Warnings-None except the usual:swearing and adult themes. Some references to yucky, I mean brilliant, experiments. Also, there is no non-con in here.
Chapter 22
"Mrs. Hudson!" bellowed the World's Only Consulting Detective. Without waiting for a response from his landlady, he crouched like a giant cricket, to look under John's bed, as if the soldier might be hiding there.
John was not there. However, last month's fungus experiment was alive and well. He'd forgotten all about that. It was fascinating, the way it was spreading up the wall, he filed this away for future reference. Right now, he had to find the captivating/irritating little soldier who had gone missing.
He thundered loudly down the stairs to re-examine the sitting room properly. He turned slowly around, with one finger pressed to his lips. There was no sign of a struggle; indeed, someone had cleaned off the coffee table and piled up the books and journals neatly by the bookshelf. The cloth-covered chair had been moved a bit...ah, yes, because the rug had been vacuumed and…clothes, clothes had been removed (Stolen or simply moved? It made no sense; the clothes were not valuable and, in fact, were probably in need of laundering). Perhaps there had been a struggle though, thought the detective narrowing his eyes. Yes, there could have been an altercation and then the miscreants could have straightened the room up, and then over compensated by cleaning too much. Of course, this did not explain the mystery of the purloined pants and the stolen socks. There would be no reason for anyone to steal his shirts or socks. But why move them at all? It was a mystery.
The consulting detective strode down the hall in search of more information. The blue, silk robe, which John had worn all morning and which suited John so well, had been returned to its hook on the back of the bathroom door. The bathroom itself had been cleaned a bit too. This probably ruled out kidnappers who liked to clean. He could not truly envision a scenario where by John fought off a violent assault, and then was held captive as the attackers scoured the bathroom sink and vacuumed the sitting room rug.
No, the evidence was clear. The evidence showed that John Watson was a compulsive neat-freak when he was at home, which he clearly wasn't now. It would appear that the soldier had felt compelled clean the flat and then deliberately disregarded Sherlock's very reasonable suggestion to stay at home and rest. John Watson had left the flat on purpose.
Sherlock wouldn't have been all that concerned, irritated yes, but not concerned, except that there was a dangerous, psychopathic, sex-fiend, who happened to be obsessively interested in Sherlock's boyfriend.
"Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled again. There was also the matter of John's pneumonia. The detective had not had the chance to research the incubation times and early symptoms of pneumonia, but then, he had relied on Doctor Watson's medical training, which, in retrospect, may have been a mistake. Clearly the good doctor was not cognizant of the risks he was taking with his own health. Did that indicate poor training or was it part and parcel of John's martyr complex?
As he whirled around the flat searching for clues, Sherlock suffered a disturbing bout of tachycardia and hyperpnoea. Surely this was not panic. Sherlock did not do panic. Sherlock did not even do worry, so panic was right out.
Perhaps Sherlock had caught John's pathogen and was himself on the verge of pneumonia. He would certainly need to look up pneumonia at the first convenient opportunity.
On the off-chance that his physical symptoms were stress related, the consulting detective took a deep breath to calm himself and firmly reminded himself that sentiments were not an advantage. The strange symptoms slowly abated, leaving behind an odd, empty, achy feeling in his chest.
He stormed into the kitchen, which seemingly had borne the brunt of the soldier's cleaning assault. Really, the kitchen was in shambles; to begin with, the room reeked of lemon fresh disinfectant. The counters had been stripped almost bare. Nearly everything useful was missing.
Wait! The table? What about his experiments! Sherlock whirled again, the panic attack all too real this time.
Thankfully, the experiments on the table seemed largely intact although the microscope had been moved at least three centimeters to the left, and the test-tube rack may have...yes it had shifted as well. Sherlock tsk'ed loudly. He had clearly stated that his experiments were off-limits to a certain flatmate. No exceptions.
Worry…no not worry, concern was partially replaced by irritation.
Sherlock opened the refrigerator. The refrigerator had been scrubbed mercilessly (more of the rank lemon odor assaulted his nostrils and…bleach, there was definitely chlorine undertones in the overwhelming lemon-fresh stench).
He found his experiments had been moved to a lower shelf, and for some reason, they were all covered. Indeed, the fresh liver sample was double wrapped with plastic. While all the specimens appeared to be un-damaged, they were all covered with the ubiquitous plastic wrap. The genius' eyes narrowed as he considered whether these covers would affect the experimental results. He decided that if all the samples had the same covering, then it would not affect the outcome of the experiment. In fact, the plastic covers would protect the experiments from the effects of the toxic cleansers. Perhaps John was not a complete idiot after all.
