Part 7. My life with Holmes
fyxxxx)) finally i finished with translating this part)) took me long enoght - was buzy at work))
2 more and i'll be done with it))eahh))) need time for drawing and writitng magic au fic)))
Title: My life with Holmes
Author: Lenap
Beta: librarianmum
Pairing: pre-slash Sherlock\ John
Rating: PG-13 for this chapter
Status: 7\9
Warnings: AU!, swearing
part 1
part 2
part 3
part 4
part 5
part 6
John Watson had never thought that an accidental injury would not only mark the end of his career but also negate all of his former life. He could never have guessed that in the end, circumstances would lead him to where he was today. The dim light of a single bulb in the room didn't interfere with his skills to operate on the type of stab wound that was so familiar to him. In this part of town, the victim’s last hope was to find an underground doctor who would agree to accept the risk. Or go to hospital and deal with the cops.
“Where’s Murray?”
“Today I'm filling in for him,” John said sullenly from the utility room. He looked out to see who might be seeking Bill - who clearly knew him and came to him only. And what he saw, John didn't like one bit.
The poor fellow that John spotted was really out of luck, but at least he’d known where to come. More precisely, his companion was aware of where to come. John took one look at the couple in order to understand his instinctive reaction - he could almost smell trouble. These two were strikingly different from the usual clientele of such place - clothes too expensive, behaviour too confident. Everything about them was crying out Problem to John, in big letters.
The cold blue eyes on the first man’s tanned face looked icy and a little amused. John froze. At first, he hadn’t found it necessary to consider the newcomers more closely, noting only their clothes to himself in the dim light. But those eyes he would have recognized anywhere. The face had changed, becoming even more mature and tougher, but the eyes had not changed.
It was hard to believe, but it looked like Mycroft's plan had already begun to bring results. He had no reason to be happy meeting this man again, but John did not bother to pretend he did not recognize Sebastian Moran. And he had no doubt that the person standing in front of him also recognized him.
His current assistant, Charlie, who John liked to work with, tried to merge with the wall. After realizing that he would get no help from the guy, John was left with no other choice but to let the strange pair in and help the wounded man lie down on the operating table in this room, similar to the other.
“Wait your turn.”
His other patient was still waiting in the next room. A young lad, still a boy, whom John had been stitching up. He had already turned away to return to the boy and his cuts when a steady hand in a black glove caught him by the elbow.
“Doctor, I have to ask you to help this patient immediately.”
Watson, as gently as he could, freed himself from the tenacious grip and shook his head.
“I'll be free in five minutes. Wait your turn.”
“Maybe this will make you more accommodating.” It was not even a question; more an assertion. When a decent bunch of money was waved near his face, John just shook his head.
“Charlie, how many times have I asked you to protect me from this?” He looked at Bill's assistant, reproachfully. The guy just paled further and continued to huddle in silence by the wall. John really disliked such visits, so all the assistants had been warned about his terms, but it didn't prevent them ignoring them. He didn't know why he even bothered sometimes.
“Leave or wait for your turn.”
Nothing had foreshadowed such a night; he should not have been so optimistic. His new patient jerked and moaned softly, forcing John to hurry. Working almost always without pain medication was not easy, moreover, the majority of his clients, as a rule, were already rather exhausted from blood loss by the time they got to him. No matter how much he had argued with Bill about the meagre stock of antiseptics and pain meds, they had never been in the right quantity.
Securing the last stitch, John encouragingly patted the guy on his good leg in the expensive trousers: “You will live. Just watch out for infection. Bed rest and a fresh bandage at least once every day or so, and you'll be like new in two weeks.”
Moran, who had waited patiently during the treatment, perked up, causing John's patient to pale even more, if that were possible in his current state. But a black handgun with a silencer made John pale too.
“Hey, I didn’t help him for you to start poking a gun at him.”
John knew that he ought not to meddle and speak up for the stranger, but he didn’t care for others not respecting his work - especially work for which he risked his own freedom and sometimes even his well-being.
“Please, leave. I don't need any trouble.”
“Ah, our little brave doctor is still the same.” Moran's smile appeared grim, but not threatening, almost as if the he didn’t know how to smile properly.
Indeed, he hadn’t changed a bit, John thought. He gritted his teeth and deliberately took the wad of money, lying forgotten on the table. He counted out the usual fee, and tucked the rest into the jacket pocket of the man lying quietly on the table. After that he helped him get up and led him to his unpleasant companion. There wasn’t nothing more he could do for the poor sod.
After the departure of the strange pair, John stood for some time near the door, listening to the sounds of the street. Not hearing any screams or yelling, he turned to his assistant, relieved.
“How are you feeling, Charlie? Everything ok?”
“Ok… Kind of…,” responded Charlie and slowly slid down the wall to the floor. “And if I were you, John, next time I would silently do whatever he asks.”
