Rated M for adult situations and language.

Chapter 40

The World's Only Consulting Detective stalked past his bother, weaving around the opulent office furniture like a caged leopard.

"Ohhhhh, yes. It was Moriarty. I knew he wouldn't be able to resist visiting John's grave in person. He wore a good disguise, really quite well done, but the torn ear gave him away, not to mention all the little scratches on his face. He looks like a mangy alley cat. He won't be seducing innocent soldiers anytime soon!"

Then Sherlock lunged, planting his fists on the desk with a bang, "Damn it, Mycroft! I nearly had him. I nearly had Moriarty!"

"You followed him," stated Mycroft, looking down his nose.

"Obviously. I followed him for hours. But then the sheep got in the way. Sheep! Who herds sheep in the twenty-first century! Bah!"

Sherlock dropped unceremoniously into a chair, his arms and legs splayed out.

"Well, it can't be helped," said Mycroft, pursing his lips to hide his own disappointment. "You haven't asked but the agent following you will recover from his injuries, merely a broken arm. Where did you disappear to after you wrecked my sedan?"

"I was undercover, questioning some of my contacts," he noticed Mycroft's raised eyebrows. "I did NOT use!"

"I should hope not," sniffed the British government.

Sherlock sent him a sideways glare from before continuing, "Unfortunately, other than locating that new drug ring, I have not uncovered anything more."

"Indeed," said Mycroft. "Well, we'll just have to wait for Moriarty to make the next move."

The disgruntled Holmes brothers glared companionably at each other, comfortable in their shared animosity.

Greg Lestrade ran his fingers through his hair disconsolately.

"At least we caught seven of his people and shut down a drug operation," said Detective Inspector Lestrade. He was trying to cheer himself up even though he knew the two geniuses would either ignore him or pounce on him. "That's a good thing…"

Sherlock pounced, "They were nothing! Minnows. Less than minnows. The big fish slipped through our nets again!" He sneered and waggled his fingers in the air in disgust.

"As I said, we'll just have to be patient," said Mycroft, who shifted some papers around, looking busy and confident. "Judging from past actions, Moriarty won't stay quiet for long. Like many other so-called geniuses, he longs for attention."

'Like the two of you' was on the tip of Greg's tongue, but the detective inspector did not did not take the bait.

He stewed silently for a minute, but the idea of waiting patiently for that snake, Moriarty, to attack again didn't sit well with the detective inspector. No, it did not sit well at all.

"Patient?" demanded Lestrade, overwhelmed with frustration. "How long d'you plan to stay down here being patient, Myc? What kind of life is this anyway? I hate all this pretending. I hate having to pretend you're dead. I hate faking mourning. I hate waiting for Moriarty to figure out you're alive. John and I have talked. A lot. He says Moriarty is going to figure it out, Mycroft. And you know what? I think John is right. And then Moriarty'll come after you again, and it won't be John Watson pointing his gun at you this time! It'll be that bastard Moran. I just don't see how all of this hiding is helping."

Mycroft smiled enigmatically and shrugged, which only infuriated the detective inspector.

"Well think about this, Mycroft," snarled Greg Lestrade, his brown eyes tightening. "Just how long d'you think you can control your own government if everyone thinks you're dead? Let alone other governments? Hmm?"

The British Government frowned, because this was very much a concern.

"And you won't be able to keep John down here forever," continued the silver-haired detective, fixing his eyes on each of the Holmes brothers in turn.

"Oh I think we can. He's exhausted his so-called escape plans, and now he's keeping busy with his new friends and hobbies," said Mycroft confidently.

Greg snorted in disagreement.

"John certainly has been busy, which is why I came back early," growled the consulting detective, leaning forward. "He's been far too busy. He seems to be infatuated with that ox, Oscar."

"Well… I think it's more the other way around," retorted Lestrade, in John's defense.

"And you, Lestrade! You're spending a great deal of time with John too," said Sherlock, his grey eyes stormy. "Getting him drunk. Giving him presents. What did you give him today?"

"Nothing!" snapped Greg Lestrade.

Both Holmes brothers glared disdainfully at the detective inspector.

"Actually, Gregory, I believe you gave him a basket of fruit this morning," said the British Government, his tone icy. "In fact, you had two other bags full of food and…"

"Groceries!" said Lestrade. "Which they're for everyone, not just John. You know that most of the guards are confined to this gulag for security, just like John…"

"Well, you have to admit that you've been spending a great deal of time with John, haven't you?" said Mycroft with a predatory glare.