There were new items in the refrigerator. The top shelf now contained food including a jar of blueberry preserves (it was already one-fourth empty), bottles of 100% natural orange juice, and nonfat milk (organic), a box of butter (also organic) and a carton of organic eggs from which three eggs were missing.
An obnoxious note, which said FOOD ONLY, was prominently displayed on the top shelf next to another note, NO EXCEPTIONS. Sherlock's brow twitched.
Idiot. John was an idiot. Clearly, poor John suffered from obsessive-compulsive disorder. He must be a compulsive cleaner, a germaphobe and a compulsive eater; it was a miracle that John managed to keep his trim, fit physique, what with his food obsession. The doctor certainly had a dreadful sweet tooth; just look at the state of that jam!
It was all quite clear now; despite John's severe illness, the threat posed by Moriarty and Sherlock's clear, simple instructions, John Watson, the idiot of 221b Baker Street, had compulsively gone shopping (at Tesco's to be precise). John had returned home and, no doubt spurred on by his obsession for cleanliness, exerted himself further by scrubbing away with several different noxious substances. It was a wonder the little blond had found the strength to then make himself breakfast.
Well, if the fatigue from all these exertions didn't lower John's immunity, then exposure to the toxic cleaning products undoubtedly would. Mrs. Hudson's prophesy of pneumonia seemed to be inevitable.
And that solved the problem of what John had done earlier today, but where was he now? Had the soldier run out of cleaning products? Surely there was no need for more food; just look how much food was already stuffed in the refrigerator. Why would John Watson be so stubbornly idiotic as to go out twice in one day while he was ill. And he called himself a doctor! The consulting detective resolved to confirm Watson's medical credentials at the earliest possible opportunity.
For now, it was more important to locate the fool before something dreadful happened to him.
Sherlock examined the rest of the kitchen for more clues since John had spent most of his time in here. The kitchen counter, toaster, and stove were cleaned and spotless, confirming John's dangerous cleaning compulsion. In accordance with John's earlier threats, one cupboard had been commandeered for even more food (truly an excessive amount of food) and the cabinet contained another series of obnoxious notes.
The detective paused to help himself to a handful of biscuits. After all, John had also demonstrated an unhealthy obsession with feeding consulting detectives. It would undoubtedly please the doctor, if Sherlock ate some biscuits. Sherlock also decided to have some milk to wash down the biscuits.
His search soon turned up yet another ridiculous note, which had been taped to the microwave. Remove these eyeballs or I will. ps does the term liquefaction necrosis mean anything to you?
Sherlock paused, a half-eaten biscuit still in his hand, as he considered the last half of the note on the microwave. His curiosity was piqued; so he opened the microwave door and peered in. Liquefaction necrosis indeed, quite textbook in fact.
Pity, it confirmed Sherlock's hypothesis, and things did not look well for the veterinarian in the East End. Still, the man's ex-wife would be pleased. The completed experiment was quite malodorous too. Sherlock quickly closed the door of the microwave.
The consulting detective scribbled rapidly in his notebook. Then he removed John's note and wrote on the back of it before sticking it back onto the microwave.
The new note read, John, I concur with your assessment but suggest you remove eyeballs ASAP. They stink. SH
The World's Only Consulting Detective pounded on Mrs. Hudson's door, because he didn't want to barge in on anything unpleasant, like that time when the reprehensible old butcher was snogging Sherlock's landlady on the settee. Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste. He really should delete that visual.
As he recalled, those first, few moments had been quite uncomfortable. Sherlock had quickly deduced (aloud) that the butcher, who was almost certainly also a pedophile, wanted a wife to care for his aging mother. The initial confrontation had been rather ugly, and Sherlock had not obtained the box of borax that he required from Mrs. Hudson. Nonetheless, the police eventually took the wretched man into custody for possession of child pornography, the butcher's elderly mother was placed in a very nice retirement home that suited and Mrs. Hudson was very grateful for Sherlock's astute observations…eventually.
The door opened only after he knocked loudly a third time.
"Oh Sherlock, it's you," said his landlady with a smile.
"Obviously," he said, barging in after allowing her to give him a very quick, very small hug.
"I'm sorry; I didn't hear you at first. I had the telly on," she continued, ignoring his rudeness. "And I can't move very fast, bad hip," she patted her hip for emphasis.
"Well, is he hiding down here?" demanded the consulting detective, ignoring the hip.
"Who, Sherlock?" she asked handing him a homemade biscuit, which he ate without noticing.
"John! John, John, John," said Sherlock checking the cabinets and a closet.
