Part 1. My life with Holmes
Update: My dear friend Kit is super buzy and I didn't want to bother her to much with beting my stuff - better she focus on ger writting career)))
very nice gril from FanFiction.net offered her help)) and I agreed))
I was shocked how many mistakes I made - damn it!! XDXD so here is betad chap 1)) hurray!!!!))))
Title: My life with Holmes
Author: Lenap
Beta: librarianmum (http://www.fanfiction.net/u/2774710/)
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Bill Murray, OMC
Pairing: pre-slash domSherlock\subJohn
Rating: R for prolog and chap 1, ok - for each chap it'll be different
Status: 1\9
Warnings: AU!, swearing, spoilers to 1 season, minor character's deaths
John Watson, relying heavily on his cane, was walking down the dark corridor to the required door, simply marked with the number 25. Regarding the shabby white plastic, he wondered yet again why this number but every time forgot to ask Bill. Maybe it was some kind of joke or maybe nothing in particular? He really didn't know why he wondered in the first place.
Glancing around, John knocked several times on the door and listened for any sounds. As he expected, first he heard muffled voices, then quiet steps, stopping right in front of him behind the shabby wood.
“Who?”
“It's Watson.”
Finally the door opened and he was able to see a semi-dark corridor and, beyond, a familiar room full of vague silhouettes. With some difficulty, John squeezed past the impressive guy who vigilantly searched him for any weapon right in the narrow corridor and only after that allowed him to go further. It was the first time in his memory that he had been met in such a way in any of the places he worked in.
The level of suspicion and conspiracy troubled him, but he had no way of escaping now that he had crossed the threshold of this place. He walked as confidently towards the sound of voices as his leg and cane permitted.
When he appeared in the main room, the conversation died down; the eyes of all present began to slide suspiciously across his face, hands, up and down his cane and small briefcase, which he always took with him.
One face was familiar to him. Don. Not older than twenty three, just a boy to John. He rarely worked with this guy; they really didn't get along well. But Bill was often short of competent assistants, so sometimes they did interact. If he could, he would work with Charlie alone and nobody else. John oh so clearly remember his last shift with this dick for a guy. At that time he could hardly restrain himself from killing him.
A quick clinical inspection of the room told him about many things but most importantly, about the potential for trouble that he could so easily get himself into. No wonder here.
John forced himself to relax and asked in calm voice, “So who needs help?”
As expected, he was conducted into an adjoining room to a figure lying motionless on the bed. Usually they used that room for rest between patients. John didn't like this particular place, but it was better than some in which he had to work sometimes, so no complaints here. He sensibly set the suitcase on the floor not far from where he perched himself heavily, helping himself with his cane. Ok, worries aside, he had a patient to look at.
Male. About thirty. In a very expensive suit, far too expensive for this part of town in general and this place in particular. Dark wavy hair, too pale skin. John found a pulse, checked his pupils and winced. Overdose. Another junkie.
“What do you think, Doc?” The voice sounded near him. He had already heard silent footsteps following him here; had heard someone holding their breath. That was why he was prepared and just allowed himself to appear startled.
“What has he mixed?”
It was strange - classic signs of overdose. And, if not for his military training and experiences of working with certain kinds of drugs, he would have no doubts at all and would have followed standard procedure.
“He tried new stuff, fucking junkie. Will he live?”
“If he is still alive, he will survive.” John shrugged his shoulders, disdainfully. He put the cane aside and opened his work briefcase. Well, now he was able to verify his guesses. An elementary check of uncontrolled reflexes, and he would know exactly what was happening here.
“Ches, disappear, the doc and I have something we need to discuss.” His so-called assistant for the evening silently materialized in the room. He rather crudely pushed his buddy out and locked the door behind him.
“Doc, what a pleasant surprise. I didn't expect tonight to be your shift.”
John stiffened. All possible routes of retreat were blocked. He would have no time to get to the bathroom. And even if he did, who would he call? Not the police, that’s for sure. Not Bill either; he didn't want to bring him any sort of trouble… yet. Jumping through the window didn't make any sense. Second floor, he just would have another broken leg if not both. And there were armed guys next door, who at the slightest hint of danger would start firing on all living things. Yes, no options for clean escape.
“What do you want?”
The evening was spoiled long ago. Not only had Bill pulled him right out of the bar, even though he knew all too well that John didn't like to work with drug addicts, and didn't say a word about that. But now this little asshole had appeared to make his life even worse.
The guy came too close, crowding his personal space, and was now breathing hotly on John's neck. He could only wonder why blokes like Don thought that if they would fuck not only women but men, it would enhance their status in the eyes of others. Especially if they fuck men much older than them.
“Make it look like he died by accident, and I'll help you to get out of here alive.”
And here he was thinking he would get away quietly. Nope, no such luck today.
“And how will you organize that for me?” John smiled, while slowly doing his job. Today he was not going to take part in someone's death. “Your friends out there, of course, have no idea what you are asking me to do… Don?”
Under his ministrations, the man on the bad jerked, just barely noticeable. Now John was sure that he was no ordinary junkie.
“You have your methods, I have mine.”
John briefly glanced at his watch and frowned. Bill wouldn't start to worry for at least for another half hour.
The guy was not just only looming over him, he had managed to lie on top of him, so John was sandwiched between him and the unconscious junkie. The evening had every tendency to escalate out of the category of utter failure to completely disastrous.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn't help him, and I will consider your offer.”
“Mr. Moran would appreciate it very much.”
“Sebastian Moran?” John was really surprised. He had hoped never to hear that name again. No such luck. Again.
His attention was attracted by some scuffling. After the first quiet flap shot, he understood everything. It was too familiar not to be recognized. John, with all the confidence he could muster in that moment, put his hand on the boy's neck and pulled him for a kiss, while trying to find with his other hand the gun. The gun, which wasn't in the usual place, although definitely had to be there.
“Looking for something, doc?” John heard the words near his ear and froze. He didn't even notice how the man under him changed his position, while he was distracting the guy, drew the gun and held it to Don's temple. The safety catch quietly clicked with a familiar sound.
The boy jerked in alarm and quickly drew away from John, although in his place John wouldn't haven’t risked moving. There were some screaming and shouting, more shots. In a moment, the door flew open with a loud bang, and after the expected quiet shot, Don fell heavily to the floor, flooding the cheap carpet with blood from a bullet wound.
John slowly sat up and turned around. The tremor disappeared from his hands, and he was working very hard to keep from panicking. Grey eyes with dilated pupils common to all drug addicts were carefully examining him. Far too attentive and inquisitive for their owner to be high.
He heard the quiet stealthy steps, but as he was considering what to do under the circumstances, the man on the bed abruptly yanked John and bent over him, shielding him with his back from possible threats. He strongly suspected if the man hadn't done that then he, John Watson, could have met his sudden and cheerless end in this shitty hotel.
The stranger’s eyes continued to study him carefully, even after the sound of quiet steps was replaced by a woman's clicking heels. John involuntary squinted his eyes to the side and was surprised to see a very beautiful woman in a business suit with two mobile phones, one of which she put in the outstretched hand of his unwitting saviour.
“Yes.” On the other end, judging by the man’s silence, there was a protracted monologue.
Except, of course, for having the barrel of the gun pointed in his neck, one could say that he was lucky to get out of this scrape unharmed. Unharmed for now, judging by the speed and quality of the operation.
