Chapter 12

Back from the Other Side

One month later

Mycroft

Mycroft returned home exhausted from his undercover mission to extract Sherlock followed immediately by NATO meetings in Belgium and the G7 summit in Sicily. The later two, he considered successful, after all, diplomacy was always an area in which he excelled. Mycroft could navigate the minefield that was foreign policy with his eyes closed, but he could only hope that all his effort had not been in vain regarding his brother and that Sherlock would heed his words and focus on completing the mission. Moran must be dealt with. Mycroft sighed he checked his messages. His brow furrowed when he found nothing from his military contact regarding John Watson. Peter Small had been serving as his eyes and ears during John's training, which was nearly complete. Radio silence never boded well in Mycroft's opinion. As if reading his mind, a text from Anthea came through. "Bollocks!" Mycroft hissed the words CODE RED appeared. His phone rung a moment later and he quickly answered. "Status?"

"Sir, bad news. John's unit was ambushed and there were no survivors retrieved. Those that were not immediately killed were taken as POW's and we have been unable to locate them." Anthea said. "I'm sorry." Her voice shook with emotion. She knew how serious this was.

"Was John among the dead?" Mycroft asked clinging to the hope that they may have a prayer of getting to him before it was too late.

"We did not identify him. We assume that both he and Small were take prisoner." Anthea explained. Mycroft grit his teeth. Afghanistan was becoming more destabilized as ISIS continued to radicalize recruits. Nowhere was safe. Extremist were targeting schools, hospitals, and other highly populated civilian areas. Troops were being spread thinner unable to handle the strain. It was not just combat troops that were affected at this point either; both the RAMC and RCL were being deployed to help the situation, which was quickly reaching crisis levels. It went beyond traditional combat. Ambushes, like the one that Anthea had described, were becoming more frequent. They were losing more troops to attacks, and soldiers, those that were not immediately killed were going missing assumed to be either AWOL or POW's.

This did not bode well. Mycroft debated over whether to tell Sherlock immediately. Ethically, he should. But Mycroft knew that Sherlock would abandon the mission as soon as he found out. Sherlock was close, how close was hard to say, but if he could hold off for a little while, Sherlock may complete his task. Mycroft knew that Sherlock may never forgive him, but there was nothing that his brother could do for John Watson at the moment. Mycroft twisted the gold band on his right ring finger anxiously as Anthea posed the question, which he had been internally debating. "What do we tell Sherlock?"

"Nothing." Mycroft answered. Anthea paused clearing her throat before replying in a soft voice filled with worry.

"Mycroft, this may cross a redline for him. There will likely be no coming back from this if he ever learns the truth. Are you sure you want to risk it?" Mycroft sighed deeply before answering.

"One week. I'll give him one week and then I'll tell him." Mycroft promised hoping that he would live to regret his choice.

Meanwhile in Afghanistan

John

John groaned as he finally regained consciousness. There was a dull throb in his head and he hissed as he attempted to open his eyes only to slam them shut again as the light caused the dull ache to magnify into a relentless stabbing pain. He was most likely concussed. If he was being completely honest, John was surprised that he was still alive. He had fought like the devil as his captures carted him away, fully expecting to be killed for his insolence. However, instead of a fatal shot that he had expected, he had received a blunt blow to the head with the barrel of a rifle, knocking him unconscious. John took a few steadying breaths before trying again. This time he was more cautious as he slowly opened his eyes. It took a few seconds to focus as his vision tunneled for a moment then blurry images slowly sharpened. He was lying on his right side on a hot dirt floor in a holding cell. There was a single bulb dull yellow bulb burning that barely illuminated the surroundings.

John slowly tried to raise himself up, his left shoulder ached in protest. He only made it a few inches before he came to an abrupt halt. He could only raise his wrists a few inches off the ground. They were cuffed and chained to metal stakes in the ground.

John shuffled around until he was sitting with his legs stretched opened with his wrists between them. He ran his fingers around the links in the handcuffs looking for weaknesses, but there were none the cuffs were on tight and there was no hope of slipping his hand through. He was pulled from his task by the echo of footsteps.