"Oh for heaven's sake! I haven't stuffed him in a cabinet, Sherlock," exclaimed Mrs. Hudson, shutting the cabinets and closing the closet door. "He's out. He left a little bit after lunch, in fact. I told him not to go out, but he's as stubborn as you are," she said with a frown. "First he goes off in the rain to get groceries; he claimed that he had orders. And then it took him almost two hours just to walk to Tesco's and back. Of course he was soaked, but he refused to change his clothes. He was very polite but willful, like. And then, he's only home a few hours, and hey presto, off he goes again. And again, I told him not to go but he wouldn't listen to reason. He was much more sensible last night, wasn't he?" She paused and smiled, remembering how John had followed her every suggestion."Last night, dear John did everything that I asked. Such a nice boy. But today...Anyway, I told him he'd get pneumonia, but did it stop him? No." She paused to take another breath. "You know, Mrs. Turner's husband did that. Went off in the rain, when he already had that nasty cold, and after she told him not to go out, on account that he could get pneumonia. Well three days later, there he was, dead as a doornail from pneumonia. Not that it was any great loss, mind you; she's better off with out him. He drank something awful and his gambling!" she added in a loud, outraged stage whisper, as she put a hand up to her cheek.
"Mrs. Hudson, I do not care about Mr. Turner or his pneumonia," said Sherlock severely.
Of course, it was just as he had feared, the pneumonia was inevitable. John may have already been delirious when he left the flat. That would explain why he was behaving so irresponsibly. By now, John might have collapsed in a feverish heap somewhere. Yes, even now, John might be dying. All alone. In the rain. Dying from pneumonia. Sherlock was definitely concerned…but still not worried.
"Mrs. Hudson I distinctly remember telling you, not to let him leave the flat…" he began.
"You listen here, young man," she said poking him in the chest. "I'm your landlady, not your nursemaid! I warned him not to go out; I warned him that he was bound to get pneumonia. But would he listen? No, he just babbled on about orders and flashed that devil-may-care smile of his. Oh, the hearts that man must have broken. It's a shame. A real shame. Then out the door he goes, spouting off something about how he's a doctor, and they didn't let a little rain faze them in the army… just as stubborn as you," she repeated darkly. Pressing her lips together in disapproval of Sherlock, John and possibly all men in general.
Sherlock pinched his lips together too, so as to physically block the nasty retort that was on the tip of his tongue. Mrs. Hudson did not deserve that. Still…
"Mrs. Hudson," he said with admirable restraint. "I did ask you to text me if John…"
"Which I did over an hour ago, Sherlock," she said, standing with her hands on her hips. For a short woman in an eggplant-colored dress, she was surprisingly adamant, intimidating even. "In fact, I texted you when John left to go to Tesco's this morning and when he got back as well. I have texted you over and over, Sherlock."
Sherlock whipped out his phone. His mobile was dead. Dead as a doornail. He had not remembered to charge his phone last night because he had been busy planning and executing his seduction of the little blond soldier. More proof that sentiment was not an advantage. But…but that campaign had been wildly successful. And the look on John's face when he threw his head back as he…Sherlock filed that away for later review.
The consulting detective pivoted and ran, thundering up the stairs to charge his phone.
"Men!" muttered his landlady, shaking her head as she shut the door. On top of everything else, she had just missed the end of the Connie Prince show.
The big, blond driver opened John's car door. The soldier got out. He stood proudly, ramrod straight. In eerie unison, the pod-people faced toward the other end of the dark cavern of doom. Maybe they're part of a hive mind, thought the soldier. John marched slowly forward, hiding his unease beneath layers of military training. A distant door opened, a figure was vaguely visible backlit against the filthy yellow light.
In seconds, John recognized the tall, thin man leaning on his umbrella. This was not Jim, the demonic criminal genius. This was even worse. Far, far worse if Sherlock was to be believed. This was Mycroft Holmes, evil personified. The all-knowing, all-powerful, over-controlling evil Emperor of the galaxy, who was surely filled with the power of the dark side of the force. (That last bit was John's poetic license; the rest was pretty much exactly what Sherlock had told him on more than one occasion).
The former soldier was filled with dread. This was basically the evil Emperor Palpatine, and last night, John had had wild, wonderful, gay sex with the Emperor's baby brother. John Watson was a dead man walking.
Evil Incarnate actually looked pretty fit for a man that was supposedly dead, and who had, in fact, been hit by a high-powered round, body armor not withstanding. A round fired by one Captain John Watson RAMC RET.
This kidnapping could be work related, thought John, trying to comfort himself. Maybe the British Government just wanted John to shoot someone else?
But, then again, it might also be personal. What if Mycroft knew? Of course he knew. Sherlock, who should know, said Mycroft knew everything. John's chaotic thoughts were beginning to confuse him.