A tangible tapping of the barrel on his chin reminded him to look back to the grey eyes. His unwitting acquaintance demanded constant eye contact, and it became almost physically uncomfortable. John had a strong feeling that he was being thoroughly analyzed.
“What the fuck, Mycroft? I had everything under control before your interference. You're too rushed!.. Great!... I won’t be alone.”
At the end of the conversation, the expensive toy flew into the wall. John shivered a little from such a rapid surge of emotions.
“You know, this gun is still removed from the safety catch,” he whispered, not daring to look away from the stranger's face, with its high cheekbones and sensual lips. The man hanging over him was not exactly handsome, but his face surely was attractive, almost off-putting.
His heart was still beating furiously, driven by surge of adrenaline in the blood. Since his return to London after his injury and long recovery, he had a constant feeling that he’d just got into another war. A war with other rules, but still requiring permanent sacrifices.
After the familiar click, John involuntarily sighed with relief and was able to move without risking accidental death. And the first thing he noticed after the wash of relief was the knee resting near his groin.
“You will go with me.” The tone didn't allow for debate, but John was in no position to oppose. Not while he was distinctly hearing the work of a cleaning team in the other room.
“Sherlock, the car is ready.” The woman that impressed John with her cold beauty didn't even look up from the screen of her mobile phone while speaking.
Said Sherlock jumped easily off the bed and stretched out his hand. John cautiously took advantage of the offered help and gently lowered his foot on the floor. He picked up his fallen cane and shut his case with a slight click.
He could do well enough without the cane at all, but a lame short man in a baggy jacket with an inconspicuous case caused, as a rule, a sense of empathy, rather than a sense of danger. And this suited him just fine. Especially in this area of the city. And John really didn't need extra attention to his person.
As they walked to the entrance, John tried not to look around. Instead he chose to stare at the back of the expensive suit, marvelling how tall this stranger was. John always considered himself a statistically average Briton, and all high individuals usually gave him sense of wonder, rather than envy. Actually he preferred his height. More than once it had been an advantage rather than a disadvantage.
There was simple black car waiting for them a short distance from the dilapidated hotel from which they finally emerged. John looked around. If there were no dark figures, he would try to escape, use his cane on this Sherlock and run as fast as he could, then grab his stuff and disappear somewhere quiet for some time. But intuition told him not to do anything rash as he spotted at least two excellent observation points for snipers, and nothing suggested that they were not there.
Only after he was situated comfortably in the back seat of the black sedan did John remember that he had to call and warn Bill. A search of his pockets for his mobile revealed nothing, so John looked with suspicion at the man sitting beside him. He knew for certain that he’d taken his mobile phone with him. And John knew that he shouldn't have allowed the man to help him climb into the car.
“I need to make a call.”
“From this?”
John frowned, promising himself to try to be always on guard with this man. He silently held out his hand but didn't expect the lost item to be returned immediately. Grey eyes watched him with interest and challenge.
“And what will I get for that?”
John cursed darkly and turned to the window. Whatever happened, he really needed to make this call to be sure that Bill wouldn't go to check on him by himself or send any of the guys.
John was now sure that Sherlock was able to give a perfect portrayal of a drug addict, and that could only come from personal first-hand experience. This did not add points to John’s imaginary list of qualities. Besides, this meant that while the man had pretended to lie sedated, he had heard all the talk.
Of course, there wasn't a lot of information given. Only that Don wanted to get in his pants, and that John, as a doctor, had previously worked with him. But he had given himself away on his own. He wondered whether just a mention of the man that he never wanted to meet again in his life had led to where he was right now.
When John got tired of watching night time London float by, he turned to his companion to discover that he had quietly moved closer. And, it seemed, had amused himself all this time by watching John while typing a message to someone. From John's phone. How rude.
“Give me back my phone, and I won’t punch you,” tried John. Nimble fingers did not mean advantage in a close hand-to-hand fight, but John could not risk it. Never underestimate the enemy.
“Let me touch your face, and I'll give it back.”
Never in his life had he been asked for something so strange. John pursed his lips. On the other hand, nothing much was required from him. Just sit, wait and be patient.
“Correct me if I'm wrong - you want to touch my face? With your hand?”
After getting an affirmative nod, John decided. Not that he had much of a choice from the start.
“No more than two minutes,” he warned. “And maybe you’ll finally tell me your name?”
“Deal. Sherlock Holmes.”
“John. John Watson.” He did not add a polite "nice to meet you", as he found the circumstances of their acquaintance were more than inappropriate.
The fact that Sherlock Holmes did not operate within the concept of personal space, John had seen before, but still he had to force himself to sit still and not try to avoid the prying insistent fingers. He had a strong feeling that he was sitting dangerously close to an actually quite mad person, but he could do nothing about that.
Sensitive long fingers began their study with his jaw, then moved to the eyebrows, smoothed his forehead, ran on tightly pressed lips, again returned to the cheeks. All the movements seemed rather chaotic and ill-considered to him. As if, in the given three minutes, Holmes wanted to cover everything at once, but in the end, did not know where to start.
When the pads of the thumbs went to his eyelashes, John involuntarily closed his eyes. He was patiently counting the seconds to himself and pondering what to say to Bill.
He would gladly have told a friend where he was being taken, if only he knew it himself. His only remaining hope was to use a gun secretly hidden in the bottom of the case if things turned ugly.
“Time’s up.” John moved with relief as far as he could, away from the warm fingers that he still felt on his face. Holmes silently handed him his phone, and finally moved to his half of the seat.
Bill's voice sounded alarmed, but without panic:
“John? What happened?”
-Mən bütün sağ oldum. Mən kimi bir əlaqələr həyata gedin. Zəng haqqında heç bir şeyunutmaq. (I'm alright. Will call as soon as I can.)
This time, John put the phone in the front pocket of his jeans after checking for messages, and only then glanced at his companion. Holmes put his hands in a prayerful gesture under his chin and looked thoughtful; that, in general, suited John just fine. He himself had something to think about other than other people's strange behaviour. For example, the fact that they had already left for the suburbs.
Lost in thought, he didn’t even pay attention as the car began to slow down, until gradually it stopped in front of a not particularly remarkable house. One of many on a quiet street. What they could want in a house amidst all this prosperity, John could only speculate. He somehow expected something like an abandoned warehouse, something dark, damp and uncomfortable.
John took his case, but the guard at the entrance politely asked him to leave it on a desk in the lobby. He remained with only a useless cane, although if required he could use it as a weapon as well.
He looked around nervously, noting the position of exits for a possible tactical and, more likely, hasty retreat. With each brightly lit corridor they traversed, each door that closed behind him, he became more nervous.
Finally, they entered the darkened room, which, apparently, was the ultimate goal of their journey. There was a man who John suspected was Mycroft; the man with whom Holmes had been talking on the phone.
Expensive suit, a wedding ring, manicured hands with beautiful long fingers. In the twilight it was difficult to make out facial features, but judging by the supercilious arch and shape of the nose, the man sitting in front of him was a relative of Sherlock. Although with such names, they could only be from the same family. Assuming, of course, those names were real.
“Good evening.” John believed in the necessity of generally accepted rules and norms of behaviour, and as a polite and well-mannered man greeted the stranger first. He now came under the lens of two pairs of studying eyes.
