Warnings this chapter: angst; whumpage; a touch of BAMF; abuse of medical technique and ethics.

CHAPTER 6

THE CONNECTION

The mobile phone lay on the table before Sherlock, next to the evidence bag. Sherlock held the print dusting kit and tried to focus. Impatient with his own show of emotions, he put the brush down and tried again to clear his mind. It didn't work. All he could think of was the first time he'd held John's mobile. It meant nothing to him then. Now it said acceptance, it said loyalty, it said friend. He thought back to their first meeting and his initial smug deduction; Sherlock was fooling himself when he thought he knew John Watson.

Certainly he knew about him. Who John Watson was was another matter entirely. Who was this man who had gotten under his skin and into his conscience and had so substantially changed him?

Certainly he knew that the man with the pedestrian need to eat regular meals and to sleep regular hours was the same man whose hand was as steady holding a haemostat as it was a Browning; who could lambast Sherlock for his lack of manners and his blatant insensitivity, but who was loyal beyond reason when they were but relative strangers; who had an insatiable appetite for danger, yet could giggled like a schoolgirl at the most inappropriate times.

For as much as he had grown to know John Watson, he couldn't help but suspect—to know—that there was so much more to this man, that there was yet so much to discover about this John Watson, he of the quick smile, the quick temper, and the tender heart. Oh yes, he had much more to learn about this John Watson. And he was determined not to be deprived of it.

oOo

The London office of the multinational conglomerate BurtonHall was, to put it mildly, expansive. It was too slick, too modern, too sterile, with just a patina of warmth to pretend it cared about anything but itself.

Lestrade was introducing Sherlock and himself to the Human Resources Senior Vice President. Sherlock sized her up in a glance: 45, too-short hair, boring suit, bi-sexual, not in a committed relationship, two cats.

"Ms Croder," Lestrade began.

"Elizabeth, please," she said, stepping closer to him than necessary, and holding her gaze too long on Lestrade's lips, her hand too long is his.

Sherlock's lips curled fractionally. Lestrade might be an idiot but he wasn't blind. Lestrade diplomatically extricated his hand from hers, stayed calm and carried on.

"Ms Croder," Lestrade continued, "We're here about the death of Margaret Trevor."

Croder's demeanour changed immediately. She grew serious, legitimately saddened by her colleague's death.

"What was her position with BurtonHall?" Lestrade asked.

"Margaret was Senior Vice President of Supply Chain and Distribution. Why?"

"Not an insignificant role for a company the size of BurtonHall," Sherlock said.

"I mean, why are you here?" She was a woman used to stonewalling.

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you, Ms Croder, that they'll be an Inquest. The law requires it in any sudden death," Lestrade said, his voice carrying the weight of authority.

"It was an asthma attack, surely?"

"She was murdered," Sherlock said too bluntly.

Croder paled and started to shake.

Lestrade shot Sherlock an exasperated look. "My apologies. Mr Holmes can be short on manners, Ms Croder, but he's essentially correct. We have every reason to think Ms Trevor was murdered."

"Who would—?"

Sherlock sighed. "That is what we are trying to ascertain," he said impatiently.

She nodded, pulling herself together faster than either man would have expected.

"Her file. Her full personnel file," Sherlock demanded.

"That's confidential. I won't—"

"Her file. Now."

Lestrade cleared this throat.

Sherlock shut up.

Lestrade took a half-step closer to her and turned on the charm. "You really aren't going to make me go through all that paperwork and red tape to get something you know the Yard's entitled to. Are you?"

She hesitated. Sherlock played his trump card.

"Ms Croder, a man's life is at stake," Sherlock added with urgency.

That was a game-changer. She immediately handed over the file and her manner changed.

"How can I help?" she said.

As Sherlock leafed through her file, Lestrade tossed questions at Croder. "Was there anything in her background," Lestrade asked, "that would make you think her life was in danger? Anything in her personal relationship that you're aware of?"

"No. No problems at the office. She isn't…wasn't dating that I know of, not since her husband's death. She'd been with us for 15 years, rose quickly and didn't make enemies doing it. She worked at various branches, most recently here at headquarters."

Glancing at the file, Sherlock launched into one of his blisteringly fast speeches. "She and John were roughly the same age, but did they ever attend the same schools? No, not at any level. Did they ever work together or even work at the same place of business? No, not even in the same field. Did she ever work with the police or in investigative work? No. Not her area. Did they ever live near each other? Probably not, bears investigation. Perhaps they dated? No. John would have remembered her. Friend of a friend? Also a long shot. Let me see her office."

