The Cover Art for The Marksman, created bycan be viewed by Googling anyrei at tumblr***
A/N If you do not want to see the warning (and its spoiler risk-not much of a spoiler, but some people don't care for it) please skip to the next line break.
Warning: Rated M for Violence, swearing and oc character deaths.
Additional warning: This chapter ends in another cliffhanger. In fact the next one will too. I blame Mofftiss. After all, why take the blame when you can pin it on someone else. Besides, I am just following their most excellent examples (e.g. TGG, TRF and HLV…).
****Chapter 34****
John blatantly studied the guards; after all, what did he have to lose. The senior bodyguard was a vicious, yet not unattractive brunette, who swung a mean backhand. Her name was Candice, but John still called her Svetlana, for no particular reason other than spite. After all, he had been the lucky recipient of her vicious backhand.
The much-too-young junior guard, who John had christened Junior, for obvious reasons, looked a bit nervous when John glared at him. The kid should have been at Uni; he should not have been pointing a modified SIG p226 with an illegal silencer at a veteran of the Afghan War.
Even though both guards had probably been brainwashed themselves, the former soldier tried not to sympathize with or, God forbid, identify with either of them. Sympathizing with your captors was a crucial step in brainwashing . Besides, they seemed to be quite willing to kill him, and John should be ready to return the favor.
Jim seemed to think that John could be coercively persuaded to join Team Moriarty- heart and soul. Well, Jim was wrong. John would not be persuaded and, if necessary, had every intention of dying before that happened. The former army captain already had five different suicide plans ready for immediate implementation.
Escape plans were another matter. So far John had devised no escape plans which did not result in his own death. Even something simple, like Plan E (E for EMITTER thingy) had been rejected with extreme prejudice, by Svetlana the Implacable,
*****Plan E for EMITTER Thingy
*****Prepared by John H. Watson, Captain, RAMC, RET.
Problem:If the criminal mastermind's radio jammer is operational, John's EMITTER thingy can't transmit John's coordinates to Sherlock or even to the Sith Emperor, Mycroft. So, John needs to get away from this house for a few minutes. Just long enough for EMITTER to do its job. Right?
Materials: A winning smile and trustworthy blue eyes.
Operational Plan: John will say, "I could really use a bit of fresh air and maybe a moment to…uh, relieve myself? How about we step outside for a couple of minutes?"
John will stand and flash his friendliest fake smile. The smile should read, 'I'm just a plain old, very dull and very unthreatening little man, so you can trust me.'
Either Svetlana or Junior will take John for a short run. EMITTER thingy will emit a signal, bringing in back-up. Preferably heavily armed back-up
Outcome: Svetlana the Implacable backhanded John back into his chair. She liked to do that. The good news was that the chair was cushioned. The bad news was that John really did need to use the loo, and he was dizzy from repeated head trauma.
*****So much for plan E.
The light outside was turning yellow-orange, and the shadows increased in the cozy sitting room of doom. John rather liked that term: 'the sitting room of doom', but he was too tired and too anxious to enjoy it. John was running out of time. It had turned out to be late afternoon and not morning when he awoke in this damn chair. That meant that it was almost time for bed, which meant bed with Moriarty. On top of that, John H. Watson had maybe fifteen to twenty minutes to come up with a viable escape plan before the things went to hell.
A viable escape plan? Ha, another good one, thought Watson. Viable escape plan versus the suicidal ones, that was pretty funny. Too bad Svetlana and Junior were so unfriendly, or he could share the joke with them. They probably wouldn't have understood the joke anyway. John sighed.
John rubbed at his mouth, worrying at the split lip. He was rapidly losing heart. Really, his first plan, suicide by Svetlana, was probably his only option.
And then, without any fanfare, fortune favored the foolish.*At least that was what John thought.
"I have to go prepare Watson's bathing arrangements," whispered Candice (aka Svetlana) to Junior. "Keep your gun on him at all times and keep him in that chair."
She glared at John, who tried to look small and helpless in that chair.
Candice left the room through the French doors. John quickly came up with escape plan J (J for Getting the Jump on Junior) (it was the best John could do under short notice).
It probably wouldn't succeed, but then again it might work, and maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't result in John Watson's death.
Immediately implementing plan J, John announced, "I'm gonna puke again."
The short blond soldier stood unsteadily and stumbled towards the single guard. The young wide-eyed guard held up his modified SIG; his hands trembled ever so slightly. Trying to look hurt and harmless, the former army captain hunched over, moving slowly as if in pain. The punk had his finger on the trigger and a panicked look in his eye.