“My brother Mycroft.” Sherlock apparently considered that it was necessary to introduce his relative. “This is John. Your people have freed him and me from doing all the dirty work.”
John nervously licked his lips, a habit that had stayed with him since his time in the dry dust of Afghanistan. He tried to pretend as if nothing had happened; to look around. Strong doors, barred windows, the rich, but smartly made furnishings. He might even be offered a seat. Although that was the least of his worries.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?“ Sherlock stood beside his brother. Now, they both were hiding in semi-darkness, so John, in spite of his excellent vision, could only guess the expression on their faces. And if Holmes Jr. was really expressive when he wanted to be, the elder brother was a closed book to him.
“What, sorry?” John involuntarily turned just to make sure that no one had come in behind him while he pondered. There was no one. The question was really meant for him.
“Afghanistan... But how do you know?”
“I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, your deportment suggest that you are a soldier. You have a sunburned face, but there is no sun tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not on vacation. You limp really badly while walking, but haven’t asked for chair all the time we’ve been standing here, as if you had forgotten about it. It’s at least partly a psychosomatic reaction. This suggests that that the circumstances of the injuries were traumatic. So, wounded in battle. Wounded in action plus a tan can only mean Afghanistan or Iraq.
“Anything else?” Now John was truly interested.
“You're acting too calm in a stressful situation for a conventional military surgeon. In whatever room you go, first of all you note the location of doors and windows, representing a possible route of escape. In addition, there in that hotel room, you immediately suspected that something was wrong and the first thing you did was check my reaction. Only a knowledgeable physician could recognize my bluff, and in a cheap hotel in a not very affluent area of town I was not supposed to meet one.”
“That was… extraordinary.” John was surprised. And if one omitted some minor details, what Sherlock said was right.
“You think so?”
“Yes, of course. Quite extraordinary. But it doesn’t explain my presence here.”
Sherlock looked at him accusingly. Now he was accustomed to the dim light, John saw that as clear as day. For a moment, but only for one moment, he was even ashamed. Then he relaxed his facial muscles and slightly turned his head to the side. Usually, it worked. John called it his "i-am-so-innocent-how-you-even-can-suspect-me-in-something-look".
“Oh, that look could deceive me if I had had less time to watch you.”
“Sherlock.” Mycroft cut his brother, attracting their attention. “Doctor Watson, please, sit down. I’ve already ignored all the rules of propriety, so my brother could show off.”
John nodded gratefully. He did not even consider it shameful to select a chair from which he could see the door and the window. He had no reason to feel secure in the company of these people. Especially this Mycroft, John had strong suspicions that this man knew to mush about him so far.
“So?” This question was not addressed to him.
“I thought you could do better than that. Really, Mycroft? Drug ring?”
Watching the squabbling between the brothers, John couldn’t shake the feeling that he was witnessing a repeat conversation, the topic of which had not changed for several years if not longer. It remained unclear why he was present.
He shifted in his chair, hesitantly. He was tired of being ordered around. And now that the adrenaline was not driving the blood through his veins, he had to put some effort into staying focused and attentive. He felt he was getting too old for such a pastime.
After waiting for a short lull in the brothers’ conversation, he finally decided to intervene:
“Excuse me, I don't want to be rude and interrupt this family idyll, but can you tell what you need specifically from me, and get it over with?”
The brothers exchanged understanding glances and, almost simultaneously, turned to him.
“I want him.” Sherlock wouldn't take his strangely glimmering eyes off John, making him very uncomfortable. John frowned. It was so childish, like Holmes Jr. had asked his brother to buy him a puppy. “I was sure until recently that he was your man.”
“Doctor Watson, you have to forgive my brother's indiscretion. I'm afraid this is entirely my fault. I've always indulged his desires ... And here is the result.”
“That is certainly sad, but ...?”
Mycroft, with one smooth movement, drew his phone from his pocket, deliberately flipped through from some and with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction gave the gadget to Sherlock, who was wobbling with impatience. After which, he pronounced his verdict:
“Judging by your track record and qualifications, you are the perfect companion for my brother, being not only an excellent doctor, but an excellent soldier.”
“I remember where the exit is. It was nice to meet you. An escort is not necessary.” John stood up and even managed a few steps toward the door.
“Oh, don't be like that!” Sherlock blocked his way and now was looming over him. “You have no reason to refuse, apart from your far-fetched reaction. Counting that alcoholic sister of yours and a few bonds left from the Army, your number of contacts is negligible. Casual acquaintances in bars and at underground fights do not count. You're looking for adrenaline rushes, risking getting caught in clandestine operations, or being killed in a random night shootout. With me it will be different. It will be better.”
“What's the fuck! But how…?”
“Yes, John. I only had to see your mobile phone to find out that your sister is drinking. And I could read that you were in the army in your face and leg. And you would not have appeared in that hotel room if not looking for opportunities to bring some risk into your life.”
“Then you may also be able to see that I despise drug users, and will not voluntarily agree to work with one.”
“I…”
“Sherlock, the doctor was very clear with his position.” One could hear perfectly the threatening tone in the voice of the elder Holmes. People who know how to sound convincing without raising their voices always prompted involuntary respect from John.
“But…”
“Goodbye, Doctor Watson. It was nice to meet you.”
John practically flew into the hallway, and as far as his leg and cane allowed, he hastened to the door. If it were not for the camera tracking his every move, he would have gladly dropped the conspiracy and left the building even faster.
He waited anxiously at the entrance, concerned that the guards would not let him go further, but nothing happened. Even his case was returned to him.
“The car is waiting for you.”
John sighted with relief. He had imagined having to wander through the sleeping streets looking for the nearest station to find the morning train to go back to London. Fortunately for him, these Holmes brothers were clearly above petty revenge.
The road back seemed almost endless. He retrieved the gun from his case as imperceptibly as possible and hid it behind his belt. Just in case the last stop in their itinerary was not the street that he had asked to be taken to.
Only when the car was out of his sight did John allow himself to step into the shadow of the alley and catch his breath. He had to walk two more blocks to his small rented flat. And although he suspected that his unwanted acquaintances knew not only where he lived, but also where his sister lived and where Bill and his indeed few friends were, for his own reassurance he decided to play safe and walk some more.
He was met at the building by the habitual noise of swearing at two o'clock in the morning, bass music and not-so-quiet groans. John wearily leaned against the locked door feeling the familiar pressure of the gun at his back.
He was finally home. John pulled off his jacket, threw his shoes down and collapsed on the neatly made bed. Rolling over to the side, with an effort, he drew the mobile from his jeans pocket and slowly typed a short message to Bill.
The call back came almost immediately.
“John? Is everything ok?”
“Mate, I'm half asleep… Alive, all intact. Will call in the morning.”
“Ok.”
John looked at the screen until it extinguished and its glossy surface started reflecting the night lights of the city that he saw through the window. A few minutes later he decided to make an effort and pull off clothing that landed heavily on the floor. The gun went under the pillow, along with his mobile.
++**++
Sleep did not come immediately. And only the ability to fall asleep at any time, any place and at any position, which came to him after a long tour of duty in field hospitals, finally allowed John to give his body a long-awaited rest. And if he dreamed of shooting in dusty canyons of Afghanistan and the cries of wounded soldiers, he happily did not remember this, waking up with the sunrise.
