A/N

Rated M for swearing, violence.

Spoiler Alert. I make references to events from The Great Game.

I regret that there is also a gratuitous overuse of acronyms in this chapter.

Obligatory Safety Notice

As always, do not read fanfic while drinking coffee, tea or peppermint schnapps. Also do not read fanfic while driving or rock climbing.

Do keep your inhaler handy… just in case.

Credit, where credit is due-For quotes and timelines, I used the fantastic transcript of The Great Game, provided by Ariane DeVere

All errors belong to Mrs. Hudson. (Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I really am sorry, but John was tired of taking all the blame, and Sherlock refuse to take any responsibility. Besides, he already experimented on half of my wardrobe and I'd like to keep the other half intact.)

Some acronyms used in this chapter:

POD-Plan of the day, a military term. It denotes the schedule for the day.

OOD-Officer of the day, a military term. It denotes the senior officer who is in temporary control of operations, or a base or unit etc, but who is not the actual CO (commanding officer).

MOD-Minder of the day, a term used by Mycroft's agents to denote the lucky agents assigned to Sherlock.

A/N-author's notes (oh wait, maybe you already knew this one.)

Points-(This not an acronym (Well, DUH! Right?), but rather it's a definition, and since I finally looked it up, I thought I'd share my limited explanation.) Anyway- Points-also called a railroad switch. A mechanical installation that allows a train to move from one track to another, for instance at a Y-junction.

Chapter 48

Oscar Morrison paced nervously outside the office of Mycroft Holmes. Oscar ran his hand through his hair repeatedly, while he marched back and forth. Fortunately, his hair was very, very short and looked neat regardless of how many times he ruffled it.

John Watson had been in that office for a very long time. The agent knew that John had a bad temper, and he knew that Mister Holmes would not tolerate a direct confrontation. The tall agent, a veteran of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, was tempted to wring his hands. Was it possible that one or both of the men had been killed by now? Should he knock? Should he call for backup?

No, if Captain Watson wasn't finished with his, an interruption would only upset him more. And Oscar was very careful not to upset the former army doctor and Oscar's future boyfriend.

unfortunately, the little blond was currently someone else's boyfriend.

And sadly, even after that undeserving Sherlock Holmes falsely accused John of unfaithfulness, the little blond's desire to leave the base to protect that same un-deserving detective had only intensified.

It was just so wrong. As if John Watson would ever stoop so low as to cheat on his boyfriend. Honestly, Sherlock was more idiot than genius, as far as Oscar was concerned.

Of course nothing would make Oscar happier than if John Watson would cheat on Holmes, as long as he was cheating with Oscar and not with Paula or Greg or...

Why couldn't the former army doctor see that Sherlock Holmes was a freak, more a machine than a person? Everyone talked about how that sociopath used people to get what he wanted. Everyone knew how Sherlock could pretend to care, cry, laugh all in the name of his precious Work. Of course Sherlock was just using John, and John would end up with a broken heart.

John Watson was a good man. He deserved someone much better than Sherlock. He deserved someone like Oscar Morrison, who would literally do anything for John.

But poor John had fooled himself into thinking that Sherlock Holmes actually cared about him. And unfortunately, anything Oscar said to the contrary led to an angry defense of John's precious detective.

The tall agent sighed, wiping his damp hands nervously against his trousers. He would just have to be patient. Oscar would wait, and he would be there, ready to pick up the pieces when Sherlock inevitably broke poor John's heart.

Suddenly the door opened and Oscar schooled his thoughts and his face to read 'neutral friend'. He watched John, leaning heavily on his cane, stomp/limp through it,

"Well, how'd it go?" asked Oscar, as soon as the door shut.

"Oh just bloody fantastic!" snapped the former army captain, his lip curling in anger and frustration. "Let's see. He did not grant me permission to leave the bunker."

"Well, we didn't really think that he would," offered Oscar, wringing his hands in spite of himself. He hated to see John's face all screwed up with anger and frustration and worry.

"He refused to sign paperwork authorizing Moriarty's elimination, in the event that Sherlock's life is threatened," continued the shorter man, glaring from under his light brown lashes. "Then he lied to me. He lied right to my face!" claimed John, pointing to his own scowling face. "He lied and said he and Sherlock plan to arrest Moriarty, when we know from Greg that they actually plan just the opposite, when the opposite is the exact opposite of what any good soldier would…"

"Not here, mate," whispered Oscar, nudging the shorter man. Then he spoke louder. "You gotta let it go now, John. You tried. You gave it your best shot."