"What—?" Ms Croder said, her mouth agape.

"Her office. I need to see her office."

"Like the man said," and Lestrade gestured to the doorway.

A few minutes later, they had walked down the long corridor and entered Margaret Trevor's pristine office. It was just as obsessively neat as her flat. Sherlock walked to her desk and opened the top drawers, finding exactly what he expected.

"Inhaler. No asthmatic would be without one at every place they frequented."

"No one could track inventory the way Margaret could," Croder said. "Like a hawk about every detail. She knew when things were where they were supposed to be, and she knew when things went missing."

"BurtonHall has its fingers into everything. What kind of inventory was she responsible for?" Sherlock asked.

"Companies in every field you can imagine contract with us. You name it, we've probably done it. Office supplies, security—uniforms, I.T. software, hardware, etc., weapons, medical supplies—."

"Hold on!" Lestrade said, as he exchanged looks with Sherlock. "Medical supplies?"

"Bandages, syringes, pharmaceuticals—."

"Has St. Bart's ever been a client?" Sherlock asked, cutting her off.

"Never."

"There's a connection. There's has to be a connection! What is it?"

Lestrade walked to door. "We'll need to take her file. Go over it paragraph by paragraph. We'll find the connection, Sherlock."

Sherlock took a step toward Lestrade when something on the windowsill caught his eye. It was a coffee mug, its coloured logo half turned away. He walked back and picked it up. A simple square, bisected into triangles, blue on the top, yellow on the bottom.

"I've seen this somewhere before. In John's room, before—."

"I—" Ms Croder started.

"Not now!" Sherlock said, as he raised his hands, palms out, shoulder high, and closed his eyes.

"Aww," Lestrade groaned. "Mind palace. Not to worry. It's just something he does," Lestrade said with a shrug. "He needs quiet."

"But—"

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped.

Ms Croder didn't become a Senior Vice President without having a pair of figurative cojones. It was hardly politically correct, especially for a Human Resources person, but—

She shouted, "Hey!" and smacked Sherlock on the arm.

Lestrade flinched. Stunned, Sherlock's eyes flew open.

"You struck me," Sherlock said, eyebrows high.

"I know what the logo is," she said simply.

Now she had their attention.

"It's the logo of the Royal Logistics Corps, the RLC. For five years, Margaret was assigned to our office in Afghanistan."

OoO

Most of the bleeding had stopped, but some blood was still dripping down his arm. John looked around the room again, noting the equipment, too expensive to have been left behind. Obviously stolen, then, and used to refit an old BurtonHall infirmary into Loman's personal underground clinic.

To John's left, Loman was focused on a page of a textbook propped up on the table. John couldn't see it clearly. He was more concerned with what was under the surgical drape.

"Curious? That's one of your core traits, isn't it, Watson. Curiosity. You couldn't keep your nose out of my business."

With a flourish, Loman removed the drape. John's breath stuttered. There on the table was a line of acupuncture needles, ranging in size from 13mm to a horrifying 125mm. At least they were sterile, John noted absently.

"I got my hands on Thiopental and Fentanyl, didn't I? If I can get a hold of Class A drugs without breaking a sweat, well…do you really think acupuncture needles would be a challenge?

"You? You killed Margaret Trevor? Why—?"

"You didn't recognize her, did you?" The bastard actually chuckled. "You might remember her under her maiden name. Margaret Tilson."

Oh, Christ.

Of course! They'd never met; witnesses at the trial were restricted from speaking with each other. But John had seen her as she went into court. Three years ago at the trial, her hair was much shorter and lighter, and she'd weighed a bit more.

"It was her testimony that sealed the case against you."

"No," Loman said menacingly, picking up a needle. "Your testimony did that."

oOo

Back in her office, Ms Croder she paged through Margaret Trevor's rather large file until she found the section in question.

"Was there anything particularly unusual about her posting in Afghanistan?"

"You bet your arse there was."

"You don't talk like an H.R. person."

"You don't talk like a cop."

"I'm not a cop," Sherlock huffed in indignation. "I'm a Consulting Detective."

