Chapter 7

John scratched his nose and hoped he wouldn't start sneezing again. He had stirred up the dust in the old attic, and it was only now beginning to settle down. Sparkling dust motes still danced in the sunlight streaming through the dormer to his back.

Stupid. Stupid and unprofessional! What the hell are you doing, Captain Watson? You know better than to look at bright sunlight when you have a job to do. Now your eyes are ruined, stupid, stupid. On top of that, you're letting your mind wander.

The sniper sighed, deeply disappointed in himself. He closed his eyes briefly; the shadow from the dazzling window was temporarily burned onto his retina. What a stupid, rookie mistake to make, he chided himself.

The former soldier squirmed on his stomach trying to relieve his shoulder stiffness. The damn wound burned more than usual after twenty-four hours without sleep and all this unusual exertion. And his leg ached, even if it was just psychosomatic, according to his counselor. Lying on the hard floor was not exactly helping his aches and pains either.

Oh for God's sake stop whinging, Watson. When the hell did I turn into such a grouchy, whiny old man? I need to get out more. I need to bloody workout too.

John looked through his gun sight and checked the license plate of the nest limo. Not the right one. Nevertheless, he watched as each passenger exited the car. They never knew that they were briefly held in the crosshairs of an L115A3.

He caressed the sight and checked over the gun one more time. A smear marred its perfect finish. He checked through the sight to make sure his target hadn't snuck up on him. Nope, coast was clear. John used his shirt to gently wipe the barrel clean. Under the circumstances, this gun was likely to be his last and best friend.

That madman, Mor-something-or-other, would probably want John dead after this. And here I am worrying about working out, Christ; I'm such a loser.

Just so long as Harry stays safe; that's all I care about anymore. And I guess I want to save that political tosser, Holmes. I just have to pretend to do this job for the Colonel and his insane Irishman, and then they'll leave Harry alone.

Right. Sure they will, and I bet they'll be willing to sell me London Bridge at a bargain price too. I'm an idiot. Maybe they'll leave Harry alone once I'm gone.

But what if they find out that Mycroft Holmes isn't really dead?

New limo... Wrong limo. Couple of older politicians getting out of the car. They looked vaguely familiar from the telly but were definitely not his mark.

Well, if they find out the posh bastard's still alive, they'll hurt Harry. So I guess I should just kill him; I could just take the head shot. God that's wrong too. How is Harry's life more important than that Mycroft's life? Just stick with your plan; I mean Mycroft's plan. And if that stupid consulting genius detective hadn't done a flit, he probably could have given me some advice. I mean; I could bloody use some advice right about now. Stupid consulting tosser.

John sighed and blinked to rest his eyes. He checked through his sight; his target wasn't there yet. He could easily remember what his mark looked like. A tall ginger, who wears expensive, tailored suits and wears that annoying smirk on his face. John smirked to himself at that one.

Unlike Mycroft's brother…new limo pulling up, wrong plates, a tall blond woman exiting the car, the crosshairs over her opulent bosom, no, definitely not the mark, he smirked again, at the bosom this time…anyway, Mycroft's brother had a really nice smile; apparently, it was a really nice but very rare smile. But it was brilliant when that smile spread across those lush lips.

New limo, wrong plates….tall, beefy man with a toupee, not the mark….now Sherlock Holmes was tall but not beefy, he was thin bordering on skinny. He had broad shoulders and a tight ass and Good God, here I go again. I'm not even gay. I date women, preferably, women with opulent bosoms.

I don't date tall, broad-shouldered men with high cheekbones and wavy black hair and blue-green eyes. No the eyes were grey or silver, but a couple of times they looked green, or maybe aquamarine.

But he was skinny, too skinny, probably a wimp. Yeah, he was probably a posh, pampered wimp. Still, that elegant toff's grip was pretty damn strong, when he dragged me back and forth to that ruddy office. And then he just blew me off. Tosser.

Bloody hell, I nearly missed the next limo.

A tall black man got out of the car, and then passed through the crosshairs followed by a shorter, older man wearing a white kufi.

Well, that lot is not Mycroft Holmes.

