Chapter 2
John Watson looked out the windows; quickly assessing angles and lines of sites to determine which sites would best suit a sniper like Colonel Moran. Then he looked back at the self-proclaimed consulting detective who had just dragged him into Detective Inspector Lestrade's office.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows as he watched the blond clearly checking rooftops and windows for a possible threat.
"You are serious then, you do fear a sniper attack?" asked the tall man. He quickly began shutting the blinds.
"What? A sniper attack here in London?" asked Lestrade who had just stepped into his office. "Are there any snipers, here in London? Outside of the military, I mean?" He leaned back out of his office to yell, "Donovan, Anderson, I want you two to stay put until further notice." He ignored the sighs and eye rolls from his subordinates.
"Well, are there any snipers?" asked the detective inspector again, turning down the lights. If Sherlock is giving this man credence, then maybe I should too, thought Lestrade.
"At least two…that I know of," answered John, rubbing his aching jaw. The other sniper, his former superior officer, had punched him square in the jaw after delivering the Irishman's insane orders. Apparently the Colonel didn't want to share the madman's sexual favors.
As if John wanted anything to do with that maniac ever again. When John remembered that horrid man kissing him, he involuntarily shuddered.
The consulting detective reassessed the blond. He is trembling with fear. Oh, he still thinks snipers are after him even with the blinds down.
This was not going to be as interesting as he had hoped. Perhaps this is just another paranoid schizophrenic with a persecution delusion. Dull. He sighed, and, like a six-foot tall toddler, he fell bonelessly back into Lestrade's desk chair. He and the chair rolled backwards to crash into the wall.
"And you're afraid that the snipers are after you? Let me guess; they can read your mind using the telly?" asked Sherlock taunting, with his bored baritone voice.
John snorted derisively. "First, I am not afraid of the other sniper. I was merely stating a fact. I accept that he will target me as me soon as he finds out I'm here. I'm not thrilled with the fact, but there it is. Second, if I was psychotic, challenging my delusion like that is unkind, bordering on cruel, not to mention potentially dangerous. So you don't have any reason to act so superior. Third…"
"You're not afraid of the other sniper? " said Sherlock, sitting back up and resting his elbows on his knees.
John shook his head no and had to suppress a smile; this consulting detective's mercurial mood shifts alternated between amusing and alarming. And while the man was admittedly quite handsome, just now, he reminded John of a giant walking stick insect that didn't quite fit into his chair.
Sherlock's interest was piqued once more, "And you, you're the second sniper. Are you rivals… or coworkers? Did you have a falling out? Did you trespass on his turf? You claim that you are not afraid; yet just now you clearly shuddered."
"Stop. Slow down, I can't possibly answer that quickly. Moran was my superior officer in the army. We aren't rivals or anything. I hadn't seen him in over a year until today. And while I'm not eager to get shot, it's hardly making me shake in my shoes," said John.
"Yet you are afraid of something. What is it you are afraid of?" asked Sherlock once more intent.
"No," John said through pursed lips, "No, It's personal." As if I'd tell you what that mad Irishman wants from me.
Sherlock tilted his head at the direct refusal. He required information. His eyes narrowed ready to push the former soldier.
"OK. OK. Sherlock stop. Switch off," ordered Lestrade. "Alright Watson, if you're not worried about being shot, why are you here at seven o'clock at night talking about snipers?"
"That part's obvious now, Lestrade. Watson came here in order to save the person he's been contracted to assassinate. Which explains why Watson feels he's about to be shot by Moran. Naturally, his Colonel will retaliate for betraying the plot. It's simple. By the way, do you realize that you have a martyr complex, Watson?" asked the consulting detective.
"What? No. Who said any thing about that?" sputtered the former soldier.
"Well, surely your therapist should have told you."
"What therapist? What makes you think I have a therapist?"
"With a psychosomatic limp, of course you have a therapist," replied the consulting detective.
"How? How are you doing that?" asked John.