"We are a CSO—Contractor Support to Operations—to the Army in Afghanistan. Three years ago, Margaret testified against someone on trial for stealing medical supplies and selling them. Not just our supplies. Any he could lay his hands on, including from the locals. That's why he had an Afghan civilian trial. They had first rights, but there are still charges pending against him here."

Sherlock took the file from her and began reading. "Alex Loman. M.D.?"

Lestrade was outraged. "He was doctor! That's disgusting."

"I did his initial interview four years ago. Good credentials but an arrogant son of a bitch. He thought he'd never get caught. I thought he'd never get out."

oOo

Sherlock's first call was to his brother.

"I have no news yet about John, Sherlock. We are exhausting every—"

"I need John's full military record," Sherlock interrupted.

Mycroft frowned. He didn't like where this was going, and he liked it less after Sherlock briefed him on what they'd discovered.

"I've had John's file for some time."

There was the slightest pause before Sherlock worked it out.

"Meaning, from the day he and I met," Sherlock inferred.

"Of course."

"You've read it."

"Of course."

"The information about the trial is there? John's never mentioned it."

"I dare say there is probably a lot about Afghanistan that John has never mentioned. In any case, it wasn't relevant to his civilian life…until now."

"I'll need the file on the trial itself."

"Pulling it up now…"

"There may be other witnesses who are in jeopardy."

"Oh, dear," Mycroft exhaled with a sighed as he skimmed the file. "There was only one other prosecution witness, a local Afghan civilian who was a minor participant in the crimes. He cut a deal so he wouldn't be charged and testified against Loman. He was found dead two months ago, shortly after we estimate Loman escaped."

oOo

John was soaked in sweat, quivering, his face a mask of grim determination, blue eyes glazed with pain that burned along neural pathways like fire.

One needle, about 25mm long, protruded from each of John's wrists. More specifically, from the ulnar nerves in John's wrists. Needles were also inserted deeply into the tender webbing of each hand. Another, slightly longer, thicker needle protruded from his right shoulder. A similar needle was stuck in the scar tissue of John's left shoulder; it had bent almost to the point of breaking against the thickened tissue.

Loman talked casually as he referenced the acupuncture textbook.

"The black market for drugs—illegal or medical—is huge. Skim a bit here, a bit there. Not so easy if you're with the RAMC. Why do you think I went there as a civilian contractor? ISAF, companies like Triple Canopy, Dyncorp—"

"I don't care who you worked for," John panted through the pain.

Loman patted his pocket. "I seem to have forgotten my surgical marker. A pen will do, don't you think? The book says that placement of the needles has to be precise to ensure avoiding the nerve. Surely, one doctor to another, you can appreciate the effort to be precise. Of course, I am using thicker and longer needles and inserting them deeper than recommended."

Loman knew full well that he was using John's medical knowledge against him in a cruel psychological attack. John squirmed against the restraints as Loman approached him, but it only made the pain worse. His mouth was drawn into a thin line.

"Now, Watson, I told you that the needles hurt more if you move. You never were good at listening."

Loman turned to Egerton.

"Slap a plaster on his arm, will you? The drip is starting to annoy me."

Egergon's face screwed up in distaste.

"You're a bit of an odd one, Phil. How is it that you can beat crap out of someone, but you get queasy with anything medical?"

"I had six brothers. Whumping people comes naturally to me. It feels good. Fixin' them up feels...weird."

Loman gave him a look. Egerton did as he was told and put a plaster on John's arm.

Loman palpated John's solar plexus until it met the base of the breastbone, then touched the pen to the spot. John tensed with the knowledge of the nerve located there, in anticipation of the pain. Loman noticed the reaction and smiled. He placed another mark at the base of John's neck. John closed his eyes against the mental image it invoked.

"We'll leave your legs until later, I think. For now, one more for good measure." Loman put his hand under John's chin, exposing more of the neck, and quickly put another ink mark there.

Loman took a detour to the table and selected a needle, walking back slowly towards John. He considered him for a moment, letting his anger build.

"Hold his head," he told Egerton.

John thrashed, desperate to keep Egerton's hands off him. The movement set off a new wave of pain in the other needles' locations. The man was powerful, and he put one massive hand under John's chin and one on his forehead to wrench his head to the side. The good doctor threw his head back with all the force he could muster, and the man's hand came free of his chin. John's lunged forward and he bit the man—deeply—on the forearm.

The man screamed.

