Warnings- Still rated M for mature themes, implied violence etc.
Adjunct Warning Be advised that it may be dangerous to drink tea and read fan fic at the same time.
Cover art for The Marksman was created by anyrei1. It can be viewed on her blog at tumblr (anyrei)
A/N As far as I know (which may not be very far) Westinfold is entirely fictitious.
CHAPTER 36
John woke to the rhythmic beep, beep, beeping of a heart monitor. He couldn't remember how he got there, and that gave him a sinking feeling of déjà vu. Apparently, this was a reoccurring problem for John H. Watson.
Still, it didn't seem worth the effort to get upset about it. He allowed himself to float along with the beeping.
It was familiar and sort of comforting, the monotonous bleat of that monitor. That was because he was a doctor, yeah…a doctor. 'Course he wasn't being the doctor right now, he was in bed and hooked up to the monitor. He was clearly the patient then, which was fine.
It shouldn't be fine. Which means they must be pumping Doctor Watson full of some very nice drugs then. He drowsed comfortably for a while but discontent slowly inched its way in. He was Captain John H. Watson…and wasn't he supposed to be on a mission? Not lazing about on some drug-induced cloud. Besides, his leg hurt. Yeah, because there was that round to the leg during the shoot-out with the Enemy, and there was…
John heard someone come into the room. They were stealthy. Their sneaky, soft-soled shoes squeaked just a couple of times, warning John to lie low. Naturally, John was curious, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was in danger. He cautiously raised his eyelids just enough to see a tallish woman in blue scrubs. He pretended to be asleep. The woman was older than John, and she kept her grayish-brown hair tied back in a neat bun. He almost spoke to her, but he couldn't trust her. He couldn't trust anyone, could he?
She seemed confident and professional as she checked his vitals and his IV site. She hung a new bag of fluids or maybe it was more medication. She removed an empty unit of blood. That was interesting; John had been given a transfusion, yeah that was prob'ly a clue. The maybe-nurse adjusted the IV drip and patted his hand before leaving.
She definitely seemed like a nurse. She seemed like a nice nurse. But she didn't have a name badge on. Everyone in hospital wore tags and ID's and badges. So, even if she was a nurse, this prob'ly wasn't a hospital.
And it was far too quiet. Where were the sounds of orderlies, nurses and aides, where were the noises of passing gurneys and carts. Where was the buzzing from patient's call buttons, ringing for a trip to the loo. Where, in fact, was the overhead, paging a doctor or the IV team or…Shite.
This was no hospital.
The last time he woke up in a strange place, John was in the hands of the Taliban, which sucked and…no wait that was the time before. The last time that he woke up in a strange place, confused and forgetful was…was when he was in the hands of James Moriarty and his insurgents, which really, really sucked.
But I thought I escaped, reasoned John through the mental fog. I executed plan…plan something or other, and I had to eliminate a couple of the hostiles, they were Jim's enemy combatants. I shot the colonel and even winged that bloody, bastard Moriarty.
Yeah, I shot 'em, but I didn't eliminate either Moran or Moriarty, 'cause they bugged out. They left in their armored vehicle, right after Moran's evac. No, it wasn't an armored vehicle, just another bloody, black SUV with tinted windows.
Yet here I am, thought John, back in prison. I must have passed out and then been picked up by of Moriarty's foot soldiers. Must have been that bloke, the one I thought was Captain Holmes. He must have brought me back here, and then they treated my wound and pumped me full of drugs. Prob'ly they were drugs which will help Jim with that reprogramming, program-thing of his.
Well, I can put a stop to that. No more medication for John H. Watson.
He ripped off the tape and pulled out the IV. He switched off the pump, before it started sounding an alarm. Next he rolled over, ignoring the painful warning shots fired from his leg. He turned off the beeping heart monitor and tore the leads off too. He sat up slowly…waiting for dizziness or the return of the nurse or the appearance of some evil henchmen.