John stretched. He was reminded of the pain in his shoulder with a slight tingling. But despite this, he allowed himself to enjoy a rare moment of peace and tranquillity. No din of music, no arguing neighbours, only the usual sounds of an awakening city.
He didn’t like this apartment and this part of town, but would never have swapped London for a more peaceful and affordable suburb. If only he could manage to find a suitable job. But not with his tremor, which disappeared only in stressful situations and the stamp of professional impropriety on his file. At worst, he could try to search for a tolerable flat mate... But John was not ready yet to share a roof with someone else.
Pursuing the usual morning routine, he kept mentally scrolling through the events of the evening and night. No police, no extra fuss. The strange hostage, who needed to be alive enough for the guys to take the risk of inviting a doctor. And on the other hand, needed to be dead without undue suspicion. No chance that all this was just a dismantling of local drug traffickers. Not at their level - everything was conducted too professionally. Poor Don was in the wrong place at the wrong time and with the wrong people. He didn't want for the guy to end like this but couldn’t really have done anything to prevent it.
John strongly suspected that he would not be so easily left alone. Hiding was his one option, but not with the sad state of his finances. The cash in his wallet would have been much more if it were not for his gambling problem. Perhaps he was not quite fair to this Holmes. But he was only willing to tolerate some addictions, and drugs weren't in that list.
After having an apple and tea for breakfast, John quickly dressed, not forgetting to take the gun, grabbed his cane and closed the door behind him with a quiet click. While walking down the street and dialling Bill, he tried to decide what information he could and could not tell.
“Are you free now?” John asked instead of a greeting. And after hearing an affirmative answer, he calmed down and slowed down his steps. “I’ll be there soon.”
He had a creepy feeling of being watched, but couldn’t tell for sure. After walking several blocks John was even hungrier than when he woke up, and decided that it would be good to refresh himself before the upcoming conversation. There was only a slight chance that there would be any sort of food at Bill's bachelor pad.
After ruefully counting his cash, he decided to eat at a pretty decent cafe he knew, and ordered an omelette with tea. Perhaps now he should re-try his luck - try to make up for past losses on fights. Either that or ask Bill for some more shifts. Although, in the light of recent events, the second option was not very promising.
He had to ring the doorbell for a long time before it was opened by a girl with matted black hair and bad makeup.
“Who is it?” John heard a familiar voice coming from the bathroom.
“Your friend! Cute!” she shouted in response and slapped John on the lower back.
Bill immediately popped out in a towel, wet and freshly shaven, kissed the girl somewhere in the area of the ear and pushed her toward the kitchen:
“Make something for breakfast.”
Then he drew John into the same bathroom from which he had just appeared. He locked the door behind them and turned on the water.
“Spill.”
“There’s nothing to tell. I never got to the place. Some guys stopped me and politely sent me away, and that's all,”reported John, leaning against the door.
Bill, with one smooth move, pressed him with his body and was breathing hotly into the neck:
“And now, what really had happened in there? I was confronted by such serious people that I had to call back all my staff and ask them to keep quiet for several weeks.”
“You want the truth? - then have it,” John whispered, angrily. “Heavily armed and highly trained professionals broke in there, got everyone and quietly disappeared, if nothing happened at all. And my ass was saved by the junkie to whom I was called. How do you like that?”
“Shitty assignment, Johnny.”
John looked into the brown eyes of the man who had covered his back under heavy fire, and tried to understand how he had managed to find himself in such lousy situation. It was so much easier in the Army. Every day, they lived under the threat of being killed or wounded. Or survive for another week and move to another base, where they would wait for new assignment with the lack of hot water, disgusting food and almost not sleeping to the accompaniment of exploding shells and the groans of the wounded. Everything was simpler and fairer there.
“Johnny ...” John could not stand it when they called him that, but never corrected Bill. Now it was a crude inhospitable Britain instead of dusty unfriendly Afghanistan. And he had a feeling that nothing had changed. It frightened him, really frightened him.
He quietly opened the door and walked into the kitchen where the young girl was cooking - she’d be pretty if she’d wash the makeup off. The girl who Bill had no doubt been fucking all night. She gave John an appraising glance and knowing wink.
“Smells tasty.” Finally Bill came in to the kitchen.
Breakfast was spent in an uneasy atmosphere. John did not look at his friend, and Bill in his turn did not take his eyes off him. John did not want to change anything, especially now. Therefore, he hurried to say his goodbye and headed for the door.
In a moment, Bill grabbed his arm preventing him from leaving.
“What have you decided? I know that look.”
“You're wrong,” lied John. “I have something to do, so you should let me go.”
And again he lied. And Bill knew it. He knew him too well by now.
“Good. Well, Johnny, if you say so.”
Beyond the threshold of Bill’s flat , John was greeted by the usual London day. Before he could walk even twenty metres, he heard the first phone call. Then another and another. Unable to withstand the hysterical trills, reaching for him from all sides, he went to a nearby phone booth and picked up the phone.
“Yes?”
“Good morning , Doctor Watson. Now, close to you, a black sedan will stop. I ask you to sit in it.”
Something caught his attention. John looked closely at the camera of the adjacent building, that was directed at him. He looked around. Cameras from all the nearest buildings turned in his direction. John froze.
A black car stopped not far from him, and John could do nothing else but sit inside.
“Hello, Mycroft. You know, you're too pushy.”
“I just really want you to agree, John. And I would be happy to pay you a substantial sum on an ongoing basis to make your life easier.”
“Why?”
“Because you are not a rich man.”
Or maybe because your brother is so insufferable, thought John but he didn't say that aloud. Instead he asked:
“In exchange for what?”
“For help. You saw with your own eyes that Sherlock cannot always take care of himself. Who knows how much he needs constant supervision. You have surprised him. And he liked you. And Sherlock likes no one… with rare exceptions.”
“With all due respect to you, Mycroft, I will not change my decision.”
“If your only reason for refusal is rejection of a certain habit...” Holmes Senior, as much as possible, tactfully tried to bypass a single word. The key word.
“Drug addiction, you mean.”
“Then he is clean. For five years, he has not been taken anything stronger than nicotine.”
“Oh!”
John understood that he needed time to think, really think over that.
“I need time.”
“Where do you want me to stop the car?”, Mycroft replied, quickly.
“Here, please.”
John looked around in confusion. Now he knew about the chase. Let them look, let them see, he had nothing to hide. And he really looked like he felt. Like shit right now.
He had wandered aimlessly all day around the city until the leg began to really hurt, recalling an old injury. He sat at a bus stop, when his feet demanded rest, and looked at passers-by. People around him were in a hurry, engaged in their daily affairs.
After the needed rest he continued to wander around, mingling with the crowd and looking at the colourful displays. He was dizzy from all the faces and colours, but he eagerly watched all the people passing by and tried to figure out what was wrong with him.
Why couldn’t he live like others, a quiet measured life, without the danger and constant stress? Why couldn’t he let go of the past, as he had so often promised himself to do so, and just live?
His mobile phone rang in his pocket, letting him know there was a new message. He stopped in the middle of the street, causing discontented muttering from the people around him.
Baker Street 221 B. Come at once if convenient. SH.
So simple. He was not going to answer, saw no point in that. The following text messages forced him to smile involuntarily.
If inconvenient, come anyway. SH.
John was so tired of aimlessly wandering through the city. He didn't know the reason he was needed by both brothers, but they clearly had some goal. Therefore, he knew that Sherlock was not finished with him.