"I knew it. You've had your eye on John right from the start," snarled the younger Holmes, his eyes narrowed dangerously at the older detective. "Don't think I didn't see you ogling him when he was held naked at gunpoint by your Sergeant. I see everything."

"John Watson flaunts himself," accused the British government, fretfully. "He spends his day wandering around in those revealing shorts and a too tight tee-shirt. I gave him some more suitable clothing but he rejected it."

"You gave him overalls, like he was a real prisoner!" interjected Lestrade. And they were a size extra-large…"

Bang…Bang! Bang!

"Christ!" yelled Lestrade. "What was that?"

"Gunfire!" shouted the consulting detective.

More shots were fired, sounding like a firefight.

Alarms sounded.

The alarms were very loud.

Sherlock shook off his shock. He turned to run out the door, but Lestrade snared Sherlock's arm, dragging him away from the exit.

"Don't be a fool, Sherlock," yelled Lestrade, over the strident alarms. "We have to put on bulletproof vests first."

"Let go of me, John is out there!" snarled the younger man, trying to tear away.

"Oh for God's sake," snapped Mycroft, staring at his phone. "Let him go, Gregory. It's just John, yet again! I will put a stop to his shenanigans once and for all." The claxon's wail slowly trailed off into a whimper and then was silent.

Sherlock ran out of the door followed by Greg, who positioned himself protectively in front of Mycroft, just in case there was danger.

Rounding the corner, they found John and several guards both on and off duty. Anthea had already confronted the group. The largest guard turned and then glared at the consulting detective, stepping in front of John Watson.

"Sherlock?" said John, peering around Oscar.

"What is the meaning of this?" demanded Mycroft Holmes. His agents snapped to attention; Oscar still trying to shield the former army doctor while standing stiffly.

"How long have you been here, Sherlock Holmes?" said John angrily, as he limped around the human barricade. The former soldier looked like a discontented, displaced beachcomber in his short, red shorts, tight Bee-Gees tee-shirt, and wool socks. His crutches were left leaning against the table, which was covered with several pistols and boxes of cartridges.

Mycroft stepped forward, looming over the shorter blond. "What is the meaning of this…this…" he gestured at the targets at the end of the long hallway.

"Small arms practice, of course," said John absently, because his glowering focus was on the younger Holmes.

"How dare you…" began the British Government.

John, standing at ease, turned his attention to the elder Holmes. "You authorized this, Mycroft. I have the paperwork in triplicate, which you signed and initialed," said John authoritatively. He pulled a folded paper out of the pocket of his skimpy, red shorts. "See?" he said, offering the paperwork and a quick, insincere smile.

Mycroft waved a hand at his PA. The woman, sometimes known as Anthea, angrily snatched the paper from the former army captain's hand and began to scan the document. John's forehead creased faintly at her rude behavior.

'In fact," said John, turning back to Mycroft, " I sent you a memo about today's practice. Didn't you get the memo?"

"NO! And why in God's name would I have signed off on this nonsense, this dangerous nonsense!" demanded the British Government.

"To… boost morale," said Anthea reading from the typed paperwork, "and… to improve troop readiness."

"Exactly." beamed John. "It's all in the paperwork. Oh, and don't forget the part about maintaining valuable government property. The condition of the some of these guns was tragic. We'll be practicing with all the guns from the armory, and then stripping them down and cleaning them properly. I'll also be sighting them…"

"This is not a gun range!" yelled Mycroft, his face turning pink.

"Well, no, it isn't. Of course it isn't," agreed John. "But you won't let me go to a real gun range, and you wouldn't sign off on letting me build a certified indoor range right here, even though I found all those un-used rooms right next to the armory. And even though we'd do all the work for free."

"You can't go around shooting guns in here," spat the British Government.

"I didn't discharge any fire arms, so far," said John, in a patient voice. "Oscar and Paula were shooting first. I must say that while they were pretty good, they could use a lot more practice." Oscar blushed since he hadn't done well at all. "And I haven't had a chance to examine them under pressure, especially while under live fire…"

"Enough!" snapped Mycroft. His usually imperturbable face now flushed with anger. "I never signed any of this so-called paperwork…"

"Actually, it is your signature Myc," said Lestrade. Anthea nodded mutely, still holding the wrinkled papers. "I gave you the forms to sign yesterday. I just didn't realize that firearm practice started today. I guess I didn't get your memo either, John."