"Can we stay on point here?" demanded a stern Lestrade. "Save all that other stuff for later. Who are you going to shoot? And give me one reason why I shouldn't clap you in handcuffs right now,"
"Because I'm here warning you guys! Look, I don't want to shoot anyone. I'm not going to shoot anyone! I returned from the war a couple of months ago. Wait, let me start over. I was minding my own business this morning, when I ran into Colonel Moran. At the time, I thought it was by chance, now I guess that he had been waiting to ambush me. I mean it's obvious; I was set up," said the blond, pinching the bridge of his nose. The Colonel and his crazy boss wanted to use him to commit murder and not only that, the mad Irishman wanted to use John for sex…It was all so humiliating.
The stress of the day finally caught up to him. He sighed and gazed unfocused at the opposite wall, trying to regain his train of thought. But thinking was suddenly very hard…
"…are you paying attention, John Watson?" asked Sherlock.
The blond had gone very still and very pale. Blinking his dark blue eyes, John finally returned his gaze back to the consulting detective. "Um, what?" he said, trying to concentrate.
Sherlock bounced up from his chair, and called out, "Donovan, Anderson make yourselves useful and bring some coffee. This man is on the verge of shock."
The Donovan protested immediately.
"Just do it, please," requested the grey-haired detective inspector. Sherlock was right, the man's color was ashen and his left hand trembled. Heck, Watson's eyes seemed a bit glazed. Lestrade belatedly recalled that this guy had been beaten up earlier today.
"No. I'm fine. Not on the verge of shock," denied the blond soldier, sitting up as if at attention. "I'm fine," he repeated, forcing his eyes open wide, looking like a blue-eyed tawny owl.
"You may be a doctor, but as is common, you ignore your own symptoms," replied the younger man. "You're still recovering from a serious war injury. In one day, you've been betrayed by a fellow officer, physically assaulted, pressed into some assassination plot and you believe that your death is imminent. Of course you're in shock."
"No, wait. How can you know I'm a doctor? How is he doing this?" John appealed to Lestrade, who reached for the pot of coffee supplied by the sulking Donovan. Her ferret-faced companion carried in the cups. Sherlock grabbed the first cup of coffee and poured three packets of sugar into it.
"Simple observations, I deduced your former occupation from simple observations. Now drink this coffee," said Sherlock, handing the sugar-laden coffee to the haggard blond.
John shook his head, "No, thank you, I don't take sugar."
"Tonight, you will drink coffee with sugar. You will drink coffee with lots of sugar until color returns to your face, Doctor," insisted the World's only Consulting Detective.
Lestrade gaped at the younger man. Sherlock Holmes was concerned for another person, and an absolute stranger at that? The sociopath actually noticed another man's distress and felt the need to help? The older detective dry scrubbed his face and made himself a cup of coffee, before he went into shock himself.
"Lestrade, can I use your phone? I lost mine in that pointless chase earlier." asked the consulting detective. "And I hope you have not neglected to arrest the barista."
"Sorry, battery's dead," apologized the detective inspector. "And I have someone taking care of the barista."
The tall, younger man pouted in disappointment.
"Here, use mine," offered John Watson.
"Really?" asked Sherlock, surprised.
John handed the sexy nutter his phone. Wait. What? He can't be sexy; he's a man. Sure, he's sophisticated and yes, good looking, but not, definitely not, sexy. John frowned at the path his thoughts had taken.
The consulting detective was, thankfully, unaware of the identity crisis occurring in the older blond, as he texted on John's mobile phone.
John sipped at his coffee, wrinkling his nose at the sickly, sweet taste. He had to admit, at least to himself, that he had been feeling a bit dizzy for the last twenty minutes. Well of course he was a bit dizzy. It was all due to that weird, whirlwind consulting nutter. That definitely-not-sexy, consulting nutter was just confusing, that's all.
Sherlock in an uncharacteristic fit of patience waited until the handsome blond finished his coffee, and at least a hint of pink entered his slightly stubbled cheeks.