Could be dangerous. SH.
And John decided.
part 2
very nice gril from FanFiction.net offered her help)) and I agreed))
I was shocked how many mistakes I made - damn it!! XDXD so here is betad chap 1)) hurray!!!!))))
Title: My life with Holmes
Author: Lenap
Beta: librarianmum (http://www.fanfiction.net/u/2774710/)
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Bill Murray, OMC
Pairing: pre-slash domSherlock\subJohn
Rating: R for prolog and chap 1, ok - for each chap it'll be different
Status: 1\9
Warnings: AU!, swearing, spoilers to 1 season, minor character's deaths
John Watson, relying heavily on his cane, was walking down the dark corridor to the required door, simply marked with the number 25. Regarding the shabby white plastic, he wondered yet again why this number but every time forgot to ask Bill. Maybe it was some kind of joke or maybe nothing in particular? He really didn't know why he wondered in the first place.
Glancing around, John knocked several times on the door and listened for any sounds. As he expected, first he heard muffled voices, then quiet steps, stopping right in front of him behind the shabby wood.
“Who?”
“It's Watson.”
Finally the door opened and he was able to see a semi-dark corridor and, beyond, a familiar room full of vague silhouettes. With some difficulty, John squeezed past the impressive guy who vigilantly searched him for any weapon right in the narrow corridor and only after that allowed him to go further. It was the first time in his memory that he had been met in such a way in any of the places he worked in.
The level of suspicion and conspiracy troubled him, but he had no way of escaping now that he had crossed the threshold of this place. He walked as confidently towards the sound of voices as his leg and cane permitted.
When he appeared in the main room, the conversation died down; the eyes of all present began to slide suspiciously across his face, hands, up and down his cane and small briefcase, which he always took with him.
One face was familiar to him. Don. Not older than twenty three, just a boy to John. He rarely worked with this guy; they really didn't get along well. But Bill was often short of competent assistants, so sometimes they did interact. If he could, he would work with Charlie alone and nobody else. John oh so clearly remember his last shift with this dick for a guy. At that time he could hardly restrain himself from killing him.
A quick clinical inspection of the room told him about many things but most importantly, about the potential for trouble that he could so easily get himself into. No wonder here.
John forced himself to relax and asked in calm voice, “So who needs help?”
As expected, he was conducted into an adjoining room to a figure lying motionless on the bed. Usually they used that room for rest between patients. John didn't like this particular place, but it was better than some in which he had to work sometimes, so no complaints here. He sensibly set the suitcase on the floor not far from where he perched himself heavily, helping himself with his cane. Ok, worries aside, he had a patient to look at.
Male. About thirty. In a very expensive suit, far too expensive for this part of town in general and this place in particular. Dark wavy hair, too pale skin. John found a pulse, checked his pupils and winced. Overdose. Another junkie.
“What do you think, Doc?” The voice sounded near him. He had already heard silent footsteps following him here; had heard someone holding their breath. That was why he was prepared and just allowed himself to appear startled.
“What has he mixed?”
It was strange - classic signs of overdose. And, if not for his military training and experiences of working with certain kinds of drugs, he would have no doubts at all and would have followed standard procedure.
“He tried new stuff, fucking junkie. Will he live?”
“If he is still alive, he will survive.” John shrugged his shoulders, disdainfully. He put the cane aside and opened his work briefcase. Well, now he was able to verify his guesses. An elementary check of uncontrolled reflexes, and he would know exactly what was happening here.
“Ches, disappear, the doc and I have something we need to discuss.” His so-called assistant for the evening silently materialized in the room. He rather crudely pushed his buddy out and locked the door behind him.
“Doc, what a pleasant surprise. I didn't expect tonight to be your shift.”
John stiffened. All possible routes of retreat were blocked. He would have no time to get to the bathroom. And even if he did, who would he call? Not the police, that’s for sure. Not Bill either; he didn't want to bring him any sort of trouble… yet. Jumping through the window didn't make any sense. Second floor, he just would have another broken leg if not both. And there were armed guys next door, who at the slightest hint of danger would start firing on all living things. Yes, no options for clean escape.
“What do you want?”
The evening was spoiled long ago. Not only had Bill pulled him right out of the bar, even though he knew all too well that John didn't like to work with drug addicts, and didn't say a word about that. But now this little asshole had appeared to make his life even worse.
The guy came too close, crowding his personal space, and was now breathing hotly on John's neck. He could only wonder why blokes like Don thought that if they would fuck not only women but men, it would enhance their status in the eyes of others. Especially if they fuck men much older than them.
“Make it look like he died by accident, and I'll help you to get out of here alive.”
And here he was thinking he would get away quietly. Nope, no such luck today.
“And how will you organize that for me?” John smiled, while slowly doing his job. Today he was not going to take part in someone's death. “Your friends out there, of course, have no idea what you are asking me to do… Don?”
Under his ministrations, the man on the bad jerked, just barely noticeable. Now John was sure that he was no ordinary junkie.
“You have your methods, I have mine.”
John briefly glanced at his watch and frowned. Bill wouldn't start to worry for at least for another half hour.
The guy was not just only looming over him, he had managed to lie on top of him, so John was sandwiched between him and the unconscious junkie. The evening had every tendency to escalate out of the category of utter failure to completely disastrous.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn't help him, and I will consider your offer.”
“Mr. Moran would appreciate it very much.”
“Sebastian Moran?” John was really surprised. He had hoped never to hear that name again. No such luck. Again.
His attention was attracted by some scuffling. After the first quiet flap shot, he understood everything. It was too familiar not to be recognized. John, with all the confidence he could muster in that moment, put his hand on the boy's neck and pulled him for a kiss, while trying to find with his other hand the gun. The gun, which wasn't in the usual place, although definitely had to be there.
“Looking for something, doc?” John heard the words near his ear and froze. He didn't even notice how the man under him changed his position, while he was distracting the guy, drew the gun and held it to Don's temple. The safety catch quietly clicked with a familiar sound.
The boy jerked in alarm and quickly drew away from John, although in his place John wouldn't haven’t risked moving. There were some screaming and shouting, more shots. In a moment, the door flew open with a loud bang, and after the expected quiet shot, Don fell heavily to the floor, flooding the cheap carpet with blood from a bullet wound.
John slowly sat up and turned around. The tremor disappeared from his hands, and he was working very hard to keep from panicking. Grey eyes with dilated pupils common to all drug addicts were carefully examining him. Far too attentive and inquisitive for their owner to be high.
He heard the quiet stealthy steps, but as he was considering what to do under the circumstances, the man on the bed abruptly yanked John and bent over him, shielding him with his back from possible threats. He strongly suspected if the man hadn't done that then he, John Watson, could have met his sudden and cheerless end in this shitty hotel.
The stranger’s eyes continued to study him carefully, even after the sound of quiet steps was replaced by a woman's clicking heels. John involuntary squinted his eyes to the side and was surprised to see a very beautiful woman in a business suit with two mobile phones, one of which she put in the outstretched hand of his unwitting saviour.
“Yes.” On the other end, judging by the man’s silence, there was a protracted monologue.
Except, of course, for having the barrel of the gun pointed in his neck, one could say that he was lucky to get out of this scrape unharmed. Unharmed for now, judging by the speed and quality of the operation.