Think about something else, anyone else, besides that Sherlock bloke. Silly name, anyway. They're both silly names; really, who names their kids Mycroft and Sherlock?

It's not like I'll ever see him again. It's not like he'd ever be interested in me. Maybe if I started working out…Christ, this is ridiculous. It's like I have a schoolboy crush on him or something.

I haven't had a crush on a man since secondary school. And that wasn't gay, that was just adolescence. I couldn't be gay, because my father would have killed me if I was, so I wasn't. And I'm not. And it doesn't matter anyway, because He's Definitely Not Interested. So ,NOT THINKING ABOUT HIM ANY MORE.

Next car, wrong license plates….Not Mycroft Holmes…I always date women anyway; it's just easier. I like short cute blondes and fluffy redheads with opulent bosoms.

Except when I fall for someone tall and willowy, like Mary. She wasn't really, exactly cute, and she was four inches taller than me. But she was smart, as smart as that tosser, Sherlock, and her was red, not dark brown, red like a sunset scorching the desert skies. And Mary was the bravest woman in the world…

Next damned limo…overdressed woman with bleached blond hair and ridiculous furs….I bet she couldn't put a plaster on a paper cut. But Mary could do triage and minor surgery with bullets flying over her head. Stupid rich bitch (bit not nice there Watson, not nice at all); anyway, I guarantee she wouldn't last an hour in the desert. Like to see her face down an armed insurgent. Mary could. Mary did.

I wouldn't be here alone and old before my time, if I still had Mary.

Next car, wrong plates…not my target

Mary was funny. Mary was brave.

And Mary was dead. Blown up by an IED. Nothing even left to cry over. Of course, I didn't cry. I don't need to cry. Why bother with crying? What the fuck good would it do?

Still, I should have been with her on that medevac, not mucking about on some stupid mission with stupid Moran. I should have been with Mary, and then we could have died together. Now I'm alone and still mucking about for Moran and I'm going to die soon anyway, but not before I suffer, probably horribly.

Next car. Not the target. Rest your eyes. Flex your hands. Be patient, you can wait here all night if necessary. "I would not be alone, if my Mary was here*" he whispered the song to himself.

Check the wind again. Temperature is the same. Check the angle, realign the crosshairs. Use that stunning brunette to check your aim-God, she's really pretty. I think I like brunettes better than blondes anyway. Maybe that's why I like Sherlock.

No, not that again. I like redheads and blondes.

"I'm a sad sack Sir Galahad who's sword's around his knees, with a Grail no longer holy and a prayer that's saying please*…" John quietly sang off tune, as usual.

His eyes focused briefly on the scene in front of him. He flexed his fingers again, keeping them loose and limber. No sign of the tremor, not with this gorgeous rifle in his hands. That's all that's left for me now, a gun and a target. It's enough; it has to be enough.

"I would not be alone, if my Mary were here, but she took off and Lord I'm lost*..." John sang softly. Mary was gone; she left without him.

Stretch limo, wrong plates…some celebrity couple with big white teeth and perfect hair and perfect figures. Stupid people. Anyway, I liked Sherlock's figure better…I mean Mary's figure.

"You know I don't think I'd be drinking, if my Mary were here. And I know what I'd be thinking if my Mary were here*…"

Next limo, wrong plates….Wait. Wait. Right Plates. Show time.

To hell with Moran and his boss and their threats. So help me God, I'm going through with Mycroft's stupid scheme. Dear God, let it work.

He took a deep breath, and John's mind went blank. He ran through the check list. Find the target…wait for the target. His body was loose, relaxed. His mouth parted slightly, half grimace and half feral grin.

John gently fingered the trigger, a lover's caress. He locked onto the expected target zone. The mark should walk right into the zone.

The ginger-haired man, wearing his expensive tailored suit, stepped out of the limo. That suit was about to sustain serious damage.

As agreed, the mark pulled out a file and covered his face, ostensibly hiding from the paparazzi. Wait for it…

The file was metallic and reflected the sunlight straight back into John's eye. The blinding flash stabbed his eye.

IDIOT! You noob! How can I shoot you when you freakin' blind me! Christ, if I miss that shot, I'll hit someone else. Or maybe I'll accidentally kill you, Mycroft Holmes. God, if I miss completely, Harry will die. Idiot.

