Chapter 3
Greg Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes had each put on nitrile gloves to prevent leaving fingerprints, and each held a picture in his hand.
"It's Mycroft," Sherlock muttered, locking eyes with the ashen-faced detective inspector. "They're all pictures of Mycroft."
"What?" asked John not even looking up. Sherlock strode over and roughly grabbed the former soldiers square jaw. He yanked it up, his icy blue eyes boring into John's blazing azure eyes.
"You know exactly who this is! You specifically came to us because you know of our connection to him. Why? What do you want?" demanded the consulting detective angrily. He had almost liked this little blond. As usual, feelings were a liability.
"No," said John, glaring up, his gaze thunderous under his lowered brows. The tall mans grip on the soldier's bruised jaw was extremely painful, but John steeled himself, refusing to exhibit any distress.
"Oh, sorry, what I should ask is, what does your master want from us," said Sherlock. Lestrade was out in the main office, muttering rapidly into a phone and gesturing to Donovan and Anderson.
The former army captain's hands flew up, striking the consulting detective's forearms and breaking his hold. John forcefully pushed the taller man back.
"I don't know who the mark is," barked John, bracing for an attack. "I don't know what the crazy Irishman wants, other than to kill the mark and ruin my life. And I didn't come here to see you or that DI! I was actually sent up here to see that idiot Donovan because I idiotically thought that I should try to warn the police about the assassination plans! You and the DI came out to talk to me on your own. You just happened to be here when I…"
"I don't believe in coincidences, Doctor," spat the pale detective, his eyes narrowed.
"Well then maybe it was fate that brought us together," snarled John. "Maybe you were born just so you'd be here tonight to help ruin my life. Just for the hell of it, why don't you fill me in on who the mark is and who you are." John huffed and moved closer to the door, with his arms crossed in front of his chest.
Sherlock tilted his head. The little blond was obviously furious. His mouth was slightly parted and his fists were clenched. His dark blue eyes stared directly into Sherlock's eyes.
The ex-soldier did not look to the side as he would if he were lying. He did not fidget; In fact, he did not now show any of the usual tells of liars, although he had showed almost all of them when he falsely denied being assaulted.
Awkward. I've verbally assaulted a war veteran who has put himself at risk for my brother. Sherlock noted that new bruises were forming on the shorter man's chin. Addendum, I also physically assaulted the man. I have wronged an innocent man.
Lestrade burst back into his office. "I'm taking you into custody Watson. You are looking at a very, very long prison sentence…."
John stopped listening. Prison. Cells. Lockdown. Beatings. Torture. Rape. No.
End of the line, Watson. Time to get off the train.
John's face was a blank mask. He and Lestrade both ignored the protests of the younger man. THe former soldier held out his hands for the cuffs. When the detective inspector reached for his arm, John grabbed the older man's wrist, twisted it and then shoved him into the elegant young consulting detective.
The ex- soldier ran out into the bullpen. Too late, John saw that the main entrance had filled with dark-suited bodyguards and the mark himself, a tall thin ginger with a tailored three-piece suit. He and his bodyguards blocked the blond's escape. John pivoted and darting into the far corner.
End of the line. John's pulled his handgun out from his waistband. Seemingly in one motion, he snapped the safety off and slapped back the slide. The ginger's protection unit was spastically trying to protect the mark. John shook his head disapprovingly. The ginger would already be dead, if John had actually wanted the man dead.
John put the barrel of the gun into his mouth; he looked up trying to ignore all the shouting and the grimy, yellowing ceiling panels. The last thing John Watson would see on earth was a filthy, fly-specked ceiling. What a way to go.
Why couldn't he have just died when he was shot? The ex-soldier tried to recall the bone chilling and dusty winds, distant snow-capped mountains and a sky of blue-black velvet, studded with stars like jewels. His trigger finger tightened.
"I'm sorry," said a baritone voice, interrupting John's meditation. The ceiling tiles returned to view.
"I said, I'm sorry. I do not like to repeat myself, and I never apologize, except tonight of course. So I'll repeat, I'm sorry."
John could not ignore that deep voice. His concentration was broken now. Well, fuck the Afghan sky and the fuck the wind too, thought the former army captain.
John's eyes slid down to focus on the silvery eyes of the consulting detective, who bit his lip in uncertainty, making himself look improbably young.