A tangible tapping of the barrel on his chin reminded him to look back to the grey eyes. His unwitting acquaintance demanded constant eye contact, and it became almost physically uncomfortable. John had a strong feeling that he was being thoroughly analyzed.
“What the fuck, Mycroft? I had everything under control before your interference. You're too rushed!.. Great!... I won’t be alone.”
At the end of the conversation, the expensive toy flew into the wall. John shivered a little from such a rapid surge of emotions.
“You know, this gun is still removed from the safety catch,” he whispered, not daring to look away from the stranger's face, with its high cheekbones and sensual lips. The man hanging over him was not exactly handsome, but his face surely was attractive, almost off-putting.
His heart was still beating furiously, driven by surge of adrenaline in the blood. Since his return to London after his injury and long recovery, he had a constant feeling that he’d just got into another war. A war with other rules, but still requiring permanent sacrifices.
After the familiar click, John involuntarily sighed with relief and was able to move without risking accidental death. And the first thing he noticed after the wash of relief was the knee resting near his groin.
“You will go with me.” The tone didn't allow for debate, but John was in no position to oppose. Not while he was distinctly hearing the work of a cleaning team in the other room.
“Sherlock, the car is ready.” The woman that impressed John with her cold beauty didn't even look up from the screen of her mobile phone while speaking.
Said Sherlock jumped easily off the bed and stretched out his hand. John cautiously took advantage of the offered help and gently lowered his foot on the floor. He picked up his fallen cane and shut his case with a slight click.
He could do well enough without the cane at all, but a lame short man in a baggy jacket with an inconspicuous case caused, as a rule, a sense of empathy, rather than a sense of danger. And this suited him just fine. Especially in this area of the city. And John really didn't need extra attention to his person.
As they walked to the entrance, John tried not to look around. Instead he chose to stare at the back of the expensive suit, marvelling how tall this stranger was. John always considered himself a statistically average Briton, and all high individuals usually gave him sense of wonder, rather than envy. Actually he preferred his height. More than once it had been an advantage rather than a disadvantage.
There was simple black car waiting for them a short distance from the dilapidated hotel from which they finally emerged. John looked around. If there were no dark figures, he would try to escape, use his cane on this Sherlock and run as fast as he could, then grab his stuff and disappear somewhere quiet for some time. But intuition told him not to do anything rash as he spotted at least two excellent observation points for snipers, and nothing suggested that they were not there.
Only after he was situated comfortably in the back seat of the black sedan did John remember that he had to call and warn Bill. A search of his pockets for his mobile revealed nothing, so John looked with suspicion at the man sitting beside him. He knew for certain that he’d taken his mobile phone with him. And John knew that he shouldn't have allowed the man to help him climb into the car.
“I need to make a call.”
“From this?”
John frowned, promising himself to try to be always on guard with this man. He silently held out his hand but didn't expect the lost item to be returned immediately. Grey eyes watched him with interest and challenge.
“And what will I get for that?”
John cursed darkly and turned to the window. Whatever happened, he really needed to make this call to be sure that Bill wouldn't go to check on him by himself or send any of the guys.
John was now sure that Sherlock was able to give a perfect portrayal of a drug addict, and that could only come from personal first-hand experience. This did not add points to John’s imaginary list of qualities. Besides, this meant that while the man had pretended to lie sedated, he had heard all the talk.
Of course, there wasn't a lot of information given. Only that Don wanted to get in his pants, and that John, as a doctor, had previously worked with him. But he had given himself away on his own. He wondered whether just a mention of the man that he never wanted to meet again in his life had led to where he was right now.
When John got tired of watching night time London float by, he turned to his companion to discover that he had quietly moved closer. And, it seemed, had amused himself all this time by watching John while typing a message to someone. From John's phone. How rude.
“Give me back my phone, and I won’t punch you,” tried John. Nimble fingers did not mean advantage in a close hand-to-hand fight, but John could not risk it. Never underestimate the enemy.
“Let me touch your face, and I'll give it back.”
Never in his life had he been asked for something so strange. John pursed his lips. On the other hand, nothing much was required from him. Just sit, wait and be patient.
“Correct me if I'm wrong - you want to touch my face? With your hand?”
After getting an affirmative nod, John decided. Not that he had much of a choice from the start.
“No more than two minutes,” he warned. “And maybe you’ll finally tell me your name?”
“Deal. Sherlock Holmes.”
“John. John Watson.” He did not add a polite "nice to meet you", as he found the circumstances of their acquaintance were more than inappropriate.
The fact that Sherlock Holmes did not operate within the concept of personal space, John had seen before, but still he had to force himself to sit still and not try to avoid the prying insistent fingers. He had a strong feeling that he was sitting dangerously close to an actually quite mad person, but he could do nothing about that.
Sensitive long fingers began their study with his jaw, then moved to the eyebrows, smoothed his forehead, ran on tightly pressed lips, again returned to the cheeks. All the movements seemed rather chaotic and ill-considered to him. As if, in the given three minutes, Holmes wanted to cover everything at once, but in the end, did not know where to start.
When the pads of the thumbs went to his eyelashes, John involuntarily closed his eyes. He was patiently counting the seconds to himself and pondering what to say to Bill.
He would gladly have told a friend where he was being taken, if only he knew it himself. His only remaining hope was to use a gun secretly hidden in the bottom of the case if things turned ugly.
“Time’s up.” John moved with relief as far as he could, away from the warm fingers that he still felt on his face. Holmes silently handed him his phone, and finally moved to his half of the seat.
Bill's voice sounded alarmed, but without panic:
“John? What happened?”
-Mən bütün sağ oldum. Mən kimi bir əlaqələr həyata gedin. Zəng haqqında heç bir şeyunutmaq. (I'm alright. Will call as soon as I can.)
This time, John put the phone in the front pocket of his jeans after checking for messages, and only then glanced at his companion. Holmes put his hands in a prayerful gesture under his chin and looked thoughtful; that, in general, suited John just fine. He himself had something to think about other than other people's strange behaviour. For example, the fact that they had already left for the suburbs.
Lost in thought, he didn’t even pay attention as the car began to slow down, until gradually it stopped in front of a not particularly remarkable house. One of many on a quiet street. What they could want in a house amidst all this prosperity, John could only speculate. He somehow expected something like an abandoned warehouse, something dark, damp and uncomfortable.
John took his case, but the guard at the entrance politely asked him to leave it on a desk in the lobby. He remained with only a useless cane, although if required he could use it as a weapon as well.
He looked around nervously, noting the position of exits for a possible tactical and, more likely, hasty retreat. With each brightly lit corridor they traversed, each door that closed behind him, he became more nervous.
Finally, they entered the darkened room, which, apparently, was the ultimate goal of their journey. There was a man who John suspected was Mycroft; the man with whom Holmes had been talking on the phone.
Expensive suit, a wedding ring, manicured hands with beautiful long fingers. In the twilight it was difficult to make out facial features, but judging by the supercilious arch and shape of the nose, the man sitting in front of him was a relative of Sherlock. Although with such names, they could only be from the same family. Assuming, of course, those names were real.
“Good evening.” John believed in the necessity of generally accepted rules and norms of behaviour, and as a polite and well-mannered man greeted the stranger first. He now came under the lens of two pairs of studying eyes.
“My brother Mycroft.” Sherlock apparently considered that it was necessary to introduce his relative. “This is John. Your people have freed him and me from doing all the dirty work.”