“Next time, don't panic, and put visitors like them in their place.”
“If only I was like you, John.”
The rest of the night passed without any significant incidents, except two guys who had received minor stabs wounds in a street brawl. John wanted to get some sleep in his own bed before the morning shift at the clinic. He was pleasantly surprised that he got his wish.
Holmes was not home, so John went to bed without any delay, not forgetting to set the alarm for 6:30. It seemed that just a couple of minutes had passed, although it could have been hours, when the door of his bedroom opened with a loud bang, but as no one was actually shaking him by the shoulders, forcing to rise, John drifted back to sleep.
Dragging himself out of bed with some difficulty at the alarm call, he slowly dressed and after having some tea and toast, went to the clinic. Merging into a crowd of people hurrying to work just as he was in this early morning hour, John did not feel like himself. Strangely, he felt like a wolf in sheep's clothing. He reflected that if the people around him only took a closer look at him, they would know who was hiding behind the mask of calm and friendliness. Sometimes it seemed that the Holmes brothers were the only ones who saw through him and his defences; who had, from the beginning, considered him without his usual mask of normality. But he, unlike Sherlock, was able to pretend to be normal.
After the shift, he went to Tesco to buy milk and eggs, not having any hope that Holmes would have done so. It was a real blessing (and saved a lot of food preparation time) that they had so many food delivery services to call upon; even Angelo made an exception for them.
Today he fancied something Indian, so spent the entire taxi ride home imagining what he would order. John did not know whether Sherlock would eat or not as they currently had a case on their hands, but the detective was not very enthusiastic about it.
This time Holmes was home. And occupying the sofa as usual, typing fiercely to someone.
“Hello. Back long?”
“No. Tea will do for now.”
“Ok.” John stretched wearily. He was no longer so young that he could have only few hours of sleep per night and then feel cheerful and full of energy.
“Don't plan anything for this evening. We will be having dinner with Mycroft.”
++**++
If John had known at that moment what this dinner would consist of, well… no, he wouldn’t have argued, but he certainly would have made an effort to be better prepared mentally. And he would have never refused. Firstly, he was curious. And secondly, Sherlock walked after him, making it very difficult for John to change from work, until John finally grumbled: "Yes! Just don't bother me!" After that, the detective appeased by their agreement, disappeared somewhere, and John was finally left alone.
In the evening, there was a surprise for him in the form of an expensive suit lying on his bed with a tie and freshly ironed shirt. John stood stupidly over the bad and the suit for a long time. Perhaps it was a misunderstanding he thought in the end.
“Sherlock! Sherlock, would you be so kind as to tell me what someone else's clothes are doing in my room?”
Holmes looked at him in bewilderment and then went back to typing on a laptop…. John's laptop, as if he didn’t own one of his own.
“The suit is for you,” the detective finally confirmed with his "don't make me say the obvious" tone.
“Why do I need a new one if I have one already which suits me perfectly?”
“I don't like it.”
“What the…! But I like it.”
“It's bad enough that I have to put up with your choice of casual clothes. Oh, those sweaters. The beige - disgusting thing, the blue and striped one… and the red! Ok, the striped is not so bad as the others. Yes, how many do you have? It's just a crime against humanity and good taste!”
John gaped at him for a moment, and then buried his face in hands, his shoulders beginning to shake with barely suppressed laughter. If only he had a camera to hand to capture that look of fastidious disgust on Sherlock’s face. No, no, he should not be amused by this. It was all wrong on so many levels. John could not say that he loved or even liked his sweaters, but they were comfortable and warm. Besides, in them he looked harmless and, yes, an unmanly word - cuddly.
“John? Are you all right?” John heard, as Sherlock stood up and took a few hesitant steps towards him.
After John broke down and began to laugh out loud, and Sherlock, offended, locked himself in his bedroom with a laptop, the incident seemed to be resolved strangely enough. At first, these dinners with Mycroft had been a little strange and uncomfortable, but always informative and amusing. While the brothers exchanged caustic remarks and observations on other visitors, John enjoyed great food and company. And every time it seemed as if both Holmes were showing off in front of him. Then it turned out that such gatherings once a month were sort of a tribute to tradition. The fact that he was now included in this monthly ritual, though it puzzled him, also was very flattering.
But this time, their destination was not another restaurant selected by Mycroft. The car stopped near the lighted porch of a multi-storey building in an exclusive and expensive area of London.
“It’s one of Mycroft's flats - his favourite one.”
“If I’d known we would dine at Mycroft's home, I would not have dressed up,” muttered John under his breath. Not the he didn’t like the suit Sherlock had bought for him - in fact, he liked it a lot. It fit him perfectly, and the shirt matched his eyes well. But he really would have preferred his comfortable jeans and sweater. So now, he took off the tie and put it in his pocket, then after some thought, even unbuttoned the two top buttons of his shirt.