In all fairness, Sherlock had come to John's bed, not the other way around, but that probably wouldn't mean a thing to an outraged older sibling. If John was lucky, and he usually wasn't, this would just be the standard 'if you hurt my brother, you're dead' speech. However, it could be, and probably was, the 'you had sex with my baby brother, so now you die...horribly' speech. This all raced through John's mind as he slowly marched toward the tall, ginger-haired man in a grey, tailored, three-piece suit.
John forced a small, tight smile on his face to counter the predatory smirk on the face of Emperor Mycroft. There was no reason for him to grovel. Captain Watson would face death like a man.
"Have a seat, John," said the British Government, with false solicitude. There was only the one chair.
"You know, I've got a phone," replied John, standing at attention. He mentally marked the armed bodyguards hidden in the shadows and blocking every exit. He nodded politely to the sniper hidden in the scaffolding. Gotcha he thought. "Kidnapping army vets is very clever and all that, but everyone's doing it, even the bad guys… I know, you could just…phone me? On m' phone."
"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes…" began Mycroft.
"I haven't been near your brother all day, as I'm sure you are aware, what with the cameras and all," John broke in, waving his arm vaguely in the general direction of London. The best defense was a strong offense; it seemed to be John's only option.
The consummate politician ignored the interruption and continued on with his prepared remarks, "You just met Sherlock this week. Now you've moved in with him. Last night you tracked him down and saved his life, when the best that Scotland Yard has to offer couldn't find him," said Mycroft Holmes with a hint of steel in his voice.
"Well, I s'pose they weren't thinking like Sherlock Holmes," said John. He remembered just in time to try to be diplomatic and did not insult the Yard's finest, who just happened to be Mycroft's partner. No need to dig my grave even deeper, thought John.
"No one can possibly think like Sherlock Holmes, certainly not you," scoffed the British Government. "I wonder; is it possible that you had prior knowledge of where Jeff Hope was going? I'm sure you can see how it looks, Doctor Watson? It's almost as if everything had been pre-arranged."
"What alternate universe do you live in, Mycroft?" asked the soldier with a straight face.
Mycroft drew his head back, affronted at the derisive tone and overt familiarity. People just didn't go around calling the British Government by his given name. Mycroft chuckled to cover his discomfort.
"Yes…the bravery of the soldier," drawled the taller man. "Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think? What are your intentions towards Sherlock?"
Oh. That bit about plotting with Hope was a just a distraction, a feint, realized John. Trying to get my guard down. Here comes the main attack. It was the 'big-brother-threat' speech, although it could still easily morph into the 'you shagged my baby brother and now you have to die' speech.
"I thought that was obvious; we're sharing a flat," said John furrowing his brows to convey confusion and concern; his subterfuge was not particularly convincing. Still, John tried not to look like a crazed sex-fiend who preyed on other people's younger siblings.
This was not really going terribly well. And while John hoped that he still looked brave and stupid, he was really quite nervous. Sweat trickled down his back. John was surrounded by armed hostiles and negotiating with the most dangerous man in the galaxy, or at least the free world. And there was even a sniper.
The sniper's rifle was still pointed at his chest, sort of. The barrel wavered a bit. Seemed a bit much; having a sniper trained on him. It was stupid really, just how dangerous do they think I am, wondered John. The ex-army doctor felt his nervousness changing into irritation. The sniper wasn't even a very good sniper. This was more insulting than threatening.
Since Mycroft was waiting with that smirk plastered on his face (he really was an annoying git, for all his omnipotence), John offered more information to the silent politician. "I might also be Sherlock's assistant at some point."
John sneezed twice and coughed once. No reaction from the British Government. Well, germ warfare wasn't likely to work twice in one day, was it? Since the taller man remained silent, the irritated doctor decided that he should leave.
"I s'pose, that's about it then," said John. "Now if we're finished?"
"Hardly," scoffed the taller man. "Now my brother…"
"Y'know; you should sit down, if your ribs are sore?" John offered the chair to the tall ginger.
"Thank you no," said Mycroft. "I wish to…"
"How's the cream working?" persisted John. The soldier decided to abandon the defensive/offense tactic; Mycroft was simply too powerful. John would have to try the invaluable subaltern approach. Firmly, but subtly, remind your superior officer that you are an invaluable asset, recalled John. He wanted Sherlock's older brother to remember that John was a highly trained marksman and a skilled doctor, and therefore, John was too useful to just kill and toss in the Thames.
"The cream? " prompted John, with his big, fake smile straining his face.
"The cream is working fine. Thank you," said Mycroft stiffly, because he hated to be beholden to anyone.
"I hope you achieved your goals, thanks to my, um shooting the other day," continued John, rubbing it in.
