Disclaimer: I own nothing except my original story
Whatever John had been expecting, it certainly wasn't that – Mycroft had untold numbers of well trained (and well-armed) people at his beck and call. And it couldn't even have been because this was personal, because an attack on Mycroft is an attack on the British Government, and that, near as damn it, was treason.
"What makes you think I'm capable of finding this guy?"
"Come now, John, don't be modest. I've seen your service record; I know what you are capable of"
"I seriously doubt that" John muttered under his breath, then, louder. "How the hell did you get hold of my service record?"
Mycroft smiled that awful, smirk-like smile, the one that said 'you should know nothing's secret from me'.
"Okay, don't answer that." Sighing, John scrubbed at his face with his hands. "I'll need to know more about him – that he's dangerous, bears a grudge and used to work for you just isn't enough information – I'll need known associates, places he has ties to, family…"
"I will make all this information available to you John; however you must know we have exhausted all those lines of enquiry…"
"Maybe you have, Mycroft, but without thorough background information, I might as well search for him through Directory Enquiries – I'd have about as much success."
This time Mycroft's smile was genuine.
"I begin to understand why my brother tolerates having you around" he said looking thoughtfully at the ex-army doctor.
"Thanks….I think" John's tone was heavy with sarcasm.
For a while neither man spoke, each having retreated into their own thoughts. John pulled out his mobile and rattled off a message to Lestrade – although there was little enough to tell, he knew the detective would be worried.
That done, John took the opportunity to observe his flatmate's older brother; Mycroft's gaze was fixed on the door, and it seemed strange to think he had known the man almost as long as he'd known Sherlock, but he knew very little about the person behind the starched façade; in fact, the only thing he really knew about him was his name.
The silence in the waiting room was so heavy, that when the door finally opened both men jumped almost guiltily, getting to their feet, John positioning himself slightly behind Sherlock's brother. Tension crackled as they waited for the nurse to speak.
"Mr Holmes" Nurse Carter was drawn automatically to the sharply dressed Government man, "your brother has been taken down to the private room that you have arranged for him."
"His condition?" John stepped forward as he realised Mycroft wasn't going to ask that question, and again he wondered about the relationship between the siblings. The nurse looked at him, then back at Mycroft. A brief nod of his head gave her permission to answer.
"The bullet has been removed, and Mr Holmes' condition is stable" John nodded at this information. The nurse continued "That's really all I can tell you. I've been asked to take Mr Holmes to his brother's room; the surgeon will be able to tell you more."
"Dr Watson will accompany me" Mycroft spoke at last and only someone used to hearing him speak would have picked up the concern quivering in voice. John made no comment, certainly he was not about to offer any kind of physical support or comfort – the man standing next to him wouldn't appreciate that at all – but he stood by him nonetheless.
If the nurse was surprised by the statement, she didn't show it, only gesturing for the two men to follow her.
"Thanks for this, Mycroft." John spoke quietly.
The elder Holmes brother just raised an eloquent eyebrow.
"If not for you he would not have made it this far," Mycroft's voice was equally as quiet "and what is more, John, you will understand the medical terminology"
Stifling a grin, John glanced up at the man walking beside him.
"Still, I appreciate it"
As they turned into another corridor, John could identify the room that Sherlock had been taken to, as there were two sharp suited armed heavies standing guard on the door. He slowed his pace slightly, allowing Mycroft to approach the room ahead of him. And he didn't miss the silent, almost imperceptible acknowledgement that passed between his flatmate's brother and the two Government lackeys.
Once inside the room, John took a moment to appreciate the effort that Mycroft had gone to on his brother's behalf. The room was light, airy and very comfortable. To one side was a bathroom, and there were comfortable wing chairs on either side of the bed. A private nurse was checking Sherlock's stats, and to John's trained eye Sherlock looked better than he'd anticipated. As the nurse moved away he took her place, and did his own quick check of the machine readings, reassuring himself before bringing his attention back to the unconscious man in the bed.
