we worked together before I fell. Before Bart's. Before Moriarty. Before those two long years." Sherlock watched closely as John examined the photograph.
"…You fell." Sherlock nodded. "…You…You died. I watched you."
"And I did it to protect you. We're friends, remember?"
The whole ordeal was proving to be a little much. John looked away and tried to sit up, yanking at his restraints again. Sherlock reached out and John flinched, trying to pull away. Sherlock pulled his hand back. "Do you remember who I am?" John looked at everyone frantically, trying to get out.
Coulson turned towards the doctor and nodded. The doctor got to work on turning back up the monitors. Sherlock sat straight up. "Wait, what are you doing? Don't!"
Coulson walked over to Sherlock. "We can continue this later."
"I'm getting through to him!"
"He's quite distressed," the doctor said. "We don't need him hurting himself."
Sherlock looked back over at John. His tugging had become less aggressive and he was struggling to keep his eyes open. It didn't take long for him to lose consciousness. Sherlock glared at Coulson. "You could at least have given me a warning."
Coulson folded his arms. "We can try again in a few hours. We don't want to overwhelm him."
"He remembered the fall."
Coulson nodded. "That's a start. I have high hopes for him remembering everything, if not then almost everything. Getting those trigger words out of his head is what I'm concerned about." The two of them looked at the man in front of them. "But we'll work on it. We'll get there."
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Even though Sherlock got officially discharged, he didn't go home. He remained at the SHIELD base, by John's side at every moment he could be. He was back on his feet and the only evidence of his injuries was soreness and stitches. He was still on some pretty heavy painkillers though.
Some days were better than others. Sometimes John would remember a little more, other days they'd be a few steps behind. Occasionally they got nothing out of him at all. It tended to fluctuate quite a bit – each day was different and he needed constant reminders.
On one of the harder days, Sherlock got a phone call. He didn't recognize the number itself, but immediately identified the area code. He answered. "Sherlock Holmes."
"Holmes? Hey, this is Tony Stark."
"Figured as much. What is it?"
"Huh? Uh, I was just wondering how you're holding up. I heard you got Doctor Watson back."
"Yes."
"Good, that's good. Hey, my buddy who found Watson and delivered the note has been a little on edge since the whole deal. He was wondering if we could come visit. You know, just to put his mind at ease."
Sherlock paused. How would that impact John? Would seeing someone he tried to harm while under SIP's control have a negative influence, it would it awaken more memories? "Maybe. If you'd like."
"Cool."
"But not yet. We aren't ready for that. I don't know how John would react."
There was a pause. "Oh. Okay, that's fine. He was just worried, is all. I'll let him know. And don't think we aren't eventually going to show up. Let me know when the time is right." He hung up. Sherlock kept working.
It had been four days since John woke up when Director Fury arrived at the London headquarters. Sherlock was the first person he asked to see. The detective walked into Fury's office where the SHIELD director was waiting for him. Fury leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "Holmes. Take a seat." Sherlock walked over to the desk and sat down opposite Fury. "How's Doctor Watson?"
"Surely you've seen the files and if you haven't you have total access to them," said Sherlock. "You don't need me to play messenger regarding John's condition."
Fury quirked an eyebrow. "I believe what I was doing was just showing basic decency – asking how your friend is. Trust me, I've seen the file."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Then get to it, Director. I've been debriefed already, so what is this?"
Fury stared at Sherlock for a moment. He then opened one of the desk drawers and pulled something out. He tossed a small blue book onto the desk. Sherlock eyed it suspiciously. "Do you know what this is?" Fury asked.
"SIP's notes on John," Sherlock deduced.
"Exactly." He gestured towards the book. "You are to use it in aiding with Doctor Watson's recovery. As soon as you don't need it anymore, burn it." Fury watched as Sherlock picked up the book. "We don't need that falling into the wrong hands." Sherlock began thumbing through the pages. "The only ones who know we have this are the agent who found it, Coulson, you, and me. So far Coulson and I have been the only ones to look inside." Sherlock glared over at Fury. "Just to confirm what it was," Fury coolly reassured. Sherlock skimmed through the pages, looking over a number of code words, missions, reports, and small reminders scribbled in the margins. "I trust you'll keep it safe and use it wisely."
"Of course," Sherlock said, sliding it into his coat pocket.
"Since Watson hasn't been showing any…homicidal tendencies, I've come to the decision that letting him go back to Baker Street with you is the right course of action." Sherlock's head snapped up and he stared at Fury. "He'll be released tomorrow morning." His eyes narrowed. "Don't make me regret this decision. You're dismissed, Holmes." Sherlock nodded, got to his feet, and made his way towards the door. "And take care." Sherlock paused, but didn't turn back around. After a moment, he went on his way.