John nervously licked his lips, a habit that had stayed with him since his time in the dry dust of Afghanistan. He tried to pretend as if nothing had happened; to look around. Strong doors, barred windows, the rich, but smartly made furnishings. He might even be offered a seat. Although that was the least of his worries.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?“ Sherlock stood beside his brother. Now, they both were hiding in semi-darkness, so John, in spite of his excellent vision, could only guess the expression on their faces. And if Holmes Jr. was really expressive when he wanted to be, the elder brother was a closed book to him.
“What, sorry?” John involuntarily turned just to make sure that no one had come in behind him while he pondered. There was no one. The question was really meant for him.
“Afghanistan... But how do you know?”
“I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, your deportment suggest that you are a soldier. You have a sunburned face, but there is no sun tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not on vacation. You limp really badly while walking, but haven’t asked for chair all the time we’ve been standing here, as if you had forgotten about it. It’s at least partly a psychosomatic reaction. This suggests that that the circumstances of the injuries were traumatic. So, wounded in battle. Wounded in action plus a tan can only mean Afghanistan or Iraq.
“Anything else?” Now John was truly interested.
“You're acting too calm in a stressful situation for a conventional military surgeon. In whatever room you go, first of all you note the location of doors and windows, representing a possible route of escape. In addition, there in that hotel room, you immediately suspected that something was wrong and the first thing you did was check my reaction. Only a knowledgeable physician could recognize my bluff, and in a cheap hotel in a not very affluent area of town I was not supposed to meet one.”
“That was… extraordinary.” John was surprised. And if one omitted some minor details, what Sherlock said was right.
“You think so?”
“Yes, of course. Quite extraordinary. But it doesn’t explain my presence here.”
Sherlock looked at him accusingly. Now he was accustomed to the dim light, John saw that as clear as day. For a moment, but only for one moment, he was even ashamed. Then he relaxed his facial muscles and slightly turned his head to the side. Usually, it worked. John called it his "i-am-so-innocent-how-you-even-can-suspect-me-in-something-look".
“Oh, that look could deceive me if I had had less time to watch you.”
“Sherlock.” Mycroft cut his brother, attracting their attention. “Doctor Watson, please, sit down. I’ve already ignored all the rules of propriety, so my brother could show off.”
John nodded gratefully. He did not even consider it shameful to select a chair from which he could see the door and the window. He had no reason to feel secure in the company of these people. Especially this Mycroft, John had strong suspicions that this man knew to mush about him so far.
“So?” This question was not addressed to him.
“I thought you could do better than that. Really, Mycroft? Drug ring?”
Watching the squabbling between the brothers, John couldn’t shake the feeling that he was witnessing a repeat conversation, the topic of which had not changed for several years if not longer. It remained unclear why he was present.
He shifted in his chair, hesitantly. He was tired of being ordered around. And now that the adrenaline was not driving the blood through his veins, he had to put some effort into staying focused and attentive. He felt he was getting too old for such a pastime.
After waiting for a short lull in the brothers’ conversation, he finally decided to intervene:
“Excuse me, I don't want to be rude and interrupt this family idyll, but can you tell what you need specifically from me, and get it over with?”
The brothers exchanged understanding glances and, almost simultaneously, turned to him.
“I want him.” Sherlock wouldn't take his strangely glimmering eyes off John, making him very uncomfortable. John frowned. It was so childish, like Holmes Jr. had asked his brother to buy him a puppy. “I was sure until recently that he was your man.”
“Doctor Watson, you have to forgive my brother's indiscretion. I'm afraid this is entirely my fault. I've always indulged his desires ... And here is the result.”
“That is certainly sad, but ...?”
Mycroft, with one smooth movement, drew his phone from his pocket, deliberately flipped through from some and with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction gave the gadget to Sherlock, who was wobbling with impatience. After which, he pronounced his verdict:
“Judging by your track record and qualifications, you are the perfect companion for my brother, being not only an excellent doctor, but an excellent soldier.”
“I remember where the exit is. It was nice to meet you. An escort is not necessary.” John stood up and even managed a few steps toward the door.
“Oh, don't be like that!” Sherlock blocked his way and now was looming over him. “You have no reason to refuse, apart from your far-fetched reaction. Counting that alcoholic sister of yours and a few bonds left from the Army, your number of contacts is negligible. Casual acquaintances in bars and at underground fights do not count. You're looking for adrenaline rushes, risking getting caught in clandestine operations, or being killed in a random night shootout. With me it will be different. It will be better.”
“What's the fuck! But how…?”
“Yes, John. I only had to see your mobile phone to find out that your sister is drinking. And I could read that you were in the army in your face and leg. And you would not have appeared in that hotel room if not looking for opportunities to bring some risk into your life.”
“Then you may also be able to see that I despise drug users, and will not voluntarily agree to work with one.”
“I…”
“Sherlock, the doctor was very clear with his position.” One could hear perfectly the threatening tone in the voice of the elder Holmes. People who know how to sound convincing without raising their voices always prompted involuntary respect from John.
“But…”
“Goodbye, Doctor Watson. It was nice to meet you.”
John practically flew into the hallway, and as far as his leg and cane allowed, he hastened to the door. If it were not for the camera tracking his every move, he would have gladly dropped the conspiracy and left the building even faster.
He waited anxiously at the entrance, concerned that the guards would not let him go further, but nothing happened. Even his case was returned to him.
“The car is waiting for you.”
John sighted with relief. He had imagined having to wander through the sleeping streets looking for the nearest station to find the morning train to go back to London. Fortunately for him, these Holmes brothers were clearly above petty revenge.
The road back seemed almost endless. He retrieved the gun from his case as imperceptibly as possible and hid it behind his belt. Just in case the last stop in their itinerary was not the street that he had asked to be taken to.
Only when the car was out of his sight did John allow himself to step into the shadow of the alley and catch his breath. He had to walk two more blocks to his small rented flat. And although he suspected that his unwanted acquaintances knew not only where he lived, but also where his sister lived and where Bill and his indeed few friends were, for his own reassurance he decided to play safe and walk some more.
He was met at the building by the habitual noise of swearing at two o'clock in the morning, bass music and not-so-quiet groans. John wearily leaned against the locked door feeling the familiar pressure of the gun at his back.
He was finally home. John pulled off his jacket, threw his shoes down and collapsed on the neatly made bed. Rolling over to the side, with an effort, he drew the mobile from his jeans pocket and slowly typed a short message to Bill.
The call back came almost immediately.
“John? Is everything ok?”
“Mate, I'm half asleep… Alive, all intact. Will call in the morning.”
“Ok.”
John looked at the screen until it extinguished and its glossy surface started reflecting the night lights of the city that he saw through the window. A few minutes later he decided to make an effort and pull off clothing that landed heavily on the floor. The gun went under the pillow, along with his mobile.
++**++
Sleep did not come immediately. And only the ability to fall asleep at any time, any place and at any position, which came to him after a long tour of duty in field hospitals, finally allowed John to give his body a long-awaited rest. And if he dreamed of shooting in dusty canyons of Afghanistan and the cries of wounded soldiers, he happily did not remember this, waking up with the sunrise.
John stretched. He was reminded of the pain in his shoulder with a slight tingling. But despite this, he allowed himself to enjoy a rare moment of peace and tranquillity. No din of music, no arguing neighbours, only the usual sounds of an awakening city.
