Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss.

The Good Doctor
Chapter 15

The Hunt Begins

CRASH.

Broken bits of glass wood showered the room as a hooded figure flew through the window. Arthur jolted awake, paralyzed in fear. He reached for his gun that laid haphazardly on the small table next to his bed before the intruder grabbed his hand and slammed his arm on the nightstand.

"What the hell! Who are you?" he shouted as he nursed his wrist. He winced and suspected the bone to be fractured. The figure grabbed the front of his shirt and thrusted a crumpled paper in the man's face.

"What the fuck is this? Is this your doing?" he demanded.

Arthur squinted at the tattered paper the mercenary ripped off the wall filled with his face as the moonlight shone brighter into the room now that the dirty window was destroyed. "That's...I didn't do that! I didn't authorize it!"

John shook the bondsman, his fist still clenched around the fabric of his clothes. "You better tell me exactly what is going on in the next ten seconds of else I will kill you," he threatened. His eyes glinted from underneath the shadow of his hood, striking fear into the disoriented man sitting up in his bed. Everyone knew that out of all the bondsmen, he was number one, the one who controlled the warrants in the underground world. Anyone could place a bounty on the Bounty Hunter Wall, but when bounties were set, he acted as the middleman between the rich gangsters, crooked politicians, and businessmen and the low-lives that sold their morals for money. It was an efficient way for the powerful to get what they wanted without directly contacting the sinful who work to come by easy money.

Arthur fumbled for his glasses after turning on his bedside lamp, put them on, and slowly read the piece of paper beginning with the bounty amount. He let out a low whistle, still nursing his injured hand. "Well, whoever set this up certainly wants this John Watson fellow dead." He looked up at the hooded man. "But it wasn't me this time. I swear to God."

The Doctor let the man's shirt go and reached around his back. He pulled out a gun and pointed it directly at Arthur's head. "Tell me anything you know."

The bondsman's glasses slipped down his nose a bit as perspiration trickled down his face. He raised his hands. "I don't know anything!"

John cocked the gun and returned it to the position it was before. "I just got this, you see, and I'm eager to test it. One," he began.

The bondsman widened his eyes in terror. "I don't know! I swear! You're making a big mistake!"

"Two."

He began to tear up. For a criminal entrepreneur, he certainly wasn't as tough as he should be, John observed. "Please, I'm begging you. I'm just a middleman," he sobbed as he looked around the room wildly as if he'd find the answer written on the wall.

"Thr-"

"-M-Moriarty! Moriarty!" he yelled. John lowered his gun and grabbed the man's shirt again. Arthur continued to sob, shutting his eyes and mumbling "Oh God," over and over again.

"SHUT IT!" John commanded, annoyed at his cowardice. He put the tip of the gun right on the man's left temple and leaned in close. "Say it again."

"Say, say what?" he sniffled.

"The name."

"M-Moriarty," the man reiterated. "I heard r-rumors floating around, here and there. Whispers in dark places. He's very popular, you know," he added.

With that, John shoved Arthur back down into his bed and moved to climb out the window, treading on the broken glass as crunching noises drifted and filled the room. "You tell anyone I was here, I will kill you," he said in a quiet, lowered voice as he perched on the sill. "I found you once and I can do it again." Arthur vigorously shook his head and watched the stout, hooded, merciful mercenary leap out the window.

John hit the ground and winced. He lost his balance and fell forward on the pavement on all fours. He was furious; the world was after his head and he had put his loved ones in danger. Clenching his fists, he grit his teeth and slowly stood up, dragging his feet in the process. There was a slight sting on his elbow, but he ignored it knowing fully well that he had managed to scrape it. There were tiny cuts on his arms from the broken glass, but he didn't care. He had to make sure they were all safe. He started running towards 221B Baker Street.

"Sherlock?" he called out, unsure whether or not the detective was home. He saw the faint glow of fire emanating from the upper level and made his way towards it. There on the couch laid the detective still in his coat. He had taken off his scarf and placed it on the table, but hadn't bothered with the thick outerwear. His shoes were strewn across the floor next to the couch.

"John," he answered back, his head towards him.

