Fic: Witness Protection (Unbetaed parts 1& 2)
Author's notes: This is the unbetaed version of the first two chapters that I had posted on the kinkmeme. I have posted these parts in the journal for the challenge.
For regular readers-
Betaed - CHAPTER I :: CHAPTER II
Chapter 1
He wasn’t supposed to be in London; hell, he wasn’t supposed to step outside his room, after sundown… those were Lestrade’s strict instructions.
He didn’t bother pointing out that following instructions had never been his strong suit…
Also, Lestrade couldn’t possibly know, how the biggest danger to his life lay within the featureless four walls of his bedsit… or how inviting the gun had looked in his hand this morning and it hadn’t even been a month since he had gone into hiding.
Afghanistan and its nightmares had been vivid, unforgiving, horrifying even, but never cruel. His nightmares had a new spectrum to them now; Ella would have been pleased!
Not that he could go back to her…
Concentrate Watson, he ordered himself. They had reached the sixth street of betting. Out of the original eight players, only three were left in the game, including him. He was all in. It was either this, or shooting himself in the foot, in order to feel something…anything. His Army Browning didn’t deserve such a pathetic mess of a target. Not yet, anyway…
He had deliberately chosen this disreputable sinkhole of a den, desiring both anonymity and risk. He could hear the hubbub from the bar below, which he had ignored in favour of the game. Getting drunk was too tempting and far too dangerous in the long run…
There were about ten-twelve people milling about the room, observing the game now, most of them probably regulars. He concentrated on his fellow players- the one to his right was beefy, with two of his front teeth missing and was still in the game not due to any skill, but dumb luck and an abundant amount of money. The other player was old, and at least partly drunk, from the smell that had been wafting over; eyes drooping, much of his face obscured by a beard but he had been making the right calls, so not as drunk as he intended to appear…Clever!
He took a deep breath as the final card was dealt out, waiting for the familiar feelings of challenge, excitement, expectation, fear! He felt nothing…
And at that moment, everything went to hell…
The door to their room was kicked in, as two men burst in guns in hand, heads swivelling as though searching for someone. One of them walked over, overturned the table and commanded, “Game over, folks…”
Ah! There it was- some adrenaline…finally!
The low thrum of conversations in the room came to an abrupt stop. The beefy co-player spoke up loudly in the silence, “Aw, Billy, what the hell! I was winning this one.” The man didn’t seem to hear him, his eyes boring into every face. His voice was hard, “He’s here…Jerry… the bloody snoop that’s been plaguing ‘em over at Checkers.”
Jerry scoffed, “Not a chance…all regulars here, except for these two.” He was gesturing towards John and the old man. One’s aged and other’s a cripple.”
The man with the gun bit his lip as he checked out the old man, dismissing him as his gaze settled on John and hardened, “YOU, what’s your name?”
Even after a month, the name felt alien on his lips, “Victor Trevor”.
He was a crap liar. Even a two-bit thug could sense that. The man’s eyes narrowed.
“How about some I.D., Mr. Trevor?
John had nothing on him right then. How could he? Whatever little proof of identification he had been provided under the Witness Protection Program, was locked in a strong-box lying uselessly below his bed, back in Sussex. He tried to sound nonchalant. “Um… I don’t have anything presently.”
“Is that right?” The man leered. “I think you need to come with us now. Just want to ask you a few questions.”
John pushed off from the table, hand reaching automatically for his cane; though he felt no pain in this instant. They thought he wasn’t who he claimed to be, and it was partly true. But somehow, he knew that they had nothing to do with his…don’t go there, John!
He hobbled down between the two men as they silently descended the stairs, and herded him to the dingy back-alley. Curiously, after that initial jolt of excitement, all he was feeling now was a dull panic, not enough to stimulate the fight or flight response. They prodded him to face a wall and he tried to reason with them. “What seems to be the problem?”
They didn’t answer. Billy just motioned him to stand still. “Search him”, he ordered the other guy, who stuffed his gun in his pocket and patted John down from head to toe. John thanked his stars for not having carried his gun for today’s jaunt. The man roughly yanked out his wallet and mobile phone.
“HEY!” he gave a token protest and was roughly shoved to his knees. The cane clattered to the ground, sounding disproportionately loud. The ground was damp and his jeans were soaked through in an instant, but after that cursory protest, he stayed silent. Something squeaked overhead.
“There’s nothing here.” The man’s voice was disdainful. “Just ten pounds and an oyster card.”