Start over. Start over. Breathe in, breathe out. John looked through the sight with his other eye. Move the crosshairs, find his chest…

Line up the shot… Stop breathing… The minor government official moved slowly. Lock on the target, crosshairs over his heart. One heart gently, so gently..Beat…pull the trigger...

And there's blood pouring out of the chest of Mycroft Holmes. He's falling. People are running away, panicked, like a herd of sheep, breaking apart and running, running blindly across the fields and into the sear, dry hills of Helmand. He's down, Holmes is down and not moving and that cop, Lestrade, is frantically shoving everyone aside, with tears on his face. Poor SOB. God what have I done?

Remember, it's just an act. Holmes is faking it… Break the gun down and shove it in the case. Everything goes into the rucksack… Crowds are are crowding around the body, the fake body. Sirens. People are pointing to John's hideout…Time to retreat, Watson.

Of course, that Lestrade knows exactly where the shot came from. He could have sent the police over already, but that's not part of the plan, is it? So there is a plan. So Holmes is not really dead.

He's just faking it; playing possum. It sure as hell looked real though. Maybe he forgot to wear the armor? No, that's stupid.

Run, Watson, run. Maybe he got the wrong armor? How, how could that happen? Down the stairs, don't touch anything…If he really was dead, then that policeman would already be here arresting me-unless he's overcome by grief and shock?
Maybe the damned armor was sabotaged. Oh, God that could have happened. There could have been another mole. Oh, God, what if I just killed an innocent man? What if just I killed Sherlock's brother? Oh, God. Oh my GOD! Please God; don't let him die.

Down the last steps, and head for the back door. Forget the sewer. I've had enough of Moran and his crazy boss. I'm getting the hell out of here…

Suddenly a human wall stepped in front of the ex-soldier. John bounced off of him. The seven-foot tall man grabbed John's flailing arm and dragged him easily to the basement stairs. The huge bald man also tore off John's rucksack. John wished he had his Browning.

Oh God, I killed a man, and now some mutant is taking me to the sewers. Maybe its divine retribution, karma, or my real shitty bad luck. John stumbled again; the giant shoved John to the open manhole that was sunk into the floor of the unfinished basement.

John clambered down the ladder into the underground night. He jumped into the foul water and it rose up to his knees. Dim light from above barely illuminated the gleaming water and damp, scummy walls.

The giant grabbed his bad shoulder (What'd you wannna bet he grabbed my bad shoulder on purpose? The bloody bastard). The giant shoved John forward into the dark. "…I know what I'd be thinking if my Mary were here*…"

As it got darker, John tripped over the uneven floor and pitched forward into the water; at least he managed to keep his face out of the sewer water. They had turned a corner, and John couldn't see anything. He stood, his bad leg shaking in the cold. John was surely dead if the giant abandoned him here in the dark, he thought. An enormous hand gripped the back of his neck, painfully, and shoved John forward. The ex-army doctor fell against the slimy wall; it kept from falling into the water this time.

It seemed like they'd be trapped forever in the dank Stygian night. After a while, John couldn't remember the words to his song anymore. He couldn't remember how the sunlight felt on his back this afternoon; he couldn't remember Mary's face. All he could remember was the politician bleeding, bleeding and falling to the ground. Right, try to think of something else.

His feet were going numb in the cold water. Oh wait, he was shaking from the cold, not the stress. That brilliant idea cheered him up. At least I'm not going to die a psychosomatic wreak.

He thought about someone's brilliant eyes, eyes that were the color of the ocean. Of course, that's why they kept changing color. I'm just full of brilliant ideas now that I'm slogging my way to my own execution. But yeah, depending on her mood, the sea changes from grey to green to blue to silver. His eyes were like that. His eyes varied; they were always beautiful and always changing. It was a privilege to have been the focus of those eyes however briefly, before I have to die. Growing colder and colder, John splashed through unspeakably filthy-smelling water, remembering eyes that changed from grey to green to blue to silver. And sometimes they were definitely aquamarine…

A/N Song lyrics from If My Mary Were Here, by Harry Chapin

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