The ex-soldier and the detective inspector nodded at each other. Mycroft stared at his partner as if he had just sprouted tentacles and horns.

"Well, I definitely sent you both memos…" began John, shifting his weight off his bad leg.

"Stop it! Stop it at once," demanded The British Government. "Morrison, put the weapons away and…"

"They absolutely must be cleaned first," interrupted John, "otherwise they'll suffer corrosion and…"

"Morrison, take care of this…this…mess!" snapped Mycroft.

"Yes, sir," said Oscar.

"Watson, my office," said Mycroft.

"Right you are," muttered John, under his breath. He limped back to his crutches, but stumbled when his right leg gave way. Sherlock and Oscar moved as one, each grabbing one of John's arms.

"I have him!" snarled the consulting detective.

"I have him!" growled the towering bodyguard.

"Christ, stand down, both of you," ordered Captain Watson. "I can manage on my own, for cripes sake." John shook loose and snatched up his crutches.

"Oscar, you and Paula make sure you clean the guns and oil 'em before you put them away," whispered John, earning himself a glare from Holmes junior and senior.

Oscar nodded glumly, while Paula tried to keep a straight face.

Mycroft insistently tugged Greg down the hall by his arm. John followed more slowly; he still wasn't great with the crutches, which were awkward and also hurt his shoulder. Sherlock paced slowly along side the former army doctor. The tall brunet glanced back smugly at Oscar.

"Shezza? Really? You call yourself Shezza?" muttered the former doctor drawing back Sherlock's attention.

"It's my undercover name," said Sherlock primly. "I can see I got back just in time. That ox can't keep his hands off of you."

"He hasn't touched me…"

"There's no point in denying it," said Sherlock, "He had a hold of your arm again just moments ago, John.

"It was a platonic hold not a…Anyway, I had a talk with him before target practice. He understands that I just want to be friends, and he's fine with that," growled John.

"Oh no, he isn't," said Sherlock. "I can tell by his…"

"Can we leave John's love life out of this for now?" said Mycroft at the door to his office.

"Don't call him John," snapped Sherlock angrily. "And Oscar has nothing to do with John's love life…or does he?" twisted his head and looked down at the blond.

"For cripe's sake," muttered John again. Then he craned his neck up, "No, he doesn't have anything to do with my damned love life."

"Sit down and get off your leg," said Sherlock, trying to pull John toward a leather chair.

"Nope," said John pulling away from the younger man. "You don't get to act all concerned about me after you disappeared for five days. FIVE DAYS-without contacting me or even letting me know you're alive."

"Don't give me that," said Sherlock. "You knew I was alive on day 3 of your blog. You said yourself when you referenced the funeral…"

"Don't throw my blog in my face. I know what I bloody well said! Or wrote! Or whatever!" snapped John. "The point is; I was worried!"

"And even a mundane brain like yours should have realized that I was Shezza, which brings me back to why I had to contact you in the first place. You've been flirting with that ox. Cooking with him, watching films with him, DANCING!" Then Sherlock's voice skirled up, "Oh John, I think you're a great dancer and don't we have so much in common, just because I watched a few movies!"

"That's not what he said in the blog, and he doesn't talk like that," yelled John, swinging his crutch. "Besides, I bet you wouldn't have come back at all, except you had some dumb idea that someone was poaching on your territory. You don't give a damn how I feel. Oh no, it's just some stupid alpha male posturing. Well, I can posture just as good as you…"

"Um, guys?" said Lestrade.

"You stay out of it, Lestrade," yelled Sherlock. "We all know of your interest in John…"

"Yeah, I'm getting a little tired of that accusation, Sherlock," snapped Lestrade. "I like John. I respect John, when he isn't bickering like an old fishwife." John bristled visibly with a thunderous scowl.

The detective inspector pinched the bridge of his nose and tried not to yell, "And, since John was injured and traumatized and then locked up, I've tried to make his stay here a bit easier, out of simple common decency."

"I didn't call you all in here to discuss John's sordid affairs," snarked The British Government.

"I am not traumatized and I'm not having affairs, sordid or otherwise!" yelled John, pointing his crutch first at Lestrade and then at the elder Holmes.

"Except with me!" protested the younger Holmes.