The blond leaned against the doorframe with his left forearm. "I, uh, need to get in contact with Mycroft."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "Decided to take his offer?"

John stared at the back of his flatmate's head. "For a trade, yes."

The consulting detective merely held out his phone. John limped over and grabbed it giving Sherlock the opportunity to catch a glimpse at all of his new injuries. He tutted.

"Really, John. You should know better than to prance around showing the world your secret life."

The doctor ignored him and went to get the first aid kit stashed somewhere in the kitchen. After Sherlock's last experiment mishap, John had made sure to keep a bin around in case of an emergency. As he wrapped gauze around the stinging scrape on his elbow, he called Mycroft.

"Sherlock, what a surprise, dear brother," he answered, clearly undeterred.

"Hello, Mycroft. It's John."

"Well then, good evening, John," he replied, the surprise evident in his voice. "What can I do for you, this fine night?"

John lowered his voice, "I'll do it."

Mycroft paused on the other end. After a moment, he replied, "And I'm assuming there are certain stipulations?"

"Yes. I need information on someone, but I'll need to speak to you in person."

"Very well," the older Holmes answered. "I will get in contact." And with that, he hung up.

John handed the phone back to Sherlock after putting away the first aid kit and grabbed a fresh change of clothes.

Sherlock turned his head. "Going out?"

"You might say that," the doctor replied.

xxx

Knock knock knock.

"Coming!"

Knock knock knock knock knock.

"I said I'm coming! Don't get your bloody knickers in a twist," Harriet huffed as she headed towards the door. She grabbed the handle and swung it open. "What do you bloody wan-"

"-Harry."

She widened her eyes. "JOHNNY!" She threw her arms around her little brother and gave him a bone-crushing hug. "Oh my God. I thought you were dead or something! You idiot!" she cried as she let him go.

"Not here," he said in a hushed voice as he pulled her into her flat. She led him into her messy living room and sat him down, immediately heading towards the kitchen. After a few moments, she came back and sat down after setting down a tray of a bottle of whiskey, a clear cup, and a mug of hot tea for her brother. She poured herself a glass and gulped down an entire half-cup, refilling it immediately after.

"What the hell!" she spat out as she fumed with anger.

"Nice seeing you too, Harry," John replied with a stoic face.

His sister slammed her cup down. "What the hell, John?! Where have you been? What have you done? What the hell!" she cried.

The veteran stared into the angry face of his sister. They certainly looked alike, but she was obviously more feminine. Her nose was sharper, but their eyes were the same, inherited from their father. Her blonde hair was a tad shade darker than John's and was cut shoulder-length in a bob cut parted to the side. She pointed an accusing finger at him from the hand wrapped around the glass. "You bastard. Haven't heard from you in months, and how do I know you're even alive? You show up at my door after the telly's been blasting your face! What happened? What did you do? Do you know how much mum and dad are worried?"

The younger Watson sibling slowly sipped the cup of tea she set for him. "I can't exactly tell you, but I swear I didn't do anything bad. Harry, I need you to listen to me." She ignored him and poured another glass of whiskey.

"HARRY. Stop drinking for once in your life! God! Is this all you do?" He leaned over and grabbed her wrist. She immediately pulled out of grasp and threw the glass across the room in the direction of her brother which shattered on the wall behind John's head on impact. Harry glared at him while her brother blinked his eyes in shock.

"I'm-I'm sorry, alright? It's just..things haven't been the same anymore, not since, you know, after the...after-"

"-it's okay," she interjected. "Just, drop it." She knew he didn't like talking about Afghanistan and had refused to open up to her even when she begged him to. "I'm just glad you're safe."

John stood up. "You need to leave."

"Excuse me?" she asked incredulously.

"Harry, your life may be in danger. There are men out there to are trying to kill me and I can't afford to let them get to you. They know who I am, so it's only a matter of time. I've already transferred £25,000 to your account. Get mum and dad and leave the country. Now. Go on, pack your bags."

She gaped at her brother. "Are you mad? First of all, where did you get that kind of money? And second of all, I can't leave! Clara and I are trying to work things out!"