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When Sherlock walked into John's room the next morning the soldier was sitting on his bed, looking at a note. Sherlock had brought in the note John wrote to him in Queens in hopes it would resurface some memories. It was somewhat successful.
John looked up at Sherlock as the detective entered. "Morning," Sherlock greeted.
"Morning."
Sherlock went through the usual routine. "Do you know who I am?"
"You're the detective." Sherlock waited for John to continue, but he looked away.
"Sherlock Holmes."
John shook his head. "Right. Right, I…" He trailed off, looking back at the note.
"And you are?"
"…John Watson."
"Good." Sherlock walked over next to John. John looked up. "We're going home today." There was no change in expression on John's face. "Do you know where that is?" John shook his head, looking away. "Baker Street," said Sherlock. "221B Baker Street." John simply nodded, rereading the note again. Sherlock cocked his head. "What do you remember about that?" he asked.
"About the note?" Sherlock nodded. "Uh, I wrote it to you. I was…I was in New York."
"Good. That's right." There was a pause. "Are you ready?" Sherlock asked.
John looked confused. "To what?"
"To go home."
"Oh. Right. Yes." John got to his feet, still looking at the note. Eventually he shook his head slightly and put it in his pocket. He looked back up at the detective expectantly.
"Alright then," Sherlock said with a nod. He led the way out of the room. As the two of them walked through the SHIELD base Sherlock kept checking over his shoulder just to make sure John was still there. He was. They both got a lot of stares and a few whispers, but it was nothing Sherlock couldn't ignore. John didn't seem to notice it at all. He didn't seem to notice a lot, really. He typically seemed...vacant. But they would work through that – things would get better.
The escort to Baker Street was spent in silence. It was a bit tense given the two security guards sitting in the car with them. When they finally arrived, Sherlock was eager to escape the SHIELD agents and get inside. One of the conditions of letting John leave was that cameras were set up everywhere in the flat. As much as Sherlock despised it, he realized it was nonnegotiable – if getting John home meant security cameras, then security cameras it was.
As soon as Sherlock opened the door, Mrs. Hudson was there to greet them. The past five months had been rough on her as well. She'd constantly fretted over Sherlock, waiting eagerly for John to show up. She'd been totally informed of the situation and told what to expect. That didn't make the actually reunion any less jarring.
As soon as she saw John step into the building her hand went up to her mouth. "Oh, John," she sobbed. She stepped forward, arms outstretched. Instinctively, John stepped back. Luckily Sherlock was the only one to notice John's hand briefly flick towards his side – exactly where a weapon would be hidden. Mrs. Hudson stopped. John looked her up and down. She hesitated. "John?"
Sherlock stepped forward, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Mrs. Hudson, I'm going to show John up to the flat. We can talk in a bit."
She bit her lip and nodded, obviously fighting back tears. Sherlock turned towards John and nodded, walking up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson watched them go, then hurried into her flat, barely resisting the urge to cry.
Once Sherlock entered the flat he stepped aside, letting John enter. Rather than examine the room, John turned to Sherlock. "Who was that?" he asked.
"Our landlady."
John looked away, trying to remember…
Sherlock cleared his throat. "Do you remember which room is yours?"
John hesitated for a moment. His eyes flicked towards the stairs leading upwards. Sherlock began to nod. "Yes?"
"I'm…I'm upstairs." John looked back at the detective. Sherlock cracked a smile.
"Good. Well, I have a few things to take care of, so…" Sherlock trailed off and John nodded, taking off up the stairs.
Every part of Sherlock was telling him not to leave John alone, to go with him. But John hadn't been left alone with his own thoughts since…well, other than his brief escape, five months ago. He needed this. Sherlock pulled out the book from his coat pocket. While he'd skimmed through it before, he hadn't yet really read anything. He knew that he could very well find information that would help John, but he was also…afraid? Of what, exactly?
Sherlock walked into the kitchen and took a seat at the table, setting the book down and opening to the first page. It was a list of Russian words – trigger words. Sherlock quickly turned the page. He didn't want that knowledge.
He read through the book, finding dates of missions, objectives, forms of training and conditioning, and important reminders. One page was taken up by only a few words, one of which was bold and underlined several times. At the top of the page it read: Failsafe. Sherlock stared at the word on the page. There was a short description at the bottom. In case of emergency. Using the failsafe will render asset unconscious. Sherlock's grip on the book tightened, but he continued on.
He read for about fifteen minutes before he heard John descending the stairs. Sherlock quickly slipped the small book back into his coat. John rounded the corner and came into the kitchen. Sherlock watched as John passed by the table, reached into his pocket, pulled out a pocket knife, set it in front of Sherlock, and kept walking like nothing happened. Sherlock stared at the small tool in front of him. Of course Sherlock had hidden John's gun, but he hadn't found the pocket knife. Where had John hidden that?
