Chapter 6

Unable to withstand the torture and screaming in agony, the violin string snapped. The World's Only Consulting Detective nearly threw his priceless violin across the room in frustration. Taking a deep, calming breath, he carefully set the wounded instrument on the shelf. Then he swept the files and books off of his desk in an impressive fit of piqué.

Why did it matter! Why on earth did it matter, if another mindless idiot chose to let sentiments, like "honor" and "duty", rule his life. Why did it matter, if the idiot's idiotic choice resulted in his own pointless and idiotic death?

It did not matter. Not only did it not matter, to the six-foot tall man pacing frantically around his flat, there was nothing he could do about it even if he wanted to, which, of course, he did not.

No doubt the little blond was already dead by now. That sniper, Moran, probably shot the doctor as he was leaving the yard. The news of the mysterious and tragic demise of an army veteran had probably already been posted by the Internet news services. It's unfortunate…unfortunate for the ex-soldier.

But it does not matter to me; which is as it should be. I have no time or need for emotions. Emotions. The grease on the lenses. The fly in the ointment.

Fortunately, I am above such things as emotions. I have the work to sustain me and the music to entertain me.

And therein lies the problem. I need work. It's past time to close that last case and start work on a new one.

Sherlock dug through the debris on the floor, throwing unwanted papers every which way, until he found his mobile. He threw himself down on the couch and sent a text to Detective Inspector Lestrade:

Did you arrest the barista? SH

We did. We started with a drugs bust. Aside from the Oxycontin, we found several recreational drugs. Donovan obtained her confession within an hour. GL

I could have gained the confession in fifteen minutes. SH

Yeah, but see, here in London, we have rules against torture. GL

But you have no problem leading innocents to the slaughter, so spare me your self-righteousness.

You forgot your initials. So I take it that it's bothering you? GL

Nothing is bothering me except that I am dying of boredom.

Right, you forgot your initials again. So I have a possible new case. GL

Does it involve the British Government? SH SH SH SH SH

Yes. GL

Then no. SH

You'd get access to Top Secret files. GL

NO. SH

And personal medical files. GL

Come on Sherlock, if you take the case, it will piss off my partner. You'd like that, wouldn't you? GL

Why would you risk his wrath? SH.

I think you have the best chance of tracking down the man who's hiring assassins to kill your brother. Maybe it's worth me sleeping on the couch for a few days to catch this guy. GL

That's not all of it. SH

No it isn't. This doctor is going to need help if he tries to spy on some kind of a crime boss and you know it. GL

Well? GL

Will you take the case? That doctor is an honorable guy. He deserves a chance. GL

It's been twenty minutes. The least you could do is answer. GL

You're a stubborn git and don't deserve to work with a decent bloke. GL

"Lestrade, why are you sending me irrelevant and irritating texts when I'm right here!" snapped the consulting detective, flouncing into the DI's office and throwing himself into a chair.

Lestrade stood in surprise. Then, he smiled weakly. "So, you'll look into our case then?" asked the DI, getting up to shut the door.

"As long as you can refrain from spouting puerile sentiments about honor and duty, then yes. Give me the files," ordered the arrogant younger man.

"Help yourself. You haven't bothered to ask, but yes the doctor's still alive," said Lestrade.

"Obviously, he's still alive," drawled the lanky brunet, slouching in a chair. "Don't tell me, you've turned into an absolute moron like Anderson. If the sniper was dead, you wouldn't ask me to review his files, and you wouldn't be fretting over my bother's stupid plot to fake his own death." The consulting detective glared with disdain at the older man.

Sherlock refrained from reporting his own unreasonable flood of relief when he had deduced this very fact for himself, thirty minutes ago.