"Take her too then! Just hurry up!" He pushed her towards her bedroom and opened up her closet. He located a couple of bags and began shoving clothes in. "I'll wire more; call her and mum and dad. Now. I don't care how much you need, I'll wire you lot the amount. You need to leave the country. It's life or death." He grabbed her shoulders and stared her in the eye for a couple minutes. "You will die if you stay here."

Her breath hitched in her throat.

"John Hamish Watson, what have you gotten into?" Harry asked as she watched him return to hastily cram her clothes in. Trembling out of slight fear, she grabbed a change of clothes (as she was in cotton shorts and a tank-top, her sleeping attire) and returned only to pick on him. "No, no, not those! Those are hideous," she said as she shoved her brother out of the way and took over.

John rubbed the back of his neck. "So...do you know where you want to go?"

"I dunno, John. Hawaii?"

Hours later after a couple phone calls, they travelled to their parents and forced them out of the house, much to their resistance and confusion. They had thought it was all a joke until John pulled down his trousers to show them the bullet wound that was still healing to prove it was recent and not from his military days. They swung by Harry's ex who, much to their surprise, had moved on and was interrupted from time with her new girlfriend by a heartbroken Harry.

"Hi, John," Clara said leaning on the door frame. She turned to his sister. "Sorry, Harry, but I don't think things are going to work out. You have a problem and I'm done dealing with it." she concluded and promptly shut the door in the older Watson sibling's face. Harriet shakily turned around, trying not to shed tears.

"I-I-"

"-shh, it's alright," John said as he took her hand and tugged, leading her down the steps and into the cab where their parents pretended that they had not witnessed what had just happened to spare their daughter embarrassment and pain. They rode to a private airfield in silence with the occasional sniffle from Harry. He had called in a favor by a former client who owed him. As the cabbie came to a stop, he quickly changed into his mercenary uniform behind the vehicle as his family huddled around the boot, trying to grab their suitcases out of the car.

"Erikson?" John asked an attendant walking towards them in a lowered voice.

"Yes, the plane is fueled and for take off."

"Good," he nodded under his hood.

Harry leaned towards him and asked, "When did you change? And what's with the get up? You look silly." He brushed her off and turned around when they reached the plane.

"Stay safe. Lie low. Here are your passports." He handed them each a small professionally imitated booklet with their faces pasted into them, but with fake information. "Contact this email if you want to reach me but sign with your fake names." He handed them a card. "I'll be returning them if I can under Hamish Wilson."

"Sherlock Holmes?" Mrs. Watson read. "Dear, isn't that the nice man who's always on the telly and on the papers?" she asked her husband. He squinted his eyes and looked at the card.

"Yes, yes, it is. We're allies. Now, get on the plane. Erikson already put your luggage on," their son said as he pushed them up towards the stairs. A few moments later, he watched as his family waved goodbye from the windows, receding into the black night sky. He half feared it would blow up into pieces, but they were safe. He waved back and watched them leave him all alone again.

xxx

"Gener-Moran," John whispered to his comrade hanging next to him. John ignored the stinging pain from his wrists which he had twisted and turned to escape his shackles so much to the point where they were rubbed raw and beginning to bleed. His general had passed out again, the pain of the debris lodged into his eye and the bone around his eye socket proving to be too much to handle.

Suddenly, the door opened with a loud bang. Light from torches outside the door in the cave tunnel shone into their small room. John squinted his eyes, trying to adjust to the sensation. Two bearded men wearing turbans and tunics were wearing semi-automatic rifles slung around their torso and shoulder. The doctor pegged them as Al Queda members. One of them was holding a Sig Sauer, presumably taken from a British soldier. They spoke in a language John could not understand-Persian, most likely.

The one wearing a faded red turban nodded to the other who immediately grabbed a torch and brought one into the empty room. The other asked John a question.

"I don't speak Persian," he told them. The man wearing the dark grey turban grabbed his gun and hit John in the stomach with the end. The blond sputtered and coughed. He turned to his colleague and ordered him to do something.

"Wha-what are you doing?" he panicked as they called in more men who brought in various weapons. A larger man wearing the uniform of an Afghan soldier walked into the room with a weathered silver chair and stopped in front of John who stared directly into his eyes. He said something in Persian and the others filed out, closing the door behind them.

