Sherlock Dari drabble Chapter 26: Hiding I

A/N: This is a role-reversed version of the Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton. In the original ACD short story, Milverton is a blackmailer who makes his living from such extortions; Milverton is killed by one of his victims, and Holmes stops Watson from intervening. If you want to know what happens next, you'll have to read on! It's set pre-Reichenbach and includes some slightly morally dubious!John. Also, it's rather long, so you may want to read it in bits...

A note on a small factoid in this chapter: I know that security clearance has to be redone when you leave a security-protected job, but I can well believe that Mycroft would research John's previous background and recommend it continue so that Watson can keep his reckless little brother safe...

It was 9 in the morning when the doorbell rang. Sherlock was perched at the table, prodding something purple that was smoking ominously. Glancing up, he smirked as Mrs Hudson appeared at the door. Their visitor thanked Martha, who disappeared down the stairs to go and do her shopping (coat on, umbrella, shopping bag: cooking dinner for Mr Wilton tonight: good watch, no eternity ring, soft shoes in preparation for heels). John stepped around the corner from the kitchen, extending a hand but stopping short. Sherlock rose from the stool, extending his head and then following through with his body to curve around the dividing wall, coming to a stop beside the rug.

Their visitor was a small, delicately-boned soldier in a slightly dusty desert uniform. Her mousy brown hair extended down her back in a neat ponytail, her deep brown eyes wide and curious. The patch on her shoulder and her beret told him she was from the Royal Logistics Corps; her wedding ring sparkled, but her eyes were dull under their inquisitive shine.

Grieving. Lost husband.

She turned to John first, deferring to him.

"Captain Watson, sir," she said, saluting, "Second Lieutenant Bethan Reynolds, Royal Logistics. Mr Holmes."

John solemnly returned the crisp salute, then smiled softly. "Just call me John. I haven't pulled rank in the two years since I left and I don't intend to start now. Take a seat."

Sherlock shot him a knowing look, John meeting it halfway with an answering smirk as they recalled their foray into 'Eyes Only' research at Baskerville.

Bethan Reynolds didn't catch it as she set down her pack and rolled up her beret to slip it under her epaulette. Her shoulders, previously rigidly set, sagged with relief as she sank into the armchair John had indicated. His armchair. Interesting.

"So, what can we do for you?"

Haltingly, she explained.

"My husband Graeme's a REME. Was a REME...he went MIA three months ago. They were out on field maintenance duties and there was an explosion. They declared him dead soon after that, nobody else from his group survived. I went back to work a month ago-no point staying at home on base moping, so I've been sorting things out in Libya for a bit. Then I started getting weird letters, things about Graeme that only he and I would know, saying that if I paid money into a PO Box in Berkhamstead then I could get information that would lead us to him-they said the Taliban were holding him but they'd let him go for a fee. I ignored it, reckoned they'd extrapolated from what was common knowledge, but then a couple of days ago I got this. He didn't look like that when he went out, and I think it might be real. I know I could get into real trouble if it's not, and I know it's a long shot...they prey on your hope, don't they? I went to my CO, and he put me onto you. Said you'd be able to help find out if it was true or not, and who might know where he is."

Handing John a photograph, she perched anxiously on the edge of the chair. John's face darkened, eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly.

Before Sherlock could open his mouth, John nodded.

"We'll help you, won't we Sherlock?"

Sherlock, noting the tightness in John's jaw, stated firmly, "Yes."

Bethan's face cleared, and she handed over the dossier, including the picture, picking up her pack and turning to leave. As was customary, John walked her to the door; Sherlock heard murmuring, and John's deliberate footsteps turning back up the stairs.

John's face was clouded and his head held poker-straight, as if he was daring Sherlock to challenge him. Sherlock spoke, surprisingly gently if the look of affection John gave him was anything to go by.

"You know just as she does that her husband is almost certainly not coming back, but you also know what it is like to feel hope that something will be different this time. You have lost enough colleagues and friends to know what it is like to grieve and see others grieving for their husbands or sons, and you want to give her closure because living without it feels like not knowing."