"Fine. Right," said John biting off each word. "My best shot. Too sodding right."

"Sooo, now what?" asked Oscar, ruffling his dark, buzz-cut hair yet again. He was ready to do anything John wanted.

"Now? Aren't you and Chris supposed to go work the Bruce-P case now?" asked John irritably.

"Yeah," agreed Morrison, coming to a stop in front of the mess hall. "We're going to question West's fiancée and then take a look at the train tracks, where…"

"…where they found West's body," finished John with a dark scowl. "Right. Well, that's good, and I'll just wait here then, shall I? Like a goddam, gormless son of a…Oh, hello!" said John, suddenly smiling brightly and insincerely at the woman sometimes known as Anthea. She was beautiful and intelligent and frightfully efficient. She was also fiercely loyal to Mycroft Homes. John dialed up his smile even brighter. Oscar nodded at her gravely, wishing John would smile like that for him.

She looked up from her smart phone and nodded back. She handed John tomorrow's POD and some signed paperwork concerning planned upgrades in the Official Batcave Gun Range and Test Facility.

Then she smirked at John mysteriously, before heading down the corridor.

"What was that about?" muttered John suspiciously. "She never smiles at me. I don't like it."

"Maybe she thinks you're cute too," said Oscar, patting John's shoulder. John rolled his eyes.

"Come on, mate," said Oscar, quickly, "Let's assemble Christine, so she and I can get a move on looking for those missiles, like you want."

John took a deep breath and flashed a half-hearted smile for his friend and the watching cameras. As they made their way down to the barracks to collect Christine, the two army veterans discussed what questions to ask West's fiancée and the exact steps that John should take to pair his Bluetooth with his new phone, because John still hadn't got it to work quite right.

Sherlock was certain that he was missing something. Sherlock had barely waited for John to fall asleep before searching John's room for clues. Aside from the uncharacteristic mess, the only anomaly was the absence of the lemon scented cleaner that John favored.

Obviously, he had interviewed all available minions about John's alleged fall in the lift shaft. They all corroborated John's story. Paula even had the mauve lipstick in her kit, which was a perfect match with the sample that Sherlock had secretly obtained via his handkerchief. She also stated for the record that she did not seek to date John nor engage in any intimate relations with John.

None of this had helped elucidate John's secret. The only thing Sherlock had accomplished was eliciting anger from the minions whom he had awoken for questioning. Oh yes, then there was the scene in the barracks, when Oscar openly admitted that he desired John for himself and would cheerfully steal the blond away from Sherlock in a heartbeat, just as soon as John realized that Sherlock was no good for him.

Regrettably, Clancy, Mel and BJ had intervened in the ensuing fisticuffs before Sherlock could inflict appropriate lasting damage to the stupid, ignorant ox.

Luckily, John had slept on unaware of the investigation and ensuing disturbance, which was good, because obviously John was not unfaithful and so deserved his rest.

But, thought the detective narrowing his eyes, if John was not hiding an affair, then what was he hiding? The clues were in John's room and…

Sherlock woke from his musings to the rude blaring of a horn. Apparently, he walked in front of a lorry, which managed to stop without hitting the tall brunet.

Clearly, the fault lay with the driver. He should be watching for pedestrians. The detective straightened his shoulders and continued on his way. He ignored the loud honking and strident shouts from the lorry driver, as he crossed the street. His twin MOD's wore matching worried looks and flanked him, to prevent a similar accident.

Indeed, if they had been doing their jobs, the entire lorry incident would never have occurred. Clearly, they shared some of the blame with the lorry driver.

Nevertheless the incident did indicate that it might be best for the consulting detective to put his concerns about John aside temporarily. Sherlock quickly stored his data and current theories relating to John in a convenient alcove in the entry hall to the John Watson wing in his mind palace.

The detective eagerly dry washed his hands; it was time to concentrate on the Work. Sherlock could no longer afford to be distracted by John and his antics, because it was time to collect the Bruce-Partington plans.

He strongly suspected that Moriarty's little games were designed to distract the World's Only Consulting Detective from finding the missing missile defense plans. Find the plans, and Moriarty will reveal himself. Elegant and simple.