"British, are we? And I see, we have a general and a, a doctor?" he said in English as he observed the badges and colors on John's belt. The blond's beret was long gone, lost somewhere in the sand. He paced the captives. "Wounded. Both of you." He returned to their front and dragged the chair, sitting on it backwards and resting his elbows on the back rest. "I can get you medical help, but first, tell me what you know of your camp. Where were you heading?"

"What are you doing? Aren't you an Afghan soldier?" John asked, eyeing the man's clothes.

"Hah. Many questions, this one has." He rolled up his sleeves. "I will ask one more time: where was your camp heading when you got attacked?"

The blond clenched his jaw. He had nothing to say. If he were to die today, it would be his honor defending his men and his country. The man watched the defiant look cross the male's face. "Very well. We'll begin with the sword."

xxx

Sherlock was busy with an experiment in the kitchen. It was in the middle of the night, but he was intensely focused on the slides under the microscope he was peering through. The cells looked as if they hadn't changed, he thought. He lifted his head and recorded his findings in a journal. He swapped the slide with the next one. After a few minutes, he began to hear John shuffling around on the couch. He assumed his flatmate had bad habits in his sleep and attempted to ignore him, but it became quite annoying when he heard a mug fall off the coffee table and shatter on the floor.

"Will you shut it, John? I'm trying to concentrate," Sherlock called out as he turned the knob on the microscope to focus the magnification. He began tuning the mercenary out until he began to whimper. The consulting detective froze, listening.

"N-no, I'll nev-" John uttered before he began shouting in his sleep. "Ahh!" he screamed, thrashing around.

Sherlock whipped his head towards the couch and stood up. "John? John," he called out, trying to wake his flatmate. It was no use. He was stuck in a night terror.

"Stop! No, I don't know!" he yelled defiantly to no one in particular. "Ahhhh!" he screamed. Sherlock briskly walked over to the blond man and shook him.

"John! Wake up!" he yelled. He grabbed his colleague's shoulders, but it was no use. He slapped him lightly on the cheek. "JOHN. YOU'RE HAVING A NIGHTMARE," he nearly shouted at the top of his lungs, but even he couldn't hear himself over the veteran's screaming. "Fine, I did not want to do this but..." The detective pressed his fingers down on the bullet wound that still hurt John's leg. He applied pressure to increase the pain, hoping it would wake him up.

The screaming stopped for a split second when John opened his eyes, but continued when his brain registered the physical pain. "AHH! SHERLOCK WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" he angrily cried. The dark-haired man stopped the pressure and straightened back up.

"You were having a nightmare and could not wake up so I resorted to stimulate pain by applying pressure to your physical injury in an attempt to force your brain to exit its deep REM stage and respond to the influxuation of pain," he explained simply as if John had asked him instead what two plus two was.

The blond sat up and clutched his leg, rubbing the sore area. "Oh. Um, thanks, I guess," he said as sweat trickled down the side of his face. He was breathing heavily as adrenaline rushed through his body. Memories of Afghanistan had finally made their way into this conscious brain. He closed his eyes and tried to forget what he had just remembered, but couldn't.

Sherlock stood up, walked to the kitchen, and returned a few moments later. "Take this," he said, handing the blond a small pill and a cup of water. "Sleeping pill. It'll help you go back to sleep, even though you probably already knew that."

John accepted it and tossed the pill into his mouth, gulping down all the of water. "Thanks," he said, although in reality, he was thanking him for not asking questions. Without a word, his flatmate had already resumed his experiment in the kitchen as John drifted off into a dreamless sleep, thanks to his new friend.

A/N:
Short chap & not much progress but I wanted to get something out because I hadn't for the past two weeks. I'm so sorry! Life has been kicking me in the nonexistent balls. Haha
I got a job that was ridiculous, but I quit that because of the way they worked me like a slave and treated me like dirt.
The semester is also winding down, but the work is piling up. T^T Everyone who is a student, I feel you.
BUT now that I quit that ridic job w/ the ridic hours, I have more time to write.
I promise I'll try to update whenever I can. Love you guys :)
Thank you for reading!