He watched the sniper's barrel dip down, up and to the side. Not professional. The sniper was getting tired already.
"Don't worry, John. He won't shoot unless I give the order or you threaten me, of course," said Mycroft smoothly.
"Oh for God's sake, don't let him fire!" said John, his brow furrowed in distress.
Mycroft's eyes gleamed. It was about time. Finally, he had the little soldier right where he wanted him, nervous and fearful of being shot again, practically begging. Watson had folded faster than anticipated.…
"Don't let him shoot, Mycroft," the ex-soldier begged. "His aim is dreadful. You're as likely to be hit as me. In fact, you better stand well away from me, just in case."
John marched over to his right, away from Mycroft and closer to the sniper. Then the former captain sighed; he seemed disappointed.
Mycroft was confused, and he hated to be confused.
"He's a rookie, isn't he? Christ, Mycroft, you put a rookie up there, and I bet you didn't even give him clear instructions. I thought you were a genius," said John who sounded disappointed.
"I really don't see…"
"Right! You don't see," snapped John. As so often happened, John's irritation had morphed in to anger. "We're all just a bunch of pawns to you. Bloody hell."
John looked up at the sniper, his hands on his hips. "Look, mister, every time you shake your head, you shake your gun too, and then you temporarily lose sight of me, your target. The first thing you have to do is wipe the sweat out of your eyes; you'll never hit me if you can't see. Second, relax your muscles; you're much too tense. You cannot possibly hold your aim forever; that's what the bipod is for. And for God's sake, take your hand off the trigger until you're actually ready to shoot, yeah? Now, take a few deep breaths…No not like that! That's got you jerking the gun again. Slow, very slow, very deep. Remember, I'm not half a kilometer away. I'm right here. You can't possibly miss. Have some confidence, mate."
John stopped when Mycroft grabbed his arm.
"Look Mycroft, I just told you not to get so close to me when I'm standing in the sights of this bloody rookie gunman," snapped Captain Watson. "You've got a very green, very nervous man up there presumably with a loaded gun. If he panics, one of us may die, and right now, it's just as likely to be you as me." John shook loose from Mycroft's grip and moved away again.
Mycroft sighed deeply, this was not going as planned. He hated when things did not go as planned.
"Owens, just come down from there." ordered Mycroft. A red-faced, boy began backing out and down from the scaffolding.
"Owens, freeze!" snapped Captain Watson. "Safety on! Eject the damned mag and make sure your damn chamber is empty! What if you fucking fall, Owens? What if the damn rifle drops? D'ya want a misfire? This room is full of civvies including a high-ranking member of the British Government. Secure your weapon and then get down from there. And I exoect you to report to your superior officer for more training. You make damned sure that you get the proper training and practice that you need, before you get yourself or someone else killed. And Owens," the boy had climbed down by now. He stopped and stood at attention, facing the irate captain. "Owens, I want you to know, I don't blame you. I blame your superiors for sending you out without proper preparation," John nodded at the young man. "That'll be all, Owens."
The scarlet-faced boy saluted the ex-captain, pivoted and marched to the nearest door.
Captain Watson turned to direct his ire at the British Government.
"Calm yourself, Doctor Watson. He was never meant to be a serious threat," said Mycroft glibly.
"Idiot!" exploded John, his hands in fists. The bodyguards, who now included Lestrade, moved in closer. "That just makes it worse! You NEVER point a gun at anyone unless you're prepared to shoot to kill. Never!" John shrugged away from Mycroft's mollifying hand and backed away from the approaching detective inspector. And just where did he come from, wondered John.
At least the bodyguards, though alert, did not feel the need to pull out their guns and wave them around. At least they knew their business, thought John grimly.
"Don't you touch me, Mycroft. And don't interrupt me when I'm talking," he shook his finger in the tall ginger's face.
"That gun was obviously loaded and ready to shoot," continued Captain John Watson. "That poor kid was nervous as hell. He could've misinterpreted the threat level at any moment. What if he had fired and killed me, or God forbid, killed you? He might have been ruined for life!"
"John, calm down," said Lestrade, approaching again warily. "No one got hurt…"
"Well I expected more sense from you, Detective Inspector," snapped the Captain. "And from you lot too," he pointed at the bodyguards. "I expect most of you are ex-military. But Jesus, did you never…"
"I'm sorry, Captain Watson," Mycroft bit off each poisonous word. "I overrode their advice. I wished to discover the truth…"
"Well, next time just fucking ask!" shouted John, who sucked in his breath and bit his lip. "Sorry, ma'am," he apologized to Anthea who smirked and winked conspiratorially at him. John decided that she at least was not a pod-person. Out of habit, he wondered if she was single.
