A/N Short chapter-John's pov
The Marksman
Chapter 5
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After his release from the Yard, John only had to walk about a block before the black car pulled up. It seemed that his former superior officer kept close tabs on him. Touching really.
"Get in the car, you fucking snitch," Colonel Moran snarled. Well, not really touching so much as really spooky. The Colonel summarily dragged his one-time subordinate into the car.
In the end, John was not surprised when the large man wrestled him to the floor of the vehicle.
John fought as best he could, getting in a few good punches before the cuffs went on. The doctor went still when he felt the sharp, cold steel pricking his throat. Then the damn blindfold covered John's eyes; the last thing he saw were the rabid blue eyes of Sebastian Moran.
"You betrayed us, you fucking bastard," hissed Moran. "You went to the police…"
"Colonel, I'm really not that stupid," lied John. In fact, he was that stupid, wasn't he. The knifepoint pressed harder into the soft skin over his carotid artery. The knife must have broken the skin, because the ex-army doctor could feel the trickle of blood dripping down his throat. It left a cold trail on his skin.
"The police summoned me to Scotland Yard. I had to go," gasped John. "They kept me there for most of the night. They finally ticketed me for possession of an illegal handgun. The paperwork is all in my pocket, if you want to see it. Luckily, I only have to pay a fine and do community service." John was secretly impressed with how calm he sounded. Although, when the car hit a pothole and the knife slipped, his voice cracked, but only just a bit.
"But I bet you know all about this, don't you, Colonel? I bet you and your boss set me up for some reason. I guess you're trying to teach me a lesson or something," complained John indignantly. He hoped his lines didn't sound too rehearsed; he hoped that that wanker, Mycroft Holmes, was as clever as he thought he was.
Then The Colonel jabbed his cheek with the knife. Oh God, that stings. John grit his teeth, refusing to show how much it really hurt. I really, really should have listened to the younger brother, he thought frantically.
Then his former colonel dug in John's pockets pulling his wallet and keys and finally finding the police paperwork. Saying nothing, The Colonel shoved John away. John was wedged uncomfortably on the floor of the car for what seemed like forever. His bad shoulder throbbed, and his arms slowly went numb behind him.
The car slowed, as gravel crunched underneath the tires. The Colonel got out first, and then yanked out the smaller blond. Initially, John's right leg betrayed him, and he fell to his knees. John struggled to stand, swaying sightlessly.
Unable to use his vision, he focused on the warmth of the sun, the touch of the breeze and the smell of freshly mowed grass. He wondered, was this it? Would these be the last things he felt before he died.
Would the Colonel shoot him now? He straightened up, determined to die like a soldier.
Without warning, John's cuffs were unlocked and then the blindfold was ripped off his head. The former captain blinked painfully in the too bright sun. Moran was an ominous, blurry figure in front of him.
"Here," said the colonel. The blurry figure shoved a heavy leather case and a rucksack into John's nearly numb hands. Instinctively, John grabbed the case, letting the bag fall to the gravel.
"I'll admit that maybe we did set you up," lied Moran, thinking that his boss had done just that. It was the sort of thing his brilliant but erratic chief would do, after all. And as usual, he hadn't bothered to tell his so-called right hand man. "You deserved it for being such a chump. And it will teach you to follow orders," continued Moran.
The Colonel gave John a shove to start him moving, and the ex-captain followed the former commando, trying hard to hide his limp.
The doctor was surprised that Moran had accepted his story so easily. Moreover, The Colonel even accepted that the Irishman might have set it up. That wanker, Mycroft, was as smart as he claimed.
"You have until 1400 hours, Watson. Get to know your rifle and practice as much as you like. No one will hear you out here," said the tall, blond man fingering the long scar trailing down his face.