Sherlock turned his laser-like gaze to Clancy, "We have work to do…but first," he added, tilting his head nonchalantly, "Where is the doctor, and what is he doing?"

"Umm, give me a minute, Sir," said the agent scrubbing his dimpled chin. A ridiculous chin, thought Sherlock.

"Oh, and that Oscar, the one who's been working on finding the plans, rather inefficiently I might add. I want to know where he is too, although I predict that he's finally made his way to the train yard." He raised an imperious brow at the bodyguard, daring anyone to suggest that Sherlock was concerned that John and Oscar might be off together, doing who knew what. Sherlock wasn't worried because he trusted John, but the ox…now the ox was cause for concern. It was better to be on the safe side.

Sherlock leaned against the cold brick wall of an office building, while the minion collected the necessary data via his convenient little Bluetooth device. Although the Bluetooth was simple to use, Sherlock did not like having anything stuffed in his ear. It was uncomfortable and blocked valuable auditory clues.

Sherlock's fingers drummed against the rough brick, while he waited impatiently. The wan sunshine did little to warm the detective, who was buffeted by a cool breeze. The to he drew up the collar of his coat, secretly grateful for it's warmth and the warmth of his blue scarf.

He sighed repeatedly because this was taking forever. He angled his mobile out of the sunlight so that he could see the screen while he exchanged a couple of texts with Mycroft. Sherlock didn't have anything pressing to communicate. He was texting primarily because he knew that Mycroft hated texting.

Finally, after nearly six minutes of mind-numbing delay, the buffoon from the bunker was ready with the data.

"Okay, Mister Holmes," said Clancy smiling blandly, "Right now, Doc is in his room resting."

"You mean, sulking," corrected the consulting detective.

"No, I mean resting," said Clancy, who stood at parade rest and continued to smile like an idiot.

"Sulking," stated Sherlock. " I have been informed from the highest source, that the doctor has been sulking most of the day…Did he even eat anything today?"

"Um, I dunno," said the minion, his smile slowly fading. "I didn't ask. Did you want me to ask the OOD?"

No, thought Sherlock. John would probably be angry, if he found out that Sherlock checking up on him. John had been fairly happy with Sherlock recently, and the detective preferred to keep it that way.

"No, don't ask." said the detective. "It's not crucial at this moment. And the ox?"

"I'm sorry, Sir. Who?" asked Clancy genuinely confused.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "The ox, Oscar, Oscar 'the ox' Morrison, the man who was tasked on locating…"

Clancy's eyes rolled as well, "Sir! Mister Morrison is on his way to view the scene where West's body was found. He was going with Chris…"

"To the train yard, just as I predicted," muttered Sherlock. They had now wasted eight valuable minutes. At least he had confirmed that John was safely hidden away in the bunker and far from that perfidious ox. Now, if only Sherlock could remember what he had noticed about John's room… ... ... Never mind. It was time to finish this farcical gaming with Moriarty, and the missile plans were just the bait that Sherlock required to lure in the Irishman.

Oscar and Christine both wore baggy cargo pants, heavy jumpers and, in Christine's case, a silky, aquamarine scarf tied round her neck and with a jaunty black beret perched on her head. They both also wore high-vis vests, required for safety, as they trudged along the railroad with the Tube guard, named Paulie.

"Sooo," said Christine. Her voice was a bit husky, perhaps from the all dust, which the light breeze stirred up. But, thought Paulie, it was still an attractive voice, just a tiny bit sexy.

"So, this is where West was found?" asked the slightly stocky woman, who stood with her hands on her hips.

"Yeah," said the heavyset rail worker, screwing up his eyes in the filtered sunlight. What the train worker really liked about this Ms. Christine Tyler was her prominent bosom, which was not hidden by her bulky blue jumper or her pretty blue scarf. And the outfit really brought out the blue in her dark, blue eyes, thought Paulie unimaginatively.

He smiled at her winsomely. She returned him a level look from under her dark lashes, and then scanned up and down the tracks.

Paulie sighed and returned to nursing his resentment over the extra work, which had come his way after finding the body of Andrew West. It weren't fair, he thought. First he had to suffer the horrors of finding the corpse. Oh, findin' that body had given him a right nasty turn, nearly made him sick. And now he had to answer hundreds of questions from the police, from his bosses, from lawyers, from busybodies and now from this odd couple.