The atmosphere of understated luxury in the apartment of the older Holmes impressed John, and, of course, it could not be otherwise. He was pleasantly surprised by the smartly furnished interior and colour choice. From Mycroft, he knew the addresses of several apartments that Sherlock used as a cover and safe bases for particularly important or dangerous cases. And since John had not had a chance to visit any of them, he was curious to know whether they were reminiscent of Baker Street or of this place. Although the latter was unlikely.
Mycroft, as a gracious host, poured them glasses of wine and went back to his cooking in the perfectly laid-out kitchen.
“I didn't take you for the cooking type,” John confessed honestly, curiously watching the perfectly managed movements of Mycroft’s hands stirring something in two pans.
“Sherlock can also cook, but he prefers to hide that fact.”
“What? Sherlock, you can cook?”
In fact, it made perfect sense if you compared cooking with a chemical experiment, John decided. It was a pity that he couldn’t capitalize on this this new knowledge in any way - entrust cooking in their flat to the detective and there was a real chance that they would not just stay hungry but that the whole apartment would simply been blown up.
Dinner was spent in an easy relaxed atmosphere. Even Sherlock's occasional observations could not spoil this it, and John waited for the next part of the evening with some anticipation. It was unlikely that Mycroft would have invited them to his home if he didn’t want to discuss something really important away from prying eyes. And the older Holmes brother had clearly chosen the place where he felt most safe.
When the dessert was finished, they finally moved into the living room and sat across from each other. John looked in silence from one brother to the other, but even his patience had limits.
“And? Will anybody tell me what’s going on here?”
“The dinner this evening is Mycroft's answer to one of my requests,” Sherlock shared, reluctantly.
“Has it something to do with the case of the missing kids?”
“You are right, John. As you correctly guessed, our conversation will be about the case that was closed more than six months ago, and now has been reopened although it should not have been.” Mycroft sank into his chair and folded his hands in front of him in the gesture of prayer now so familiar to John. “This case was particularly delicate, because it involved several high-ranking officials. I still can't give away any details. And it was very important to prevent any leaking of information. When Sherlock took the case and, while investigating, realized what was happening, he told me. And I, in return, did everything possible to quietly hush up this story. Unfortunately for Detective-Inspector Lestrade, who is still not aware of my intervention, the case had remained unsolved and went into the archive. And, when a few days ago, another child went missing, Sherlock instantly knew that this kidnapping was not connected with that case.
“What about Brian?” John asked quickly.
“He is all right. And alive and well. I assure you, John, there is nothing to worry about.”
“So, I’m guessing you knew where the boy was right from the start, right?” Now John looked at Sherlock with suspicion.
“I only knew that he was safe, and therefore I didn’t need to take any hasty action,” the detective began to excuse himself, giving John a nervous look. “And after examining the house, everything fell into place. At Barts, I spent time on tests confirming the DNA, so by the evening I had a full picture of what happened. And then I wondered what the boy's uncle would do, once keeping the boy would no longer be possible.”
“Arghhh!” In a fit of rage, John threw a designer cushion at Sherlock's head. Who was not expecting such a turn of events, so did not have time to dodge and was now looking in shock at John - who by now was trying not to laugh out loud.
“Be so kind as to share the details with your public,” he suggested, sarcastically.
The detective blinked a little at his sudden change of mood - clearly he had been expecting an argument.
“Since the possibility of kidnapping, although not fully dismissed, was not the first suspicion for me, I found it necessary to check the boy's closest entourage. And since he was too young to amass his own enemies, then it could be the enemies of the family. After spending hours getting acquainted with the available information on the Bower family, I jotted down five possible scenarios. And only after talking to the servants and having been in the boy's room, did I realise that the kidnapper was from the family. More specifically, that I already knew him.”
“And what gave the kidnapper away?” John listened eagerly to the unhurried narrative of the detective. It was so unusual to see him so relaxed and, to some extent, even peaceful. He wondered whether it was the influence of the situation in general, his and Mycroft's presence, a hearty dinner or all of the elements together.
“Game console.”
“Game console?” John looked at Mycroft seeking his support, but he just smiled and shook his head.
“How many 13-year old boys do you know that will go anywhere for several days without their console, knowing that there will be no other entertainment besides tv?”
“Well, if you consider that the average age of most of my friends is over 20 years, I don't know a single one,” grinned John and, to suppress Sherlock's outrage, quickly added, “but I can well imagine such a hypothetical kid. And also the fact that any friend of this hypothetical teen would have his own console, if we suppose that Brian had just gone to see a friend.”