John gave him a bittersweet smile, nodding and spreading the papers out on the table before turning back to the kitchen to wash up the dinner plates.

The next morning they set out to Paddington, headed for the Oxfordshire base where the couple had been quartered. They had called ahead (without assistance from Mycroft, naturally), and had garnered a meeting with the camp commander thanks to John's persuasive tone and high-level security clearance. On arriving at the gates, they were waved through on John's ID, and marched through the camp at a fast clip into a large and well-kept red brick building. The young private led them up a sweeping set of plush-carpeted stairs and rapped smartly on an ornately carved white set of double doors.

"Enter."

"Captain John Watson and Mr Sherlock Holmes, sir."

"Thank you Jeffries-dismissed. Colonel James Prentiss; what can I do for you gentlemen?"

Standing up and accepting John's salute with one of his own, the Colonel directed them into two cushioned chairs at the front of the wide oak desk. He cut a lean, rangy figure as he settled back into his own desk chair, reclining his balding head to regard them in a slightly wary manner. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, then realised that John had stood up in the same moment. The Colonel watched with some curiosity as John arranged himself in his usual 'I'm going to be stubborn' pose whilst keeping a deferential distance from a superior: it was clear to both of the others that he was planning to talk it through officer-to-officer in the hope that fruitful connections might be made.

"Sir, we're here to talk about Second Lieutenant Reynolds and his wife, Second Lieutenant Reynolds of the RLC. We understand that Graeme was declared MIA presumed dead six weeks ago; is there any information you could give us on the incident which precipitated that?"

Stroking a hand over the strawberry blonde stubble peppering his jawline, the commander sat up attentively, a slight smirk brightening his features.

"Not unless I know why you're looking, Captain, and even then any details given would be commensurate with the enquirer's security clearance."

"Taking into account your first point: Second Lieutenant Reynolds came to us yesterday with a dossier of correspondence and visual material suggesting that her husband is being held by militants in the region; we need to establish the reliability of the evidence and whether or not the claim made in the correspondence holds water. As to your second point-"

At this point, John pulled a card out of the wallet holding his ID card and handed it over to the Colonel. The officer scanned it, eyes widening slightly as a look of respect crossed his features. Peering over the desk, Sherlock could just make out the words CLEARANCE: RESTRICTED stamped in red across the second ID card. He noticed that the dossier John exchanged for the card was noticeably slimmer than it had been yesterday, and deduced that John, not wanting to get the young widow into trouble, had removed the parts demanding a ransom.

"Well, that changes things. I can positively say to you now that there is no way Second Lieutenant Reynolds could have survived. The explosion was from a hand-held mortar which hit an armoured Jeep." (John winced.) "Quite. Even a Warrior would have been lucky to withstand that kind of impact. Having done DNA testing, the results of which only became available today, his presence in the vehicle was confirmed, and there were no blood trails or disturbances around the vehicle suggesting he was pulled or dragged. The claims made here are simply a puerile attempt to capitalise on the sad loss of an excellent soldier."

Nodding, John sat down. There was a moment of silence as Sherlock absorbed the rapid shift in John's language and delivery from their banter in the taxi earlier to the terminology and directness of the battlefield. Then he noticed John looking far too amused, collected himself, and held the Colonel's slightly confused gaze.

"Are there any other reported cases of such attempts at emotional...exploitation?"

(John looked satisfied at the carefully chosen term.)

"Not in my jurisdiction, but there has been some mess gossip about similar issues in the Black Watch and the Yorkshires."

Nodding once, Sherlock stood up sharply, John following suit. Salutes were exchanged, followed by handshakes, and the two men turned to leave.

"Before you go...if you meet Second Lieutenant Reynolds again, do give her my condolences. We bandy about the phrase that a soldier was 'popular with his colleagues' quite a lot in those statements we give, but Graeme really was well-liked. Many of the soldiers he served with were in their late teens and early twenties, so he was very much a steady older brother to them. We were very sorry indeed to lose him."

John acknowledged the interjection with a sad smile, and the two of them left to head out to the edge of the base and their hired car.

A/N II: Like/don't like? Would you like to hear more? Whatever the answer is, please do let me know!