At least the lady weren't too hard on the eyes, unlike all the others. She weren't no girl o'course, mebbe she was in her late thirties, but she did have that nice, comfortable bosom. And Paulie was a sucker for big blue eyes. Pity her big friend seemed so bloody over-protective, always glaring at Paulie, who'd done nothin' wrong. Can't blame a bloke for lookin'...

Well, it were time for another break anyways. The Tube guard wouldn't say no to a hot cuppa to warm him up from this unseasonably blustery weather.

"You gonna be long?" he asked the woman, with poorly concealed irritation.

"I might be," she huffed back, scanning the tracks again and tugging at her lip. She pulled her hand away and glared at her fingers. Sighing, she brought out a tissue to remove rose-colored lipstick from off her fingertips.

The big fella got a phone call, and he stepped back to take it. This was Paulie's first sign that the dumb hulk could actually talk.

The Tube guard sighed even more loudly. This really was taking too long. After all, it weren't as if the woman, this Christine, was ever going to share her nice, soft bosom with him.

"You wid the police then?" asked Paulie, only half interested in the answer.

"Sort of," said Christine equally indifferently.

"I hate 'em," said the guard emphatically.

"The police?" said the woman with a hint of surprise; she tugged at her hat, which seemed to sit uncomfortably on her short, wavy, dirty-blond hair.

"Nooo. Jumpers!" said the guard. "People who chuck themselves in front of trains. Selfish bastards."

The woman rolled her blue eyes and muttered, "Well, that's one way of looking at it."

She glanced over at her friend, adjusted a little earphone in her right ear and then squatted down to look more closely at the train-track. The guard privately admired the rear view, but did not feel that the lady investigator had properly appreciated his opinion regarding the jumpers.

"I mean it," insisted Paulie, "It's all right for them. It's over in a split second…strawberry jam all over the lines. Wha'about the drivers, hmmm? They gotta live wid it, haven't they?"

Christine's eyes narrowed at the big lout who sidled closer. The stocky blonde tugged the beret firmly down on her head yet again, and then returned her gaze to the track. She ran her fingers along the top and then along the sides of the rail.

She studied her fingers for a moment then said, "Yeah, you know, speaking of strawberry jam, there's no blood on the line." The big bloke, Oscar, held out his hand and helped pull her to a stand. Ms Christine Tyler's lips flattened and all but disapperared, when the hulk didn't release her hand immediately. With a frown and a fierce yank, she pulled her hand free and turned to the briefly amused Tube guard, "Has the track been cleaned off?" She asked the rail worker, shifting from her right foot to her left.

The guard scratched his head before answering. "No, there weren't much blood."

"You said his head was smashed in," said the stocky woman, she tilted her head questioningly.

"Well, it were," said the Tube guard, a tad defensively. "But there weren't much blood."

"O-kay," said Christine looking at her companion and then along the track yet again. She wandered down a few feet and squatted down stiffly, to examine this portion of track, which looked the same as the other portions of track.

Yeah, this was taking way too long for nothin'.

"Well, I'll leave it to you lot then," said the guard, loosing interest entirely. He was off to the warm trailer for his break and a hot cuppa tea. "Just give us a shout when you're off." He pointed to a yellow trailer and ambled off.

Christine rose slowly, favoring her right leg. "Right," she said more to herself than to Oscar. "So, uhh, Andrew West got on the train somewhere-or did he? There's no ticket on the body. Then how did he end up here?"

The rail switch suddenly changed, and the points slid toward the right.

"Points," said Christine.

Oscar blinked, looking confused, "Erm, points?"

"Well, the switch then," said Christine. "The train went round the curve and…" she waved her hand excitedly

"You're losing me," said Oscar blank-faced.

"West didn't board the train. But what if he was on the train…but only on top of the train, on the roof… Of course, it most likely it was his body that was on the roof, and then when the train made this turn, the body would have flown off due to its momentum. It's simple physics," added Christine, with an unbecoming air of superiority.

"Yeah? And since when were you an expert in physics?"

"Never mind the physics," said the blonde quickly, because frankly, physics was not the agent's strong point. The agent stopped to straighten her annoying beret. "You know… it's not the beret…so much as the hair," she complained irritably, "I could handle the bloody beret, if my hair wasn't so… poufy."

"I like your hair," said the tall agent admiringly.