“Exactly. Why take it if you know you are coming back home in the evening? And, even more so why take it if you’re just going over to a friend? So we are interested in an adult, one who the kid trusts, and who knows his daily routine perfectly. From that, everything is simple.”
“God. This is already beginning to resemble a melodrama rather than an investigation… Wait a minute… All this time, the kid has been with his uncle? And no one has visited his apartment? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Yes. I think the boy is now in the country house of Bower junior. And there is a perfect sense to everything if it's your child.”
“You think the uncle is the father?”
“Gossip. I just confirmed it with DNA analysis. More precisely, I confirmed that Mr. Bower senior is not the biological father of Brian. Servants’ gossip is a very valuable source of information.”
“And when did you plan to reveal this to his parents? Oh, no, don't tell me that you wanted to wait!”
“Ok, I won't say that if you insist.”
“God damn, Sherlock! Amanda is half-mad with anxiety and uncertainty. How can you be so heartless!” John jumped up, reaching for his mobile.
“John!”
“I'm calling Lestrade! And we - sorry Mycroft - will go and get the boy!”
++**++
Stopping at the familiar entrance, John called and waited patiently to be allowed to come in. He frowned. Glancing around the dark corridor, John could not help listening out for voices or any kind of sound. It was unusually quiet. Neither the sounds of muffled voices nor the familiar sound of a radio - nothing.
John went through the familiar corridors, breathing in the moist warm air and tried to calm his pounding heart. He was disturbed by his anxiety, it reminded him of the days in the sun-drenched valleys of Afghanistan and the gritty feel of dust on his teeth.
He didn’t go into the store room they used as an operating theatre. The black expansive car attracted his attention. Its polished sides reflected grey dirty walls and frames of pillars supporting the roof slabs. If he didn’t know better, he would have decided that it was all Mycroft’s doing.
“Finally,” said Bill grimly, over his shoulder. The presence of his old comrade could mean anything but most likely - trouble.
“What is it?”
“We need to talk.”
“Oh, really?” John snorted and quickly looked around. Once again glad that he’d brought his gun, John slowly walked right up to Bill. “You know I'm not interested in contracts.”
“I know. That’s not it.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Moran asked me, and you know I can't say no to him. I'm not you.”
“Mr. Murray brightened my time waiting with his company. And also was a guarantee that you would come.”
John shuddered and turned his head towards the voice. Appreciating the other man's ability to effectively appear out of nowhere, he could barely restrain himself from drawing his gun. Bill caught his hand and gently squeezed.
The man who could hide in the shadows so skillfully was not familiar to him. John thought that he reminded him of someone, but the stranger who approached them had an unusual and memorable face with high forehead and empty black eyes.
“Doctor Watson, I'm asking only some of your time and attention. And no, I'm afraid you can't refuse.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Of course not, Doctor Watson.”
Expensive suit, expensive shoes. Having lived with Sherlock, he had unwittingly become better at recognising brands and designs. A quiet voice and absolutely quiet movements. And if not for the deliberate shuffling at every step, John might have decided that the stranger was a figment of his imagination.
The level of conspiracy suggested secret service and political secrets. Or, on the other hand, suggested very big money and something very illegal. It would not be any surprise to John if, by accident, this man was lucky to be involved in both. It also seemed that Mycroft was not the only one who liked a striking appearance.
He had no choice but to accept. He kept looking around out of habit. But it was still the same abandoned warehouse, empty shelves along the walls and suspicious looking boxes.
“You know, you could have taken my number from Bill and just called.”
“Meeting in person may be a little old-fashioned, but much more effective these days.”
“Then maybe we'll get straight to the point.”
Thin lips stretched into a pleasant smile, but the dark eyes remained empty.
“Moran praised you a lot. So I decided to meet in person and, so to speak, get my own impression of you.”
John didn’t like standing in plain view - a not very favourable position as there was no chance to reach an exit or any more-or-less suitable cover in time. But there was not a single point for a sniper. And if Moran was involved, he was in big-big trouble indeed. He only needed the man himself to appear in person to complete the picture of a totally shitty evening.
Meanwhile, the strange man approached the car and opened the trunk.
“And to demonstrate your skills and Moran's words to me, you will need this.” With these words, he gave John a bag that jingled with the familiar sound of medical tools. “And Mr. Murray.”
John did not even have time to object, as he saw the flash of gun with a silencer, and then there were two quiet shots.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Hold on, Murray!”
“Sorry, Johnny,” Bill croaked, gasping in pain.
“Shut up and hold still,” John quickly and without fuss was rummaging in the contents of the bag that had been given to him. The wounds were not fatal and were not complicated; it was just like being back in Afghanistan. The distance was too close for the bullets not to go right through, and his hands were moving automatically, performing the needed actions.
“You know where the operating room is, John.”
“Fucker! Fucking sick bastard!”
“You can call me Jim.”
part 8