“So! Victor, is it? You were gambling with ten pounds in your wallet? Very brave of you…”
“I was never in over my head!” John protested weakly.
“You know what I think…I think you weren’t gonna finish the game in the first place. You made your way in to spy on Jerry and get a sample of his work, coz he’s stupid enough to use it for gambling, isn’t that right, Mr. Holmes?”
John had had enough. He got to his feet, knees protesting. “I told you, my name is Victor. I don’t know who it is you are talking about. I was here just for the game and I would like to have my wallet and my phone back right now.”
That prompted Billy to pull his gun out and point it straight at John. “I think people like you need to be taught a lesson. So, I’m gonna try not to kill you…just shoot you such that you’ll remember it every time you decide to go meddlin’ in someone else’s business.”
John didn’t move. Even as he stood there, he could think of two ways he could atleast try and overpower the man. But all he did was close his eyes in resignation. He had not planned on dying. But this was a much better alternative than killing himself, or attempting to live his life, or what passed for it now-a-days.
Behind his closed eyelids, he finally allowed himself the respite of his memories- the face of a man with crinkled black eyes and the impish smile. The gaze that had made him feel like he was the centre of the universe, the brilliance that had captivated him, that had shown in his smile when John had said Yes… yes forever! Nothing had changed, though everything was different. He was still in love with the lie. It is better to have loved and lost than not to …what utter bullshit!
Suddenly there was a larger clang overhead and John’s eyes snapped open involuntarily…
…just in time to see a man drop like a stone from the sky on the top of his would-be-assassin’s head.
A frantic motion in the periphery of his vision snapped him out of his emotional paralysis. He lunged and tackled the second man to the ground before he could reach for his holstered gun. He slammed his head to the ground, ducking to avoid the weakly thrown punch, and then slamming his head down again till his eyes rolled up in his head.
Then he rolled himself away from the prone figure, as he lay panting heavily on the ground trying to catch his breath. He heard footsteps, and then a shadow fell across his face. “Are you alright?”
He opened his eyes to see the face of his second card-table companion, except that it wasn’t the same man. This man had the hair and skin of a sixty year old, but the voice and bearing of a much younger man. His eyes glittered sharply in the dim light of the alley and the smell of alcohol was barely discernable out in the open.
Behind the looming figure, the fire-escape was clearly visible overhead, from where he must have taken the dive below.
John could swear that he had no control over his own reactions, as he began to giggle at the absurdness of his unwanted rescue. In response, a smile broke out on the stranger’s face, throwing the false wrinkles in sharp relief. He grabbed John’s hand to haul him upright.
“When you get over your hysterics, we need to leave.” There was no rancour in his voice. “Their friends will come looking any moment now. I’m Sherlock Holmes, by the way.”
Mr. Holmes- so…the man to be blamed for the mess he was presently in … also the reason; he was feeling the most alive in the last two months. Hard to hate a guy after that!
Holmes led the way, running through the maze of alleyways, over another fire-escape and two rooftops, when they finally stopped to catch their breaths.
“That…” John panted, “…had to be…the most ridiculous thing… I’ve ever done!”
“And you invaded Afghanistan!” Sherlock countered with a giggle of his own. At John’s sudden frozen expression, his tone became querulous. “Or, was it Iraq?”
But John Watson wasn’t in the alley anymore. It was six months back, and he was at Heathrow airport, watching Murray walk away to take his flight back to Kabul; the last person who mattered to John, going back to make a difference while he was stuck here. He had been sitting for what felt like hours, staring at his cane when someone had occupied the chair next to his in the waiting lounge. He had ignored the new-comer, till a confident voice had cut through his reverie, while a fresh paper-cup filled with piping hot tea was thrust into his cold hands…
“So, Afghanistan or Iraq?”
John stumbled one more step back from the man in the alley, unseeing in shock. Then he did something he had never done in his life before. He turned around and ran for his life…
Chapter 2
Sherlock was trying to run as noiselessly as possible, ignoring his throbbing ankle, his feet barely making a sound as they pounded the pavement, missing his usual coat as the chilly air hit him. All the while running lightening calculations in his head as to the likeliest route his quarry must have taken in his mindless flight; trying to follow while not actually following him…
He hadn’t waited to consider why he was chasing after a man he had barely met; who definitely didn’t have any information on his current case. The man had laughed after tackling an armed attacker, but had fled on hearing a single reference to his past. There was only one thought driving him forward. Victor Trevor… if that was his real name, was an unsolved enigma.
