Offerings To The Temple Of Mendacity

Howlynn

Chapter 11/34: What I want to be

Summary: John's recovery and Ford remembers

"I know exactly what I want and who I want to be

I know exactly why I walk and talk like a machine

I'm now becoming my own self-fulfilled prophecy"

Oh No! -Marina and the Diamonds

John winced as Rat put him through his paces.

They had been in hiding for five months and other than the intermittent move and Rat scarpering off on occasion, there was little to do besides recover. John had been on six very boring missions and he felt useless. Rat constantly affirmed that Sherlock was fine, but John had yet to lay eyes on him and it was frustrating.

John's injuries were not the only issue that had the doctor's breath huffing far before it should and his heart pounding protest to things he'd always taken for granted he could do. John had succumbed to his throes of depression after Sherlock died, not eating or sleeping properly and drinking far too much.

He'd regained some ground while he was with Molly, but his softened life combined with his recent injuries left his physique and his stamina far below the endurance Rat required of him. Rat was both understanding of his injury related limitations whilst having little kindness toward the restrictions John had perpetrated upon himself. He doled out encouragement when John failed to increase his number of sit-ups due to his surgical damage, but he railed at John for the slightest whimper when he tried to slough-off on leg presses and stretching his tendons to regain flexibility.

Truthfully, John felt better now than he had since before he'd been shot. He hated his daily tormentor whilst unable to control the warmth he experienced when Rat offered him the slightest praise. It was difficult to reconcile the long-worshipped and esteemed man and the new and disturbing image of Sherlock's father.

His body responded enthusiastically toward Rat's blatant advances and innuendo. His mind refused them in no uncertain terms.

Rat took John's rejection with a wry humor. He had long known John's buttons and in their off again on again years of history, Rat knew it was simply a matter of time. He had no compunction against unashamedly seducing John Watson. They had danced this dance before and he found the challenge entertaining.

John may be in love with his own son, but Sherrinford had prior claim and therefore John belonged to him, not Sherlock. Oh he knew if the opportunity presented itself, he would lose the long term battle for John's heart, but Rat had never existed in long term. Now was his palate and he could paint with the masters of seduction.

John needed physical contact as much as he needed air and if there were only one dish in the kitchen, eventually John would hunger and feed. Once John lost his cool control, there was nothing in the world that could match him. Ford always regretted leaving John when the time required, but he had never suffered the loss like he had this time. This time, he'd nearly lost John and it had a desperate bitter feel that had doubled as he'd watched John die again on the boat.

Yes, he'd taken John to an undercover-op who played mild mannered animal doctor, but Rat knew the man was neither French nor a simple doctor of exotic creatures. He'd desperately placed John in the hands of the finest surgeon he'd ever met. John was good at trauma and field surgery in general, but this man's code name was Resurrection La Gaule. (which equaled 'resurrection erection' in a tongue in cheek off-color spook humor.) His skill was no joke, and his neurosurgical trail of career miracles included a half dead Rat raised from certain permanent impairment, brain function intact.

The pleasure of John's annoyance and exasperation far outweighed Rat's conscious aching over the fact John had no idea the trouble Rat went to in getting him to the best care possible. One day, like he had with the wallet, Rat would reveal the truth if it suited his own purposes.

When John was finally pronounced to be in mission ready condition, the information was conveyed with delicate breads, fine cheeses, richly sauced meat, three bottles of wine and seduction. Rat counted on the adrenaline rush John would feel at successfully completing his recovery. He was not disappointed. He and John were whole again. He played John Watson's pleasure like he played his violin, skillfully, passionately, and without apologies. But it wasn't enough. Ford wanted more. He wanted John to be his, just for a little while.

John Watson was dead to the world and he was currently sleeping in the same fashion. Rat studied his face as John snored hilariously. He wondered when the last time had been, that John had submitted to such a relaxed state and allowed his body to hover voluntarily near such peace.

It stroked the older man's ego with delight that he could still do this for his little Rhino. John still felt safe in his presence. John still wanted him too, despite his coy refusals. The sounds John made in pleasure, even with all the restrictive rules, were igniting to Ford. He wanted to do things for John that he would never forget. He was sure this was their last affair, one way or another, and he wanted it to be beyond all they had ever had before.

Ford had many lovers of both genders in his life and he still adored his wife beyond all rational explanation. His clandestine conjugal visits had been both few and dazzling over his many years of separation. Any other woman would have never put up with his absence nor his many dalliances, but he had not married just any woman. She was both a Holmes by marriage and distantly one by birth. It took a great deal of mapping to connect the two houses, but his wife was part of the raven legend.

His sons were cursed and blessed with the blood of the historical greatest chain of intellect ever known to Great Britain. This close knit inter-marriage sometimes resulted in mishaps, of course. There had been those in his ancestry who had been vilified, and some quite rightly so. It had been whispered at one time that Sherlock was such an aberration and would be institutionalized before adulthood. This terrible prediction had regretfully come to pass, temporarily, in his early adulthood. But Ford had always maintained a firm belief that the boy was simply extraordinary and therefore difficult. He visited Sherlock in that place of placid faces and calming colours and had secretly implemented the boy's release. For a time he'd regretted that because Sherlock had spent the next several years chasing destruction along with knowledge.