But there was no dizziness, perhaps thanks to the fluids and blood. Better yet, so far no one seemed to have noticed that John was preparing to escape yet again from the clutches of the evil crime genius.
Right. Good. Aside from his injured leg, which protested every movement, he felt fine. Well, perhaps not fine…but better than yesterday.
The events of yesterday flooded back. He was pretty clear on what happened until just after he shot Svetlana and the other foot soldier. And he also remembered exchanging fire with Moran, shooting Moran and getting shot himself, but maybe not in that order? And, of course he shot at the bastard Moriarty, who stupidly peeked out of the enemy compound, looking for Sebby.
After that things got very fuzzy. I got separated from my unit. The insurgents had me and Bill pinned down, and then Sherlock…
John scowled. None of that made sense. Bill worked up north in some A and E, and Sherlock wouldn't have been in Afghanistan in any case. John rubbed his face trying to get all the pieces to fit back together, but they just wouldn't fit. He couldn't fit Sherlock, Bill, Moriarty, insurgents and Sebby all in the same box. He abandoned the puzzle with a snort of frustration. Thinking about yesterday made him nervous anyway.
What ever had happened on the battlefield, John was once again imprisoned in a closed up white room. A room with fancy furniture despite the hospital bed and monitor, a room with no window. And of course there was a little vase with some stupid red roses. Red Roses. This was all, classic Moriarty-ish-ness. Damn.
STAY CALM.
Okay, despite the hospital bed, this is a prison cell. Hell, that's a camera mounted on the wall, isn't it? Bloody hell! Out of the frying pan and into the fire!
STAY CALM.
This is some secret, probably underground, facility, deduced the ex-army doctor. Oh yeah, this is definitely one of Moriarty's hidden lairs, and he is going to be so pissed off at Johnny-boy. Jim's gonna be mad about his dead guards and for shooting Sebby and especially for shooting Jim's ear. And Jim wasn't nice when he was angry. This was bad.
STAY CALM.
Breathe in…breathe out.
And Jim had threatened Sherlock Holmes. John had to warn Sherlock that he was going to be targeted now. John had to make a new Escape Plan and warn Sherlock.
Breathe and STAY CALM.
I can't wait for the Taliban…no, for Jim…to make the next move. It's time to escape. I have to get my head on straight. I have to remember who the damned enemy is (Jim is the enemy. Jim and his henchmen. Not the Taliban…I think). And I hav'ta get the hell out of dodge.
As soon as he crawled down to the end of the bed, his leg began complaining fiercely. Well, too bad. Suck it up soldier.
Need a Plan. John looked around the room, eyeing the camera with a fierce glare. The insurgents or Moriarty or whoever…well, they must know I'm up and about. They'll be here soon.
STAY CALM. But find a weapon, now.
Captain Watson climbed carefully out of bed. His feet hit the cold floor, and his injured leg caught fire. Fuck. That bloody hurt.
And of course the wretched hospital gown left his posterior all but exposed. Too bad, suck it up. This is no time for modesty, Captain Watson.
And stay calm. Let's move it out. He limped awkwardly toward the bathroom, hardly able to bear any weight on his injured leg. Hopefully, he'd find something to use as a cane in the bathroom. And maybe he'd get lucky and find a weapon.
Christ, it hurt. He held his hand to his mouth to keep silent, and what the hell could he use as a weapon?
"Greg, what do you have for us?" said Mycroft pleasantly, as he watched the detective inspector shuffle through the deep pile of files and forms.
Greg Lestrade grunted back unpleasantly. He wasn't really on speaking terms with his partner right now. Certainly not on chatting terms. Not after Lestrade had to help rescue a half-dead John Watson, and after he had to watch what that did to Sherlock Holmes. God, but wasn't that whole thing awful, thought the detective inspector morosely.
Mycroft had really gone too far this time, using Sherlock's boyfriend like that. And no bloody back up plan for when the bloody EMIT tracker failed. And just because it worked in the end didn't make up for all the damage.