O*O*O
It was late into the evening before John finally made his way back up the stairs to the flat. He had waited with Mycroft to hear the surgeon's report, had explained to Sherlock's brother in layman's terms the underlying causes for concern, and the greater reasons to believe that the young man would make a full recovery.
When, shortly after the surgeon's visit, Sherlock showed signs of regaining consciousness, he stayed long enough to reassure his friend that all was well, and to advise him not to attempt anything stupid – including trying to discharge himself from hospital. John didn't know whether to be relieved or worried when his flatmate capitulated without argument.
Mycroft had sent him home in one of his ever-present black cars. Anthea was sitting in the back, holding what looked suspiciously like a bag of take-away Chinese food in one hand, and a thick manila folder in the other, and both items were handed to him as he climbed out in front of Speedy's cafe.
Now, sitting at the kitchen table and eating the food straight out of the foil containers, John studied the papers in the folder, putting aside the photographs while he concentrated on the man he had agreed to hunt down.
Marc Joseph Banks, ex-army, Intelligence Corps, served on attachment with the 1st Grenadier Guards Foot Regiment, his final posting with them being their peacekeeping mission to Bosnia in the winter of 2004/2005. Within days of that tour ending, he was approached by the recently promoted Mycroft Holmes, to form part of an intelligence based Government department.
Banks had proved his worth time and again, his army training augmenting his already exceptional intelligence work, making him ideal fast-track material. Within six months he was heading up a covert ops team, and had opportunities to work more closely with Mycroft.
It was that level of trust that he had abused. He had made himself indispensable, effectively wormed his way into Mycroft's confidence, and was filtering sensitive information out of the Whitehall offices and putting them up for sale to the highest bidder. And into this bidding war fell one Sherlock Holmes, whose boredom had led him to randomly trying to hack into his brother's secure computer system.
If he hadn't though it strange that the traffic on the system was going crazy at three in the morning, his eyes certainly widened at the content of some of the messages, and the added fact that each conversation thread would suddenly be erased once completed piqued his interest. So he set himself up a pair of accounts – one to record every line of traffic on the system, the other purporting to be a new bidder, using his skill at languages to cover his tracks.
This new and fascinating puzzle kept him occupied for less than a week, but in that time he had gathered enough evidence to present to his brother conclusive proof of Banks' perfidy.
John sat back and stared into space. Everything he had learned about Marc Banks made him realise he couldn't do this without help. Thinking hard about the possibilities, he cleared away the remains of the food, and as he waited for the kettle to boil he shuffled the papers together, leaving just the photographs out of the file. As the tea brewed, he studied the face of the man who had killed just to get Sherlock's attention, and then used the young man's impetuous nature to attempt to take him out of the equation.
Taking his mug of tea, he carried the file and photographs into the living room, putting them onto the coffee table. He stood thinking for a moment, then hurried up to his room. Under his bed, dusty and untouched since the day he moved in, was a large lidded box. Pulling it out, John picked it up and carried it carefully down the stairs, placing it next to Mycroft's file. He sat down heavily on the couch and removing the lid stared down at the contents of his box.
Memories flooded back, removing John from Baker Street and dropping him straight back into Afghanistan, to nights sitting in the Officer's Mess, others spent in the office of the field hospital, surrounded by friends, laughing together – even crying together. Of those friends, the only one he'd really kept in touch with was Bill Murray, but there had been others, people who could maybe help him now, people that he hoped would understand why he's not returned their call and letters.
Straightening his shoulders, he lifted out several photograph albums and flicked through the images, pausing now and again, blinking back tears. Some of them died before he came home, some, he knew, had been lost since. His eyes scanned the pictures, looking for one particular face, and when he found it he carefully removed the photograph and put it to one side. Putting the album aside, he reached in again, moving several piles of papers and letters until he found small black leather bound book, this was what he had been looking for.
John closed his eyes and clutched the book in both hands. If he was going to help the Holmes brothers, then he was going to need a favour or two from some old friends.