A/N: I HAS FANART! Done by the wonderful Mealz-loves-Reno (or –secret-psssst on deviantart) it can be found here:
http:/ secret-psssst(.)deviantart(.)com/art/John-263875397
(REMOVE THE BRACKETS FROM THE FULL STOPS AND ALSO THE SPACES! AND ADD AN EXTRA FORWARD SLASH IN FRONT OF THE HTTP. freakin' FF. I'LL PUT THE LINK ON MY PROFILE) The scene it depicts can be found in Chapter 2 where John is resisting his addiction. Please leave a comment, she's awesome! This chapter is for her!
Chapter 3
'There are many types of monsters that scare me; Monsters who cause trouble without showing themselves, monsters who abduct children, monsters who devour dreams, monsters who suck blood...and then, monsters who tell nothing but lies. Lying monsters are a real nuisance: They are much more cunning than others. They pose as humans even thought they have no understanding of the human heart; they eat even though they have never experienced hunger; they study even though they have no interest in academics; they seek friendships even though they do not know how to love. If I were to encounter such monsters, I would likely be eaten by them...because in truth, I am that monster.'
L -Death Note Rewrite
John is trapped inside his head. He's sleeping this time, for a change.
The nightmares are common, yet another process where he's just going through the phases.
It's the faces that get him. Faces to which he meant no harm, but harmed none the less.
Charlie is the first. He always has been. The first he loved, the first he killed. Always, that awful night, again and again. A flurry of paper and smashed glass. The relief and the blood. The shame he felt watching the news reports. The guilt.
Then there is the sand. The gunfire and the insanity. The agony of the withdrawal.
Then he is home; London. The last face he sees before he awakes is last night's kill, a young woman. The cries of her baby reverberates in his ears as he jerks up, sweating, with salty tears tracking his face.
.
.
.
John leant against the damp wall of the alleyway, breath swirling to mix with the putrid stench of the rotting garbage. He angrily wipes the blood off his lips with the back of his shaking hand.
His trousers are in tatters, the bloody, sweaty rags clinging to his heated skin.
His back scraped painfully against the brick as he stood up.
He stumbles out of the alley. He stands solitary in the empty street.
A brief smash of pain and then... nothing.
.
.
Blinking, the burning white light pierced John sensitive flesh. Dazed, John caught the shadow of a tall, broad man through the pain.
"Doctor Watson. Doctor, doctor. Trained to save, born to kill. Tell me Doctor, was your condition hereditary?" A slick, unnamed voice mocks him.
John tilted his head up, squinting, half blind.
"What condition?" He answered automatically in defence.
"Oh come now Doctor, don't play dumb. I've been watching you for weeks."
The first thing John saw when his sight cleared was a black umbrella.
"Who are you?"
"Ah, of course. I quite forgot my manners, Forgive me. You are the most fascinating...specimen."
John spluttered. The man seemed unfazed; in fact, he seemed to relish John's discomfort.
"Mycroft Holmes at your service. A pleasure to meet you at last, Doctor John Watson."
The man held out his hand. John attempted to reciprocate (quite unintentionally, John was not in the habit of shaking hands with his captors) but found his hands were restrained behind his back. Looking down, it seemed the same had been down for his legs
"A mere safety precaution, you understand. I shall have them removed, if you promise to behave."
John nodded curtly. He was in no position to rebel this instant. He was weak from his transformation, hungry and tired.
"Anthea." The man said quietly. "The key if you will, please."
A shadow melted from the dark corner of the room. A beautiful woman clutching a Blackberry emerged, and barely glancing away from the screen, unlocked the handcuffs. She left his legs bound.
"Wouldn't want you running off now, would we?" The man smiled pleasantly, transforming for a moment into a grinning shark. "Tea?"
"Yes please," John replied. God damn his ingrained English manners. You weren't supposed to drink tea when being held hostage.
He took the small moment of silence to observe his captor. He wore an elegant 3 piece suit, immaculately manicured hands, slicked back hair, and gleaming shoes. Judging from his accent, it would appear the man hadn't seen a speck of dirt in his life.
The room was plush and luxurious. Apart from his chair, there was no hard metal, but only soft, luxurious comfort.
And now, he was drinking tea from a porcelain cup and saucer.
John sighed heavily. "If you want to kill me, please get it over with. I have no purpose for living. I deserve death and worse."
The man chuckled. "A brave speech Doctor, but unnecessary. That is the very crux of the matter; I have come to give you a purpose."
John laughed bitterly. "And what would that be? Friends? A partner? A new job? A cure, maybe?"
The man sipped from his tea cup. "You could call it a job, I suppose."
The man contemplated him seriously.
"It is my belief, Doctor Watson, that you kill indiscriminately?"
John looked down, feeling the bile and shame rising in him. He remained silent.