Sherlock finally felt his stomach unclench when the blond's trigger finger began to relax. Those ridiculously bright blue eyes did not waver, neither did the hand holding the gun. Still, he had recaptured the attention of the clearly unstable and very unpredictable little blond. "You see, I do regret over reacting. I lost my temper and doubted you, wrongly. The man you were hired to kill is my brother Mycroft and while he is my arch-enemy, it would appear that I am not entirely immune to sentiment."
"Hmm?" said John. He was having trouble understanding exactly what the younger man was on about. Also, John had always found that it is hard to respond intelligibly, when you have the barrel of a gun in your mouth. Not that he made a habit of putting guns in his mouth, but shite happens.
"Sherlock, get away from him, right now. We have experts, counselors who can talk to him," said Lestrade, standing protectively in front of Mycroft.
Counselors, huh? Been there, done that. A counselor was almost as bad a prison cell.
John scanned the room. Pretty much everyone in the room except that consulting detective and his brother, the ginger mark, had a gun pointed at John. Well, good on them. They can finish me off if I miss my shot, thought John darkly. He tried to scowl but it was also hard to scowl properly with the damned gun in his mouth.
"Yes, regrettably, that fat cow is my brother Mycroft. Of course he would make an easy target if you were so inclined, which of course you are not," the handsome detective chatted on. "By the way, my name is Holmes, Sherlock Holmes."
The taller brunet stuck his hand out. John suddenly felt self-conscious and rude. He whipped the gun out of his mouth, stuck it in his left hand and pointed it at the side of his head. He shook Sherlock's hand feeling more than a little confused. He was supposed to be ending it all. Well, he still could but it would be a lot harder now. At least the stupid nasty tasting gun was out of his mouth, and he could scowl and talk properly.
"Sherlock? What kind of parent names a baby, 'Sherlock'? Or 'Mycroft' for that matter," asked John, his eyes shifting between Sherlock and huddle of bodyguards and cops around Mycroft. The exit was still completely blocked.
He noted that only Donovan had lowered her gun although she still watched him closely. Apparently she alone, other than Sherlock, realized that John was not a threat, other than to himself, of course.
"I wasn't seeking your approval for my name," sniffed the tall man finally, his dark curls dancing over his forehead.
"Oh, no? Well, I approve whole-heartedly. Sherlock suits you just fine," said John, he could scowl now, but didn't want to. "I just can't imagine someone being handed a beautiful little boy with a head full of soft black curls and naming the innocent little baby, 'Sherlock'." John felt a hot flush rising when he realized that he might, maybe have said too much. Soft black curls? Really Watson?
Sherlock smirked, but only said, "My parents were proud and wanted distinguished names for their sons."
"You mean your parents were arrogant and chose pompous names to impress the neighbors," corrected John.
Sherlock's smirk threatened to become a grin. He quashed it down. This was a serious situation. Mycroft was threatened and this man's life was at stake. For some reason, Sherlock felt that the ex-soldier needed his help more than Mycroft.
"You know you could surrender your gun to me," suggested the consulting detective. I won't let them jail you."
"Mr. Holmes," began John.
"Please, call me Sherlock."
"Fine, I'm John, as you already know. Anyway, Sherlock, your friend the detective inspector…
"He's not my friend. I don't have friends."
"I wonder why? Maybe it's to do with you interrupting all the…"
"I only corrected your inaccuracy. I don't need friends."
"Sherlock!" yelled John. The anxious murmuring in the room ceased abruptly.
"Well, that didn't take long," said Mycroft drily, mostly hidden from view by Lestrade, who stubbornly refused to move out of the taller man's way. "Sherlock, you never did play well with others. Now, Dr. Watson, this whole situation can be salvaged. It appears, that as soon as your alleged kidnappers released you, you voluntarily came straight to the police to warn them, and by extension, me. That speaks in your favor, Doctor."
"He's as pompous as his name," muttered John quietly to the tall man who was now standing within arms reach.
"You have no idea," said Sherlock, looking grave.
"Dr. Watson!" said Mycroft sharply, pushing Lestrade to one side. "Do me the courtesy of paying attention. You have nothing to lose by surrendering. Sherlock, really, could you stop staring like that. In fact, I would like you to come over here with us."
Sherlock had tilted his head; he focused on a nondescript brown-haired man, one of Mycroft's minions. The man's gun was no longer pointed at John Watson. It was pointing at Mycroft. The guards next to him were looking stupidly at his gun and doing nothing. Idiots.
"John," whispered Sherlock, "the brown-haired man to the left, can you take him out? Now!"
