Rated M: for swearing and adult themes.
Please note- this fic is AU and the characters are OOC
This is a disclaimer that should have preceded Chapters 1-53. None of these characters are real. Nor are they meant to reflect real people (whether actors, celebrities or actual government officials of any nationality.) In other words, this is all make-believe...Got that?
All mistakes are still my own. Even the stupid ones. **sighs**
A Friendly Reminder: Please do not drink beverages and read fanfic at the same time.
Right. Onto Chapter 54 (which morphed into a super-extra-long, expository chapter, for which I aploogize...but hopefully there's enough humor/brotherly love/and Sherlock being Sherlocky to entertain you)
Chapter 54
The black limousine turned a corner, and then continued down the mostly empty street. Rubbing his aching forehead, Lestrade looked out the window at the nacreous sky. It was early dawn, but the Battle of the Holmes Brothers still raged on.
Pretending to be catatonic or at least fascinated by the opalescent sky, Greg stared out the window, waiting for just the right moment to drop his conversational grenade into the ongoing battle of wits.
Greg sighed, devoutly wishing that he'd left one or both of the Holmes brothers at the hospital. Preferably both.
"I will gladly prove it, Sherlock," snarled the British government, "if you care to look at the uploaded CCTV footage for yourself." Mycroft did not sound glad at all.
He held out a tablet showing grainy footage of John Watson and Oscar Morrison, arm in arm. They were shambling towards an American C-130; In fact, they stumbled repeatedly, almost as if drunk. As the two men climbed up the rolling stairway, Oscar leaned over, giving the smaller man a possessive hug. Sherlock stifled a howl of dismay.
However upon replay, Sherlock was reassured (well, he was almost reassured) to observe that John did not duck his head into the larger man's shoulder, as John always did when Sherlock embraced him. On the contrary, just as the two men entered the gleaming, gunmetal-grey fuselage, John seemed to lean away from the ox, meaning that John didn't really care for Oscar, right? It certainly looked to Sherlock as if John was leaning away. He definitely wanted John to have been leaning away…
Yes, John was trying pull away from the ox just as they entered the plane. Yes. Definitely.
"To the superficial viewer, it might appear as though they are hugging, although one can see that John is leaning away from the ox at the top of the steps. And I agree it, at first glance it appears at as though John is boarding the plane voluntarily," murmured Sherlock.
"Because he is boarding it voluntarily!" said Mycroft forcefully.
"Perhaps, if I could interrupt…" began Greg Lestrade diffidently. He was effectively silenced by twin death glares.
"There are many alternate explanations," said Sherlock turning angrily in his seat to scowl at his brother. "To begin with, the ox could be forcing John to…"
"Watson is not being forced!" snapped Mycroft.
"I might be able to offer…"said Greg, who was cut off by his partner.
"Your former army captain made no attempts to escape," continued Mycroft, slicing his hand downward for emphasis. He also invited his partner to remain silent, with a classic Holmesian narrow-eyed glance. "It is obvious that Watson and Morrison are lovers, embracing even when they walk. Dear God, they are glued to one another like..."
"No, you must be blind if you can't see this. If you look here…"Sherlock pointed at the tablet, while refusing to consider Mycroft's interpretation of the situation. "…you can see that John is clearly drawing away from the ox's repellant touch. Even Anderson would be able to see this."
"Look, I have something to add," said Lestrade. He was summarily ignored as Mycroft launched a counter attack.
"Fool!" Mycroft snapped at his brother. "Have you already forgotten what I told you? John Watson and Oscar Morrison were publically holding hands during our last conference. They were also smiling at one another, as if they shared a secret!"
"Wellll," drawled Sherlock, pitching his voice high to produce maximum irritation, "Of course they were sharing a secret, they were plotting to get John out of the bunker and into the pool complex so that…"
"How the hell do you explain away Watson holding Morrison's bloody hand at yesterday's bloody briefing?" demanded Mycroft, who then sat blinking at his own uncharacteristic outburst.
The limousine was silent for a moment as everyone absorbed the shock of Mycroft's use of expletives.
The once and future British government took a deep breath to calm himself.*
"Sherlock, don't let sentiment blind you to the truth," said Mycroft leaning wearily back into the seat cushions. "Watson was clever, very clever. He fooled us all with his 'I'm just a simple army doctor, don't mind me' role-play. When in fact he was a cunning undercover genius, master of subterfuge and a genius with disguises."
Lestrade snorted. Sherlock glanced at the detective inspector, then his eyes narrowed as he focused on the older man, nodding once.
Mycroft, however, continued to ignore Greg as he continued to declaim, "Watson expertly subverted several of my agents. He planned and executed a complex double-cross resulting in the deaths of key witnesses…"
"Now just wait a minute, the deceased were murderers and terrorists, not innocent bloody witnesses," said Lestrade.
"And it's not as though any of the deceased, aside from Moran or Moriarty himself, would have been able to give us any useful data anyway," added Sherlock, strengthening the argument in favor of John. "If you could force your malfunctioning mind to recall Moriarty's paranoia and megalomania, you would realize that he would not have shared significant information with his low-level henchmen. Moran, who might have had insight into Moriarty's plans was insanely loyal and would never have talked, especially given the amount of brain washing he was subjected to. As for Moriarty, while he was unbalanced, he was also a genius at manipulation. James Moriarty would have led us round and round the garden path, without telling us anything of import."
"And you can't honestly think that your plan to track Moriarty would ever have worked?" asked Sherlock, dark brows raised in disbelief. "Moriarty knew that you were alive, Mycroft; he surely would have anticipated your attempt to follow him, assuming that he hadn't succeeded in killing you first."
"Simply stated," concluded the younger Holmes, "the deaths of Moriarty, Moran and their henchmen will not set back our plans to dismantle Moriarty's criminal enterprise."
"I strongly disagree, brother mine," huffed Mycroft with irritation, "And I am frankly shocked that you are so accepting of Watson's many lies and betrayals. Evidently, we never met the real Captain John Watson, due to his uncanny ability to disguise himself. While justifiably angry, I am of course impressed with his talent for creating an alternate personal façade. It's a pity that he chose to use his talents against his country and against us."
"John's disguise was clever but hardly uncanny," said Sherlock.
"No?" snapped Mycroft. "Let us not forget, that Watson managed to sneak out of the bunker unseen by my agents, and then he infiltrated the natatorium, passing innumerable agents, using his highly developed talents of urban camouflage."
"Oh Mycroft," said Sherlock, shaking his head in mock sadness. "I Fear that you are currently blinded by your emotions. Specifically, you are blinded by arrogance and complacency. Let us not forget, that John walked out of the bunker right under your pointy nose, while he wore a relatively simple disguise, which made him superficially resemble Christine."
The elder Holmes frowned.
"John's disguise was simple yet elegant. And it explains so much of John's aberrant behavior," continued the consulting detective. "John and Christine's exchange of identity is the reason John had to lose weight and grow out his hair; it had nothing to do clinical depression or PTSD." Probably, thought Sherlock, though PTSD may have played a part. Something to explore later, after John was returned to Sherlock's side. "I am surprised and frankly disappointed that neither of us tied John's changes in with Christine's simultaneous weight gain and hair cut. A gross oversight on our parts, brother. And of course they shared makeup, which made the identity exchange so much more believable…I knew it wasn't just camouflage on John's face, especially the second time that I observed it. Yet every time I tried to pursue the issue, John distracted me, quite effectively in fact..." Sherlock's voice trailed off momentarily, as he recalled the various pleasurable distractions, which John had used. "I do wonder why he wore Paula's mauve lipstick instead of Christine's pink lipstick?"
"But" said the consulting detective briskly," that's not important right now."
Sherlock swiveled in his seat, using Lestrade as his sounding board, rather than his sour-faced brother. "I will admit that I am impressed that John consistently exaggerated his limp, when he was not in disguise. It was a simple and again an elegant way to force us to assume that we visualized only John Watson whenever we saw either John or Christine-as-John hobbling. Obviously it worked the other way round as well. If anyone saw a short blond in combat gear who didn't limp, ipso facto, we would believe it was Christine. It worked not unlike the way a bird distracts a predator by feigning a broken wing," lectured Sherlock. Lestrade sat still, unconsciously nodding. Sherlock began to smirk ever so slightly, before continuing "Then too, John swayed his hips to mimic a woman's gait and perhaps to hide any residual limp when he was pretending to be Christine. Which was very clever of him, and which, I am forced to admit, did in fact fool me."