A figure appeared hidden in the shadows of the prison. "Look what the cat finally dragged in. Major John H. Watson, MD. I went to a lot of trouble tracking you down." The man moved closer and John caught a glimpse of his face, but didn't immediately recognize him. The man smiled at him, but it wasn't a pleasant smile, it had an edge of sharpness to it. But what disturbed John more, were the man's eyes. John had seen the worst of the worst in humanity. The cold madness lying within them was chilling making him look all-consuming, as a black hole. For a moment John was reminded of James Moriarty. John's steeled himself as the man spoke again.

"Well, hello Johnny, may I call you Johnny?" John grit his teeth as he was called by his childhood nickname. It was a name only spoken to him by his mother and Harry when they were feeling sentimental. The sound of that name on this man's tongue turned John's stomach. "I've been wanting to properly meet you for the longest time." He confessed.

John looked up calmly at the man giving away nothing and replied "You seem to have me at a disadvantage, who are you?"

The man chuckled dryly. "How rude of me, Sebastian Moran." He elaborated with a wink. "And like I said I have been waiting years for this moment."

The name sets off alarm bells in John's mind, but he calmly replied. "What are you talking about? I don't even know you." But that was a lie, John knew quite a bit about this man. There had been whispers throughout his training with SAS about blackop agents that had gone rogue. They were loyal to no one and faded into obscurity becoming ghosts. A name that had come up again was Colonel Sebastian Moran. AWOL for years leaving no trace of evidence besides a path of destruction in his wake wanted by multiple government agencies for everything from murder to treason to espionage.

"Ah, but I know you, I might not have known your name at the time, but you and I have a history. You are quite familiar to me." He snarled, his mood changing quickly from falsely cordial to deadly as he paced around John. "You've been a bad boy Johnny, messing up our plans, plans that we worked on for years. We worked so hard to bring down Sherlock Holmes and what happened. You. Always saving the day at the last moment, first with the cabbie and then at the pool. I should have shot you then when I had the chance. Now James Moriarty is dead. Moran growled as he shoved a picture into John's face. James Moriarty's lifeless eyes stare back at him and the distinctive blood splatter pattern around him makes it evident that to John that he had eaten a bullet. John stared at Moran in confusion and taking in his expression, Moran began to laugh maniacally.

Moran whistled sharply and another stranger entered the room standing in front of him. Moran made a gesture that John couldn't see and John cried out suddenly as he was jerked up into the air by the torso wrenching his bad shoulder. He couldn't help the cry that escaped his lips as he felt his bones bend in protest. "Funny how fate works, isn't it Johnny? Imagine the odds, you could almost call it destiny. You were in the Unit back in Helmand during operation Achilles. Ring a bell? You know, the one that I was using as target practice. Such a shame that you moved just as I shot you or else you would have died and in that desert and saved me a lot of trouble; even so this nearly killed you, infection set in, major nerve damage." Moran surmised as he made his way to stand in front of John and lifted his hand to touch the distinctive starburst scar pattern left in the bullet's wake. "Nevertheless, what's done is done. It's a miracle you survived" Moran pressed his fingers into the tender tissue causing John to grunt from the sudden flare of pain and he felt sick as he saw the glee in Moran's eyes as he pushed harder digging and twisting causing John to hiss through gritted teeth. "You've caused me nothing but trouble and I'd like nothing more than to kill you, but not until I get what I want. Until then, John Watson, I'll leave you at their mercy."

"Isolation during the first round of treatments, over 50% die after the first round. No use exposing him to the general prison population if he dies immediately." The man murmured in Pashto. "I don't understand why Moran has taken such an interest in this one, he's old, injured and the chances of him surviving are slim to none."

"We have our orders." His companion replied pulling a syringe out of his pocket and plunging it into John's bicep before he can so much as protest. The room began to spin and his vision blurred and John wondered what would become of him as he slipped under the veil of sleep.