It didn't help that Greg was exhausted after getting no sleep and then spending hours chasing after the ever elusive, Jim Moriarty. Without success, mind you. And let's not forget all the paperwork, which this fiasco had generated. Greg Lestrade had filled out a mountain of paperwork, and it wasn't done yet. His first pen had run out of ink. He was on his second pen…his second pen…and he was still filling out more forms.
Lestrade came back to reality when Sherlock pounded the table in indignation.
"Can we get this over with," demanded Sherlock, his fingers starting to dance nervously on the conference room table. "I've already spent an hour with my dear brother." The dear brothers shared a grimace. "I've read Lestrades's updates as they came in. He has nothing new to report, as you well know, Mycroft. Now, I wish to go check on John."
"Sherlock, if you wish my complicity with your latest scheme, then I expect you to humor me. I desire that we collate all the available data and then collaborate, to maximize the potential for success." said Mycroft officiously as always. "Besides, you can easily check on Doctor Watson, via the camera. As we can all see, he is sleeping quite comfortably."
All three men turned and saw the motionless form of John Watson. The blond looked rather small and helpless in the hospital bed with tubes and wires crawling over him, but at least he had some color in his face, thanks to the transfusions.
Mycroft made a moue of displeasure, as he remembered having to override the irate doctors and nurses at the hospital and then the awkward questions and difficulties surrounding the acquisition of additional O negative blood for the injured soldier. The hospital and blood bank officials were all so…stubborn. They had argued with Mycroft's emissaries. And they had so many forms that they insisted be filled out. Really, it was easier to obtain weapons of mass destruction than to requisition a couple of units of blood. Luckily, Mycroft's PA had dealt with the stacks of paperwork, but the entire procedure was…irksome.
"How's John doing Sherlock?" asked Lestrade with gruff camaraderie. He settled back in his chair with a faint grimace of his own; obviously his back was bothering him again.
"Oh he's fine. Haven't you heard? John is sleeping comfortably," snapped the sarcastic younger detective. "But wait, he's still in a coma. He's still unconscious after twenty-six hours…"
"Has it been that long?" muttered Greg Lestrade, rubbing his stubbled face.
"Of course he's unconscious," said the elder Holmes, overriding both brother and partner. " John Watson has been given anesthesia and pain medication. He's recovering from multiple wounds, head trauma, blood loss and surgery. I've been assured that it is perfectly normal for him to sleep. My doctor was pleased with John's latest exam and has even been cutting back on the morphine," said the British government official. "Doctor Ramos expects John to begin waking up quite soon, and he should make a full recovery."
"No thanks to you," muttered Sherlock. "And don't call him John."
The two Holmes brothers glared daggers at one another.
"It was I who arranged his transfer here, and it was I who arranged for the two units of blood which he so desperately required," said Mycroft stiffly. "I had to intervene personally…"
"You mean you ordered your minions to do it! And that was only after John almost died; thanks to you!" The younger Holmes practically vibrated with suppressed rage.
Lestrade patted Sherlock's arm but quickly withdrew his hand, irrationally fearing that the younger man might bite him.
"He'll be fine, Sherlock. You'll see," said the detective inspector reassuringly, but from a safe distance. "Oh, I spoke with Mrs. Hudson by phone. She's fine. She loves the condo she's staying in. She tried the waters and has been to the casino twice. Loves it. She's a bit worried about John of course. I didn't have the heart to tell her the whole story…not just yet."
"Yes. Yes. Yes," muttered Sherlock, rolling his eyes to indicate that he found the details superfluous.
"What have you learned about Moran?" asked Mycroft, aiming for a change of topic.
"Well nothing new, Mycroft. We're certain that Moran came through the A and E in Westinfold. He underwent surgery for gunshot wounds to his arm and abdomen. He was supposed to get a unit of blood himself, actually." Lestrade offered a smile but neither Holmes brother returned it. Right.