"We're not having an affair, y'daft git! We're supposed to be having a relationship," yelled John, his high-pitched voice reaching full volume. "Which there isn't going to be any relationship unless you start communicating with me!"

"I brought you in here," bit off Mycroft furiously, trying to regain control of the discussion, "to discuss John's ridiculous and frankly dangerous antics. First there were the so-called escape attempts, now he's discharging firearms without proper safety precautions."

"Wrong! We observed all proper safety protocols. We made sure the hall was evacuated. We set up a proper backdrop. We all wore goggles and ear muffs. I always maintain proper safety protocols when dealing with firearms." John glared up at the tall government official.

"Furthermore," shouted John, "you should have expected me to try to escape, since you were holding me against my will. And this whole prisoner thing is shite. I've been held captive before, and it was shite! I was held captive by Jim just this past week, and that was shite! It's all shite. So yeah, I have issues with imprisonment! So yeah, I tried to escape!"

"Well it has to stop." "You'll ruin the plan." said the two Holmes brothers in unison.

"You gits! It already has stopped! I mean, I already have stopped…at least for now," snapped the former soldier. "In case you two geniuses haven't noticed, I haven't tried to escape for days!"

"You went straight for the stairs when the rice caught fire," said Mycroft

"Force of habit," John bit off, glaring thunderously. "It was not an escape attempt. And anyway, I just wanted to be sure the door was secure."

"When else were you imprisoned?" demanded Sherlock.

"Not important," said John. "For your information, I have stopped trying to escape because Oscar and I…"

"I knew it!" snarled Sherlock. "You and Oscar! No wonder you don't want to escape anymore..."

"Oscar and I discussed my problem…"

"Ohhh, so you can tell Oscar about your mysterious past but not me!" accused the younger detective.

"We discussed the problem I have with you acting as bait for a psychopathic, homicidal madman!" yelled John before he could be interrupted again. "And then," John held up his finger to shush the agitated brunet, "and then we discussed it with Lestrade too."

Sherlock pressed his lips together glaring at everyone in the room.

"See, we're worried about using Sherlock as bait," said Greg, shoving his fingers through his graying hair and leaving it standing on end. "We tried that bit with John, and look what happened."

"Now supposedly, you were going to protect Sherlock with your agents," continued the detective inspector. "yet that plan failed within twenty-four hours."

"It's not my fault that Sherlock evaded my agent," said the tall ginger superciliously.

"No, that was entirely Sherlock's fault," said John. His voice was a bit calmer, although he still wore a furious frown. "That can't happen again, not while Moriarty is on the loose. I think that you need two agents with Sherlock at all times. But more importantly, Sherlock has to promise not to try to escape from them. If he doesn't try to escape, then I won't either."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and began pacing. Then he whirled around, shoving his face into John's face. Startled at the sudden movement, John stepped back and fell into a chair.

"This is emotional blackmail," Sherlock said accusingly.

"You and your brother kidnapped me, locked me up and faked my death against my will," returned John. "So DO NOT argue ethics with me, mister!"

"If we did use strong-arm tactics," said Sherlock superiorly, "it was for your own good. We had to force you to accept protection."

"Yeah? Well the same back at you!" said John, punching his finger into the younger detective's chest. "So what's it going to be?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed to slits as he eyed the blond. Finally, he asked in a low threatening rumble, "Any other provisos, Watson?"

The ex-soldier was not intimidated. "Yeah, I'd like to be kept in the loop from now on. I also wish you'd take Lestrade with you when ever possible."

"Lestrade? On top of Mycroft's myrmidons?" growled Sherlock. "Why not invite a marching band along too!"

"Well, how about keeping your bodyguards to two," suggested the ex-army doctor. "either two of Mycroft's agents or an agent plus Lestrade?"

"Do I get a say in any of this?" demanded Mycroft.

"Oh don't make this more difficult than it already is, Myc," said Greg Lestrade.

"Anything else?" the brunet asked leaning forward.

"No, just…just try to be careful; that's all," added John.

"Fine! I agree to working with two interfering assistants, and you will get updates through Mycroft and Lestrade. You will agree to stay here until Moriarty is captured, no matter what."

"Fine," said John.

"Fine," repeated Sherlock, attempting to get in the last word as always.