Ford was a man of many exceptional encounters with sentiment, but John was his favorite. No sexual partner had ever equaled this small, not quite beautiful, but unquestionably attractive, man of seemingly average assets. Maybe it was simply that John denied him what he wanted most.

His face had so many imperfections but the second it was animated by his spirit, John was warmer to Rat than the very sun. Photos could never do him justice. John could be a scary righteous little hound, a faithful dog and most of all, the wolf in wooly jumpers, but he would never be noticed when represented on high gloss paper.

He found it amusing that John held the things between them as some lesser labeled encounter and told himself it was just casual. It was true that in their past, they did not engage in penetrative relations, but if John were fellated by a woman, he would not clamor to his ridiculous definitions of what constitutes real sex. John was a physician and certainly knew the professional description of sex. Ford loved slightly pushing John into new territory so he could watch him struggle to rewrite his head-canon delineations of his masculinity.

Rat knew that John didn't want to be cast into the gay-pool. He didn't like labels that limited his hunting grounds. John was crazy about women, he just liked men also. He could settle down with a woman and happily never touch another bloke, but good upstanding John had yet to be faithful to a bloke. So long as he classed blokes as not-real sex, he could justify the fact that he was less faithful to them. John had always held himself to a certain moral standard and the fact he didn't quite live up to his supposed principles created a discrepancy within himself. Rat played with his neatly labeled boxes of John Watson.

John had no idea that he'd ever hurt Ford Hall, but it was the truth of the matter. That didn't mean Rat could give him up, but at the same time, it did give him pleasure in jerking John's chain a bit. He'd hurt John many times by walking away, but he had his reasons, whether John realized it or not. He always came back too, but he had long ago lost any hope that it would ever be something stable or close to enduring. Yes, Rat had left John many times, but John cheated on Rat so it evened out in the long run.

He and John had to go through their squabbles and forge the path each time they again fell into the others arms. But there would come a day that John would meet someone in a short skirt and things between them would begin to get taken for granted and Ford would leave and John would again swear his never-again tirade. One day, Ford knew it would be true. John would mean it someday.

He thought he'd lost John this time. When John was shot, it felt like the world was cloudy. Then he'd gone back to London and it was similar in agony to if John had died. It was worse because he was damaged. He'd seen John limping and looking so lost and hopeless and it had made Ford physically sick.

He was nearly sure that Watson would soon be dead. He'd seen the look before. He wanted to help but knew he could not stand to see the man he knew, stoically put his service revolver between his lips and leave him. Ford was no sentimental coward, but he ran away from this John and let him go, even if only in his mind. He preferred to remember Rhino, elbow deep in guts, under fire and shouting sarcastic insults to people about their marksmanship. That John had no fear.

Ford had gone a bit berky and made John a wallet. After hunting down and murdering the pathetic sod who had destroyed his John, Ford had thrown himself into his work. He'd expected to hear something when John realized what the wallet represented. He'd feared it would not be enough, his little token of vengeance, but he was confused to find no word of any kind sent through channels from John Watson acknowledging his effort. It never dawned on him, considering his propensity for taking trophies, that John would miss the significance of his gesture.

He waited but his sources said John had adapted well, turned his skills into a new career.

Then he'd made inquiry about his two sons and found his youngest to be living with his very own Rhino. There had been articles written and Ford had focused on the photos. John stood looking up at his very own son with eyes reflecting the same sort of tender affection John had once bestowed on his old Commander. He'd felt both relief and a twinge of jealousy, laughing that John had replaced him with his offspring. He had assumed John had made the connection.

He hoped it would be a matter of time before Mycroft tracked him down. He was ready to end his adventure and in his deepest heart, thought it would be a grand thing if John found happiness within his own family. His little spy-girl had had her own adventures wind to the inevitable peaceful life of a long time widow. He'd contented himself that soon he too would be called to retire and he'd often imagined the reunion with his sons. He had also vividly imagined Rhino's reaction to the discovery he'd revealed on the night he'd inadvertently caused such harm with his last minute suicide plan.

He'd jumped to the conclusion that John and Sherlock were a pair, from all public innuendo and his own observation of body language in the increasingly regular media coverage of their exploits. He read John's blog, searching for clues, perhaps expecting to find confirmation and therefore extrapolating what he hoped to see. He had hoped for a Christmas reunion, of sorts, but Mycroft was far too distracted to follow his obvious yellow brick road, so he'd carried on, as was expected of him. Time passed and his son became the meteor he'd always known him to be.

He'd crossed paths with an Irishman. Tiger had surfaced as his right hand man. Tiger had spoken to Ford, out of loyalty. It was in Rome one night that his former sniper had appeared in his hotel. Tiger had warned him to get John and his lover out of his hair before it got ugly.

A week later, John had stepped into a game he didn't understand and Seb had been in tears as he secretly told Ford that he would shoot John in the heart when he got ordered to do so. He said he would have no choice and that his boss had every intention of destroying a certain blond doctor because he intended to woo some arrogant posh detective into his control and that meant John's life was ticking away.

I'm gonna live, I'm gonna fly,

I'm gonna fail, I'm gonna die,

I'm gonna live, I'm gonna fly

I'm gonna fail, gonna die, die, die, die

Oh No! - Marina and the Diamonds

Hello, I want you to know my stories are not abandoned. I am dealing with several signifigant life changes all at once and I am posting this chapter, but don't expect it to be at my normal standards. I hope you like it anyway, I know how frustrating waiting for updates can be.