"So anyway, Moran was going to be admitted at Westinfold, but then he was suddenly transferred to a trauma center. It was during the transfer, that he disappeared…as did the driver and the two medics overseeing the transfer. There's a huge search underway. I sort of expected you to be participating in the man hunt, Sherlock."
When the consulting detective didn't respond, Lestrade continued. "Here's the copies of the medical records from Moran's stay in hospital and also the transcripts from each of the eyewitnesses that we've talked to so far."
"I will review the files while I'm in John's room," said Sherlock. "I presume you have no news on Moriarty?"
"Well, you already know that Moriarty was seen and treated for his ear. John really did shoot it off," said Lestrade with a dark chuckle. "Well, part of the outer edge, apparently. He'll need plastic surgery eventually. By the way, both Moriarty and Moran received a bunch of cuts from flying glass…from when a window blew out, I guess."
"You guess?" snorted Sherlock derisively. "Shouldn't you know?"
"Oh shut it Sherlock," said Lestrade frowning. "I've been bending over back…."
Sherlock stood suddenly, knocking his chair over with an echoing clatter. "John! John's gone!"
Mycroft and Greg gaped at the monitor. John's bed was empty, aside from the wires and tubing and a few drops of blood. In fact, John's room was empty.
Sherlock tore out of the room, followed closely by his brother and the DI, who called for support.
Sherlock Holmes ran down the long corridor and turned the corner, before skidding to a stop. Three doors down he saw John, still wearing his hospital gown. Drying blood smeared the inside his left elbow and trailed down his arm. The blond soldier stood in the doorway of his room, on his tiptoes. John had a strangle hold on a towering guard. The injured army captain held tight to a garrote apparently formed from IV tubing. He held the twisted ends of the garrote in one hand; with the other hand, John was just pulling the guard's handgun out of its holster.
John's face furrowed in confusion. Then his eyes narrowed and he mouthed, "Sherlock?"
Mycroft and Greg rounded the corner with two more guards.
At the sight of the guards, John raised the gun defensively. With one hand he removed the safety and chambered the first round.
John glared darkly at the threats. The two guards went for their weapons, and a small smile formed on John's face. He raised his gun with intent.
"Oh, do put the gun down, Doctor Watson," snapped the British Government. Mycroft's hand snatched his brother's arm before he could get any closer to the menacing soldier.
John had also raised his chin in defiance, "No, I don't think so. Who are those men? Why should I trust them…or you? Where are we? What have you done with Bill and the rest of my unit?"
"Doctor Watson, you are confused…"
"Shut up, Mycroft. You're upsetting John," said Sherlock angrily. "In fact, why don't you send your moronic minions away? They're clearly incompetent, if one of them can be overcome by badly injured, unarmed man who's just come out of a coma."
"What coma?" demanded John. "And I'm not badly injured either. In fact, what am I doing here? And where is here…"
""Who's Bill?" asked Lestrade.
"Never you mind," snapped John to hide his confusion. Mentioning Bill was a mistake. He kept forgetting that Bill worked in an A and E up north somewhere…
"He attacked me.," whispered the half choked guard. "Please…"
"Shut it, you. I still don't know who you're working for, now do I? And it was only a bit of IV tubing," said the former soldier, still scowling. "You really aren't very good at this, are you?"
"Yes…you have been very resourceful, Doctor Watson," commented Mycroft drily. "Perhaps you have a reason for trying to strangle one of my employees with IV tubing?"
John pursed his lips, trying to come up with an explanation, which didn't sound ludicrous or, even worse, insane. Right. New plan, change the subject.
"P'raps you can tell me where Moran is, or how about Moriarty?" challenged John. Then he looked over at Sherlock. John could trust no one...except maybe Sherlock. He stared at the brunet; his wide cobalt eyes clearly seeking the younger man's support.
Sherlock had no intention of denying John's request. Not this time. He shook himself loose from his brother's grasp and inched closer to the former army captain.