"So are you gonna shoot me or get me a bin?" demanded John in a hoarse whisper. He held his mouth and faked a dry heave. The ex-army doctor's hand also concealed his faint grin.
The inexperienced younger man froze and then blinked. Junior lowered his eyes, reaching for the wicker waste-paper bin by the fancy writing desk.
John looked up, his eyes blazing. He reached out and grabbed the guard's SIG. The unwanted bin fell and rolled away.
"Shhhh," hissed John to the ashen-faced youth, "quiet now…Make any noise, and you die. On your knees. Hands behind your neck."
As soon as the guard dropped to his knees, John brought the gun down on Junior's head. The guard crumpled.
The former soldier moved quickly to the main door. He fought off another wave of vertigo as he struggled with the lock. What the hell? John wondered. Why do I always have trouble with locks? He glanced behind him. The young guard was out cold. Candice wasn't back yet; she was probably looking for the rose-scented soap.
The ex-captain clumsily shoved the sexy, customized Sig into the front of his waistband. Finally, after a minute which seemed like an hour, his cuffed hands were able to fumble the door open.
John pulled the gun back out with his right hand and ensured that he had a round chambered. Then he poked his head out the door, looking for hostiles. Seeing that the coast was clear, the battered ex-soldier began a hobbling run down the very long gravel driveway. The gate seemed like it was a mile away.
This also didn't look much like London either, but no matter, his EMITTER thingy was surely emitting a tracking signal now. Yeah? Only a matter of time until back-up arrived. Preferably heavily armed back-up. And preferably, it would come soon.
At least, now that he was in action, the former captain was calm. His mind was focused on escape, even though he was getting winded fast…and he was a tad dizzy…and everything hurt…
Then John heard the first shouted alarm. There wasn't going to be enough time to run/hobble down the drive, even if he had the energy... which he didn't. Captain Watson needed to get to cover. Now.
The blond veered off across the lawn, towards the nearest stand of trees. The little copse glowed yellow-green, as the falling sunlight hit the budding spring growth. The trees and brush were still half-naked, so it wasn't going to provide very good cover, but it was better than nothing.
John lurched forward, fighting off more damn dizziness. He heard another shout. This time it was a woman yelling, "Stop!"
Then John heard the whistle-pop of suppressed gunfire, and the bullet whizzed past him. Luckily for John, the shooter missed, even at this close range. That shooter was not a sharpshooter, scoffed the marksman to himself.
Looking back, he saw Candice crouching behind him. She fired again. This round nicked his shoulder. It burned like hell, but left little more than a painful scratch. Nope, she wasn't much of a markswoman at all, but if he let her keep shooting, eventually she might hit him by accident.
She was a deadly threat. He gave himself permission to remove the threat. She was a target.
Gasping for breath and gritting his teeth, he ran backward a few steps. John raised his gun.
Target acquired.
She pointed her gun at him once more. He veered to his left, braced his legs and held his breath. He fired. Candice dropped, as she let off another round. Her final round plowed the earth next to him.
Target eliminated.
Looking back at the house, he saw the Colonel peering out of the door, with yet another guard standing behind him. Dammit, how many foot soldiers does Jim have?
The two men were targets.
John took aim. The Colonel instantly saw his danger and dove into the shrubbery. The henchman foolishly stood his ground and raised his gun.
Target acquired.
John held his breath and caressed the trigger.
The guard fell down the steps.
Target eliminated.
The colonel, no the ex-colonel, remained hidden, so the ex-army doctor ran to the trees, crouching low and lurching from side to side, in a clumsy attempt at evasion. Just as he reached the first trees, he inexplicably fell. John cursed as he was crippled by his psychosomatic pain.
"Stand down, Watson." ordered Moran with a harsh bellow. "You hear me, Captain Watson? Stand down."
John actually thought about it for a second or two, but the ex-colonel, his former superior officer, was now an enemy combatant… so, no. Hell no.
"Hell no! Sebastian! Fuck no, you traitor! NO!" yelled John, adding a two finger salute with a shaking hand. He did not use Moran's former rank. The bloody traitor had no right to that rank, not when he had betrayed his comrades and his country, thought the ex-RAMC captain angrily.
John Watson tried to stand up, but his right leg gave way, and he crumpled to the ground, just before Moran fired another round. That round passed overhead, missing the prostrate blond.
As the ex-army doctor fell, it seemed to flip a switch, and waves of searing pain enveloped his leg. Damn and bloody hell.
It wasn't psychosomatic pain after all, John had taken a hit.
Sadly, fortune no longer favored this foolish soldier.