Sherlock blinked in surprise. He did not just think that, did he? Did he really think that the former soldier was handsome?
"OK, so my former Colonel, Sebastian Moran, just happened to stop me in the park," said John.
"You walk there everyday, same time, same place. As regular as clockwork," muttered the consulting detective still annoyed with his apparent mental dysfunction.
John raised his eyebrows, "Obvious, you are a former army officer, invalided home," said Sherlock from behind his steepled hands. "You liked the army; you didn't want to leave. You will have kept up old army habits, which will include maintaining a rigid schedule. It will have been easy to predict your movements. Continue."
"That's just amazing," said John. Sherlock looked up, startled. "What you do there, the deducing. It's brilliant," continued the former soldier.
The consulting detective glanced sideways, expecting that he was being teased as usual. His own cheeks took on a faint, rosy glow when he realized that the former soldier was sincere. DI Lestrade surreptitiously used his phone to snap the never before seen blush on Sherlock's face.
"So then the Colonel bought me a coffee, no sugar," added John, with a pointed glance at the younger man. "We talked about how hard it is for veterans to get jobs. I talked about how I couldn't work as a surgeon anymore…"
"Yes, yes, because of your tremor and your psychosomatic limp, go on," urged Sherlock.
John huffed with impatience, but continued, "He said he thought he might know someone who could use a man like me. I should have known better. I knew that I shouldn't trust him. Moran was dismissed the army, dishonorable discharge. I'm not exactly sure why they threw him out, but I knew the man well enough to knoe better. He lies. He cheats. He steals. He uses people. He hurts people,"
"He hurt you?" said Sherlock angrily. Was this protectiveness and jealously? No surely not.
"Nooo," said the older man pursing his lips. "Well, I suppose he did punch me, but it's not the first time. Usually I can give as good as I get. It's just I couldn't exactly punch him back today, not with his Sig in my face. And anyway, I had to wait until I, well until…" John licked his lips.
"Until after you made sure that the intended victim was safe," said the consulting detective with a deep frown. "Afterwards you fully intend to track down your Colonel and fight him although you feel that you are unlikely to survive such an encounter. Martyr complex."
"Look here, Watson. No vigil antes while I'm in charge," sputtered the Detective Inspector Lestrade.
"Of course not," said John Watson tilting his head and giving Lestrade a false smile of reassurance. John's forehead was deeply creased with displeasure as he turned to glower at the not-sexy, despite your cheekbones, consulting detective.
"Of course, no vigil antes. I'm turning all of this over to the police, like a good citizen." He flashed his fake smile again. "Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself. So at the park, the Colonel kept on about this rich businessman needing a personal assistant and a bodyguard. I agreed to a job interview even though I knew Moran had to be up to something," continued John, frowning at the consulting detective before he could interrupt again.
Sherlock looked askance, but pressed his lips together and did not interrupt.
"So the Colonel, called for his car, a limo. Shortly, after we got in, he blindfolded me…"
"How?" asked the consulting detective. "After all, you do not seem the type to give in easily."
"He must have drugged my coffee. First I was woozy, then very dizzy. When he put the blindfold on me, I couldn't fight back. I couldn't even move my arms. Then I must have passed out. When I woke up, I found myself handcuffed and blindfolded."
"You were unconscious how long?"
"I have no idea, maybe an hour?" guessed John.
Sherlock rolled his eyes in disapproval.
"Eventually, Moran brought me to underground office. I could hear when we entered a parking garage, because the sounds echoed. And we went round and round but always downhill. It made me pretty nauseous," John chewed the inside of his lip. "When the car stopped, he pulled me out and we walked a short distance. I was still blindfolded and a bit unsteady. It smelled dank, like a basement until we got into the office. That was very clean and smelled like beeswax. The Colonel removed the cuffs and the blindfold once we got into the office was very modern, very minimalist. Black canvases on the walls were meant to be artwork. There were black marble tabletops, but everything else was white. Except the red roses on the table."