John calmed fractionally. Anthea was all right. Anthea was probably the real bodyguard protecting the British Government. She was a professional, and she could probably reign in her errant commander, if anyone could. John hoped she gave the arrogant git the dressing down that he deserved.
"Okay, you've wasted enough of our time, Mycroft. Ask your stupid questions," said John.
"Where's your cold?" asked Lestrade suspiciously.
"Oh for the love of bloody…" John looked at the Anthea and tried not to swear. "It got scared out of me when I realized that I was going to be shot to death- purely by accident. Hel... sorry, heck, are you afraid of germs too? It's just a mild upper respiratory infection. He..heck it could just an allergy! You've seen the state of that flat. It's a hazchem incident in progress not to mention the biologics…"
"Then why move in? Why take on my brother as a flatmate?" asked Mycroft, trying to regain control of the situation.
"Because I need a flat, and the price is right," said John, lying badly as usual. "Besides, your brother is a bloo…is a genius. He's a genius, and he's interesting, and he doesn't treat me like a bl…like an idiot or a cripple."
"Wait, he treats everyone like an idiot," interrupted Lestrade.
"Yeah, but he treats me like I'm not as much of idiot as most of the other idiots," said John. He bit his lip, suddenly worried that he was giving away too much information. That last bit sounded oddly sentimental, in a weird sort of way.
Mycroft caught on at once, of course. "Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week," said the British Government, relieved to find the battle shifting back in his favor.
"No! Look. Sherlock and I are just flatmates, well, maybe colleagues ," said John. Then he finally remembered his script. "I'm not actually gay."
"You may speak freely here Doctor Watson. Your other boyfriend will not overhear," said Mycroft.
"Forgive me if I have my doubts," said John, who was quite certain that he had said way too much already. "And I don't have personal discussions in front of an audience. And I don't have any boyfriends."
"I speak freely in front of my partner and my PA," said Mycroft indicating Lestrade and Anthea. The other guards had disappeared again. John was irritated that he hadn't noticed their withdrawal. Oddly, that made him angry.
"Yeah, still not gay and still not trusting you. This place is bugged, and you probably have another sniper hidden behind one of the walls," accused John.
Simultaneously, the other three locked their gazes carefully on John. Oh. Oh yeah, there was another sniper, and they were carefully not betraying the location of that other sniper. John wanted to sit down now, but of course he couldn't. Mycroft Holmes was his superior officer. Anthea was a lady and Lestrade was his elder. Besides, he didn't want to show any weakness in front of any of them.
"Bloody hell. Um, sorry," that to Anthea. "There really is another sniper?" John sighed. "Christ, I'm really not that dangerous."
"I never thought you were," said Mycroft. "I need to understand you, John Watson. I need to be able to trust you…"
John pursed his lips thinking. Then he interrupted, "Wait, you never even told that poor kid did you. He didn't know about the other sniper. He was just for show. You used him. You don't care what happens to him. You're the reason soldiers get killed for nothing. You're the reason soldiers get PTSD. Well you damn well better make sure that kid gets training before you send him out again and counseling too, if you're going to be sticking him in these ambiguous situations."
"Watson, you're way out of line here," warned Greg Lestrade.
Captain Watson ignored him completely, "I know your type Mycroft Holmes; you use people. You hide behind the Crown, but in the end, you're as bad as Jim Moriarty. You don't give a damn about the men and women on the front lines. We're all just cannon fodder to the likes of you."
"You're wrong Captain Watson," said Mycroft softly. "I care about all of my people. And by extension that includes the men and women who serve in Her Majesty's military, and it includes every one of Her Majesty's citizens."
John folded his arms stubbornly. Then, for a split second, John saw a flash of red. And so the other sniper is revealed, thought John. Another amateur. Who the hell needs a laser-sight at this range anyway? He snorted in disgust.
Naturally, Mycroft assumed the snort was for him. "I even care about you, Captain Watson. And my brother? I care about him a great deal. This meeting was necessary. You may not like my methods, but they are effective," said Mycroft sternly. "I believe I begin to understand you now."
Mycroft continues, "Most people blunder around this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You've seen it already; haven't you? "
John tightened his lips and made no response..
"That is why you've moved in with my brother. You've been missing the battlefield, and my brother has given it back to you," said the British Government. "How long do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"
"I could be wrong," said John defensively, "but I think that's none of your business.
"It could be," said Mycroft Holmes, with a raised brow.
"It really couldn't," said John stubbornly.
"When you do move into …221b Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money, on a regular basis, to ease your way,
"Why?" asked John, nonplussed.
"Because you're not a wealthy man," said the tall, arrogant aristocrat.
"In exchange for what?" John did not trust this man at all. Sherlock was right. Mycroft was an archenemy.