Gasping in pain and fighting back reflexive tears, John squirmed around to face the enemy stronghold, still on his stomach. Moran broke through the bushes next to the house and advanced. Crouched low to the ground, much like John had done. John's hands were shaking badly, and when he tried to shoot Moran, of course he missed, barely scoring the tall commando's side. The former spec ops leader barely flinched. Finally Sebastian took cover behind Candice's body, rolling her sideways for maximum coverage. Moriarty's sniper fired blindly back at the ex-army captain, but missed by a wide margin.
And now they waited.
At least, John had bought himself a little time. The ex-army doctor took a deep shuddering breath, followed by another one, even deeper. John tried to ignore the excruciating pain pouring out from his leg. He tried to block out everything except his target, Sebastian Moran. The former captain braced his elbows on the ground to keep his trembling to a minimum.
He waited; he knew Moran. Although the ex-colonel had the patience of any well trained sniper; Moran also had a legendary temper. The former army colonel would be angry. Hell Moran was angry before all the shooting started. Now, with his captive loose and armed? Now after John had actually wounded him (even if it was a very minor wound)? Well, Sebby would be enraged now and that would make him reckless. He'd be up and taking aim at John Watson any minute now. So John waited and aimed at a point just above the fallen gunwoman's shoulder.
The glowing, orange sky was shot through with gory blood-red streaks. The near-blinding sky made the captain's eyes water. He blinked and let the tears run down his face, just so long as he could keep his vision clear.
And then, suddenly, Moran was moving.
Target acquired.
Sebastian Moran rose to a crouch, in order to shoot. The colonel seemed like a dark smudge against the burning sky behind him. John fired a round. He'd aimed at the Colonel's chest, but the dark figure grabbed at his arm or shoulder. Moran fell with a curse, as John fired again, this time missing.
"Sebby?" called Moriarty, peering out the doorway of the house.
"Get back, boss!" yelled Sebastian harshly. He sounded out of breath, probably in pain. Good, thought John.
John eyed the devil standing half-in/half-out of the distant doorway. Normally, the marksman would have been confident of this shot. But today it seemed so far away. Then too, John's vision was off and his hands trembled with the weight of the gun. He had to try, it was his duty. John took a breath, aiming for the enemy leader, James fucking Moriarty.
Target acquired.
"Dammit Jim, get down! You're in range," screamed Sebastian Moran.
John fired.
Moriarty shrieked like a banshee and grabbed at his ear. He ducked back into the house. Damn, thought John lowering his heavy head for just a second. Damn, so close. I almost had that bloody bastard. John shifted a tiny bit and kept watch over the sniper hiding behind the fallen combatant.
For the next little while, the enemy combatants laid low. The battlefield was surprisingly peaceful. John heard nothing but the branches creaking in the breeze and a bird chirping.
Captain Watson knew that the ex-colonel was watching for any movement, which would signal the location of his target. To stay safe, the captain was forced to cower in position, hiding in the brush and the long shadows cast by the setting sun.
All of which meant that Doctor Watson couldn't treat his own wound. Of course, the ex-colonel was injured too. So maybe it was a race to see who would bleed out the fastest?
John grinned broadly. It was a shame his nurse, Bill, wasn't here to share the joke. Bill always enjoyed John's graveyard humor. Maybe Bill would be a part of the rescue team. Surely, Command would send in support soon.
Moran shifted clumsily, his shoulder was briefly visible above his human shield. John fired at the small moving target and missed, hitting the corpse instead.
John raged silently, dammit! I can't believe I missed the bloody target, again! Bloody hell!
John dropped his head long enough to wipe the sweat off his face. Funny how I'm all sweaty, thought the doctor, even though it's so cold out.
Actually, that's a symptom, supplied some part of his brain. And not a good symptom. And there's nothing I can do about it, 'cause I'm pinned down by hostile fire. The blond pursed his lips and forced his eyes to focus.
He waited.
I wish that I had my radio, thought Captain Watson. Where the hell did I lose my radio? In fact, where the hell is the rest of my unit?
Wait. London, I remember, my unit's in London, and I got…got separated. I was taken hostage by the insurgents and that traitor Moran. John scowled at the thought of the turn-coat, Sebastian Moran.
John kept his focus on the rogue colonel's location. Every once in a while, he flicked his eyes towards the doorway of the enemy compound, just in case more of the insurgents tried to come to Moran's aid.
It was damned hard to visualize Moran's location, what with the setting sun directly front of John, but once the sun dropped below the trees, targeting would be easier.
Unfortunately, it was taking forever for the sun to set.
"I'll probably bleed to death before that bloody sun sets," muttered John to his nurse, Bill. Bill didn't respond, not even to chuckle at the joke.
