A/N: Because I couldn't leave this story alone…
Hostage: Part Two
"John, I don't want you to leave."
For the forty-seventh time that evening, John blew a breath from his lips and furrowed his eyebrows. Sherlock was using his wounded voice and it speared his heart every time.
"I have to, love. You know that."
From his position in the armchair, Sherlock shot up, intent only on wrapping his arms around John's slim waist and never letting him go. John turned away from his suitcase as his boyfriend approached and they tangled into each other's arms. Sherlock buried his head into John's shoulder, breathing in the scent of John's freshly laundered uniform.
"You don't have to, I can have Mycroft pull some documents-"
The sound of John's repressed sigh vibrated against Sherlock's chest. "I don't mean like that." Pulling back gently, he twisted to press gentle kisses along the taller man's exposed cheekbone. "I've got friends back in A; Bill, Fuller - they'll be expecting me."
Sherlock's arms tightened unconsciously, and a choked sensation worked its way into his throat. "But you'll be leaving me here."
Those words knocked the air out of John's lungs with more force than a physical blow. He had to remain strong, or he'd end up taking Sherlock's ludicrous offer to stay.
"I know, and I'm sorry. But, I'll only be for a few months, and then I'll have finished my tour of duty and I can come home. Permanently. You knew I was only back on leave."
"Of course I knew." Sherlock huffed, now running the bridge of his nose along John's smooth neck. "What I didn't predict was your aggravating stubbornness."
"Ah, yes. The stubbornness of the Watson is a thing to fear," John chuckled, shoulders jostling minutely.
The two men stood in silence for a moment, both afraid almost to draw away and loose the contact of each others skin. It had only been two months since Moran had engineered the hostage situation, freeing the elusive Moriarty from imprisonment. Having done so, John had slipped as perfectly as a jigsaw piece onto Sherlock's life; the missing link of sorts, finally coming to rest amongst the disarray.
They had moved into 221b with the intent of providing temporary protection to their amiable landlady; Wilf Hudson's ex-wife, but had soon settled into her life, just as they had settled amongst each others. John's leg soon healed, and the walking stick he had so hatefully been provided with was subjected to Sherlock's impromptu acid bath. They were happy.
Until John's physiotherapist had confirmed John was well enough to return to Afghanistan, and Sherlock's world fell apart piece by piece.
"I'll miss you," Sherlock murmured smoothly, his lips finding the space below John's ear and kissing it.
John shifted, breathing catching in his throat. He dipped his head to run his teeth along the pale expanse of Sherlock's neck, catching the man's prominent jugular. "I'll miss you too, you big dope. Are you going to be this soppy all the way to the hangar? I think I like it."
The condescending tone of Sherlock's voice was ruined by his rapid breathing. "Airport, John, not hangar. You're not in Afghanistan just yet, in case that escaped your notice."
"Shut up." John smirked, then leaned back to capture Sherlock's lips with his own tenderly. "Try not to annoy anyone too much while I'm gone, will you?"
Sherlock scoffed; "If the general populous isn't too dull, I will try my best to refrain a few sarcastic comments."
Knowing that was as good as he was going to get, John shrugged a, "Good enough." before breaking away to search for his dog tags. He'd only put them down a second ago…
"Looking for these?"
Sherlock lifted his arms to pull a thin metal ball-chain from under his shirt. There was the clink of metal on metal as he took the dog tags from around his neck and brandished them in front of him, a guilty look plastered across his face.
"What, exactly, were you doing with my dog tags?" John crossed his arms and slumped onto one leg; the very personification of refrained annoyance.
Instead of replying, Sherlock approached John and hung the metal plates around his neck. With solemn adoration in his eyes, he held up a dog tag for John to see.
It read:
A POSITIVE
362 4497
WATSON
J. H.
NO RELIGIOUS PREF
FORTH NORTHUMBERLAND FUSILIERS
Then, on the other side, in tiny letters:
THE SOLE OWNER AND PROTECTOR OF SHERLOCK'S HEART.
John felt a sharp pain fill his chest and tears blur his vision. As he enveloped Sherlock into his arms, John had never felt so complete.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"It's so quiet." Bill complained, just loud enough to be heard over rattle of gears; at first referring to the stillness of the night instead of the animalistic pounding of metal on metal.
"It's a desert." John explained wryly with a smirk. "It's supposed to be quiet."
"No," Bill gestured a hand to the radio. "There's no radio chatter, no follow up Humvee. It's just us, on our own. Literally."
John shuddered gently at the morbid tone entering Bill's voice. "Yeah well, better quiet than the sound of enemy RPG. If anything goes wrong, we've got the Apache tailing us. It'll be fine. "
The Humvee trundled across the rough scattered roads; the roaring engine a siren call against the heavy silence of the Afghan night. Sand dunes like skyscrapers littered the way, lit only by the monumental headlights the RV was carrying, and the slight azure blue of the night sky and the impending morning.
John sat forward, fingers twitching, agitated with long frayed nerves, and the others soon followed suit until they mirrored him with their bewilderment. They had been travelling since sunset, and had been told to expect all manor of enemy fire.
None had come.
Documents bound thick in stamps and leather straps lay secure under Bill's chair. If you were paying attention; you would see how every body, save the driver, was tilted towards it unconsciously, their thoughts careening it with silent despair. None of them had volunteered for this; this was not their job – transporting documents under the illusion that they may not survive.
No one had directly said it, of course; but the code soon became clear. The repeated, "You'll be fine," in place of actual fact. More than a dozen men in combat uniform had seen them off, which was practically unheard of. And then there were the soldiers inside the Humvee.