Sherlock looked back up at John who was going through the cupboards. "Searching for something?" he asked.
John looked over his shoulder. "Huh? Oh. Just…something to eat…" John got very quiet.
Sherlock got to his feet. "I'll order something. What do you want?" John stared at Sherlock, confused almost. Sherlock waited for an answer but got none, even after several moments. "Chinese it is then."
He called in the order and the two of them waited. Sherlock took the pocket knife. He'd be hiding that later. The food arrived quickly and the two of them ate in relative silence. It was…interesting, observing John. He had the same mannerisms as he always did, they were just more subtle – more reserved. He was less talkative and more observant. It didn't escape Sherlock's notice that every time John entered a room he examined all the exits. And that was only the beginning. But he'd bring the old John back. He knew he would.
The second day back at 221B was rough. John's memories were fluctuating pretty badly again and he was constantly holed up in his room. Sherlock figured it would be best to let him be – let him piece things together himself.
That night was even worse. Sherlock hadn't gotten much sleep since…well, ever; his sleep pattern had always been all over the place. But the last few months in particular had been quite hard. Of course the first night in forever he's actually able to fall asleep and not just pass out from exhaustion he's awoken by screams. Sherlock shot straight out of bed, grabbing the gun he'd confiscated before John got back home. He rushed up the stairs and burst into John's room. He found no intruder, just John sitting up on his elbows, panting and tangled in his bed sheets.
Sherlock quickly tucked the gun away. "John?"
John shook his head and raised his hand. "Fine. I-I'm…" he took a deep breath. "I'm fine." He sunk back into his pillows. "It's fine."
"What did—"
"I said I'm fine!" John snapped. Sherlock stiffened. John closed his eyes. "I'll be fine."
It took Sherlock a few moments to really believe his flatmate. "Alright then." Sherlock walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
The nightmares became pretty typical. Sherlock wouldn't interrupt unless they clearly got bad or went on for a long time. John refused to talk about them.
One morning Sherlock was sitting in the kitchen once again, this time working on an experiment. He hadn't yet finished reading SIP's notes. In all honesty, he was avoiding it. He didn't want to know all of what SIP put John through and shoved into his brain. The notebook was tucked away, hidden and safe. He knew he had to read it eventually. But now wasn't the time.
John silently entered the kitchen. "Good morning," Sherlock greeted.
"Morning," John grumbled.
Sherlock looked up from his experiment. "Do you know who I am?"
John stopped, taking a breath. "You're my friend."
It was good enough. "And you are?"
"John Watson."
"Good." John quickly resumed what he was doing and Sherlock went back to his experiment. A few moments later he heard a clang as something dropped down in front of him. Sherlock looked up and saw a kitchen knife sitting right in front of him. He looked over at John, who was busying himself with making breakfast. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Why do you keep doing that?"
John turned back around. "What?"
Sherlock gestured to the knife in front of him. "This! Why do you keep doing this?"
The doctor frowned, genuinely confused. "I…I don't know what you're talking about…"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up. "This is the fifth time you've done this. Why?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," John insisted.
Sherlock picked up the knife. "This. You keep handing me sharp things – knives, mostly." He put the knife back in the drawer it belonged in. "Why?"
John shook his head. "I…I-I don't—" Sherlock waited for an answer. "I don't know…" John said quietly. "I didn't know I was…I-I didn't realize—" He cut himself off, looking at Sherlock in worry. "I didn't mean…" His hand went for the knife drawer.
"…John?"
John pulled open the drawer, looking inside. "I didn't know I was…I'm sorry, I—" He pulled out the chef's knife. Sherlock's hand unconsciously made its way towards his stitches.
"John, put that away." John looked over at Sherlock. "Put it back, John."
"I didn't realize I was doing it." John was beginning to become a little frantic. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't know. I don't know what…" He shook his head. "I don't know why I do these things. I-I don't understand what's going on half the time!"
"John," Sherlock warned, holding up a hand, "put the knife down."
"I know everything is wrong, I know! But I can't—I can't…I don't know what's wrong!"
"John!"
John stepped closer to the detective. "They screwed with my head and I don't know how to fix it! I do things without meaning to, I can never remember anything, I—" He held the knife a little higher.
"Sputnik!"
John immediately fell to the ground.
Sherlock stared down at his unconscious flatmate. This was a mess. This was a big, big mess.
We're nearing the end, dear readers! Only a couple of chapters left before this ties up. It's been a wild two years (has it seriously been that long since I started writing Official Recruiter?) I've had a lot of fun doing these two stories, but I'm not sure what to write next. I have a couple of ideas, but I'm not sure. If anyone has story ideas, please don't hesitate to let me know! PM me, comment, let me know what you want! But for now, please enjoy the final chapters of this story. Thank you!