"Well, I'm glad that's settled," said Mycroft, who was feeling left out. "Now if this nonsense is settled, I'm sure that we can agree that the so-called firing range is a frivolous whim…"

"No, the firing range is a good idea, and it's a separate negotiation," said Lestrade firmly.

Eyes wide open in betrayal, Mycroft silently mouthed, et tu, Brute.

Greg Lestrade ignored the Holmesian melodramatics.

"I want the agents who protect Sherlock to be the very best," added John. "I assume your agents' sneaking skills are top-notch since they work for you, Mycroft." Mycroft drew back at the word sneaking; he looked scandalized. John continued with his obviously prepared speech. "But I'd like to work with your agents to evaluate some of their other skills such as marksmanship, hand-to-hand combat and whether I can trust them to protect Sherlock. I can already tell you right now, some of them are lacking in certain areas and need re-training. Preferably at a spec ops army base, but I suppose we could do some demolition here and set up a training facility…"

"That is ridiculous and out-of-the-question," said Mycroft.

"No it isn't," said Lestrade. "Even after Moriarty is captured, your agents will need continuous refreshers. John and I have talked to most of them already. Every one of them was eager, really eager, to get some training in."

"Greg wants to get some extra training in too," added John. "I can't imagine that you'd want Greg out in the field inadequately prepared. And I can't see why you wouldn't want the best-trained super-spies sneaking around with your brother."

"I do not have super-spies and nor do they sneak," stated the British Government repressively.

"Yes, they do sneak," countered the younger Holmes. "Just like you."

"The extra training can't hurt, and it may save a life. It may just save your life Myc, or Sherlock's. I think that I have to insist," said Lestrade.

"You what?" asked Mycroft his mouth dropping open. "Gregory, you've never interfered before."

"Yeah, well maybe it's time I started," said Lestrade. "I'm not trying to tell you how to run the government or how to…acquire information."

"You mean how to sneak," said Sherlock, pleased to see his brother taking a turn over the fire.

"Whatever," agreed Greg, "But I do know something about security. I've been a cop for twenty years. And I'm a good cop. And this is a good idea. If nothing else, I want the men and women who protect you to be at the top of their form."

"You knew that my job came with risks, Gregory," said the British Government. "In fact, your job comes with risks too."

"Yeah? Well, I accepted the risks and I will continue to accept the risks. All I want is to beef up the protection a little bit."

"Beef? Oh, God, we're back to talking about that ox, aren't we," muttered Sherlock, who was ignored.

"You have this all worked out, I suppose," said the British Government with a sigh.

"Mostly," said John, jumping in. "We just need to sit down with your PA to work out the details and get it all in writing," said John, pursing his lips. "For starters, Paula and I can work with your agents on their marksmanship, and also how to take better care of their weapons. It's a crying shame the way some of those guns were neglected. Also, I just want to get to know these people and get a feel for who is trustworthy and who isn't."

"You? You trusted Moran," said Mycroft snidely.

"Well, it would be better if Sherlock met with them himself," admitted John, although he still glared at the so-called minor government official. "He'd be much better at finding any rotten apples."

"I'm not sure that I'll have the time," said Sherlock looking aloof again.

"Make the time," spat John. "It's important. Besides, what if there's another mole in here? What if they turn on Mycroft?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, and what if there is a mole and they tell Moriarty about John?" said Lestrade. "What if Moriarty orders them to kill John?"

"Alright! I will question Mycroft's minions myself," said Sherlock, pulling viciously on a lock of his dark hair. "I don't need to interview that Oscar fellow; I already know that I can't trust him. Let's just send him on his way." The consulting detective waved his hand significantly.

Regrettably, everyone ignored Sherlock's suggestion to eliminate Oscar, instead, they began to argue about the paperwork and the need for more efficient memos.

A/N ARGH! It's been over a week and a half since I last updated. BAD SENDAI. I admit I rushed this chapter a bit and so there are probably mistakes. Please let me know if you find any and I will sent virtual cookies to you for your trouble. Or pie. I made some pies yesterday and I could try to send some pieces via the Internet, although the last time I tried that it didn't work and my lap top got very messy. :D

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Disclaimer I do not own the rights to Sherlock and John, but apparently it's ok to obsess about them in writing... as long as I do not make a profit while doing so. Which I do not...make a profit that is. Which is too bad. And I do know that I shouldn't start a sentence with the word, which. Which I don't care; it's my fic and I'll butcher the English language in it if I want to. :P