"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel…uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."
"Why?" asked the captain, frowning.
"I worry about him...Constantly," said Mycroft with unusual candor and a frown to match John's.
"That's nice of you," said the short, sarcastic blond. John now regretted sending his special all-natural, soothing cream to Mycroft. That git deserved to be sore for trying to spy on Sherlock and for trying to bribe John. This whole thing was infuriating.
"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned," continued the arrogant git. "As you may already know, we have what you might call a…difficult relationship."
"No," said John. He was ready to leave now.
'"But, I haven't mentioned a figure," offered the British Government.
"Don't bother."
"You're very loyal, very quickly."
"No I'm not. I'm just not interested," lied John. He fooled no one.
"Trust issues, it says here?" said Mycroft opening a notebook.
John swallowed, and his forehead furrowed. That looked like his former counselor's notebook. "What's that?"
"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily," continued Mycroft trying to press his advantage
"Are we done?" asked John. His confidential psychological discussions were now in the hands of his boyfriend's evil brother. Luckily, John did have trust issues and hadn't really told his counselor very much. He pressed his lips together. It may have been out of character, but John was angry.
"Are we done?" asked John again, forcing himself to remain calm. His hand flexed once or twice. It was eager to punch someone, preferably a tall, well-dressed git with ginger-brown hair.
"You tell me, I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand, that's not going to happen."
Right. "I think we are done here, "said John.
"Don't you want to hear about your hand…" asked Mycroft.
"No. I've had enough demonstrations of how clever you Holmes brothers can be, thank you," said John, angrily of course.
Mycroft made a moue of disappointment, while Anthea hid her face in her Smartphone and Greg bit his lip. The detective inspector's eyes sparkled in amusement; he really couldn't dislike the furious, little soldier who was able to stand up to the Holmes's. He sensed a friend and ally in the making.
"Very well," continued Mycroft. "allow me to say that Sherlock is, how shall we say this…very inexperienced. A novice…
"A virgin? Are you warning me off your brother because you think he's a virgin?" asked John incredulously.
"God no. I'm warning you that he's a novice when it comes to relationships. He may be awkard…
"Thank God, you're not awkward, Mycroft," said John abruptly. This was embarrassing. He was not going to discuss relationships with Mycroft. And why the bloody hell did I say virgin, thought the beet-red doctor. Christ, I just about confessed that I had sex with the man's little brother.
"I've had enough," said John. "Let me save us both from any more humiliation. Whatever goes on between your brother and me is private. It does not concern you. But perhaps I can reassure you. One. I won't hurt Sherlock Holmes, and if I did, I know you'll hurt me, make my life a living hell and then probably kill me, slowly and painfully. Consider me forewarned and thoroughly threatened. Two. When he gets tired of me, which of course he will because he's a rich, handsome, cultured genius, and I'm just a broken-down old war-horse, you will be held blameless because you've already warned me about that too. Next. When that bleak day comes, I will depart gracefully and without complaint. I will not hold a grudge or try to stand in his way. So no worries there. In the meantime, I intend to remain his friend, and I will support him anyway I can, and, just for the hell of it, I will protect him with my life. That work for you? Yeah? Finally, I will still undertake my previous mission. Conveniently, my mission and his case overlap now; don't you just love it when a plan comes together?" John looked up at Mycroft's frown. John flashed his best, patented fake smile.
"This is where you agree with me, Mycroft... You're supposed to say, with evil glee…'It is unavoidable. It is your destiny!" Impossibly, John increased the wattage of his fake grin.
John looked at the other three expectantly. "It's my destiny?... You're the evil Emperor Palpatine? I'm Luke Skywalker?" suggested John.
Mycroft's and Anthea's faces remained blank but a glimmer of recognition flitted across Greg's face. "Uh, Star Wars?" the DI asked uncertainly.
God, while John fought in Afghanistan, everyone in London really had become pod-people, thought the blond soldier sadly. No one knew anything about anything interesting anymore.
"Oh never mind!" snapped the ex-army doctor, "Just forget that I said anything about Palpatine."
"John, I appreciate your candor. I may have underestimated you," said Mycroft, trusting his PA to research this Palpatine. It may provide a valuable clue about Watson.
"Oh shut it, Mycroft. You know where I stand. Now, you all do," said John, frowning under his heavily furrowed brow. "So, I'd thank you not to mention it again. I am leaving, and if you feel the need to shoot me, your wretched sniper will just have to shoot me, while my back is turned. Then you can get him counseling. FYI, he needs a bit of training too. The laser sight gives his location away and he really shouldn't need it at this range."