"Regrettably, John's sultry sashaying may have hoist him with his own petard, in that it likely inflamed the ox's unholy lust, judging from Oscar's untoward interest in Christine-who-was-really-John at the train yard," continued Sherlock, his lips turning down, as his eyes gazed into his memories. "Yes, that come-hither swaying of John-as-Christine may have been too much for the ox's feeble little mind to handle. Thus filled with illicit desire for the sultry, little blond, the ox probably snapped and kidnapped John this morning, forcing John onto the plane against his will. Part of me can hardly blame Oscar. Still, it will not go well for Oscar Morrison once I catch up with him." Sherlock frowned fiercely now as he imagined various things not going well for the lusty ox.
"You sound like a bad romance novel," scoffed the one-time minor government official.
"Oh, do you read many of them?" asked Sherlock snarkily, refocusing his anger on Mycroft.
Meanwhile, Greg too was more than a bit astonished at Sherlock's flamboyant language. 'John's sultry sashaying', mouthed Greg, in wonderment? And was Sherlock, the self-proclaimed sociopath, implying that he himself was inflamed with 'desire for the sultry, little blond'? Who'd of thought it?
Lestrade stared with wide dark eyes at Sherlock Holmes, as if he was a changeling. A weak grin tugged at the detective inspector's mouth, because he couldn't wait to see John again, in order to tease the sultry, little blond mercilessly.
But there was work to do first, beginning with clearing John of wrongdoing. Mycroft was overreacting. Surely he knew that John Watson was no traitor or…master spy…
"Yeah, this might be a good time for me to tell you…" began Greg.
Once more, Mycroft interrupted, "At least you've conceded, that Watson is a master of disguise," said Mycroft, overlooking both his brother's sentimental lapse and the question regarding romance novels, in favor of pressing his attack. "Watson fooled you. He fooled my agents…"
"Bah!" said Sherlock in disgust. "John is many things, but he is hardly a master of disguise. I have conceded only that he did well, very well, in imitating Christine and mastering various gaits for this particular disguise. This singular talent of John's may well prove to be useful in the future. But remember that my doctor and your minion already resembled each other a great deal, making the switch in identities relatively easy to perform. Not to mention the fact that they were friends living in close quarters, which is your fault, Mycroft, but it did enable them to spend hours together perfecting their mutual mimicry. Unfortunately, I doubt whether John will be able to replicate this success with other disguises, unless we are thrown in with another militant, short blond person."
Then Sherlock allowed himself a small smirk, "I must also point out that John only fooled me at a distance. Indeed, the only time I saw him disguised as Christine, he was nearly one hundred feet away and swaying his hips most provocatively. In addition, I saw only his back. Finally, he nearly blinded me by wearing a hideously mismatched jumper and scarf combination," said Sherlock disapprovingly.
His cold steely eyes met his brother's icy blue glare, and then Sherlock began to smirk in earnest.
"However, John was able to fool you, Mycroft from only a few feet away, and while he was wearing form-fitting combat gear. I'm not sure if John was a great mimic or if you were just blinded by your own complacency. I submit that in the long run, John was not a master of disguise, merely a lucky amateur. He was successful in this instance due to his fortuitous resemblance to your minion and due to your own inability to see the truth in front of your eyes, because it was hidden by your overweening ego."
"But you admitted that he fooled you too, Sherlock," spat Mycroft angrily, hating to have missed John's disguise, and at such a short-range too. "And he fooled my agents, aside from Oscar and Christine and possibly Clan…"
"No." said Sherlock, his lips still haunted by that smirk. "No, your minions were aware of John's alter-ego and supported it. Your many minions collaborated…"
"That's absurd," retorted Mycroft disdainfully. "Watson only subverted three of them. And I suspect that Watson and Oscar blackmailed the other two into coöperation. Blackmail would be right up Watson's alley. Now that I have had time to consider this, I suspect that Watson used blackmail to force the Americans to assist him in his diabolical schemes. He probably found out about the ambassador's family's ties to…"
"No Mycroft! John has a wealth of knowledge regarding medicine, firearms, and, alas, cinematic arcana. However, John would not be privy to the sorts of information, which a blackmailer might utilize. It is extremely unlikely that John Watson discovered the American ambassador's regrettable family connections. And even if he did, John is too honorable to consider using blackmail against any but the vilest of villains."
"Yeah, Sherlock is right," said Lestrade. "John is not a blackmailer." Sherlock turned, giving Lestrade a sharp, knowing glance. Mycroft militantly ignored his partner to stare down his brother.
"I must also take umbrage with your earlier suggestion that John is a master tactician," continued Sherlock. "The awkwardly named, plan C-squared is actually relatively straightforward compared to the schemes that you and I have devised in the past, and yet it is far more complex than the sorts of plans that John creates. I do believe that John might have wanted to devise plans to eliminate Moriarty. But he surely did not devise a plan which required a month of subterfuge and which utilized the various talents of your minions, Scotland Yard and the American CIA." said Sherlock decisively. "Recall that John's plans are always short, direct and violent…"
"In less than one hour, several people were gunned down at the natatorium. Surely that fulfills your requirements for quick, direct violence," sneered Mycroft.
"I will repeat, just this once for your inadequate understanding: John does not have the guile necessary to have created this plan. A scheme this complex was surely devised by a sly fox, not a soldier." Sherlock turned his steely eyes on the wily, silver-haired detective. Then the brunet murmured, "Indeed the truth will out, and rather soon I think."
"Once again you are incomprehensible!" snarled Mycroft. "This double cross was Watson's operation from its insidious inception to its violent conclusion!"
Mycroft gripped his mobile phone tightly, to control his anger. After a couple of quick breaths, his voice returned to its usual glib tenor. "Watson and his co-conspirators are guilty of murder and treason, among other things. Naturally, I would prefer to extradite them to face justice; however that may prove difficult. I shall, of course, contact the American ambassador personally. He will not reveal any outward surprise that I am in fact, alive. After he congratulates me on my recovery, he will then lie and deny any knowledge of Watson or his gang. I will offer the CCTV footage as evidence to counter his denial. The ambassador will stall by requesting time to confer with his Commander-in-Chief. The Americans will then propose a settlement. The ambassador will likely offer a compromise on the economic package for sub Saharan Africa, in exchange for the conspirators… I will not accept that compromise. I will insist that they return Watson at the bare minimum," The British government smirked at his younger sibling; after all, diplomacy was his forte. "The ambassador will appear to dither. The Americans will posture, as if they are weak and uncertain. I will pretend to believe their posing, and they will pretend to believe me. Then one of us will offer a new compromise." The ginger's voice became harsh again, "We will agree to send the traitors into permanent exile, deep in the Alaskan interior. They will be neutralized and punished; perhaps they'll even suffer some tragic accident out in the frozen wastes. In addition, I will require that the American's follow through on the economic package, and I will demand increased U.S. funding for NATO." Mycroft smoothed the wrinkles in his jacket and smoothed his voice as well. "In the unlikely event that they do return John Watson to us, he will face a military tribunal that will convict him. In either case, you will never see John Watson again. In time, you will thank me."
"You've become foolish in your old age, Mycroft," said Sherlock softly, his eyes glinting like shards of glass. "Why on Earth do you imagine that I wouldn't be able to locate and extricate John from the Alaskan frontier or from your tribunal's clutches? I will stop at nothing to free John Watson and bring him home."
"You give yourself too much credit, brother mine. And Watson will never live freely in London or any part of…"
"You underestimate me, brother," said Sherlock pleasantly, although his lowered brows belied his fake smile. His voice became softer yet and more compelling, "And if you push me, I will collect John on my own, and I will disappear with him. You will see neither of us ever again." Sherlock's voice became brisk once more. "Be prepared to explain all this to Mummy next Christmas, when I am effectively dead to the world, thanks to your idiotic intransigence."
"You are delusional," hissed Mycroft. He returned to the texting, which he hated. Still, it allowed him to communicate in the secrecy, which he required.
