I'm sorry this update took so long! I have just recovered from a week-long illness, and so I haven't touched my laptop until today. I'd like to thank Ashtrees and Crazyperson8 for reviewing, favoriting, and following. Also, to my guest reader Mina, I'd like to thank you for your reviews and say that it's perfectly fine and it was an honest mistake and not rude. Also, to my followers, I'm glad that Imp97, Tzarina054, 2AwEsOmE4yA, and mittamoo are reading this chapter by chapter. Thanks to all who read this for encouraging me to improve my lowly scribblings, especially my beta NeedaStar.
WARNING: Mentions of rape, torture, scars, and wartime violence. Not graphic, but all of the aforementioned is hinted on.
Chapter Three: In Which Sherlock Is Embarrassed And The Yard Impressed
After what seemed to be an eternity spent staring at a medal so prestigious that only seven others still living had earned, John broke the silence. He asked frankly, 'When were you going to tell me you're a veteran?'
Sherlock shrugged sheepishly. 'I was hoping you-well, anyone- would never find out. I've got a reputation to uphold, and people expect self-sacrificing war veterans to be nice. If anyone actually want to know the entire gory tale, everyone but Lestrade and John has to go. Sally, if you wouldn't mind making sure your subordinates don't gossip, that would be lovely. Lestrade can summarize the relevant details for you later.' It was not a request.
The stunned coppers obediently filed out the door, leaving just the two staring at Sherlock. 'Well, since the cat is out of the bag, I'm assuming the full story is warranted.' Spurred by the vigorous nods he received from his audience of two, Sherlock began.
'I joined the Royal Air Force right out of college. I was allowed to join up at sixteen, in 1998, because I was a rather overqualified emancipated minor. A bit less than a year later, the SAS recruited me. I was part of the Artists Rifles, also known as the 21st Special Air Service Regiment. Once they realized that I was a good tactical leader and that, during training, I went and was taught every troops' specialty in my limited free time, they promoted me up the ranks rather quickly. Eventually, I was Lt-Col Holmes, but I was respected by my older subordinates because I refused to lead from afar. My men began calling me "Socrates" shortly after I became a major, because I showed them the little things that can save their arses and I made sure that I always got them out alive. I did well in the SAS, because career soldiers, especially those in the UKSF, aren't ever wholly sane.
About a month before the debacle that caused my discharge, I realised that that one of my corporals was sexually assaulting some of the Afghani women in nearby settlements. I gathered evidence enough so that Corporal Jeffrey Knoll was dishonourably discharged. A friend of his in high places got him out of a court-martial, but at least the women were safe. That was 2002, when we were in Afghanistan, and my patrol was captured by Taliban insurgents. Apparently, Knoll leaked our planned patrol route. The reason the SAS were in that area was for what was called Operation Anaconda, where we were trying to gain intelligence on the locations of key members of al-Qaeda and flush them out. The insurgents separated me from my men after we were taken back to their base. As the highest-ranking of the patrol taken, I orchestrated our escape between torture sessions. I pretended to crack after nearly two weeks, but the ordeal lasted for about three using everything from water-boarding to burning the soles of my feet, my tongue, and my throat, and by then I managed to convince the bastards that I was telling the truth. I fed them false information to spread over their pilfered communication system, and, once I was put back with the other prisoners, I managed to organize a breakout. No casualties other than the insurgents, more or less.'
Lestrade interrupted apprehensively. 'What do you mean, more or less?'
Sherlock responded, 'After we vacated the base and sent out flares for the drones to spot, one managed to escape before the explosion. I shot him, but not before I stepped in front of a bullet for one of the troopers, a new recruit named Stanley Hopkins. I got shot through the stomach and was bleeding out when reinforcements arrived. A nearby helicopter spotted the explosion and flares and landed once our obviously English uniforms were spotted. My heart stopped twice, but after stabilizing from our medic and emergency surgery, I managed to live.' Sherlock removed his shirt to illustrate. When Sherlock's shirt was opened, John understood the reason why that, despite living together for several years, he had never seen Sherlock shirtless. The cicatrix was nasty, a pitted, star shaped mass of scar tissue on his abdomen that corresponded to the larger exit wound on his back. With John's first-hand knowledge of bullet wounds and the treatment thereof, he knew with sickening certainty how close Sherlock came to starting his chess games with Death much sooner than the world needed.
'After debriefing and suggesting the best strategic locations for various NATO forces in Shahi-Kot from my hospital bed, I spent months in physical therapy after my discharge. I was given the VC, but, due to the classified nature of the circumstances, it never became known outside of my regiment and those at the private investiture. It isn't even listed on the digital version of the VC register.'
John was still cataloguing all the scars that littered Sherlock's torso, proof of various tortures withstood, when his best friend's deeply disguised nobility became clear to him. How many years had Sherlock stoically ignored vitriol from colleagues in favour of quickly and dramatically doing what needed to be done? John became conscious of the fact that he had underestimated his friend; written the detective off as someone who had never been exposed to true starvation, responsibility for others' lives, or an actual battlefield. No matter what Mycroft insinuated, days spent chasing down often-unarmed criminals would never compare to the frenzied bloodbaths intermixed with intervals of calm he experienced during his tours in Afghanistan.
Sherlock continued, sharply departing the winding roads of memory in favour of the current issues, 'I can't tell you two anything else about my employment subsequent the SAS at your current security clearance, but you should be informed that I do get paid for police cases, just not by Scotland Yard and the like. But that's not relevant to the situation that allowed my past to be laid bare in front of half the Homicide Division. Lestrade, as you probably have inferred by now, the last message was meant as a threat to me. Therefore, I believe that you have a killer to track down. Check arrest records for Knoll, he's too much of a sadist to have suddenly become law-abiding. Quickly, now!'
As Sherlock escorted the inspector to the door, John could tell that Lestrade was still pondering, just as he was, what other deeds might be obfuscated in his flatmate's days of yore.
I'll post the next chapter after I polish it and have it betaed. I will put in a detail, character, or event of your choice for any of my loyal readers who spot the canon reference and/or guess the mini crossover that will occur in the next chapter. Anyone who thinks they know where the story is leading should tell me for the same reward. PM only please, because I don't want spoilers in reviews, where all readers can see. Just one click and a sentence or two of your time, if you could. Even a simple 'nice story' will cause my muse to upgrade itself for a longer-lasting model. The next chapter shall be with you within the next few days. However, if I get five measly reviews before Tuesday, I will give you two chapters within hours of each other!