John had just finished spitting the blood out of his mouth when Egerton swung and connected with a solid right to his head. John was unconscious before his head had fully whipped to the side, then fallen heavily to his chest.

"Phil! Damn it to hell!"

"The son of a bitch bit me."

"I told you I need him awake!"

"He bit me!"

"Go wash up. You're going to need to get a tetanus shot and antibiotics, not to mention some self control. You hurt him again, and you're out. Do you understand?"

"But you're hurting him."

"Do you understand?"

Egerton had no doubt that he could easily overpower Loman. He was also all too aware that Loman could hurt him in ways he never imagined. "Okay. Okay."

It doesn't hurt if he's not conscious. And by God he's going to feel every moment of what I am going to do to him.

oOo

Lestrade and Sherlock rode back to NSY in silence. Sherlock withdrew into himself. With John's sense of honour, he could imagine his fury at the trial, and now it appeared that the fury of revenge was being directed back at him. Facts, suppositions, and associations started to coalesce at light speed in Sherlock mind as he connected the dots. He caught Lestrade by the arm.

"If he killed her on Saturday, she most likely wouldn't have been missed until Monday when she didn't show up for work. Mrs Trevor would have recognized Loman, so he must have drugged her—paralytic or anaesthetic—or there would have been evidence of a struggle. Paralytic would have required breathing apparatus, so anaesthetic. Oh, brilliant! She's been dead between 24-30 hours, could have used Ketamine, can be intramuscular but its half-life is too long, so probably used Thiopentol, half life of 11.5-26 hours works out perfectly because it has, indeed, been 30 hours since her death, and the drug will be undetectable in autopsy. She did not cancel her acupuncture appointment, Loman did. Texted it, probably after he killed her. Check her mobile for prints."

Lestrade nodded, slack-jawed once again by the fireworks display of the workings of Sherlock's mind despite the stress of the jeopardy John was in.

oOo

When John came to, his forehead was taped to the high-backed chair. There would not be a replay of the previous incident. He lowered his eyes as far as he could, and saw that not only were the needles still in place, but he could see additional ink marks on his legs, and thought that there were probably others where he could not see. He discovered if he held absolutely still, the needles' pain was reduced to a bone-deep throb. He held his silence until the brain fog cleared. The silence in his head was replaced by one desperate word: Sherlock.

Loman watched him with apparent indifference.

"How the hell did you get out of Afghanistan and back into London?" John said finally.

"There's no changing you. You'll die asking questions… That was the easiest part. When you've got a loadmaster in your back pocket, getting a hop out of the country is a no-brainer."

"A loadmaster, of course! With you name conveniently left off the manifest."

No operation worked efficiently without a good loadmaster who knew precisely how to load a plane with people and cargo, distributing the weight correctly, putting the most vitally needed materiel last in/out first. And hiding cargo. John thought for a moment, then made the logical leap. "The loadmaster, he was more than that, wasn't he? He made sure you got your supply of merchandise, too."

"Loadmaster?" Loman said, mockingly. "Loadmasters. One's never enough. War makes for a thriving business."

"There's nothing that makes me want to puke more than a rogue doctor. Every time you sold British medical supplies to the black market, you deprived our soldiers of the meds they needed."

"You made that perfectly clear at the trial, so spare me the lecture."

"Soldiers died! Good men and women died because they couldn't get the meds they needed. Kids too young to understand what the fuck they were even fighting for. They died. In my arms. In pain."

"Watson, you are equal parts bad ass and bleeding heart, and I don't know which one pisses me off more."

Loman's eyes fell to John's shoulder. He roughly pulled out the bent needle. John groaned.

Legitimate acupuncturists will often manipulate the top of a needle by rotating it to stimulate its effectiveness. When Loman took a new needle and inserted it into the same spot on John's left shoulder, he twisted it with one purpose—to increase the pain. Some kind of animal sound came from John's throat but he held back a scream.

Loman twisted each of the needles in turn.

oOo

Author's Notes: The Royal Logistics Corps, ISAF, Triple Canopy, and Dyncorp and CSO's are real. BurtonHall is fictitious, but bonus points to anyone who realized the name is a play on Halliburton. My thanks to my friend Jocelyn W., former US Army, for sharing her expertise about loadmasters, manifests, hop flights, etc.

And yes, I did have acupuncture while on Prednisone, and yes, I had those nasty bruises in the webbing of my hands–and thus the idea for this story was born.