He didn’t like this apartment and this part of town, but would never have swapped London for a more peaceful and affordable suburb. If only he could manage to find a suitable job. But not with his tremor, which disappeared only in stressful situations and the stamp of professional impropriety on his file. At worst, he could try to search for a tolerable flat mate... But John was not ready yet to share a roof with someone else.
Pursuing the usual morning routine, he kept mentally scrolling through the events of the evening and night. No police, no extra fuss. The strange hostage, who needed to be alive enough for the guys to take the risk of inviting a doctor. And on the other hand, needed to be dead without undue suspicion. No chance that all this was just a dismantling of local drug traffickers. Not at their level - everything was conducted too professionally. Poor Don was in the wrong place at the wrong time and with the wrong people. He didn't want for the guy to end like this but couldn’t really have done anything to prevent it.
John strongly suspected that he would not be so easily left alone. Hiding was his one option, but not with the sad state of his finances. The cash in his wallet would have been much more if it were not for his gambling problem. Perhaps he was not quite fair to this Holmes. But he was only willing to tolerate some addictions, and drugs weren't in that list.
After having an apple and tea for breakfast, John quickly dressed, not forgetting to take the gun, grabbed his cane and closed the door behind him with a quiet click. While walking down the street and dialling Bill, he tried to decide what information he could and could not tell.
“Are you free now?” John asked instead of a greeting. And after hearing an affirmative answer, he calmed down and slowed down his steps. “I’ll be there soon.”
He had a creepy feeling of being watched, but couldn’t tell for sure. After walking several blocks John was even hungrier than when he woke up, and decided that it would be good to refresh himself before the upcoming conversation. There was only a slight chance that there would be any sort of food at Bill's bachelor pad.
After ruefully counting his cash, he decided to eat at a pretty decent cafe he knew, and ordered an omelette with tea. Perhaps now he should re-try his luck - try to make up for past losses on fights. Either that or ask Bill for some more shifts. Although, in the light of recent events, the second option was not very promising.
He had to ring the doorbell for a long time before it was opened by a girl with matted black hair and bad makeup.
“Who is it?” John heard a familiar voice coming from the bathroom.
“Your friend! Cute!” she shouted in response and slapped John on the lower back.
Bill immediately popped out in a towel, wet and freshly shaven, kissed the girl somewhere in the area of the ear and pushed her toward the kitchen:
“Make something for breakfast.”
Then he drew John into the same bathroom from which he had just appeared. He locked the door behind them and turned on the water.
“Spill.”
“There’s nothing to tell. I never got to the place. Some guys stopped me and politely sent me away, and that's all,”reported John, leaning against the door.
Bill, with one smooth move, pressed him with his body and was breathing hotly into the neck:
“And now, what really had happened in there? I was confronted by such serious people that I had to call back all my staff and ask them to keep quiet for several weeks.”
“You want the truth? - then have it,” John whispered, angrily. “Heavily armed and highly trained professionals broke in there, got everyone and quietly disappeared, if nothing happened at all. And my ass was saved by the junkie to whom I was called. How do you like that?”
“Shitty assignment, Johnny.”
John looked into the brown eyes of the man who had covered his back under heavy fire, and tried to understand how he had managed to find himself in such lousy situation. It was so much easier in the Army. Every day, they lived under the threat of being killed or wounded. Or survive for another week and move to another base, where they would wait for new assignment with the lack of hot water, disgusting food and almost not sleeping to the accompaniment of exploding shells and the groans of the wounded. Everything was simpler and fairer there.
“Johnny ...” John could not stand it when they called him that, but never corrected Bill. Now it was a crude inhospitable Britain instead of dusty unfriendly Afghanistan. And he had a feeling that nothing had changed. It frightened him, really frightened him.
He quietly opened the door and walked into the kitchen where the young girl was cooking - she’d be pretty if she’d wash the makeup off. The girl who Bill had no doubt been fucking all night. She gave John an appraising glance and knowing wink.
“Smells tasty.” Finally Bill came in to the kitchen.
Breakfast was spent in an uneasy atmosphere. John did not look at his friend, and Bill in his turn did not take his eyes off him. John did not want to change anything, especially now. Therefore, he hurried to say his goodbye and headed for the door.
In a moment, Bill grabbed his arm preventing him from leaving.
“What have you decided? I know that look.”
“You're wrong,” lied John. “I have something to do, so you should let me go.”
And again he lied. And Bill knew it. He knew him too well by now.
“Good. Well, Johnny, if you say so.”
Beyond the threshold of Bill’s flat , John was greeted by the usual London day. Before he could walk even twenty metres, he heard the first phone call. Then another and another. Unable to withstand the hysterical trills, reaching for him from all sides, he went to a nearby phone booth and picked up the phone.
“Yes?”
“Good morning , Doctor Watson. Now, close to you, a black sedan will stop. I ask you to sit in it.”
Something caught his attention. John looked closely at the camera of the adjacent building, that was directed at him. He looked around. Cameras from all the nearest buildings turned in his direction. John froze.
A black car stopped not far from him, and John could do nothing else but sit inside.
“Hello, Mycroft. You know, you're too pushy.”
“I just really want you to agree, John. And I would be happy to pay you a substantial sum on an ongoing basis to make your life easier.”
“Why?”
“Because you are not a rich man.”
Or maybe because your brother is so insufferable, thought John but he didn't say that aloud. Instead he asked:
“In exchange for what?”
“For help. You saw with your own eyes that Sherlock cannot always take care of himself. Who knows how much he needs constant supervision. You have surprised him. And he liked you. And Sherlock likes no one… with rare exceptions.”
“With all due respect to you, Mycroft, I will not change my decision.”
“If your only reason for refusal is rejection of a certain habit...” Holmes Senior, as much as possible, tactfully tried to bypass a single word. The key word.
“Drug addiction, you mean.”
“Then he is clean. For five years, he has not been taken anything stronger than nicotine.”
“Oh!”
John understood that he needed time to think, really think over that.
“I need time.”
“Where do you want me to stop the car?”, Mycroft replied, quickly.
“Here, please.”
John looked around in confusion. Now he knew about the chase. Let them look, let them see, he had nothing to hide. And he really looked like he felt. Like shit right now.
He had wandered aimlessly all day around the city until the leg began to really hurt, recalling an old injury. He sat at a bus stop, when his feet demanded rest, and looked at passers-by. People around him were in a hurry, engaged in their daily affairs.
After the needed rest he continued to wander around, mingling with the crowd and looking at the colourful displays. He was dizzy from all the faces and colours, but he eagerly watched all the people passing by and tried to figure out what was wrong with him.
Why couldn’t he live like others, a quiet measured life, without the danger and constant stress? Why couldn’t he let go of the past, as he had so often promised himself to do so, and just live?
His mobile phone rang in his pocket, letting him know there was a new message. He stopped in the middle of the street, causing discontented muttering from the people around him.
Baker Street 221 B. Come at once if convenient. SH.
So simple. He was not going to answer, saw no point in that. The following text messages forced him to smile involuntarily.
If inconvenient, come anyway. SH.
John was so tired of aimlessly wandering through the city. He didn't know the reason he was needed by both brothers, but they clearly had some goal. Therefore, he knew that Sherlock was not finished with him.
Could be dangerous. SH.
And John decided.
part 2