"Oh for Gods sake, Mycroft it's perfectly obvious why John attacked your incompetent minion." snapped Sherlock. "He's been kidnapped twice and then suffered repeated injuries including a bullet wound, he was probably tortured…"
"Jim doesn't call it torture; he calls it coercive persuasion," muttered John, shifting to keep his weight off of his injured limb.
Sherlock grimaced at his soldier's matter-of-fact confirmation regarding the torture, "definitely tortured then. Add in blood loss, surgery and pain medications. Then add in the fact John woke up alone, in a strange hospital room. Of course he'd be disoriented and perhaps a bit…"
"Paranoid?" suggested Mycroft.
"You mean mental," complained the guard. John had loosened the garrote and both breathing and complaining were easier for the unfortunate minion.
"It's called PTSD, and it is perfectly understandable," snapped Lestrade.
John's frown lines deepened. "I'm not disoriented..." began the ex-captain.
"Had I been with John, as I wanted, he wouldn't have been forced to suffered this confusion and disorientation and…"
"Stop it," said John, irritably. He suddenly released the guard and shoved him towards the others. The marksman leaned against the wall, to keep his balance and also to relieve his horribly throbbing leg. The soldier also kept his new gun, although he no longer pointed it directly at Mycroft's minions.
"Stop saying I'm confused, all right? Okay, maybe I didn't know who had me this time... but I analyzed the situation…I deduced it. I correctly deduced that it wasn't a real hospital room," sniffed John. "And I was right, yeah?" The doctor, with his brow lined in worry, looked at the consulting detective again.
Sherlock lip twitched in a near smile; he raised a questioning eyebrow. "How did you deduce this John?"
Mycroft sighed in exasperation. He took a step forward but was held back by the detective inspector.
"Well, I knew it wasn't a hospital room," said John, who was completely focused on Sherlock now, "because there wasn't a window. There's no overhead announcements, and it doesn't smell like piss and disinfectant…although there is a nice lemony fresh odor. Plus, I couldn't hear any other patients and the nurse didn't wear an ID. They always wear IDs; all the hospital staff wear ID's" said John defensively.
The younger detective smirked proudly and walked closer to his boyfriend despite Mycroft's hissed "Sherlock, no! He has a gun."
The consulting detective ignored his older brother. "Excellent observations, John," said the consulting detective. "But I'm still not sure how you came to the conclusion that you were in Moriarty's hands again."
"Well the room was all white and it was obviously in a secret underground facility and…well that certainly seemed very Moriarty-ish," said the blond. "Plus I saw the camera and the red roses."
"The camera should have made you think of Mycroft, John," said the brunet, slowly pulling his fierce soldier into a protective hug. Then his voice turned dark and threatening, as he glared at the guards and his brother. "But I'd like to know who put those roses in John's room. Mycroft, if this place has already been compromised…"
"No!" exclaimed Greg Lestrade, who was flushing rose-red. "I bought the damn flowers. I left them in John's room, right before I went to join you and Myc. I felt bad for the poor…I mean for John, and I thought…Well, I didn't think that he'd think that they were from Moriarty."
"Clearly, you didn't think at all," sneered Sherlock. "Given that Moriarty's red roses have been stalking John from the very beginning, they were a very poor choice of gift. It's no wonder he thought he was in Moriarty's clutches yet again."
"It's fine, Sherlock," said John, laying his empty hand soothingly on the brunet's arm. "It was a nice, um…thing. Thank you, Greg," added John politely.
"You don't even like flowers, John. You know you'd much rather have fresh fruit or a handgun," said Sherlock.
"Yeah? Well, flowers are nice, too. Anyway, maybe you can get me some grapes or something later, all right? Or maybe some trousers?" suggested John. A quick, tiny smile just for Sherlock graced his tired face. "I could use some real clothes, you know."
"I prefer the view without them, John," whispered the taller man directly into the blond's ear.