"How many?" asked Sherlock, jumping up to pace in the small office.
"How many what?"
"How many roses," snapped the consulting detective.
"I have no idea," responded John his brow furrowed in confusion. "Does it matter?"
"I have no idea," parroted the consulting detective arrogantly.
John looked away with a tiny grin playing about his lips. "Well, then this madman came in, a crazy Irishman. He basically said, um, well, he said lots of stuff that doesn't matter now and it didn't really make much sense anyway," said John blushing.
"Then he said that I he wanted me to do a hit for him, and Sebby, meaning the Colonel, had to explain it all to me. He said if I did the job I'd be rewarded with um, stuff, and if I didn't I'd die," finished the former soldier.
"He tried to seduce you. You did not welcome his advances. Perhaps because you deny your homosexual tendencies, more likely because he offended your sense of honor. Your so-called reward would naturally be his sexual favors. He kissed you and you allowed it, because you felt this noble need to warn the unsuspecting and no doubt unworthy target. After which, you would be free to sacrifice yourself in the name of said honor."
John sat looking straight ahead, his cheeks flaming.
"He kissed you, bit your lip viscously, and hit you at least once, probably more than once but the bruising is not severe. The other darker, and no doubt very painful, contusion on your jaw is from your Colonel, who is bigger and taller than either you or the businessman who has no name. Do you know his name? No clearly not. So your Colonel hit you? Why did he hit you, after he just hired you? He should have viewed you as his ally or his subaltern. But no, he turned on you because... he jealous? Yes, jealous of the Irishman's attentions toward you."
Sherlock leaned forward, concern marking his face again, "Did they hurt you anywhere else? Would you like to see a doctor?"
"No," snapped John, his cheeks incandescent with shame. "No they didn't hurt me aside from some very minor bruising, and as you noted, I am a doctor. I certainly don't want to see a doctor for it," the former army captain spit out each bitter word.
"Did your Colonel tell you who the target is or when…" began the younger man.
"He's not my Colonel," barked John Watson, "He's The Colonel or the Former Colonel or Colonel Moran or even just Moran. But he is definitely. Not. My Colonel. And do you really think I'm stupid or something? Why the bloody hell would I come here tonight without knowing the details!"
The older blond jumped up and pushed past Sherlock to start his own pacing, his tapping cane signaling his agitation. He ran his fingers through his short hair. He pivoted and stared at both Lestrade and Holmes with dark, indigo eyes. "Maybe I'm willing to die, due to my martyr complex, but I certainly wouldn't sacrifice myself for nothing, for fuck's sake."
"OK, Mr. Watson…" said Lestrade.
"Dr. Watson," corrected Sherlock.
"Dr. Watson, then," snapped Lestrade glaring at the lanky consulting detective. "then tell us the details. Unless this is some elaborate set-up to extract favors." The Detective Inspector turned his scowl toward John Watson.
John glared back, deeply insulted. "On Wednesday, tomorrow, there's to be some big to-do at the residence of some Count Whos-it. I didn't get the name because I was busy getting punched," The former army captain licked his lips. This was not supposed to be this hard. He was turning assassins over to the police. Men who wanted to use John Watson as a murder weapon. Hell, one of the men had even promised to use John as a… as a slut, as a fucking prostitute. So why was he choking on the words.
Christ, his mouth was dry and it was suddenly hard to swallow. He felt filthy in front of the scowling detective and especially that posh consulting detective.
That was it. He was ashamed. He felt like a leper, he was unclean. He was filthy because of his association with the Colonel and his boss. Well, that's too bad, I still have to reveal the plot, even though the detectives will probably despise me, thought John steeling himself.
And why does it matter what that tall nutter thinks. It's not as though I would have had a chance with him? Oh God, not again, these crushes never work out. I'm not interested, not going there. Hell, I'm not even really gay.