Sherlock loved those…
Strictly speaking, he could find the man later, at leisure. But that would involve going to Sussex, and there was an off chance that he might need help. That just won’t do. Besides, the idiot was fleeing back the way they had come, which was a bit not good.
He rounded a wall towards what he knew to be a dead end, and heard heavy breathing. Trevor had stopped to catch his breath. He approached slowly and halted in his tracks as a new sound reached his ears-the man was crying… sobbing hard, gasping between sobs, drawing each breath with great difficulty.
Though Sherlock’s feet were barely scraping the ground, Trevor raised his head as he approached. Sherlock raised both hands, palms up in front of his chest, in an attempt to look as non-threatening as possible. “Hey…its fine…I’m not going to hurt you…”
The wary look on Trevor’s face abruptly morphed into horror as he opened his mouth to scream a warning.
Before Sherlock could whirl around, something hard collided with the back of his skull, and everything went black…
Stupid! Stupid! He had been so stupid, running back into danger. Now he had one man down (still hard to not think in military jargon), and a weapon being aimed at him for the second time in an hour. Thankfully, it was neither of the previous two men, as this time around they would have been more inclined to shoot first and ask questions later. He raised his hands in surrender, and used his most calming voice.
“Look, we are not armed. We didn’t even take any money. We don’t want any trouble…just let us go…”
“Shut up!” the man ordered, as he scrabbled one-handed for his phone, to call for help. With his attention slightly diverted, John took two steps forward.
“Stay back!” he yelled, now sounding more frightened than John was feeling at the moment- a kid out of his depth. The next instant, the prone form lying on the ground twisted to swing a long leg out, and the boy tripped. The gun clattered to the ground, and John had him immobilized in less than a minute. He emptied the gun and dropped the bullets along with the mobile in the nearby skip.
Then he turned his attention to Holmes, who was now groaning, and trying to sit up unsuccessfully.
“Here…let me…don’t move for a bit…” He pillowed one hand below the salt and pepper hair, probing gently to check for any bleeding. Holmes was babbling, disoriented, “…need to …move…get caught…”
He had a point. In any case, there was little John could make out in the darkened alley-way, even for a perfunctory examination, except that the trauma was blunt.
“I’m sorry, but this is going to hurt”, he warned, before supporting him up to a sitting position, then swinging his weight completely onto his good shoulder and practically lifting him off the ground into a standing position. To his credit, Holmes attempted to walk, though he seemed to have lost all sense of direction. John was thankful that he hadn’t lost consciousness completely, as he was bloody tall, and would have been quite impossible to carry.
Luckily, once out on the road, they came upon a cab that agreed to take them. It was after John had deposited his burden inside that he realized that he had no idea where to send the cab. Holmes had collapsed dizzily against a window. John had no choice but to get in and try to rouse the man. “Hey mate, where do you live?”
He could barely hear the answer, “221B, Baker Street.”
As the cab got underway, John pushed aside fears of how they would pay for it, as the other man hadn’t objected; and tried to make himself useful. He tried to check Holmes’s eyes, and found his hands being weakly swatted away. “Let me check your pupils for concussion, see if you need to go to an A&E. Don’t worry, I’m a doctor.” It slipped out naturally, in a bid to reassure, only to realize too late that it was too much information.
“M…okay”, the man mumbled. “Bit dizzy…”
“Yeah, that would be the concussion.”
“Mild…” His voice was becoming stronger. “No nausea…and my vision is fine…”
So, experienced with concussion, John noted feeling his newly-awakened curiosity rise further. He couldn’t resist stating the obvious. “So, you’re Mr. Holmes…the one they were actually looking for…”
“Oh, call me Sherlock, please… I should add, pleased to meet you. But frankly I’m still unsure whether that is the proper sentiment for this meeting, especially on your side. Still… the evening wasn’t a total loss.”
Who the hell talks like that? His curiosity got the better of him. “Who are you? What were you doing back there?”
“I’m a Consultant Detective, only one in the world…I invented the job!” Even the slight slurring couldn’t mask the pride in his voice.
“What does that exactly involve?”
“I solve interesting crimes that confound the Police.”
“Right!” there was more than a hint of doubt in John’s voice. “And why is it that you can solve crimes better?”