John, predictably, turned a brilliant crimson.
"Well, thanks to the blood transfusion, which I obtained with great effort, John appears to be able to blush at Sherlock's…suggestion," Mycroft suppressed a grimace. "Surely his blushing is a sign of returning vitality," continued Mycroft smoothly.
"I told you, don't call him John. You can call him Doctor Watson," said Sherlock icily. Then he looked back down at the doctor, who was leaning against him and his voice softened. "Your deductions were logical, John, based on the available information; however you really should have obtained more data before leaping to conclusions."
"I couldn't delay. Because if Jim had me again…He…I…" John blinked, as the still jumbled memories from yesterday overwhelmed him. "Because Jim was going to do these…things…And the lemonade…and they kept hitting me into this chair, Sherlock. Right up side the head." John looked only at the brunet. "And then there was this shoot out, and I didn't know what happened to my unit... or the hostiles…well, I mean Moriarty and Moran," John rambled in confusion. "I know I shot Svetlana, Sherlock, but she was a deadly threat. I couldn't just stand there while she shot at me… And then there was another armed insurgent…And I had to…"
"Never mind, John. It's all quite clear. Of course you had to try to escape," said Sherlock, his own eyes crinkling in concern. He pulled John even closer, to shield him from the others.
"It was fortunate that we arrived before your ill-fated escape attempt went any further," said Mycroft with wide-eyed superiority. "You could have suffered further injury."
John snorted, even as he leaned into the consulting detective. "I dunno, I think plan T was working pretty good," muttered John.
"Plan T?" asked Lestrade, who smiled faintly at the blond soldier.
"Plan T for tubing," said the ex-army doctor, with a sigh. "IV tubing used as a garrote to disarm the guard. Then once I had his gun, I was going to make him undress, steal his clothes and then make my way out of the secret facility. Then I'd implement plan B," said John.
"And plan B is?" asked Lestrade
"Plan B stands for Bug out," said John with a fleeting smile toward the rumpled, scruffy DI, who brought him flowers. "Or sometimes it stands for save your Butt. Or, Burn rubber or get the hell out of …"
"Yes. Yes. Very colorful," said Mycroft dismissively. "Thank you, Doctor Watson."
Sherlock turned to look down at his soldier. John's left hand trembled. In fact he was becoming pale again, and a bit of sweat had gathered above his lip and on his forehead.
"And none of that is important now," announced the consulting detective, "John needs rest, so if everyone would just stop annoying us…Oh, I know…Why don't you all LEAVE?" He waved his hand at his brother, the DI and the guards.
"We'll leave, after he returns the gun," said Mycroft imperiously.
"No," said John, adjusting his stance despite the pain and tightening his grip on the pistol. "I keep the gun. You still haven't told me what happened to the enemy combatants or my unit or…"
"Never mind, John. I will explain," interrupted Sherlock. "Mycroft, do not argue with John, when he's high on morphine. It's a very bad idea. Now LEAVE!" demanded Sherlock.
"I'm not high on morphine," muttered John. "If I was high, I'd be confused and…"
"Never mind," repeated Sherlock.
"Well, can I go home now?" asked John.
"Not just yet," said Sherlock. John glared at no one in particular.
"Yeah, you know what, Sherlock's right. We'll leave him to settle John," said Lestrade.
"I don't need settling," proclaimed John H. Watson, scowling up darkly.
Lestrade nodded politely, but continued on nodding at the guards, "You lot get to the conference room. We'll review…um, procedures there. And, John, as an Officer of the Law," Sherlock sighed loudly, making Greg frown before he continued, "As an officer of the law, I expect you to remove the magazine, empty the chamber and put the safety back on that gun. Take him back to his room, Sherlock."
The detective inspector looked around him. No one was moving. "RIGHT! Let's go…Move it people."