John continued, trying to keep the stress out of his voice. "A rifle is supposed to be waiting for me in my bed-sit. I haven't even been back to check. Tomorrow morning, I'm supposed to go out and test it. They have an old estate picked out where I can safely fire test fire the gun. I'm supposed to check the gun's sight and practice for a bit. After an hour, they'll send the back taxi for me," said John.
"Then the cab will drop me off at this empty house near that Count's townhouse or whatever. I'm supposed to go in through the unlocked backdoor and go up to the attic. There is a window facing east. I spot my mark exiting his limo at 1730 hours and, the sun will be behind me. Hopefully the buildings will block any wind and hopefully it won't be foggy. Assuming he steps out of his car, I take the shot. They want a headshot. Then, I'm to make my escape out the back."
"Why you? And why would they even trust you?" asked Lestrade.
"Well, they need a marksman, it's a long-range shot, nearly 1450 meters, according to the Colonel. There'll be lots of people, and it's a moving target. That pretty much narrows down the list of qualified applicants. I suppose they think that they I'll do it to save my life and for the 20,000 pounds Moran offered."
"Then too, the Colonel knows I'm experienced," now they'll hate me. Just wait, that posh guy will turn up his nose in disgust. Hell, I don't blame him. "Look I can't tell you anymore than that. I was in the army and I've had experience with, um, well I unofficially eliminated some enemies with a sniper rifle."
Oddly, the pale consulting detective was leaning close, intent on John's every word. He almost looked enthralled rather than disgusted. Suddenly, it was too hot in the room. John really wanted to remove his jacket.
"Right. Well, my guess is that they chose me, because they don't want to risk Moran. I figure I'm expendable. I mean, they can't possibly trust me in the long run, can they? They must be planning to kill me afterwards. Maybe that whole," John's lips tightened. Then he snarled, "Maybe that whole kissing thing, you know, the seduction thing that you magically figured out, Mr. Genius. Well, maybe, it was all a set up to make me think I have a chance to live through this. God knows I'm just a plain, ordinary looking guy. Hell, I'm over the hill and disabled to boot. Why would a handsome, rich businessman fancy me? The crazy bastard wasn't really interested in me at all; it was just a game. Yeah, that has to be the explanation. It was all an act to catch me off my guard," said John, suddenly relieved. At least the whole 'let's rape John' thing was off the table. He sat down heavily, feeling dizzy with relief.
Sherlock sat back in the chair, his hands in front of his face as if he was praying. So, the businessman is handsome. Did the little blond find him attractive? The idea was repugnant. The former soldier-the assassin-deserved someone better. He deserved someone that wouldn't hit him and use him.
"OK, you gave me when and how. I need to know exactly where and more importantly who?" asked Lestrade who had begun taking notes.
"Here's what he gave me," said John handing the detectives a large folded envelope. "inside are the addresses of the empty house and the Count's residence. Moran handed me pictures of the cars that the target would most likely use, along with their license plate numbers. Here's pictures of the man; they gave me pictures but not his name. Which is stupid, surely they know I could find out his name if I wanted to. Maybe they don't care, as long as I do the job. Which I am not, by the way"
"He's supposedly some minor official in the British Government," John rushed to finish the sordid tale. "The Colonel says he's guilty of causing the deaths of countless soldiers. That's supposed to motivate me. For all I know, it could be true. If it is, I hope he gets his comeuppance someday, but it won't be from me. Not like this; not with a L1153A." John finished with a sigh, leaning his head in his hands. He had given them everything he had.
Hopefully, they would release him soon. Then he could take his chances on the street. Probably the Colonel had followed him. He's probably out there somewhere, just waiting for me. And I'll probably never even see it coming.
A/N Thank you to InuChimera7410, ruvy91, power0girl, Wicked Winter, AiLovesS for reviewing chapter 1.
Disclaimer-I do not own the rights to Sherlock Holmes or any character associated with the books by Sir ACD or the show on the BBC.