Sherlock shut his eyes, imagining Mind Palace John, wearing a pair of very tight jeans (sadly the jeans were also imaginary) and a tight black tee-shirt (delightfully, the shirt was quite real…even now, real John may have that very shirt on his well toned torso). Sherlock and imaginary John had a short discussion on where John's flight was likely to land and where John would like to vacation, assuming that exile become temporarily (or permanently) necessary. Sherlock favored Madrid or Rio de Janeiro or even Berlin. Sadly, Mind Palace John favored Hollywood or even Alaska, which seemed ridiculous, all things considered. Sherlock shuddered at the thought of the 'movie stars' and that Disneyland, which were to be found in the wilds of California. The Alaskan tundra looked quite promising in comparison.
Sherlock's internal discussion was interrupted by Lestrade's loud, deep sigh.
The detective inspector had buried his face in his hands, while Mycroft somewhat laboriously delivered secret instructions via text. Needless to say, his texting was laborious only in comparison to an average teenager or in comparison to Sherlock's extraordinarily nimble fingers. Naturally, Mycroft's PA usually did the texting for him, and the resurrected government official was a bit out of practice with the tiny keyboard.
Sherlock echoed the DI's sigh, "I do regret that I didn't recognize John's plotting earlier. I'm sure that there was an obvious clue that I somehow missed," he scanned the John Watson wing of his Mind Palace looking for that sentinel piece of evidence, which he had missed. Sadly, it was not on display…yet. "Then too, perhaps I am partially to blame for forcing John into his extraordinary behavior. Perhaps my methods of ensuring his safety were, a bit too heavy-handed."
"Ya think?" muttered Lestrade.
"In the future, I'll be sure to use a velvet glove to control him…"
"Christ, why don't you just try treating him as an equal?" barked police detective. "I know, how about you stop trying to lock him up for 'his own good'?" Lestrade finally looked up from his intent examination of the floor mat. "Why can't either of you Holmeses treat people like…well, like people, instead of like goldfish, for Christ's sake?"
"You needn't fuss at me Lestrade," said Sherlock, blinking his wide pale eyes innocently. "I'm a genius, and I learn quickly. I will never again try to incarcerate John Watson. After all, it's ineffective." Sherlock nodded to himself and to imaginary John, who clearly had no intention of ever letting Sherlock imprison him again. "No," continued the consulting detective, "in the future I shall simply have to convince John that I am nearly always right. It will take more time, and it will often be tedious. Still, I think the results will be worth the extra effort."
Lestrade raised his eyes towards the sky, as if asking for divine intervention.
Sherlock tsked, "I also regret that I shall have to follow John to the U.S. to implement his rescue. I'm never really comfortable with Americans. They're so friendly and touchy-feely…except in Manhattan. I can tolerate Manhattan in small doses… I can only hope that John doesn't go to ground in California. I cannot abide California; it's far too sunny and…"
"Sherlock, have you lost your mind?" snapped the elder Holmes. "Have you forgotten that Watson doesn't want you; he chose Oscar over you!"
"Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft. I know that John loves me," said Sherlock confidently. Sherlock had no doubts concerning John's loyalty. Almost none. In his minds eye, he saw imaginary John wearing the nearly transparent black robe, which the real John had never actually worn, mores the pity. Despite his injuries, the make-believe John was terribly enticing. His cobalt blue eyes looked at Sherlock with admiration and adoration and lust. Mind palace John, smiled and promised never to leave Sherlock, which was reassuring…sort of. The consulting detective swallowed with difficulty and returned to his brother's incredulous stare. "He said," Sherlock cleared his throat, "John said that he'd never leave me…"
"He also said that he'd stay in the bunker," countered Mycroft, with a raised brow. "I think it's safe to assume that John Watson is a liar."
"We…no, I…I forced him to agree to that promise, and then I forced him to break that promise," said Sherlock. Mind palace John nodded, as did the very real detective inspector." I suspect that John perceived that my case with Moriarty was too threatening, and then he felt that he had to intervene. That's when he was forced to leave the bunker, despite his promis…"
"I cannot believe my ears," said Mycroft, cutting his brother off, "Watson didn't just leave the bunker. He plotted to destroy our plans…"
"I had reservations about those plans, Mycroft, as you well know. Recently I felt that eliminating Moriarty might be the best option…"
"And beyond that," steamrolled the British government, "Beyond that, John Watson ran off to America, with Oscar Morrison! He jilted you, Sherlock! And no one jilts a Holmes."
"That particular litany has become tiresome, Mycroft," said Sherlock with a dismissive wave of his hand. He would not show Mycroft his hurt and uncertainty. He would not reveal that the CCTV footage of John and Oscar had nearly gutted him, even though John had almost definitely leaned away from the ox. He had to hold onto that video reassurance, and John's promise never to leave, because the alternative was anathema. "John is loyal to me," said Sherlock. "In fact, I am confident, that given enough time, John would make his own way back to London. However, I plan to go after John so that he doesn't become injured in another misguided escape attempt. Besides, I don't trust Morrison. That ox might try to take advantage of John, especially now, while John's in a confused state, and I cannot allow that, obviously. Then too, there's that unscrupulous CIA agent. He certainly wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of John. Even now that Daley person is probably trying to confuse John even further, just to manipulate him. No, I will not leave John in their hands any longer than necessary. I shall ensure John's return…"
"John Watson won't ever return, unless it's under armed escort," said Mycroft. "And try to remember he is wanted for treason, espionage, blackmail, murder…"
"No, Mycroft you're mistaken."
"No Sherlock," snarled Mycroft, "You are mistaken, about a great many things!"
The driver gasped and the limousine swerved. "Oh my God, Captain Watson was right," sputtered the young driver nervously, "He really does talk like Palpatine."**
The passengers looked at the young man, as if he'd lost his mind.
"And you're right too, Mister Holmes, sir," said the driver, looking earnestly at Sherlock via the rearview mirror. "You're absolutely right."
The driver happened to be one of the newer minions (Parents from India...no Pakistan. The young agent was a first generation British citizen and the first member of his family with a University degree. Heterosexual, a non-practicing Muslim and a fan of cricket). In fact was so new, that Sherlock hadn't had a chance to learn and then forget his unimportant name."
"Of course I am right. I'm nearly always right," said the humble consulting detective. "But what exactly were you referring to? Oh don't answer; it doesn't matter. However, I can see you are finally ready to 'spill the beans', as John likes to say. It's taken you long enough."
"Yes, Sir," agreed the young driver, "Sorry, sir. Shall I pull over?"
"No, you can keep driving, Ahsan," ordered Lestrade, over Sherlock's mild protests. "And you can hold your tongue as well."
"Yessir!" said Ahsan. "But first I have to say this; John Watson didn't blackmail me or anyone else. And he's not a…"
Lestrade slammed the privacy window shut.
Sherlock's eyes glittered in the hazy light of the cloud-covered dawn. "Well, Lestrade, are you finally ready to spill your own beans? I must say you took your time about it."
"Hold on just a bloody damn minute!" snapped the detective inspector. "I've been trying to explain things, ever since we got in the car, but you two were so busy bickering, that I couldn't get a word in edgewise. Every time I opened my mouth, you or Mycroft interrupted…"
"Gregory?" interrupted Mycroft, his mouth half-agape in his astonishment. He looked rather like a well dressed goldfish.
"Not to worry, Lestrade," said Sherlock, ignoring his confused sibling, "Although the interval was tedious, I forced myself to wait patiently, because I had already deduced that you felt that John was safe. You are John's friend and clearly one of the key plotters. So long as you were not concerned about John's safety, then I probably had no reason to be concerned either. That and the CCTV footage convinced me that I could bide my time, for now." Sherlock reminded himself one last time that John was definitely leaning away from the ox and not towards him in the CCTV footage. Imaginary John nodded reassuringly.
"Gregory?" repeated Mycroft, his blue eyes wide with betrayal. He even forgot to pretend to text.
"In any case, the plane has left the tarmac, like the horse leaving the barn, " Sherlock paused, pleased with his turn of phrase and knowing that John would have appreciated it too. Certainly, imaginary John beamed proudly as he took notes in his small imaginary leather-bound book. "Obviously, I am going to be several hours behind John, no matter what happens, so a very slight delay while you wasted time resting in this car was acceptable."