"Never mind my hair either," grumbled Christine, lowering her knitted brows. "The important question is; how did West's body get on top of the train? And where is that memory stick now? I don't see how any of this helps us at all."

They were interrupted by texts arriving at each of their phones.

"They're pulling into the yard now," said Oscar, looking up from his mobile.

"Yeah, and I've got a meeting at half four anyway," said Christine, sighing. "You wait here, and see if Sherlock Holmes can make heads or tails out of this mysterious mess. I'll just grab a taxi…"

"Clancy will pick you up and take you back for your meeting."

"I can manage fine on my own," Christine protested, her husky voice taking on an aggressive edge.

"Think of this as an order, not a suggestion," said Oscar firmly.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm the senior agent here, Christine. Protocol dictates that you follow my orders in the field," he stated smugly.

She glared from under her long, dark lashes and pursed her pinkish lips to object.

"Either you return with Clancy, or we both wait here together for Mister Holmes and let him decide," said the glib agent, looking at his watch.

"Oh, bloody hell!" huffed the stocky blonde. "Fine. I'll meet Clancy by the trailer, Sir."

Christine saluted angrily. Then she pivoted and began heading towards the trailer. Oscar watched her swaying hips appreciatively.

She wasn't even halfway to the trailer when Oscar heard the crunch of gravel. He turned to see the approach of the World's Only Consulting Detective and his MOD, Derek.

"Clancy dropped us off, on the far side of the factory," said Derek, staring at the departing woman. "He wanted to turn the van around so's he could meet up with Chris, to give her a lift back to the…"

"If you're both done chatting and admiring that woman's posterior?" asked the consulting detective, narrowing his eyes. "You know, I do believe that woman has put on weight too. Are all the females in the bunker gaining weight? Perhaps they should spend less time cooking with the doctor and more time working out. And why did she cut her hair? It makes her head look…too small, especially with that ridiculous beret perched on top."

Derek raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, but Oscar just kept watching Christine until Clancy's van pulled up just beyond the yellow construction trailer. She half-turned to wiggle her fingers 'goodbye', her face hidden under an enormous pair of pink and violet sunglasses, before she climbed into the van with Clancy.

"Clearly, Ms Tyler needs to watch back episodes of the Connie Price show," said Sherlock. "That scarf is a different shade of blue than her jumper, and they clash. In addition, that outfit makes her look even heavier than she really is. I will say nothing about the beret or those hideous sunglasses."

"She's not heavy at all," complained Oscar. "Besides, that safety vest would make any one look heavy."

"Indeed. Your ensemble makes you look fat too. But that's hardly important now," said Sherlock smirking, sans vest. He then dismissed the topic of clothing with a wave of his hand. Meanwhile, Derek, wearing his bland smile a bit too tightly, positioned himself between the detective and the other agent…just in case.

"Now, Ox...Oscar," said Sherlock, smoothly, "you and Christine have got here finally. West wasn't killed here; that's why there was so little blood."

Oscar nodded in understanding, but Derek just looked at the track confused.

"Well, if you two are determined to accompany me," said Sherlock, "I have a bit of burglary to do. It's a shame that Clancy and Christine will have to miss out on all the fun."

The tall, lean detective whirled around, his long coat swirling behind him and strode off. "Well, come along, the game is on!"

A/N Thank you to everyone who has kept up with this overly long fic. The end is almost in sight…wait, I think I see it…or is that an on coming lorry? Anyway, I think the end is almost in sight.

An announcement : The good news is that I am getting high speed internet this week (probably). The bad news is that I have to change all my internet and e-mail accounts. This may cause a delay in uploading the next chapter. Never fear, I will be posting chapter 49 as soon as I can.

As always. Thank you for reading, following or favoriting this fic. You all make me very happy.

Thank you so much to those who have sent me reviews. Reviews are a potent motivator to make me write. And they make me deliriously happy! I love all of you to bits. (which sounds kind of weird and creepy) But I hope you understand the sentiment. Thank you for the recent reviews from: dana-san, Kinkylittlewolf, birdie7272, JC Black, Quiet Time and evillaugh.

Disclaimer-I must confess that I do not own the rights to Sherlock, John or any characters from ACD's Sherlock or BBC's Sherlock. I do own the rights to Oscar, Paula and my ridiculous warnings- but then nobody wants those rights anyway. *sigh* :D

End Chap 48