Special operatives, long serving officers, not one but two of Camp Bastion's top medical surgeons. Half of them had never even laid eyes on their driver, but the man had arms as wide as John's chest and was missing at least three quarters of one ear.
Through the silence, they drove on.
"This is ridiculous." It was Richardson speaking. "How do they expect us to operate on fuck all intel? This could be some serious shit we've got ourselves into."
"Yeah, like invading Afghanistan doesn't count as 'serious shit'." Fuller snorted; flicking the toothpick he'd been chewing the entire journey onto the floor of the Humvee.
"Shut the fuck up, Fuller; we signed up for Afghan knowing what we were going into," Richardson said, "I just don't like being fucked around, that's all."
"None of us do," John murmured, always the martyr, sending a reassuring half smile Richardson's way. "Let's just get the job done."
"Yeah," Bill said, "We drop off the documents, nice n' easy, then we can fall back to base and find out who little Johnny here's letter was from."
A chorus of wolf whistles and rough banter are suddenly flung around the Humvee. John threw his head into his hands.
"Come on, mate," Fuller threw a good natured punch over the seat at John's shoulder, connecting just above John's Red Cross band. "You got a bird back home or what? She fit?"
"I'm not talking about this," John smirked, raising his head to point accusingly at the members of the Humvee, "to any of you! That letter was from my sister, you assholes."
"Sister, my arse," Fuller scoffed, "Old Jackson back at base said you went bright fucking red when you read it."
John clamped his mouth shut, wide jaw grinding, and was met with the friendly jeers of his comrades.
"I knew it! It wasn't from you sister was it?" Fuller said, settling back in his seat with a smug expression plastered across his handsome features. "Didn't know you had it in you, son!"
Bill, meanwhile, was pretending to tear up. "That's my boy, Watson! And there I was thinking you'd end up a forty year old virgin."
"Like you, you mean; you ugly tosser." John countered, and the Humvee was filled with hoots of laughter; their timid first moments long forgotten.
"Watson, sir?" Called a timid voice. It was Gardner; the youngest of the group. He sits knees together, with his beige helmet resting on them gingerly. The men still their inane chatter to hear his quiet tone. "I thought you were on night rounds for the rest of the week? Hemmingway said you'd been passed up for this."
The group shifted collectively. They all valued John as a friend as well as a comrade; he was a good, honest bloke, and Gardner was practically accusing him of not being good enough to sit amongst them.
"Litten dropped out," John explained humbly, "and I was first reserve. I only got told yesterday they'd listed me."
"Watson's good as anyone here," Fuller said through gritted teeth whilst shooting Gardner burning looks. "If he hadn't of been listed; I'd have been asking where the fuck he was."
"Same here," Bill continued; "He's the best surgeon on base. Steadiest hands I've ever known."
There is a sobering pause as everyone digests this.
"Yes, but sir," Gardner bit, not liking being outnumbered. "He isn't supposed to be here. Litten wouldn't have dropped out if it wasn't for that sniper on the border of Khush-i-Nakhud."
"But he is here;" Bill replied with equal venom, "So shut the fuck up before you get my fist to your face."
"Gentlemen." A deep, baritone growl rung from the formidable Jamaican driver. "No fighting. Or I'll get involved, and see how you like sixteen stone of pure muscle coming at you."
"Not the first time I'd have someone come at me," Fuller chuckled, and the rest of them groan disgustedly at the innuendo. "What?" Fuller asks, shoulders shaking with mirth. The heavy laugh of the Jamaican rolls languidly around the walls of the Humvee.
"You're full of shit, Fuller." Said Alcock, who'd been quietly absorbed reading the map for the sojourn; sitting with wise apprehensiveness up front with the Jamaican. His huge brown eyes peaked out behind the thick rims of his glasses, tracking their progress to the landing zone they were heading for.
"Oh hey, Alcock; I didn't see you there!" Fuller spat, a fake smile adorning his face. "Why don't you come back here and say that again, huh?"
"For the love of God," The last and oldest of the group; Spider, flicked his cap of his face from the back of the Humvee where he was sandwiched between Fuller and Gardner. "Does anyone in this vehicle ever shut their goddamn mouth?"
"Pack eight huge egos into a moving tin can…" Bill muttered, as if this was a well known saying.
"Watson, instil some manners in these pussies." Spider tittered, pulling the beige cap back down and over his face.
Richardson swooned dramatically, and held his helmet to his chest over his heart, "I think we should all just learn to get along," he crooned and it instantly smacked down with whatever the men had to hand; beanies, a rock, and the wrappers of chocolates all littered down on him. The rock hit Richardson square between the eyes. He picked it up and brandished it in front of him, then glared accusingly around the Humvee. "Who the fuck carries a rock around with them?"
The collective bursted into riotous laughter; even Alcock shuddered silently and had to wipe the mirth collecting under his glasses. Bill turned to smother his braying laugh into John's shoulder, which was shaking violently as the short man giggles hopelessly. The Jamaican drawled his thick, baritone laugh, arms planted firmly on the steering wheel of the Humvee, but vibrating as he repressed the loud call of his amusement. The others, meanwhile, simply chuckled boyishly into their hands.
A crack, a whistle, the splintering of glass.
The Humvee swerved savagely, and the eight of them were thrown from their seats, yelling in surprise and pain. The Jamaican's arms had fallen from the wheel, and the Humvee tumbled out of control, off the road, and crashed down into a ditch. The jolt threw the group into further disarray; Bill's head made contact with the side window which cracked, blood spilt down his forehead in a crimson torrent. Alcock's skull was firmly indented in the dashboard, a mess of fractured bones and fragments of plastic.
They were under attack.