"What would you give to stop killing the innocent, Doctor?"
John looked up. "I have nothing to give."
"Everyone has something to give, Doctor Watson." The man sipped neatly from his tea cup. "I have a proposal for you. I occupy a minor position in the British Government-"
"You want me to be a spy?" John asked incredulously.
Mycroft took another sip of tea. "I must say, this is rather good tea. I'll arrange for Anthea to purchase a year's supply." Another sip. John was beginning to anger. "Not a spy, as such, Doctor. Rather, a mercenary. Some criminals are just far too dangerous to be allowed to continue their existence."
The temperature in the room rose by several degrees as John's blood begin to boil. How dare this arrogant thug presume to barter lives like mere pawns? To pervert the course of justice as if he were God? John churned with his own hypocrisy, and twisted moral. To ask a Doctor to kill by orders was a horror in itself, but when the doctor is a killer himself...There was nothing John would not do to end his self destructive path, but he was no one's mercenary. His mind was a tumultuous ocean of confusion and outrage. An uncontrollable urge to strike the man filled and he strained against the bonds. The rage pooled on his tongue and he craved to spit it out.
"A mercenary? Oh, that's a good one. Hilarious, you sick arrogant bastard! I thought I was damned, but it looks like I've found a fellow demon!" John snarled, but Mycroft remained calm, the twitching eyebrow the only give-away of his anger.
John continued, "A mercenary? Oh is that right, Myc?" The rage boiling on his tongue mixed with fresh blood as the man's calm demeanour snapped. Before John could react, the cup and saucer were shattering on the floor as the man's beefy hand connected hard with his cheek in a blinding smack that sent his head spinning backwards. His ears thrummed with the painful ringing and he spat out the pooling red lagoon from his mouth.
"You have no right to call me that!" The man spat angrily, eyes glistening.
A few seconds of crackling silence passed. John stroked his aching jaw, stunned, but not shocked. His face was tingling with pain and already swelling. He gritted his teeth. He had felt worse.
Looking up defiantly to the shaking turned back of the man, John spoke. "What will you do if I don't take this job?"
The man slowly turned around, unnervingly calm and placid. Evenly, he began to speak.
"A powerful emotion caused by a strong sense of guilt, embarrassment, unworthiness, or disgrace."
John looked on, nonplussed. Perhaps having a dictionary implanted in his head had been the cause of the man's insanity.
"Shame, Doctor, shame." Perhaps I should allow the crowds to lynch you after I spread the news. And who should be the bearer of this unfortunate news to your dear mother and sister?"
John attempted to spring up angrily.
"You wouldn't..." He cried, and winced as it stretched his sore skin.
"Au contraire, Doctor Watson. It would give me a great sense of satisfaction. After all, I am the model law abiding citizen."
John growled at the man's smug speech.
"Time is ticking Doctor – or should I call you... Johnny?"
The restrained man flushed puce red.
"You sneaky fucking conniving bast-"
The man tutted mockingly. "Temper temper Doctor Watson. Think of it as 'quid pro quo'."
"Why?"
The man raised his eyebrow. "Pro bono, Doctor Watson. You are protecting society, instead of destroying it."
John snorted cynically. "You speak a lot of Latin for a thug."
"I can assure you I am no thug."
John tilted his sore cheek up in contradiction.
"I am a patient man, Doctor, but do not raise my ire."
"I got the message, Mr Holmes."
Mycroft paused for a moment, a slow grin spreading.
"Someone will meet you. Follow them, have a coffee, share meaningless conversation, whatever counts for socialising these days." The man straightened his suit imperceptibly. "There will be minimal effect on your daily routine, and I suggest quitting your job at the surgery." The 'suggest' came out rather more as an order. "Your payment shall be... substantial."
John sat gobsmacked. "But I didn't say that I woul'"
"I'll think you'll find that you did, Doctor." He smiled genially, but all John saw was a social facade. He declined to shake his hand, the stinging in his cheek a painful remainder not to get on the wrong side of this man.
"I shall be seeing you very soon. I hope any past grievances" – he gestured vaguely at John's cheek – "will be forgiven. Good night, John. And remember" – a sharp prick in John's back came out of nowhere – "Good and evil are so close as to be chained together in the soul." John could feel himself unwillingly nodding off. "Yours especially, Doctor Watson." And with those eerie parting words, John fell off the precipice of consciousness, back into the blissful abyss he had found himself before this whole profound bloody mess had started.
Next time in The Doctor and Detective...
'Lestrade pondered heavily for a few moments.
"Sir?"
"Get me John Watson's address. We need to get to the bottom of this. And soon."
A/N – Did you like Mycroft? I love writing him; he's one of my favourite characters! Oh, and the 'Myc' was important. With a capital I. Just saying. Leave me your thoughts on this chapter; they are as always much appreciated! :D
~BB