The evening quiet was broken by the sound of an engine. Without moving his head, Captain Watson, swiveled his eyes. A vehicle rounded the stronghold of the enemy combatants; it slowly crept towards him, then it began to execute a turn.
John tracked the hostile vehicle with febrile eyes, which burned under his lowered brow.
"Well, will you look at that, Bill?" murmured John.
It was sleek black SUV, with tinted windows, and it was in-bound on Moran's position.
"The insurgents are staging an evac," whispered Captain Watson. "Shite, just look at that thing, Bill. Jeeesh, does everyone have a black car with tinted windows?" John asked with a sighed.
Bill remained silent. So the army sniper muttered under his breath, "Must belong to a drug lord or an arms trafficker,"
The dark SUV stopped in front the enemy sniper's position, blocking John's view of the traitorous ex-colonel.
He heard the door slide open on the far side of the van. In spite of the tinting, the bright, orange-red sky shone dully through the windows. Through the middle window, the captain saw a vague, man-shaped shadow moving into the van.
Target acquired.
John shot through the tinted window. He fired once, shattering the glass. He locked on to the slow-moving target inside the SUV and fired a second time. The unknown target dropped. The black SUV shot forward bouncing over the green lawn; the tires kicked up great gouts of dirt. John shot at the driver, shattering the front passenger-side window.
He heard yelling, and he heard Moriarty shrieking like a banshee. It's too much to hope for, but maybe I hit Moriarty, thought Captain Watson
"You know, Bill, I can't imagine what Moriarty is doing running evacs in Afghanistan. Weird, isn't it?" said the captain.
The black SUV tore off down the drive. The injured marksman managed to shoot out a back window before the vehicle pulled out of range, disappearing in the dark.
The vehicle was gone, and John was alone.
It was quiet again. And cold. At least nothing hurt anymore. That was good.
The sniper needed to check his SIG's magazine. Surely the magazine was almost empty. But John just stared at the gun in his hands. Oh, what the hell; the gun was too heavy to hold up anyway. And, it wasn't as if John had any more rounds for reloading…unless he crawled over to the body of the enemy combatant. She might have some rounds on her. Maybe even another gun. But it was such a long way to go, and John was so very, very tired.
John decided that his head was too heavy too; he slowly slumped down onto the damp ground. He dropped his head onto his arms and loosened the hold on his gun.
John H. Watson, Captain, RAMC was certain that there was something important that he was supposed to be doing. Someone was injured, and he was the damn doctor. Wasn't it his job to tend the wounded? Wasn't it his duty? He thought about getting up to look for the wounded soldier. Yes, of course, it was his duty, and he'd do it in just a minute.
It took effort just to open his eyes. Captain Watson didn't see any wounded soldiers, just the dark lumpish shape of the fallen enemy, and she was already dead. He looked up to the purple-blue sky. It was rather pretty. John smiled, at peace.
Then the crunch of gravel disturbed the evening quiet. John Watson frowned. He lifted his head up to see a dark car pulling up the driveway. No headlights.
Uh oh, they're trying to sneak up on my position, the sneaky bastards. The captain scowled at his enemies; he squinted his eyes, forcing his eyes to focus.
John tried to find his gun. But it was dark, and his fingers were numb. Two men jumped out of the car. One them headed straight for the enemy compound. The other was playing with his radio, or maybe it was a mobile phone. The man with the phone shook in seeming frustration.
"That idiot prob'ly lost his signal," John hissed at Bill.
John's hands crawled over the ground. He needed to find that gun. He had to defend his position. Icy cold metal collided painfully with his stiff fingers. It was his handgun.
"Good. Come to Papa, honey," he whispered to his gun.
John clumsily cradled the gun in his frozen hands.
"Jesus, there's a body over here," yelled a man. The insurgent crouched near the door to the enemy compound. He sounded pretty upset.
The army captain pulled the gun closer. He forced his fingers to grasp the butt and find the trigger. The two men were doing a bit of shouting, but it didn't make much sense to John. They must have switched to Urdu. John hadn't learned much Urdu…
They were closer. Well one was much closer and still fiddling with his phone. Uh oh, he found the second body. Lots of muttering, but no more shouting. They must have realized that shouting in a battlefield was dumb. Still, they walked around presenting themselves to any gunman. Idiots. The two insurgents were not happy. They would be really, really angry if they found the British sniper hiding in the brush.
God, it was so bloody cold.
The captain gripped his gun with his almost nerveless hands. He didn't know how many rounds were left. Should he shoot the combatants? Or should he save a round for himself? He couldn't be captured again…not ever. Probably he should just shoot himself to prevent his capture.