The consulting detective read through the files on Watson, John H. Captain, RAMC. Sherlock flipped through the pages rapidly and muttered aloud. "Middle name Hamish. Father, retired army, alcoholic, deceased. Mother former nurse, deceased. One sister, Harry, short for Harriet. Financial analyst, financially well off. Been to rehab once for alcoholism. Divorced. Not a brother, a sister? It's always something. Trained at St. Bart's, deployed to Afghanistan not once but four times. First two tours, he was a simple field surgeon. Well, perhaps not simple, censured for disobeying orders on three separate occasions, so not a good army officer. Several commendations for bravery and dedication to duty, so maybe he's a good officer after all. And here's a memorable occasion. Lt. Watson rescued two wounded soldiers, simultaneously receiving a censure for insubordination and a commendation for bravery beyond the call of duty accompanied with a medal for heroism. More ribbons and medals awarded to our Lieutenant throughout his tours. Third tour interrupted early on for Sniper/Scout training-this can't be common, for doctors to receive sniper training, can it? Assignment to Team Anaconda, details redacted. More commendations and medals all details redacted! Promotion to Captain following another censure for failure to follow orders followed by another commendation. Details redacted again. Fourth tour of duty details, of course, REDACTED! This entire tour is redacted. Even his work in the field hospitals was redacted. Wounded in action, circumstances redacted. Hospitalized for two months following multiple surgeries and wound infection. PTSD details redacted!…These files are all but useless! What is the point of labeling files Top Secret, if they're empty? There's virtually nothing in them."

He glared at the photo of a younger, smiling, uniformed Captain Watson. He looked positively boyish in that picture. A picture of a young idiot who got himself shot and came back to London only to get himself in trouble. Still an idiot

Sherlock threw the meaningless files onto Lestrade's desk. He tilted his head and glared at the detective inspector his lips pressed together with frustration.

"Moran's files are even worse," said Lestrade, seemingly unfazed by the younger man's ire. "But you might as well have a look."

"Fine," Sherlock skimmed the files that were even thinner than Watson's. "Colonel Sebastian Moran, son of the late Sir Augustus Moran, CB. Educated at Eton and Oxford. Joined the military. Several deployments, served on and later led many special operations teams, his last being Team Anaconda. Several commendations, medals for bravery, censured for conduct unbecoming an officer twice, demoted once for conduct unbecoming to an officer, what does that even mean now a-days? Dishonorable discharge, all pertinent documentation related to the Colonel has been redacted. No current address..."

"Mycroft can't get more information than this? His minions are slipping," said the consulting detective, his voice dripping with contempt.

"Obviously Moran's teams were performing Top Secret special operations. Myc's minions, as you call them have tracked down a quite a few officers who will attest to Watson's excellent medical skills. And a few will even admit that he is, in fact, an excellent marksman. Watson's last two deployments were split between the field hospitals and Team Anaconda. No one admits knowing anything about Anaconda. And no one will discuss anything to do with Moran; they won't even admit that they know him."

Sherlock glared at Moran's official photo and then glared at Watson's photo, which he had nicked from one of the files. After all, he just might have need of Watson's photo at a later date.

"You know Sherlock, you should have stayed last night, instead of running off in a snit," continued Lestrade, putting his feet on his desk. He smirked at the younger man who looked like an affronted cat. "That sniper demonstrated his marksmanship on the gun range. Very, very impressive both with his handgun and with rifles. He was royally pissed off, by the way, when we confiscated his quite illegal gun. I was sure he was going to throw a punch at me. I'd say the guy has anger issues. Afterwards, we watched him leave via Myc's cameras," The detective inspector brought the CCTV footage up onto his computer. "Come and look. We saw a black car stop for him about a block away from here. The tags are false, by the way, and they'll probably change them again soon. So we can see this man pulling the doctor…"

"That is clearly Moran, he matches the photos from his file," said Sherlock hovering over Lestrade's shoulder to view his computer screen. "Same blond hair with a military cut. He and Watson might as well go to the same barber. He's sporting the same beard that he had in the army too. I suspect he misses the army as much as Watson does. He and Watson would actually make a dangerous team if they become allies again. However, he is not John's friend right now. He's clearly roughing up the little doctor. No doubt, he's jealous and surely resents John's seeming betrayal. How do you know that Moran didn't just take John Watson away and kill him," asked Sherlock cooly, ignoring the way his stomach writhed at the thought.

"Your brother's "minions" are not useless Sherlock," chided Lestrade. "They followed the car to a private estate. Moran left Watson at a derelict manor house, and then your new friend zeroed his weapon. Myc's agents reported that in the field, your doctor has nearly pinpoint accuracy at 1000 meters. Myc finds all that reassuring. Of course he's going ahead with his reckless scheme. Anyway, a taxi picked up the sniper and returned him to London. He's at that empty house, stationed in the attic with a gun pointing at all the dignitaries and celebrities as they leave their cars. If we're wrong about Watson..."