"I wasn't really worried about keeping you waiting," said Greg. As often was the case, the DI was a bit overwhelmed by the flood of Sherlockian statements.
"But," said Mycroft, "but Gregory…"
Sherlock and Greg spared the stunned government official quick glances, however Mycroft found nothing else to say.
"Excellent," beamed Sherlock with a false smile spreading his lips. "Still, there is no need for boring repetition. It's safe to assume that everything which I deduced so far about John, the plot and the minions was correct." Lestrade rolled his eyes, but nodded resignedly.
"Good," said Sherlock. Leaning forward eagerly, the brunet rubbed his hands together, until the pain in his right arm forced him to stop. He cradled his injured arm and said, "Now, let's begin with the most crucial question; where is John going now?"
Mycroft had almost recovered his ability to speak intelligibly. "Gregory how…Are you saying…How in God's name would you know…"
"Don't be stupid, Mycroft," said Sherlock, cutting off his brother's babbling. "Obviously Lestrade was in this plot up to his neck. I do believe Gavin lied to you, brother, but it was for a good cause" Sherlock flashed another of his deep, insincere grins, creasing the skin around his eyes and mouth. "Do keep up. And don't interrupt, brother; it's annoying. So, Gavin…"
"Greg."
"Fine. Whatever."
"No, not whatever. You've known my name for years. You know it's Greg. This pretending to not know names…"
"FINE! Greg! Greg! Greg! Greg!" snapped Sherlock, "And I'm not pretending. I deleted all the minion's names, and your name must have been located in the deleted files along with the rest of the minions. Luckily, I only deleted first names…"
"Fine. Whatever."
"That's exactly what I said, Graham," he said with another insincere smile. "Now stop dithering. Where is that plane going?"
"I'm sorry, that's a question that I can't answer, Sherlock," said Lestrade regretfully. "Daley never told us exactly where they would be heading after they left Britain. I sort of assumed they'd end up at Langley." Lestrade scrubbed the stubble on his cheeks and avoided Sherlock's look of disappointment and Mycroft's look of betrayal. "I am sorry, Sherlock, but at the time I didn't want to know where they were going. Oscar, Clancy and Chris were all leaving to start new lives. So I thought, the less I knew, the better. As for John, he never planned to go to America with them. I was as surprised as anyone to see him getting on that plane."
"I knew John wouldn't voluntarily board that plane," said Sherlock triumphantly. "So…the others wanted what? Political asylum?"
"Yeah, Oscar, and Chris, figured that as leaders in plan C-squared, they would be targeted by their boss."
Greg and Sherlock looked over to the pale, stunned British government, who missed his chance to jump in with more threats.
"The other minions…" said Lestrade, "Um, I mean the other agents only knew bits and pieces of what we were planning. Mostly, they just knew that John needed to be able to escape from the bunker to take point in guarding you. Frankly, they were just relieved that John was MOD last night, because they knew John would freak if anything happened to you. Of course, all the min-agents were offered U.S. asylum too, but only Clancy took it…I think there's of some girl he met in the States… Anyway, the other minions…agents…well they didn't want to leave England. Also, they're still loyal to Mycroft, whatever he might think. I mean, like me, they just wanted to protect him, y'know…And that's what John offered-a way to ensure Mycroft's safety, plus yours of course."
Lestrade paused to look up at the intent younger detective. "Look, I'm sorry I'm rambling; it's been a long and horrible week. Anyway the many minions, as you call 'em, gambled that they would not be severely punished, especially if John saved your hide, which he did. So they stayed to take their chances."
Sherlock nodded, and Greg continued.
"We all worried that Mycroft would, at first, want to punish the leaders, especially John…"
"Which I will," said Mycroft, having recovered enough of his composure to issue the standard threats, "I will ensure that none of them ever leave the frozen wastes of the arctic, unless it is to return here for trial. And the other minions…traitors…traitorous minions, well, they shall certainly be looking at some form of exile as well, given that they know too much to just be cut loose."
"You mean you'll punish all those traitors who were willing to sacrifice themselves to end Moriarty's hold on you and your stubborn brother?" Asked Greg angrily. Then he added, "Not to mention, Sherlock wouldn't be here alive if it weren't for all of them working to support John and plan C-squared and…"
"Well, I…" began Mycroft.
"And stop bloody interrupting me!" yelled Gregory, from the end of his proverbial rope. "John and those minions saved your bloody arse AND your bother's bloody arse too. Had Moriarty won tonight, he'd have been coming after you, according to Sherlock. You wouldn't even have known he was coming, 'cause Sherlock wouldn't have been alive to tell you that Moriarty knew you were alive…to come after you…yeah. Anyway, those so-called traitors protected you…"
"Protection was their job. That's what I paid them to do."
"And that's what they did!" said Greg. "With John's help."
"And your's Geoffrey," offered Sherlock, at the urging of imaginary John, who had put his combat gear back on.
Mycroft Holmes huffed and crossed his arms in anger and hurt.
"Let it go Geoff. Mycroft's threat against his many, moronic minions is an empty one. Mycroft cannot afford to lose that many minions all at once. Not while staging his miraculous return to the land of the living and while simultaneously reasserting his control over the unsuspecting free world. I almost pity the Americans," added Sherlock sotto voce. "He'll soon see that it makes more sense to keep his loyal minions. Which reminds me, Mycroft, where were you planning to send the detective inspector for his exile? After all, he's a leader in the insurrection that saved our lives. No, don't answer; you probably won't send him farther away than Brighton."
"Why Brighton?" asked Lestrade, who looked both miserable and resolute under the intense glare of the British government.
"It was just a sop to love and romance and sentiment!" muttered Sherlock, a bit irritated that he'd followed Mind Palace John's advice this time around. There was silence. "I'm trying to remind my dear brother that he actually cares for you," said Sherlock rolling his eyes. When the others still sat quietly, he added, "It's where you suffered through your honeymoon."
"We're not married. So it wasn't a honeymoon," said Mycroft stiffly.
"Mycroft!" snapped Lestrade. "Did you tell Sherlock that you suffered during our honeym…during our holiday at Staunton Sands? It was Staunton Sands, Sherlock, not Brighton. And you, Mycroft, you told me you were happy there. You said you enjoyed the beach and the sparkling blue waters. You said you liked the picnics and the kayaking and the…"
"At that point in your relationship, Mycroft would have said anything to get into your pants…"
"Sherlock!" yelled Mycroft and Greg. They glared at the younger detective, who retreated into his mind palace with a now half-dressed imaginary John who was more than willing to disrobe completely, in order keep Sherlock entertained, even as he chided Sherlock for his rude and insensitive remarks.
The rear of the limousine remained silent long enough for Greg to stop glaring at Sherlock and start shooting looks of hurt and betrayal at the British government who returned the those looks in spades.
"Your driver must be lost!" said Sherlock suddenly, losing the Silent Game. He slid open the privacy window. "You are lost, Aaron! We are going in circles!"
"No sir. It's might seem like a circle, but they closed off a whole bunch of streets due to a water main break and so…"
Sherlock slammed the window shut, muttering, "Dull." He drummed his fingers against his legs, trying to re-imagine John's sinuous and alluring display of various gaits while wearing nothing but a leather thong (Sherlock knew exactly where to procure such a thong. And the owner of that little sex shop owed Sherlock a favor).
Sadly, Sherlock could not sink back into his mind palace, because the ride was taking too long, and Lestrade looked like his feelings had been hurt. And damn if Mycroft wasn't looking rather morose too.
"Are you two done arguing?" asked Sherlock irritably.
"We're not arguing; we're not even talking," said Lestrade through gritted teeth. Mycroft had pretended to return to his texting.
"It was non-verbal arguing, but arguing nonetheless," quipped Sherlock. "Sadly, for you, Gerald, my brother is a master at it, and you have already lost the silent argument. So moving right along, tell me why you and John didn't join the emigration to the States? After all, you were the leaders and had the most to fear from Mycroft."
"I didn't leave because…because I love him," Lestrade glared at his silent partner. "Even though he's being a right git and…and because I think he might love me back, and anyway I trust him to do the right thing…in the end."
Mycroft was entranced by his mobile phone.
"And John?" prompted the consulting detective.
"Why don't you ask him yourself?" asked the plaintive detective inspector, who was tired and angry and feeling sorry for himself.
