Chapter 11

Within the Web

Serbia

Sherlock

Sherlock bit back a scream as pain tore through him again. His scalp burned as his hair was pulled and pain erupted as he felt his nasal bones break under the most recent assault from the brass knuckles of his assailant. He had lost track of time since the torture had begun. He could taste the bitter tang of cooper and iron as the blood from his nose poured down his throat as his head was tilted back. He had to struggle to open his eyes, as his eyelids were nearly swollen shut.

He had gotten sloppy. The finish line was within sight. Sherlock had been rushing in order to return to John. There was only one thread left. Sebastian Moran. Sherlock had used every resource available to him. He had called in favors, even going so far as to utilize some of Mycroft's contacts, though he loathed being in his brother's debt, John was worth it. John, Sherlock thought as he let his eyes slip shut. Mycroft had confirmed that he had begun training with SAS. Sherlock's chest tightened at the thought. It was bad enough that John had reenlisted as a full combatant, but SAS was even more dangerous. The likelihood of him being injured or killed was now exponentially higher.

Sherlock had been ruthless in his objective. He must take apart the web. He had sacrificed everything. Not only his freedom and reputation, but also his body and mind. He pushed himself relentlessly. He barely ate and hardly slept. All of these factors had led to his capture and now, it seemed, that he may pay with his life. Sherlock felt regret overtake him for a moment. Not for himself, but for John. He had failed not only himself, but John as well. He would never see John again.

Sherlock was ripped from his thoughts once again by a familiar voice. The language was Serbian, but that voice was unmistakable. Mycroft. Sherlock forced his eyes opened and could just barely make out the blurry form of his brother in full disguise, nearly unrecognizable. Sherlock felt a brief flaring of surprise and begrudging approval at his brother's actions. Mycroft had finally gotten off his fat arse and gotten his hands dirty, albeit delayed. "Sherlock, you had one job, you know that I despise legwork." Sherlock groaned as he was roughly pulled up and dragged out of the prison.

"How long?" Sherlock ground out as Mycroft continued to lead him away from his enemies.

"As long as necessary." Mycroft answered coldly. Sherlock sneered and spat an angry retort.

"No, I wasn't referring to the length of the mission, but rather, how long did you stand idle watching me being tortured before you finally intervened. Admit it, you were enjoying it."

"Nonsense." Mycroft denied briskly. "I couldn't risk giving myself away."

"Definitely, enjoying it." Sherlock replied. "Just remember, brother, if I die then the mission will never be completed."

Mycroft then had the nerve to laugh, but it was cold and detached. He looked Sherlock straight in the eye and Sherlock could barely repress a shudder at his response delivered in an utterly detached voice. It was not a threat, but a promise.

"While I am able to appreciate that the situation that you had found yourself in was far from ideal, it was of your own making, Sherlock. In your haste, you grew careless. Sentiment is clouding your judgment. I grow weary of cleaning up your messes. None of this is ideal, but we had very little to work with and the fact that both you and John are still breathing is, one must surely see, a miracle in no small order. I do not expect your gratitude, but I do expect your cooperation. You know what you need to do."

"One thread left, Mycroft. That's it, Moran." Sherlock answered in a hoarse voice full of emotion. "I can't lose him, Myc. Not now. Not when I'm this close. Mycroft's cold glare softened and Sherlock could see sympathy and pity in his eyes.

"I'm doing my best to protect him, Sherlock. I truly am, but there are limits to my influence." Mycroft admitted with a sigh. "Finish the job, brother, but do it right. You cannot afford any more missteps. You're nearly there." Mycroft insisted before turning away and disappearing into the shadows of night leaving Sherlock both enraged and helpless.

Meanwhile in Afghanistan

John

John waited and watched with his eye in the scope squinting as the wind kicked up grains of sand significantly reducing the visibility. Recon training was equal parts patience and precision. John spotted the barest movement amongst the dunes. He pulled the trigger. The red paint marked the target's chest right over the heart, a kill shot. John smirked when he caught of glimpse of the soldier's scowling face. Peter Small. Small looked around angrily for his assassin. "Should've guessed." Small shouted in his direction when he caught sight of John. John only winked at his victim. John's thought's briefly drifted back to the day that they had met.

"Peter Small." The recruit said with a firm handshake and a smile. He was young and much too fresh faced, with blond hair and blue eyes, like John, but without a trace of grey or a wrinkle in sight. Most would right him off as green, but John knew better than that. John had learned never to judge a book by its cover. There had to be good reason for him to be here. Applicants for SAS training were the best of the best and thoroughly vetted. John couldn't help but feel a bit old and worn out looking at his fellow soldier though.

"John Watson." John replied with a small smile of his own.

"Bit long in the tooth for this?" The young recruit asked with a teasing wink.

"Are you always this forward, or did I just get lucky?" John shot back with a smirk.

"Aye, I never had much of a filter, I've been in the brig more times than I can count; but make no mistake, I've got the skills to back up my mouth. How about you, old man?" John couldn't hold back a laugh at the man's teasing.

"You don't get to be my age without learning a few tricks." John replied easily.

"Let me guess. You're an adrenaline junkie, without a doubt, but it's more than that." Small theorized. "Atypical background, you've got the bearing of a solider, but you're opened and approachable, almost to a fault. You're constantly on the look out, not only for yourself, but for others as well. Protective. Medical background?" John's jaw dropped in surprise and his throat tightened as he was reminded of Sherlock. He closed his eyes tightly and pinched the bridge of his nose pushing the thoughts of his friend back before he broke down in front of a perfect stranger. The smile on Small's face vanished when he realized that he might have stumbled into an emotional minefield unknowingly. "Sorry, mate. I didn't mean to upset you…well, I did warn you, and my mouth gets me into trouble. If it's any consolation, everyone has demons and I'm no acceptation." The young man's eyes turned serious and John could see the pain in them and they were not the eyes of a fresh-faced kid, but of a man who had seen too much and was wise behind his years.

"I know you didn't mean any harm, you just reminded me of someone I lost just then. Mad genius, he could deduce just about anything." John murmured softly before thinking better of it. Small's eyes shone with sympathy and he replied in a voice rough with emotion.

"Killed in action…I know about that. My entire troop was ambushed and the blast left every one besides Sholto and myself dead. Talk about survivor's guilt." Small admitted causing John's jaw to drop once again in shock. What were the odds?

"James Sholto?" John asked in disbelief.

"Aye? You know him?" Small asked in a surprised voice.

"He was my CO. He recommended me for training." John explained taking in Small's shocked face.

"Bloody hell." Small murmured looking haunted.

"Watson! Change up." The command pulled John from his memories and he was thrust back into the present.

"I owe you one, crack shot." Small murmured as they passed each other and Small was given his rifle as John attempted to fade into the background. The hunter now became the hunted. John's eyes his focused on his target; the mock barracks. His goal was to make it by the sniper without a hit.

As John settled into undercover, he caught a glimpse of movement. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the shape of a woman in a modest traditional dress with a headscarf. John nearly missed her at first. He was ready to move on with the exercise before he looked a bit closer. She looked familiar and for a moment he was sure that he has seen her before, but he can't remember when and where. John squinted trying to get a better look hoping to jog his memory. The woman was pale, much too pale. Porcelain skin with eyes as light as the sky. She didn't belong. Before John could contemplate about her further, a shot came dangerously close, nearly hitting him and taking him by surprise.

"Keep your head up, Watson." John murmured to himself focusing his attention back to the task at hand.