The silver-haired detective grabbed the British Government's arm. He pulled Mycroft down the hall. The guards followed Lestrade. The tall, disarmed, soon-to-be unemployed guard, shot dark glances at the militant blond,
John Watson glared back. "I can take myself back to my prison cell." He yelled at the departing men. "If I want to! Which maybe I don't!"
"John, you need to get off your leg and…"
"It's a prison cell and I won't go back in," said John adamantly.
Sherlock studied his little soldier who looked angry and yet his dilated pupils and rapid breath revealed…not arousal but…fear.
Sherlock was unsure how best to proceed now.
"John, perhaps if we just went in for a while to rest…"
"I don't want to. It's white and now there's drops of blood on the white floor from that stupid IV." John clenched his teeth in determination. "Someone's going to get into trouble for that, you know?"
"Well, you can't wander around in just that open gown," Sherlock reminded him.
"Shite!" said John. "Can't you…can't you get me some clothes, and then can't we go home?"
"All right, John," said Sherlock. "We'll go in to the room temporarily, and you can sit and rest, while I arrange for some clothes."
"Are you going to leave me in there?" said John. Then he covered his mouth with his free hand. He blushed at sounding so needy. "Which is fine. I can be alone. I don't mind. I…"
"Actually, I was planning on staying with you, while Mycroft fetches the clothes," said Sherlock. He half carried the wounded man back to the bed.
"I'm not getting back into that bed," announced John stubbornly.
Sherlock tried to imagine how to reassure the former army captain. John was his boyfriend, and so it was up to Sherlock to help him. Still, this wasn't really his area.
Then he thought, what would Mrs. Hudson do? Easy, she'd hug, and hover and fuss. Sherlock did not do fussing, and he would never hover. But he could hug. Yes.
The taller brunet hugged the pale and now trembling man next to him. John did not resist. In fact, he leaned in closer.
Brilliant. This is exactly what John needed, thought Sherlock, pleased with his success. He carefully tightened his arms around his companion. The ex-soldier drew in a shuddering breath, dropping his forehead against the strong, wide chest in front of him. John clung with one fist to the brunet's jacket. Sherlock kissed John's matted blond hair and began to relax himself.
And the two men drew comfort from their shared embrace.
Thanks:
Thank you to everyone who continues to read, follow or favorite my story.
Extra thanks to those who share their thoughts, con-crits, witticisms and feels in their reviews. Thanks to the most recent reviewers: Max732, dana-san, 107602, Head Girl Mione, Erenem, anyrei1, Quiet Time, Shadows Concealed in Darkness, Snowphire, EJ12212012, TheSherlockianGoddess, SamuelE8688, Darksouled Salyanphoenix, Wicked Winter.
Disclaimer I do not own rights to Sherlock. I do not earn money from it, but I do earn lots of happiness when I read comments from people like you.
BFBIC
[Previously in the BFBIC…"No it's only sprained. I'm a doctor and I know how to sprain people," said the fierce little doctor.
Sherlock smirked at his enemy's downfall.
"Oh yeah" said Moriarty because the author was too tired to come up with any better witty repartee. "Well…gay sex, gay sex, Sherly and Johnny like gay sex!" sang the malevolent CC.]
John had swiftly disarmed and nearly disabled the consulting criminal (CC). But now, as was his wont and for no apparent reason, John stood aside passively as if he had forgotten how to be a soldier. Of course he still furrowed his brow.
Jim was undaunted by the John Watson furrowed-brow glare. He could see that the danger of John-BAMFness had passed.
"John Watson you are so GAY! Just like Jim from IT," sang Jim who was once from IT. "I can tell by your new, expensive hair product and those sexy red pants. Gay. Gay. Gay."
John's blue eyes filled with pain and unshed tears. He looked helplessly at his not-gay lover.
Waves of fury tore through the consulting detective. How dare Jim Moriarty taunt John Watson, the kindest, bravest and most loyal man on earth, not to mention the world's best shag (ITHO of WOCD)* It was not to be borne.