"Well, maybe I can't ask him…because he's not here! Obviously!" said Sherlock loudly. He had to ignore Mind Palace John's hurt look.
"Perhaps I should remind the two of you that John Watson did decide to depart for the U.S? He did leave. He emigrated. He abandoned you both. He jilted both of you for the ox!" said Mycroft.
"But he wasn't going to," said Lestrade irritably.
"He did not leave voluntarily!" added Sherlock angrily.
"John said he wouldn't leave without Sherlock!" said Greg Lestrade. Sherlock smirked proudly. "John said that he couldn't ask Sherlock to join him in exile so he'd take his chances here…"
"Fools!" snapped Mycroft in return. "He lied. He lied, using you both, and then he left. He left with another man. End of story."
"Will you stop interrupting me!" yelled Lestrade, his eyes dark with anger. He took a breath to steady himself before continuing in a slightly calmer voice, "Right. John was going to remain in London just long enough to contact you, Sherlock, and…and say good-bye."
"WHAT?"
'I told you so," muttered the British government under his breath.
"See John's convinced that he has to go into exile…"
"Which he does," murmured Mycroft.
Lestrade huffed with aggravation, "John said he can't force you into exile with him, Sherlock, because you love London and the Work, but he also said he couldn't leave you without saying good-bye. So he was going to meet with you before heading off to Crete where he knows this guy who might be a mercenary or possibly an arms runner. John was a little vague…Anyway, John's got this whole speech prepared. He made me proof read it…he planned out everything he was going to say to you. He was gonna say that he had to leave, and you had to stay in London. He was gonna say that he loved you and always will love you…and… and that the world doesn't give a hill of beans 'bout the problems of two little people and he was gonna tell you that you two will always have Paris."***
"I do wish he'd stop saying that," said Sherlock morosely. "He's never even been to Paris."
"Yeah, I know…" said Greg frowning. "Uh, you do actually realize the bloke's madly in love with you, right? You do realize that all he ever wanted was to keep you safe? You do realize the power you have over that man?"
Sherlock scrunched down in his seat sulkily, refusing to admit out loud that it worked both ways. He drew his knees up awkwardly in the confined space of the rear seat.
Lestrade was elbowed and squashed by the lanky detective who now imitated a stroppy pre-schooler, so the DI moved to one of the small rear facing seats.
"I hope if you two get back together again…" said Greg.
"Not if, when," muttered Sherlock, from behind his steepled fingers and folded knees.
"When you two get back together again, I hope you take all that into account…"
"Never fear," said Sherlock straightening up. "I shall allow John to express his overprotective tendencies in front of me, where I can better manage him…"
"Look who's calling the kettle black. You're both pathologically over-protective. He has to stop throwing himself in front of the bus for you and you can't keep bossing him around…"
"He bosses me around all the time!" said Sherlock indignantly. "He orders me to eat and to sleep and to be polite to tiresome people like you."
"Yeah, but you ordered him to pretend to be dead indefinitely and to stay imprisoned in an underground bunker, or…or"
"Yes. Yes. We've struck a delicate balance, Gabriel. He is in control of some things, and I am in control of everything else, which makes sense since I am the genius and much more likely to be right than he is. Besides, he usually likes it when I'm in control." Lestrade's brown eyes widened in disbelief. "Surely you've noticed that John enjoys taking orders, especially in the bedr…"
"Shut up, Sherlock."
"I'm trying to relieve your concerns. John is actually a bit of a submis…"
"I don't want to know."
"Not all the time of course. And not when he's in his protective mode, although even then there is that strain of self-sacrifice that…."
"All I wanted to ask," interrupted Lestrade loudly, "was that you treat John well. Be nice…"
"I don't do nice," said Sherlock scornfully. Mind palace John's face was dark and glowering. Mind palace John was furiously packing his rucksack with guns and lube and the black dressing gown. Sherlock moved swiftly to hinder his imagination's retreat.
"However, I fully intend to give John what he needs. Even if it is a bit of control over some things and the freedom to make choices…" some choices, from a list that I'll provide, added Sherlock to himself. Imaginary John still glowered behind a massive rifle. "You worry too much, Gabriel. I am prepared to…"
"Anthea?" said Mycroft, staring at his phone as if it had just bit him. "Anthea too? Even she knew about… this." He waved his hand around vaguely.
"What?" asked Sherlock his nose wrinkling in annoyance. "Oh, Anthea? That was obvious. Have you observed anything at all recently? I think staying in the bunker and working through proxies has dulled your mind, Mycroft. You should reward John for releasing you from prison before your brain atrophied completely."
Sherlock slammed the privacy window open again, "Aaron, Turn left here. Go through two intersections and then take the next right…Dear God, we should have been at Baker Street seventeen minutes ago!"
"How can that be?" asked Greg.
"Because this driver clearly doesn't know the shortcuts…" began Sherlock.
"Not that, I'm talking about Anthea!" said Lestrade. "Look, we never brought Anthea in on the plan, because we thought she'd tell Mycroft..." Greg trailed off, under the baleful glare of his partner.
"Oh that," said Sherlock dismissively waving his long-fingered hand. "She obviously deduced it on her own and supported it, because she agreed with the plan's goals. As always, she acted in the best interests of my brother," said Sherlock decisively. "She's incredibly loyal, you know, and quite competent. Of course, she never sees the need to blabber on about it like you do, Gavin."
Greg and Mycroft glared at the younger man, who leaned across the detective inspector to give the Ahsan more instructions.
"I wish you'd stop looking at me like that, Mycroft," said Greg.I did what I had to do to keep you safe…just like Anthea did apparently…just like all of us. We were trying to help you before…before…well, before you died or something." The circles under the detective's brown eyes bespoke his extreme exhaustion, and his wringing hands spoke of his worry for his partner and for their rocky relationship. Everyone was silent again.
This time, Greg lost the Silent Game. "You and that brother of yours were so set on your plots and games with Moriarty," said Lestrade, his voice hoarse from emotion and thirty-six hours without sleep. "And, you wouldn't listen to reason."
"I did listen to you. I didn't agree with your conclusions. I still do not," said Mycroft speaking coldly. "Furthermore, I feel that my plans made eminent sense."
"Oh yeah, your plans were working great. You were trapped into pretending to be dead, and you planned on keeping that pretense up for who knows how long?" said Lestrade, continuing quickly before Mycroft could cut him off again. "What kind of life is that? Even Sherlock's noticed how it was affecting you. Not to mention that you were sacrificing your entire political life…everything you'd worked for…"
"That was my decision to make, Gregory," said Mycroft. "You had no right to intervene."
"Oh yeah, I did, because I care about you, and because Moriarty would have come after you again…was coming after you, as a matter of fact."
"No," Sherlock shouted thought the privacy window, "it's not closed to thru-traffic, Adam!"
"Ahsan, sir."
"Ahsan, Adam, Abel…what does it matter? Just drive on through," Sherlock yelled at the driver. "Besides, detective inspector Graham Lestrade won't let you get a ticket."
"Greg," offered the driver.
"What?"
"His first name is Greg, Sir."
"Oh, who cares?" whined Sherlock. "At the first light, turn right again."
"John Watson cared, Sir. Captain Watson is always very courteous and unfailingly polite," said the young driver, who at least followed Sherlock's instructions.
"Bloody hell, Mycroft," said Greg, dragging his fingers through his hair, as he looked away from Sherlock to the elder Holmes. "Then there was John and Sherlock to consider too."
"That still didn't give you the right to interfere in governmental…"
"I had the right as an officer of the law!" snapped Lestrade. "I am a detective inspector of Scotland Yard, and I swore an oath to protect the people of London! And James Moriarty was kidnapping and killing and torturing the people that I promised to protect. My GOD! He blew up nine people just so he could play some sick, perverted game with Sherlock Holmes. Nine people who had families, who are still grieving and had friends who still miss the dead! Have you talked to any of them? I have. I've talked to grieving parents and children. I had to talk for two hours to a man who lost his wife of seven weeks…Seven bloody weeks, and his wife was dead! For nothing! And you never asked about any of them, now did you? Huh? Neither of you asked, how're the families holding out, Greg? How're Mrs. Gower's grandchildren making out? How're the classmates of young Mathias doing with all this? No you never even thought to ask. You know who did ask?"