"Don't bother asking me any questions, and don't expect help from me. I still think it was a mistake for Mor…, for the Boss to hire you. But I follow orders and you better learn how to follow them too," growled Colonel Moran. "Don't screw up, the Boss is not a forgiving kind of man. This won't be like Afghanistan. You got away with not following orders, because you were doctor, but now everyone thinks you're just another useless gimp. You're nobody, except to M… the Boss. And don't you forget it. Don't even think of double-crossing us either; we've got our eyes on Harry," sneered the former colonel
Moran sauntered over to the car. "Like I said, don't screw up. The taxi will be here at 1400; you get to the house at 1600 and get the mark at 1700. The Boss wants you in the sewers at 1705."
Still, blinking, John watched the car drive off, clouds of dust spinning up from the tires. John inhaled the fresh breeze. It was clean out here in the country, so different than London. Everything was green and growing and beautiful.
And John was cast as the angel of death, with Harry's life hanging in the balance. Sod the scenery.
John wanted to scream in frustration. He was supposed to protect Harry, because he was the soldier. Now she was in danger because of her stupid little brother.
John rubbed his face. He hadn't made a single good decision in the last twenty-four hours; maybe he hadn't made a single good decision in the last twenty-four years. Maybe his entire life was a series of bad decisions, that left him barreling along until he reached this disastrous end.
Keep moving. That's all that's left; just use your training. Get the job done. Then find a way to kill the bastards. Despite his limp, he marched forward across the lawn and into the tall grass. He realized that that bastard, Moran, had taken his damn cane too.
Right, John had his orders. He had his orders from Sebastian Moran and from the mysterious Mor-whatever, and even from Mycroft Holmes. Contrary to Moran, John knew exactly how to follow orders. He just followed them his own way.
He had a little over an hour to make this rifle his own. He had to make sure that he knew this gun as well as he knew his right hand. He would only have one, maybe two shots, today.
Right. John stalked angrily out into the fields. He ignored the grass and wildflowers. He blocked out the birds, the clouds, the majestic manor house, where no doubt someone was spying on him.
Captain Watson assembled the rifle easily. It was a masterpiece of construction. Light weight, hand tooled and was it made of titanium? The precision instrument was worth a small fortune. When John attached the suppressor, a tight smile graced his lips.
He slipped on the expensive sunglasses that had been in the rucksack along with his wallet and keys. With his shades on, the meadow was much easier to see now.
The short soldier caressed the sleek, shining barrel. John fondly filled the magazine with five rounds and then slapped the loaded magazine into place. He looked through the day-sight with narrowed eyes. He finally lay down in the grass. He was only distantly aware of the sun beating down on his back. His thoughts now were on the gun and the target, which was a distant tree. He weighed the variables, adjusting for the warmth of the day and the wind speed and direction. John adjusted the bipod and checked the breeze again. As the sniper sighted his objective, he rested his cheek on the gun; it was warm and smooth like a lover's cheek
John was back in theater. For the first time since he was shot, John felt alive, and he held his beloved in his hands. He stroked the stock, then reached for the trigger. He waited patiently; completion was near.
John exhaled softly, slowly, silently; his mind was focused and sharp. Viewed through the cross hairs, John's world narrowed to the target and the trigger.
Time expanded exponentially. Do not breathe; wait for the pause between heartbeats… he squeezed the trigger gently, lovingly, pulling back with the ball of his finger. The rifle erupted, muffled by the suppressor. John savored the smell, no the taste of the gun-smoke. It was supremely satisfying.
John checked through the sight, he was off target by several inches. Disappointing. Unsatisfying. He would make this gun his own? Sod that. He would have to try harder, much harder. He prepared again.
"Yeah, it's alright luv, just give me another chance. We'll be perfect together," John whispered softly to his rifle. He readied for the next shot. He rested his cheek on the gun; it was warm and smooth like a lover's cheek…
A/N Thank you for reading this fic and please, please review. Your thoughts and comments and criticisms are supremely helpful to me.
My thanks go out to: ruvy91, Magpie09, SamuelE8688, power0girl, Ray, EJ 12212012, Guest, InuChimera7410 and another Guest (or maybe the same one :P) Thank you all for your reviews and comments!
Disclaimer I do not own the rights to Sherlock Holmes or SHERLOCK BBC.