"She. She's our senior sniper," said Lestrade. He was miffed on Mycroft's behalf and irritated that he hadn't recognized the Star Wars reference right away. And these were his, well Mycroft's best snipers. And evidently, they weren't all that good. The Detective Inspector pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.
"Well, she needs some training too," said John with a sniff. Which made him sneeze, reducing the impact of his proud retreat. He kept walking anyway, sneezing repeatedly.
"It's a very long walk back to Baker Street, Doctor," said Mycroft. "And it's raining." The stubborn little man kept walking. "And you have a cold; do you want to catch pneumonia?"
Unexpectedly, this served to anger the ex-soldier. "I once had to retreat 78 miles in rain and snow in the foot hills of the Himalayas while I had pneumonia, real pneumonia. The fever, chills, cough, aches and physical exhaustion so deep you wish you would die from the coughs that tear your guts out kind of pneumonia," John turned finally. "And I was the healthiest man there; the others were sick and wounded. And half of the time I had to carry our dying CO. So, I know what pneumonia is and I'll let y' know when I have it. And I guess I can manage a jog 'cross London in the springtime." John made it to the exit with out getting shot by the sniper. He hadn't really thought that the second sniper would shoot him. But, one never knew for sure. Regardless of his fierce attitude, his back was soaked with sweat, because he really had been a bit frightened back there, I mean there was a sniper locked on him for God's sake, thought John, and an amateur sniper at that.
He opened the door and looked at the pouring rain.
Dammit. Damn me for showing off. Now I have to walk in the rain to prove how bloody tough I am, and it's getting dark. I'm a bloody idiot.
He heard the bay door opening and the black car was pulling up alongside him. The door opened, and Anthea leaned out.
"Get in, Doctor Watson," she suggested.
John did not like her superior attitude. He didn't like her boss. He also didn't like hiking in the rain, despite his idiotic display of military braggadocio. John got in the car.
The rain pounded the roof of the car. The wipers beat out the time to Darth Vader's theme song. John's mind was stuck on Star Wars now. Clearly Mycroft had to be Palpatine. But neither Lestade nor Anthea really fit the role of Darth Vader. On top of that, John couldn't be Skywalker, because he was really much too old to be the young Padawan.*
It was stupid, but John couldn't get Star Wars out of his head. John glowered at the windshield wipers, he blamed them for keeping the Darth Vader's theme stuck in his head.
"I'm sorry about your CO," Anthea murmured, after a prolonged spell of silence.
"It's fine," sighed John. "In the end, he didn't die. We got him to hospital in time to save his life," grumbled John. He didn't like talking about this and shouldn't have brought it up. He glowered at the wet streets and people running about like sheep and…
She blinked at her screen. "It was Moran."
"Yeah. Go ahead and text your snooty boss. Tell him it was Moran. You can let him know that the Colonel was eternally grateful to me…for about two weeks. 'Course, your boss wasn't even grateful for that long," John finished with a mutter.
John tried to check his stupid phone. Of course it didn't work. He shook the mobile and scowled, "You know, my damn phone isn't working. It was working fine before." He was so irritated and angry that he forgot not to swear in front of Anthea.
He tapped at the phone, shook it and kept flicking the buttons. He repeatedly jammed the on/off button as if he was performing mobile phone CPR.
Anthea grew weary of witnessing such blatant phone abuse and took the device from the doctor. After several minutes of advanced life support and attempting to charge the battery, she delivered the bad news.
"It's dead. You've killed it," she said disapprovingly. "A new one will be delivered shortly. It will have a shock and water-resistant case, but you really must promise to take better care of your phone."
John sat quietly, feeling vaguely disreputable for committing mobile phone abuse. It was all very depressing, and it was another reason to stay angry, and the wipers kept up the ominous, Vader-ish refrain. Dum. Dum. Dum. Dum, de dum. Dum, de dum.
A/N *Padawan-an apprentice Jedi knight, from the Star Wars-verse.
I apologize if anyone was offended by the mobile phone abuse. I know that Anthea was appalled.
Thank you for reading this chapter, and thank you to everyone who is following this fic. Thank you to those who have Favorited this fic as well. (i suppose favorited is not a word, oh well.)
Special thanks go out to those of you who reviewed. I LOVE your comments, advice and questions. To be honest, I also love your wonderful compliments. I eat up your compliments like John eats up jam. Thank you to Wicked Winter, EJ 12212012, Quiet TIme, SamuelE8688, 107602, G0dC0mplex, foxeeflame, anyrei1, TheSherlockianGodess, and dana-san.
Disclaimer- I regret to inform you that I still do not own the rights to SHERLOCK. If I ever get those rights, I promise to share :D
Additional disclaimer- I do not own any rights to Star Wars either :(