"Obviously, we're supposed to deduce it was John. John, John, John, Saint John, the newly canonized patron saint of liars, cheaters and traitors …" said Mycroft bitterly before Greg cut him off.
"Yeah, John. John asked how the families were doing."
"You do realize that worrying about the families didn't help any of them," said Sherlock, as Mycroft nodded grimly.
"No, I suppose it didn't…" said Lestrade practically. "And do y'know, what? John predicted that you'd say that."
"Well, of course, because John and I already had this conversation, and he was fine with it… for the most part," said Sherlock, ignoring the steady scowl from a soldier inside his mind palace.
"This digression is pointless," complained Mycroft. "And Sherlock, is correct. Sentimentality will not right wrongs or raise the dead."
"No, I guess it won't. Fine. To hell with everyone and their inferior little emotions," exclaimed Greg bitterly. "The point I was trying to make…" He held his hand up to prevent yet another interruption, "… is that I was doing my job. It was my job to stop Moriarty," the older man sighed, "Did you really think I was going to stand back and let Moriarty walk out of that sports complex to wreak more havoc on London and kill more innocent bystanders?"
"Don't be childish, Gregory. Nobody wanted collateral damage, but sometimes sacrifices must be made for the greater good. You used to understand that."
"Don't you dare call me childish, Mycroft Holmes," said Greg. "And don't patronize me. I understand your reasoning perfectly. I just don't agree with it." He said, mimicking his partner. "Moriarty had to be dealt with…so I helped make sure he was dealt with. And let the cards fall where they may," he added, mimicking John.
"Helped?" asked Sherlock, before Mycroft could continue his boring argument with Greg. "Wait right there, Graham!" demanded the brunet. The detective slammed the privacy window open, " Turn left Asswan," the car screeched to make the sudden turn, as the window was slammed shut.
"Christ! Yelled Greg, nearly falling out of his seat.
"Have you considered using the intercom, brother?" asked the supercilious government official.
"No," said Sherlock arrogantly. Then he added with a sly look askance, "Now...I think you did much more than help, Greg. You were the ringleader, weren't you?"
"Well hell, you finally got my name right!" said Greg, with a strained chuckle.
"Anyone can make a mistake," said Sherlock, with a twist of his lips that might have been a genuine smile.
"Umm, to answer your question, I'd have to say we didn't have a ring leader at all," said Lestrade. "John started the ball rolling. And he kept us rolling; he was our inspiration. He was the one who was desperate to stop Moriarty before that madman hurt you. Oscar and I, and later Chris too, well we followed John's lead. And the minions…I mean the other agents they ended up following all of us, but most of them liked John best and followed him, I think. Chris was in charge of the disguise and training John in area's that he hadn't mastered before, like ropes..."
"She didn't do very well training him with ropes. And did no one think to teach him to swim?"
"Uh, there's no pool in the Batcave, Sherlock. And it would have been hard to keep his disguise as a woman in speedos..."
"Whatever."
"So, John was the marksman and planned how we'd use him as a sniper depending on where you met with Moriarty. Oscar was security and I was in charge of overall planing-sort-of the Plotter-in-Chief."
"Gregory…" said Mycroft, biting at his nail in an uncharacteristic show of stress.
"Well, John did some other planning too," said the DI, trying to ignore Mycroft's 'et tu Brute' looks.*** "Like, for instance, his disguise. He came up with the original plan even if Chris implemented it. See, we were brainstorming ways to get John in and out of the Batcave, while working on the Official Batcave Gun-range and Tactical Testing Site, or OB-GATTS, as John christened it. Anyway, suddenly John said, "How the hell could I be so stupid? The short guy always wears the burqa!" Then John jumped up and ran out of the room; well he limped out of the room. You do realize that the limp was real, at least for the first couple of weeks, right?" said Lestrade digressing again.
Sherlock nodded again.
"Anyway, at the time, we had no idea what he was on about but John met with Christine and the rest is cross-dressing history," said Lestrade, with a feeble attempt at humor. "Oh, in case you were wondering, they used a pebble in their shoes to remind them to limp, especially towards the end when John's leg was starting to heal."
"Ah, A classic," said Sherlock, nodding. "I myself used that trick once.." He thought some more. "And the mauve lipstick? It was Paula's and not Christine's, so why use it?'
"John said he was too old for pink lipstick," said Lestrade. "He thought the mauve was more age appropriate, and mauve worked better with his coloring apparently; he got that bit from watching Connie Prince. Plus, John thought the pink lipstick made him look too gay."
"But John Watson is gay," protested Mycroft.
"No, he isn't," said Sherlock with a straight face.
"Don't be ludicrous. This conversation is impossible," snapped Mycroft. "Don't we have more important issues to discuss, besides John Watson's preferences in lip color and sexual partners?"
"Yes, indeed. I now know everything that I need to know on those topics," said Sherlock. "But I still need to know what happened after I blacked out,"
"Right," said Lestrade. "Let me think…The first rounds had been fired, which was my signal to move in."
"Oh, Gregory…" said Mycroft, who was imitating the goldfish again and not even holding his phone.
"I made a move to enter through the back, but was held off by at least two gunmen, there might have been three... Anyway, I couldn't move forward. Oscar reported over the Bluetooth that he was heading through the front to rendezvous with Clancy. That was the last we heard from either of 'em because of the bloody jamming devices. We found three, you know? Jamming devices, they were very small and very powerful…Anyway, Oscar and Clancy must ha' met up in the front. Somewhere along the line they fought and tied up one of the henchman, a guy wanted for aggravated assault, domestic abuse and two possible homicides… By the way, that reminds me, one of the snipers is also still alive. He's in critical..."
"None of that matters to me. Go on," ordered Sherlock brusquely.
"Okay, Oscar and Clancy snuck to the back of the building…probably by way of the locker rooms" said Lestrade. "I think they took out another guard in the locker room and fought with that so-called grandfather, who must have thought he immobilized one or both of them, perhaps sending them to the back where Moriarty ended up."
"He was wounded, I shot him," said Sherlock.
"Yeah, he had multiple wounds. Then John ended up in there for some reason…"
"John was fighting off confusion…"
"PTSD?" asked Greg.
"Psychosis," offered Mycroft angrily.
"Confusion," said Sherlock firmly. "He got away from me in order to track down Moriarty, who I thought was dead…but he wasn't." Sherlock frowned.
"Well, John got back there and got into another fire fight, of course. Now the guards were distracted by John-although I didn't know it was John at the time- so I ran in with BJ, Paula and Derek," said Lestrade. "We took an injured man prisoner, and then ran into John, who was half-carrying Oscar, who had a bloody tourniquet on his upper arm."
Sherlock stared intently at the DI and nodded.
Mycroft stared intently at his partner and shook his head.
"John had that cut on his head but was giving orders. He told me the enemy compound seemed secure, but that I had to move with caution in case of bombs or IEDs. He also ordered me to go get Captain Holmes, who was wounded in action," said Greg. "I thought that was sort of cute, the way he said that, Captain Holmes…"
"CUTE?" yelled Sherlock. "John was having a nervous breakdown and you thought it was cute?"
"Um…no, no sorry. I…"
"Get on with it, we're almost home. Clearly John's confusion…"
"Psychosis," murmured Mycroft.
"Confusion," corrected Sherlock loudly, "His confusion was getting worse as time went on, no doubt in reaction to his injuries and the persistent threats and violence. I need to find him as soon as possible. He requires rest and expert counseling."
"Yeah, well…he was definitely in charge in the compound…complex, and he had taken out the last pocket of resistance…"
"Stop talking like this was a military operation," snapped Mycroft.
"Well, it was sort-of a military operation, under Captain Watson," said Lestrade defensively. "Anyway, John seemed pretty with-it to me…"
"Aside from promoting me to Captain and calling the sports complex an enemy compound," said Sherlock with a raised brow.
"Yeah, aside from that. Um, and John also called Moriarty the insurgent commander… when he reported that he had to kill the insurgent commander who was taking shots at the POW's," said Lestrade.
"Insurgent commander and POW's? And you didn't stop to think that John might have needed some medical attention for his obvious mental confusion?" demanded the consulting detective.