"Dammit, Sherlock!" Lestrade said loudly, pounding his desk. "Mycroft could be dead in the next hour. Those Army officers, who knew Watson, swear he's a fucking hero and all around nice guy. Hell, I even like the guy. But his military career is a mystery; he has PTSD and an intermittent tremor in his left hand. They won't let him do surgery because of that tremor, and now we're letting him point a rifle at innocent people. Hell, we're going to let him point a rifle at my partner and shoot him! How can I trust this? If anything happens to Myc…" Greg Lestrade stopped his rant and stared out of the window.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm not saying that Watson would kill Myc on purpose," said Lestrade, his face grey from the strain. "But at that range…all he has to do is miss by a couple of inches and Mycroft is dead from a sniper's round in his head. Myc won't listen to me."

"If he won't listen to you, what makes you think he'll listen to me," sighed the consulting detective. 'Surely you didn't call me out here to try to talk Mycroft out of this scheme," continued Sherlock.

"Yes. No. Look, you could try talking sense to him," said Lestrade

"I will contact Mycroft, but you know that if the operation is underway, he will not waver," said Sherlock. "Frankly after looking over these meager records and from your descriptions of Watson's marksmanship, I don't think you need to worry about Mycroft. The tremor is obviously absent during stress, did you se any sign of it once he got worked up last night? Which brings into question the accuracy of the PTSD diagnosis. I assume that my brother has been informed that he is going to suffer from serious bruising."

"Yeah, Watson already warned him," said Lestrade with a sad chuckle. "He told Myc that 'getting shot, even with the armor, is no piece of cake'. You should have seen Mycroft's face. He thought you put those words in Watson's mouth," the half-smile faded from the detective inspector's face. "But of course, Mycroft won't listen to reason; he knows better. And now, he won't let me get near him until after 'the assassination.' It's killing me," the detective inspector admitted quietly.

"Ah, I am here for moral support," said the consulting detective, his lip curled with distaste.

"God no. I'd get better support from Anderson," said Lestrade bitterly. "No. What I want, is for you to befriend Watson…"

"You mean spy on him," corrected the tall, pale detective icily.

"Sherlock, even if this goes down right, the man is going to be in over his head. Spec ops or not, he's not trained to be a double agent and he's going to get caught. Like you said, he's going to die, probably sooner, rather than later. Unless he gets help," said Lestrade. "I want you to talk to Mycroft. Assuming that he doesn't listen to you either, then I want you to be ready to go after Moran and his boss. And I think that you'll catch them a lot faster with Watson's help; as a bonus, you'll be saving Watson's life."

"Moran and his boss will suspect me. I'm Mycroft's brother."

"Well, I thought that you were such a genius that you could work around it. I guess this mysterious Irishman really is too smart for us," said Lestrade regretfully.

"Your petty attempts at manipulation are laughable," said Sherlock scathingly. He was angry and uncomfortable. All this talk about the blond soldier dying was unexpectedly unnerving. "My brother and this Irishman are playing a cruel game and that idiotic soldier is caught in the middle. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights when I left last night," scoffed the consulting detective. The little idiot had stared at Sherlock, with his ridiculous blue eyes.

"Come on Sherlock, make up your mind," said the grim detective inspector. "I have to sneak, sneak, over to the scene and watch my partner let himself be shot in cold blood by a sniper he's known for less than a day. So what's it going to be?"

"You can begin by throwing me out of your office for insulting you again. I'll have to keep my distance from you for the time being. After Mycroft fakes his death, you and I should be estranged, so that we can come after them from different angles," said Sherlock with a sigh.

"You are an idiot! With a department full of morons! You couldn't find a clue if it stood up and waved a flag in your face," yelled Sherlock.

Lestrade had to stifle a grin. "You arrogant stuck-up toff," began Lestrade loudly. "I don't have to put up with you; get the hell out of my office!"

A/N Sorry for the long delay, but thank you to everyone who reads and follows this fic.

Special THANKS to those who have sent reviews including, Little Soldier Mine, AiLovesS, power0girl, Ray, I'mAnIdjit, Kat, EJ12212012,InuChimera7410, Wicked Winter, ruvy91, otala, sarahabruce85, SamuelE8688. Your review and comments help me to improve my writing and, indeed, inspire me to write in the first place. Thank you!

Disclaimer-I don't own the rights to SHERLOCK or any plots or characters from the BBC show. BTW why do we do these disclaimers anyway?