Sherlock’s head was now stretched back on the head-rest, long neck bared. His eyes were closed. He took a long breath, then spoke rapidly in a low voice, “You’re an Army Doctor, returned less than a year back from active combat in…I would still say Afghanistan. You were invalided, so shot…not in the leg though; the limp is definitely psychosomatic. You got engaged, in the last one month, so new relationship after your return from war. That tells me the break-up was even more recent and traumatic. You are currently hiding from your ex, so you were the one to leave him. You are a battle-scarred soldier, so the possibility of a garden-variety abusive relationship is ruled out. YOU chose to end it, despite your fiercely loyal nature; and you are in hiding, as you fear retribution. That, added to the type of ring on your finger, tells me that your ex-fiancée was a male, probably involved in something illegal or unsavoury, of which you had no prior knowledge, until your engagement. And of course, your real name isn’t Victor Trevor.”
John was glad that the man had his eyes closed. He was reeling under such a severe attack of déjà-vu that he wondered what expression was showing on his face. Six months back, he would have accused Sherlock of being a mind-reader. Now he knew better. He had thought that… his ex… had been one of a kind. But apparently it was his lot in life to meet impossible people.
His lack of reaction had prompted Sherlock to raise his head and focus bleary eyes on his face. John found that even now, he couldn’t deny him the honest response he deserved…
“That… was brilliant!”
“Really? You don’t sound surprised…”
John smiled wryly. “I told you myself that I was a Doctor. The dog tags, I fiddled with while playing, told you about the army. My posture and fighting skills showed you that the limp is in my head. The cut and polish of the ring, genuine Cartier, newly released…told you about the time of the engagement. Newly engaged men don’t spend their Saturday nights playing illegal poker alone…plus you saw me crying…so traumatic break-up. The rest was an educated guess…”
Sherlock’s eyes had widened, and his mouth had fallen open in a comical ‘o’. John stifled a giggle at the expression.
“Don’t worry…doesn’t make it any less amazing that you did it.I know, how you saw all the things you did. That doesn’t mean, I can do it.”
He pouted, ignoring the compliment. “I never guess!”
“Yes you do…”
It was the smile; Sherlock decided that suited his face the most. In the next moment, he berated himself for the illogical thought. The man was an interesting distraction, nothing more, nothing less…What a fascinating specimen though with such an ordinary appearance. His present case was solved. All he had to look forward to was the tedium and the struggle to deny himself the next high. This would break the monotony nicely.
“And my name is Victor… that’s the only thing, you didn’t get right.”
He really was a hopeless liar…
The man was now studying Sherlock’s avid expression with a frown on his face. “Uh…I think it will be better if I get off at the nearest intersection. You’re fine now, and I should be on my way…”
“Nonsense!” Sherlock interjected. “It’s too late to take the tube back to Sussex. You don’t have any money for a motel. You can kip over at my place for the night. I have a spare bedroom. It’s the least I can do for getting you into trouble…well more trouble.”
He had tried to make his voice as ingratiating as possible, but Victor still looked undecided.
“Come now, Doctor, you wouldn’t leave a partially concussed man unsupervised overnight, would you?”
John could see the Venus-Flytrap, for what it was.
“It’s very generous of you, Sherlock, but as you so correctly guessed, my company is a bit risky right now. I wouldn’t want to bring the danger to your door-step.”
“Please!” He scoffed. I would like to see whoever it is, try and break into my flat. It is probably the safest place in all of London”, he added darkly, but did not explain further.
John still dithered. Sherlock appeared to be admirably tenacious, mind-bogglingly intelligent, yet at the same time, childishly transparent. The problem was that John no longer had faith in his own assessment. Whatever organ it was that enabled men to trust each other, had been cruelly cut out of him. The only positive flip-side was that he no longer had anything to lose…
Also, a very large part of the reason why he wanted to accept was purely selfish. Since he had bumped into Sherlock, he had the strangest feeling of having returned back to his own head, after a long time…like there was finally some sun lighting the wasteland of his psyche and the view was less bleak, from where he stood…
He shook his head distractedly at the image, and then said in his most no-nonsense tone, “I’ll come to your place, on one condition. You’ll not ask me anything about my…ex, or try to figure out stuff about him…at all. I’m serious, Sherlock. I neither need nor want your help in the matter. Is that clear?”
Sherlock scowled momentarily, the effect enhanced by the disguise, then brightened as he agreed. “Fine.”
John knew he would probably regret his decision as he echoed, “Fine then…”
The cab sped towards Baker Street…