"It all happened too fast!" said Lestrade. "John was moving. He was giving orders…good orders, reasonable orders, aside from calling the complex the enemy compound and stuff. He dragged Oscar out with Clancy's help. He ordered me to make sure you went to the field hospital for stitches and fluids, and he said he had to get Oscar on to his evac... and then they drove off. John was already working on Oscar's arm in the back of the car, and Christine was driving, if you must know."
'You just let John run off, even though he had a head wound and mental status changes?" asked Sherlock.
"You let a psychotic, homicidal traitor and his accomplices go free?" demanded Mycroft.
Lestrade received dual death glares from the frustrated Holmes brothers.
"I had to let John go, Sherlock," said Lestrade eyeing the angry British government warily. "because he said Oscar needed evac, and the man was covered in blood and only semi-conscious. I thought John was taking Oscar to hospital, which seemed like a pretty good idea, since John and Clancy probably needed hospital too."
"You're an idiot," said Sherlock scornfully. "Well, that can't be helped now. And you say that you haven't spoken to John, or one of the other émigrés since they drove off?"
"No, I waited for John or Chris or someone to call back, but they never did. I was busy surveying the damage at the pool, getting you to hospital, getting the other survivors to hospital, beginning the investigation and cleanup," said the exhausted DI. "And at first I didn't worry; 'cause I thought they'd gone to hospital. I had no idea that they'd gone straight to the airport or that the plane had left within minutes of their arrival. Hey, at least we know John's not hurt much, cause his head wound was barely bleeding…"
"Oh goood!" said the brunet with scathing sarcasm. "Very good. He's not bleeding anymore. Aside from the fact that John probably doesn't even know where he is or possibly who he is with…"
"Oh, and it is such a relief to think that while John is vulnerable, he is in the hands of a man who's been lusting after him and a CIA agent who wants to recruit him for God knows what? I feel soooo much better," snarked the consulting detective contemptuously.
"Look, maybe John isn't all that confused, Sherlock. Maybe he just had to stay with his patient, or maybe John decided to go to America to lay low and avoid capture by the British government," said the detective inspector.
"He can't avoid me forever," warned Mycroft under his breath.
"I will not allow you to arrest John!" yelled Sherlock. "You know this! You're persistent threats are pointless, annoying and boring.
"I will take him into custody…"
"Further reiteration of your threats is tedious. And it is interfering with my concentration," said Sherlock, with another dismissive wave of his hand. "At this point, I must concentrate on rescuing John and bringing him back to London…later obviously...after closed-minded bureaucrats stop threatening him," added the consulting detective with an evil, narrow-eyed glare at his brother.
"It will never be safe for John Watson to return to London," said Mycroft with sniff.
Sherlock and Greg both glared at the British Government.
"Mycroft, I really don't think…" said Lestrade.
"Well, you really didn't think before embarking on this absurd fiasco. And it's obvious where you affections truly lay…" said Mycroft.
"You really are insufferable today…" interrupted Greg.
"Can't the two of you refrain from your tedious quarrelling until we reach Baker Street?" Sherlock hissed angrily. "Feel free to engage in your lover's spats, after you drop me off."
The two Holmes brothers exchanged icy glares, while Lestrade buried his face in his hands again.
After several minutes, he looked up at the consulting detective, "Look, Sherlock. I have a contact at the embassy. He might tell me where they're taking John," said Lestrade.
"Philip?" asked Mycroft. "I suppose that's that how you got the Americans involved with this plot. What did you have to promise dear Philip?"
"I didn't promise him anything!" snapped Lestrade. "The Americans offered political asylum to any team member who wanted it, because they wanted Moriarty taken care of too. As a matter of fact, Phil mentioned something about a recently foiled terror plot in the States linked to Moriarty…"
"Oh that business in Chicago, no doubt?" sneered Mycroft. "And are you sure that dear Phil never asked you to dinner or the theater?"
"No! Phil and I are friends. He asked me out once, over two years ago. I understand that he has a girl friend in fact…"
"His beard," murmured Sherlock.
"You are not helping, Sherlock," snarled Lestrade.
"Sirs, we're at Baker Street, Sirs," said the young driver over the intercom, carefully not looking at any of his passengers.
"We're coming in with you, Sherlock," said Mycroft, gathering the tattered shreds of his dignity and self-control. "I need to talk to you and Gregory at once, about a great many things…"
"Fine, we'll go in, but I have nothing to say to you right now, Mycroft except as concerns damage control," said Greg. "We do need to make plans to limit the fallout from last night's incident."
"You can come in, but only to contact your American friend, Gavin, and then Mycroft can help me arrange my plane tickets to the U.S." said the consulting detective, as he unlocked the door and leaned in. "With your assistance, I can be ready to leave in under thirty minutes. As a matter of fact, I think…"
Sherlock froze in place. Suddenly he whirled, his good arm extended in order to push Mycroft and Greg backwards.
"Back! Both of you back to the car!" yelled Sherlock.
"I wish to speak to Gregory right now…"
"Not here," said Sherlock. "Not in my flat. You'll only argue, which will be boring and will waste my time. Then there's the possibility that you'll make up. You always manage to make up somehow, which I've never understood, quite honestly. You might even go so far as to kiss and make up, and then I'll go blind. So… back to the car you go."
"Wait! I thought you wanted my help?" asked Lestrade.
"I've seen through Mycroft's scheme," said Sherlock. Mycroft and Lestrade exchanged wide-eyed looks of confusion. "I see clearly that Mycroft wishes to spy on me as I make my plans, because he thinks that he can use me to track John down more easily. That is not going to happen. As long as my brother plans to punish John for his own failed schemes and his faltering relationship, I shall have to work alone and under the radar."
The British government frowned.
"Myc…you're not really going to hunt down the man who saved your life and Sherlock's, right?" asked Greg.
Mycroft stood on his dignity, "John Watson not only subverted my minions...I mean my agents…he also subverted my partner, my own life partner. Furthermore, he is guilty of treason, murder, improper dealings with a foreign government and interference in a British government operation. So yes, I suppose I do still plan to prosecute John Watson."
'No, Mycroft…no, really…" sputtered Greg.
"And there're the opening salvos," said Sherlock. "I refuse to listen to the ensuing battle or be a witness to the torrid rapprochement. Please try to remember that I will be travelling incognito to America no later than this evening. I shall be gone several weeks probably, and I do not require your assistance. Do not attempt to follow me or contact me. Now, off you go!" Sherlock pushed them, none too gently, down the first couple of steps. Then he slid through the narrowly opened front door and slammed it shut. He could hear Mycroft and Lestrade arguing on the front steps, as he quickly threw the locks to the front door.
The detective inhaled deeply. Yes, he definitely smelled lemon-scented cleanser, which was why he had thrown Mycroft and Graham out of the flat.
In truth, the whole building reeked of artificial lemon, and Mrs. Hudson was out-of-town. Only one other person would have been cleaning 221 Baker Street in the wee hours of the morning. Clearly, John Watson had somehow returned to their flat.
Sherlock shook his head, bouncing his riotous curls over his forehead. Once again, the lemon-scented cleaner was the key.
He sniffed again, feeling a bit dizzy at the odor…and at the thought of who awaited him upstairs. It was not relief that made him woozy; he'd never doubted for a minute that John would return to him…obviously.
The consulting detective took another deep, lemon-scented breath to steady himself, and he turned to the stairs.
Idiot! I have been an idiot-squared, thought Sherlock taking the stairs as quickly as his tired and injured transport would allow. The most important clue in the curious case of John Watson, the secret-keeping, cross-dressing, obsessed-with-cleanliness marksman, had always been the lemon scented cleaner or at times, the lack of lemon scented cleaner .
If only I'd paid attention to the absence of the lemon cleanser, I would have realized that John was rarely in his room at the Batcave. It's as plain as John's plebian Helvetica font, that he only used his room to sleep in, and even then it was only for a few scant hours a day, thus explaining John's chronic fatigue…well the constant training contributed to the fatigue, but still...
Sherlock leaned wearily on the banister and briefly cursed his weak, non-compliant transport. No matter, he was practically euphoric at having solved all but one John-related mystery. Of course he was also pleased, yes, he was gratified that John had returned miraculously to their flat. Very gratified, murmured imaginary John. Sherlock was forced to agree with his imagination.
The pale, eager detective began ascending the steps once more.