Sherlock stormed over to the teasing yet still cowering CC and grasped him by his Westwood, pulling him to a stand, even though it wrinkled the expensive bespoke suit.
"Did you miss me?" asked Moriarty, air-kissing the consulting detective.
Sherlock shoved him into the wall, "Don't appall me when I'm high on life, James," growled the taller brunet.
John sprang back to life, no doubt turned on by Sherlock's alpha male display. "Moriarty, don't say another word. Just go. He could snap you in two, and frankly, I hope he does." John looked up at Sherlock, his blue eyes shining with adoration.
Sherlock swelled with pride and arousal at the obvious admiration of his blogger. He shook the CC a couple of times to impress John, and then threw James out the window and into Mrs. Hudson's skip.
"Why didn't you miss me?" called Moriarty from the now full skip. "You're going to miss me…."
Sherlock shut the window and cut off any more of Jim's insane rambling. He turned hungrily to his be-jammed blogger.
"Sherlock, that was amazing," said John on cue.
"Yes", agreed Sherlock. "Yes it was, wasn't it?"
The WOCD took his SB (see abbreviations below) in his arms. "He didn't hurt you, John, did he?"
John, assuming his sub role****, looked down and blushed, forgetting not only that he was a BAMF soldier but also Three Continents Watson.
"No, I'm fine, Sherlock." said John softly and submissively. "Except…except that…Well, the big, mean consulting criminal dick startled me in the kitchen. And I…I…I spilt jam all over myself."
Sherlock, being a great detective, had already observed the sweet, sticky jam, in which John found himself. Indeed, Sherlock was already kissing and licking the jam off of John's face.
"John, I do not see how you got jam behind your ear and indeed, on your neck," murmured the brunet in his dragon-deep baritone voice.
The hobbit-like doctor shuddered at the dragon-like voice of pure sex and moaned wantonly.
Then he whispered, "Moriarty did that with the butter knife, Sherlock. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't come in just then." Both men conveniently forgot that John could be BAMF…when he felt like it.
"Well, my sweet little blogger-hobbit, I don't mind cleaning you up," said Sherlock, cloyingly and obviously out of character.
John moaned again and dug his hands into the thick, dark curls that bounced boyishly on his boyfriend's head. Then, feeling like a greatly daring hobbit on an unexpected adventure, he began unbuttoning the Purple Shirt of Sex. His warm hands, which had miraculously retained their desert tan for several years, caressed the smooth pale planes of Sherlock's lean yet amazingly muscular chest.
The detective threw his head back, stretching and groaning like an awakening dragon, at John's touch. "Oh God, John. I've missed this. It's been too long."
"Yes," panted John, his breast heaving like the heroine in a torrid romance novel. "Yes, it's been…almost sixteen hours."
"Yes, far too long," repeated the WOCD. Then he frowned briefly, because he hated repetition. He distracted himself by unbuttoning John's unfashionable, checked button-down shirt.
Then Sherlock froze again, as icy tendrils of jealously crystallized in his suddenly chilling veins. His blogger's chest was smeared with jam.
"How did that jam get on your chest, John?!" demanded Sherlock suspiciously…
TBC
List of Uncommonly used abbreviations
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
GF Gold fish**
SB Sexy blogger
CC consulting criminal (not to be confused with closed captioning which is sometimes provided thanks to the generous donations of readers like you)
TBC to be continued***
ITHO in the humble opinion of
**sadly, this abbreviation is not found in this BFBIC -for those who actually read this pointless list, you will have noted that SB was finally included in the BFBIC
***TBC is actually a commonly used abbreviation but whatever.
****not to be confused with a sub roll, which is used to make tasty sandwiches
a/n I assume we all know what BAMF means. But, just in case, BAMF means Bad Ass Muther F-cker. I suppose it could mean Bad Arse Muther F-cker also if you live on the other side of the pond. If you know of any other translations for BAMF, just send me a review or PM and I'll gladly add it to the list. :D