John snapped his attention to the left. A brunet with a thin mustache was aiming his gun at the pompous politician. John shoved the taller man off to the side. He pointed and fired, the bullet hitting the man's hand and passing into his abdomen.
The bodyguards erupted. Several fired at John. John dove away from Sherlock, to draw any fire away from the crazy detective.
A couple fired at the downed bodyguard. Lestrade had tackled Mycroft to the floor and covered him with his body.
When the gunfire ended, Donovan, Lestrade, Sherlock and Mycroft were each frantically shouting their own versions of 'hold your fire'.
"John Watson, are you hurt?" demanded Sherlock.
"Come away at once, Sherlock. That man is a homicidal maniac," ordered Mycroft Holmes, once he got Lestrade off of him. "For God's sake, he just murdered on of my guards."
"Do catch up, Mycroft. Dr. Watson just saved your fat arse. Your minion was preparing to kill you," shouted the consulting detective, his deep voice dripping with contempt .
Sherlock knelt down to where John had crashed. There was a small graze along the doctor's shoulder that was seeping blood. However, John was more concerned with a large knot on his head, caused when a chair landed on top of him.
"Can you stand?" asked Sherlock.
"Of course I can stand," snapped John angrily. "The question is, should I stand? Won't those trigger-happy idiots start firing again if I get up? Don't give me that look, Sherlock Holmes. The way they shoot, you're more likely to get hit than me."
"We'll take our chances. I want to get you back in Lestrade's office and away from this commotion. I'd like to take a look at your new injuries. You seem very prone to injuries, Doctor," said Sherlock.
Lestrade and one of Mycroft's minions were advancing on John's position, their guns drawn.
"Stay back. He's taken me hostage," warned Sherlock. Everyone froze.
"WHAT?" whispered John loudly. "No. No I didn't…" The consulting detective's eyes were glacial in their condemnation of the idiot bleeding on the floor. "Um, I mean…Yeah, he's my hostage," called John.
'It works for me, I guess," muttered the doctor.
John rose slowly and pointed the gun at the crazy man with the razor-sharp cheekbones.
"Oh let them go, Greg. They can't get into any trouble in your office. According to my former security chief, it seems my security detail was…lax. That man was indeed about to shoot at me or possibly at you," Mycroft and Greg exchanged worried glances, each reacting to the thought of losing the other. "Apparently, some of the team saw this but were unable to neutralize the threat. It seems I owe you my gratitude, Dr. Watson."
"Um, it was Sherlock's idea. He saw the mole aiming at you. I just followed his orders, um, I mean his suggestions," said John. "Look, should I keep pointing this gun at you or not?" he asked the younger man.
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the shorter blond and grabbed his elbow, "Come on John, in the office. When you can be civil, you and Mycroft can join us," he added to Lestrade.
"I hope this isn't an indication of how you usually function, John Watson. I concede that you are a crack shot. However, you really didn't pick up on the rogue guard until the last second and only after I pointed it out. You also didn't seem to comprehend my prompt about taking me hostage," said the consulting detective, as he guided the blond into Lestrade's office while pressing his handkerchief onto John's bleeding shoulder.
John grumbled under his breath, but the consulting detective ignored him. Sherlock turned to slam the door in Lestrade's face.
"That's just creepy," said Sergeant Donovan, pushing hair away from her face. "Why is freak being so nice to that guy?"
"Maybe it's all an act. You know, to trick that doctor into doing something," suggested Anderson, who reappeared now that the danger was past.
"Actually, I would like to find out what Sherlock is up to as well," said Mycroft, smoothing down the front of his suit.
"Sergeant Donovan, you'll find that my PA has secured this floor. No one enters; no one leaves. Everything that has happened since the arrival of Dr. Watson is a State secret. Anyone who leaks any information about the affair tonight will be considered guilty of high treason. See that any of your officers or detectives or" here he looked down at Anderson, "or whatever he is, see that they understand the rules will you?"
"Gregory, let's find out what my brother is up to, shall we," Mycroft knocked on the off-chance that John Watson still had his gun out.
He entered only after his brother rudely yelled, "Well, enter if you must."
A/N It's a short chapter, but a short chapter is better than no chapter. At least I hope so.
Thank you to everyone who reviewed including foxeeflame, power0girl, MapleleafCameo, Samuele8688, ruvy91,Wicked Winter, Chisika, AiLoveS and Guest.
Disclaimer- I don't own the rights to Sherlock whether from the books, movies or telly. This is just for fun, and no one makes a penny off of it.