Oh yes, after the first couple of days of his internment, John was much too busy plotting and much too tired from cross-training to properly clean or disinfect his room. Had I been paying attention, I would have taken note of the lack of cleanser. Sherlock paused on the landing, giddy with his deductions and the thought of the prize that awaited him in 221b.
Regardless of his treacherous transport's weakness, the consulting detective's mind remained sharp; in fact, it raced at the speed of light.
Of course, had I noted the lack of John's disinfecting, I would have investigated more fully. I would not taken the poorly researched advice of my fat brother or the well-meaning lies of Graham Lestrade. I would have investigated everything effectively… if only I had paid attention to that lack of disgusting lemony-fresh cleaner. I would have tied it to John's weight loss and his exhaustion. I would have realized that John was plotting something. I would have discovered plan C-squared. Then I would have been the one to plot and scheme with John, instead of Lestrade and that ox.
Sherlock was slightly winded as he burst into the flat, thanks to his poorly functioning transport. Still, Sherlock excitedly surveyed the empty sitting room, only to be disappointed.
John isn't in here, observed the detective a bit sadly. But there were signs of John's recent presence. There was the telltale smudge of mud, which had been incompletely removed when the carpet was rather hurriedly scrubbed with a yellow rag, judging by the lint on the floor. (The poor quality of the cleaning was consistent with a man who was exhausted and injured and possibly confused…like John).
Sherlock spun around, which was not a good thing to do when his transport was so stupidly feeble. He sat down heavily in his chair, waiting until the light-headedness resolved.
Meanwhile, he noted the recently dusted skull and the lack of dirty plates and mugs that had littered the flat all week. More evidence of John H. Watson.
His Mind Palace was still full of flying thoughts and deductions. Imaginary John, who'd nearly been struck in the head by the flight of ideas, had taken refuge in a broom closet, clearly feeling reassured by the various cleaning products.
Sherlock took a breath and noted that the fireplace had been swept. John is definitely here. I need to find him. I would never have misplaced him if I had worked with him from the beginning, instead of working with my fat, annoying brother. I could have taken over plan C-squared, and improved it. I definitely would have given the plan a better name too.
If I had been the Plotter-in-Chief, we would have destroyed Moriarty more efficiently and more elegantly. And I could have kept John safer. No acting as a target for snipers, no accidentally dropping into swimming pools, no almost getting flown off to the United States or worse, off to California, which was separate from the rest of the U.S. in Sherlock's mind.
Sherlock frowned, his mind seemed to be stuck in overdrive. It almost felt like he had used cocaine. Well, this natural high was to be expected since he had only one major John-related mystery to solve now. And John was here! Somewhere…
Sherlock's frown deepened when he realized all the fun he had missed by not working with the brave, loyal and brilliant John Watson (well, brilliant for a non-genius). I could have played with the C4, like the other minions; I could have taken part in the zombie hunter games, I could have seen John daily in his short-shorts…
Sherlock shook head again, trying to slow down the flight of ideas and take back control of his thinking. Yes, it was probably a good idea to calm down, just a bit. The main thing now was to locate the real John who must have taken refuge in one of the bedrooms or the bathroom.
Sherlock stood back up, calmly, slowly, mindful of his overtaxed transport. He dropped his heavy Belstaff coat carelessly onto the floor. It would be quite safe there until needed.
He walked slowly, sedately into the kitchen (no John- but full of evidence of John). A full cup of cold tea sat on the freshly scrubbed counter next to a plate of buttered bread slices and biscuits. Sherlock decided to give into his weak and demanding transport; after all, he'd be needing his strength later. He ate a couple of jammy dodgers and drank half of the tea, even though the cold tea made him shudder. At least it was properly sweetened.
He admired the clean dishes, which sparkled in the dish drainer next to the freshly scrubbed sink. And yes, John's RAMC mug sat on top the freshly scrubbed crockery (the wonderful, once-broken, RAMC mug, which had been tossed out and then retrieved from the bin and mended by the World's Only Consulting Detective).
Feeling a bit stronger after some tea and biscuits, he even forced himself to eat most of a slice of bread. That would please John, wouldn't it? He stuffed another biscuit in his mouth, to be sure that John would be happy with him.
Then the detective sniffed again. The nauseating scent of lemon cleanser did not quite mask the smell of Sherlock's expensive chamomile-lavender shampoo, which guaranteed extra-soft, extra-bouncy curls. Certainly, that shampoo had been used very recently. And, surely that shampoo would also ensure soft, eminently-touchable, spiky blond hair on a certain ex-army doctor.
Evidently, the detective deduced, after John cleaned so much of the flat in such a short period of time, and having made twin cups of tea in the middle of the night, the former army doctor had taken a shower using Sherlock's exclusive shampoo. (Sherlock couldn't wait to smell John's hair now). And then, with dawn approaching, the exhausted soldier would have needed clean clothes… and very likely a place to sleep…so…
Sherlock stepped into his bedroom, still quite dim since the heavy shades were down. And there, sleeping safely in Sherlock's bed was the brilliant and wonderful John Watson. Sherlock set the dregs of his disgustingly cold tea on the bedside table, after taking another disgusting mouthful. He also set his watch and mobile phone on the nightstand. Then he allowed himself to grin at the sight of his slumbering soldier. He unbuttoned his hand-tailored shirt, letting it fall to the floor.
John was ridiculously adorable this morning. His hair was still slightly damp, and Sherlock bent down to sniff it. Yes, John's hair smelled of chamomile and lavender, intoxicating. The soft blond hair stuck up, making John resemble a…a…well, he resembled a hedgehog, obviously.
An injured hedgehog, however, because a small, tidy gauze dressing covered the blond's head-wound. His forehead (for once not wrinkled) showed bruising now. Sherlock's eyes narrowed in concern, remembering that he'd have to examine John's torso as soon as possible for bruising or possibly for cracked ribs.
His ridiculous, adorable little soldier, who had somehow escaped from both the nefarious ox and that wretched CIA agent. John snored softly, as Sherlock toed off his shoes, and removed his trousers. The detective climbed carefully into bed, so that he would not disturb his doctor.
As he had hoped, John immediately curled up against Sherlock, mumbling and snuffling adorably.
Sherlock was so pleased that he didn't mind that he was using the word adorable. Sherlock picked up his phone, intending to plan their intinerary, make reservations and buy tickets. Except his needy transport now demanded that he hold John closer. Even worse, his body insisted that he close his eyes.
Sherlock conceded defeat. He finished the horrible cold tea. He pulled John onto his shoulder and closed his eyes for 40 winks… even if he was in bed.**** Yes, a very short nap with his beautiful sleeping soldier would be allowed, just this once…
A/N
*Reference to the book The Once and Future King by T. H. White (excellent funny, bittersweet retelling of the Arthurian legend) (read it, please).
**quote blatantly stolen from Emperor Palpatine-from Star Wars, episode IV, Return of the Jedi
***absurd paraphrasing from Casablanca
****quote blatantly misused from Shakespeare's Julius Caesar
****40 winks-idiomatic for a short nap, which is typically not taken in a bed. (See Wikipedia if you don't believe me.) (Wikipedia is never wrong, right?
Ah ha! An second update in less than a week. Am I awesome or what? The correct answer is or what, obviously. However, because of the rapid update and the overlong chapter, I probably didn't edit closely enough. Please let me know if you find any errors so I can fix them. And I am sorry that this chapter is soooooooooooo looooooong.
Well, only two more chapters to go, I think. Maybe. I guess I'm not sure…I'm just so changeable…
Thank you to everyone who was kind enough to follow this fic. Thank you to all of you who favorited this fic.
Thank you so much for the recent reviews from…Quiet Time, 107602, JC Black and Kitsune Spyk. Your support keeps me going.
Disclaimers I do not own the rights to Sherlock in this universe. I still hold out a faint, dwindling hope that I own the rights in an alternate universe, which I will visit someday….
BTW-I also don't any rights to the StarWars franchise, or Shakespeare (which I don't need to own the rights to because it's in the public domain) or Casablanca (which may or may not still be copyrighted). Doesn't matter. I gave credit where credit is due. I agree I don't have rights to any of the above mentioned works (including Sherlock), and I have next to no property to be sued for, so don't bother.
Of course, no one is ever reads this far down in the disclaimer anyway…or do you?