But his primary duty was to take out the enemy, to shoot Moriarty's insurgents, right?
Dammit, he should have checked the magazine. At least then he'd know how many rounds he had left.
Captain John Watson tried to rise up on his elbows to acquire his target.
Bad idea.
The world went off kilter. His vision spun wildly, and his pulse thundered in his ears. Then dark, purple night descended on him; maybe he wouldn't need that last bullet after all.
A/N Sorry for the cliffhanger. Not very, very sorry... but a bit sorry. Also, please let me know if you find typos or other errors. I promise to send virtual cookies as a reward. :D
* 'Fortune favors the foolish'…is a quote from Star Trek IV:The Voyage Home. It is a switch on a quote from Virgil's Aeneid "Fortune favors the bold" or "Fortune favors the brave." (I did not spontaneously know this *gasp*. I got these golden nuggets of data from the Star Trek wikia: Memory Alpha.)
Thank you to everyone who reads my story and big thanks to those who follow it or make it one of their favorites.
Thank you with jam on it to everyone who have reviewed my fic. Thanks for the recent reviews from Sparklibird, 107602, Snowphire, EJ 12212012, Guest (I know who you are :D), dana-san, Erenem, Shadows Concealed In Darkness.
Please know that I do try to respond to every review and also try to thank each reviewer in my notes. If your review has ever slipped past me, I am very sorry. I am very grateful for every comment, con-crit, compliment or joke that you send my way. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!
Traditional Disclaimer-I do not own the rights to Sherlock. Surprisingly, I do not make any money off my silly stories on fan fic. But I do have a lot of fun. :D
(a/n* list of uncommonly used ,yet possibly vital abbreviations can be found at the end of this installment of BIFIC.)
BFBIC*-continued
The elder Holmes brother stated, "I have a case for you…"
"No, never! Now leave," snapped Sherlock unbuttoning his tea-dampened shirt. His well muscled, yet lean, chest was revealed to his disapproving sibling.
Mycroft straightened his already ramrod-straight back, giving himself another quarter-inch in height. It was more than enough to exceed his brothers paltry six feet.
"I am the smarter one and the taller one…" began Mycroft imperiously.
"But I have a goldfish and you don't," said Sherlock smugly.
"I don't want…a goldfish," said Mycroft, making a vinegary face, which would instantly pickle any fish. Luckily, Sherlock's fish did not see the face, because it was safely hidden behind the skull.
"Pity, John wanted to get you a goldfish bowl and a fish for Christmas," said Sherlock, standing on a copy of Steadman's Medical Dictionary, which incidentally made him taller than his brother. "Now he'll insist on one of his hideous Christmas jumpers."
"John Watson is ridiculous," announced Mycroft. "and his jumpers are atrocious; they practically scream second-hand store!"
"Enough! No one insults my blogger or his jumpers except me!" roared the WOCD*, hopping off the tome and slamming into his brother. The elder and taller Holmes was knocked into the hallway. "You are just jealous that I have someone who wants to take it up the duff, and you don't. You've always wanted John. Everyone wants John. Don't think I don't know it," he spat angrily. "Now leave, so I can shag John properly."
The jealous British Government (BG), who was once again at least an inch taller than his brother smiled superciliously, then scowled sourly for no reason except the author's desire for pointless alliteration.
"Give my regards to your ridiculous, not-gay boyfriend who I fear even now may be covered in jam, strawberry jam in fact."
"Mixed-berry jam," snarled Sherlock. "You're slipping with age."
The WOCD left the BG in the hall and slammed the door. Following the enticingly sweet smell of mixed-berry jam, he eagerly went into the kitchen to find his sticky, not-gay but bisexual or possibly homosexual partner.
Ominously, the empty jar of preserves stood alone on the table surrounded by jars of toxic chemicals, radioactive residue and an assortment of body parts.
"John?" called the WOCD.
He tilted his head and reexamined the evidence with narrowed eyes. Then he opened his eyes, suddenly realizing that open eyes allowed him to see better. Now Sherlock was able to observe the trail of jam on the floor, leading to the bedroom…
List of Uncommonly Used Abbreviations (LoUUA)
a/n: author's note-let ( not to be confused with A/N which stands for Author's Note)
BFBIC: bonus fluff because I can
BG: British Government
WOCD: World's Only Consulting Detective
LoUUA: List of Uncommonly Used Abbreviations
GF: Gold fish**
SB: Sexy blogger**
**sadly, these abbreviations are not found in this BFBIC
:D