WIP: Fascination, part 1
Title: Fascination
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock and I'm not making any money off of this. Not beta'd or Brit-pick'd, so all mistakes are my own. (If you're interested in beta-ing, please let me know because I need one!)
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Greg Lestrade.
Rating: PG.
Word Count: 1710
Warnings: None.
Author's Note: Written for this prompt on the kinkmeme.
Summary: Jim Moriarty makes a terrible mistake when he chooses John Watson for the first pip in his game with Sherlock Holmes.
John Watson has been berating himself for the past hour and a half. He's standing on the terrace of the National Gallery wearing a green parka with fur on the hood. It rustles softly when people walk too close. It's zipped almost all the way up to his stubborn chin so that the foaming crowds buffeting him can't see the explosives strapped to his body.
Fucking great lookout, Watson, he thinks bitterly. Walking right into a trap. Had he learned nothing in Afghanistan? His instincts had remained sharp for months after being invalided home from the war with a bullet wound in his left shoulder and a limp he still doesn't understand. Then civilian life, London life, had lulled him into a sense of security. He doesn't check over his shoulder every few minutes, allows himself to become distracted as he walks - stumps - around the city. That's how he got into this mess - an ambush from the back, his cane kicked out from underneath him, a fight he couldn't hope to win, not with this leg. A doctor himself, he knows nothing happened to his damn leg but it hurts almost all the time.
Except now. The hatchet-faced man with the broad grin and dead eyes had taken his cane, but John hasn't noticed even a twinge after 90 minutes of standing still. Shifting his weight carefully, he closes his eyes, remembers the phone call, sifting through to find information he can use to escape.
CALL NOW came up as a text message on one of the cell phones the ugly man had given him moments before he melted into the crowd. He called the only contact in the second phone and waited for an answer.
"...Hello."
When he hears the gorgeous baritone voice with the posh accent, his mind wants to scream help me I'm strapped to explosives I'm going to die everyone here is going to die.
"Hello, Sherlock Holmes. I've been so looking forward to this." John tries to speak boldly even when reading the texts from the first phone, to show this unknown man that he's brave, unafraid, a soldier.
"Who is this? Who are you?"
"So hasty! You'll know soon, my dear. I've sent you a little puzzle. You have four hours. Tick tock goes the clock - especially for this doctor!" Looking his own death in the face, John's voice cracks slightly on the last sentence.
Another text from the first phone: END THE CALL. John broke the connection and was alone again in the sea of tourists.
John is shaken from his reverie when a passing pedestrian bumps him slightly - a mild admonishment for standing still in the middle of the steps. He barely notices. His eyes are on the buildings around him - the gallery behind him, Trafalgar Square and Nelson's Column in front. King George V not too far away. The Canada House to his right. Obviously, there's a sniper on him. This does little to rattle John - he too well knows the weight of the crosshairs.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock and I'm not making any money off of this. Not beta'd or Brit-pick'd, so all mistakes are my own. (If you're interested in beta-ing, please let me know because I need one!)
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Greg Lestrade.
Rating: PG.
Word Count: 1710
Warnings: None.
Author's Note: Written for this prompt on the kinkmeme.
Summary: Jim Moriarty makes a terrible mistake when he chooses John Watson for the first pip in his game with Sherlock Holmes.
John Watson has been berating himself for the past hour and a half. He's standing on the terrace of the National Gallery wearing a green parka with fur on the hood. It rustles softly when people walk too close. It's zipped almost all the way up to his stubborn chin so that the foaming crowds buffeting him can't see the explosives strapped to his body.
Fucking great lookout, Watson, he thinks bitterly. Walking right into a trap. Had he learned nothing in Afghanistan? His instincts had remained sharp for months after being invalided home from the war with a bullet wound in his left shoulder and a limp he still doesn't understand. Then civilian life, London life, had lulled him into a sense of security. He doesn't check over his shoulder every few minutes, allows himself to become distracted as he walks - stumps - around the city. That's how he got into this mess - an ambush from the back, his cane kicked out from underneath him, a fight he couldn't hope to win, not with this leg. A doctor himself, he knows nothing happened to his damn leg but it hurts almost all the time.
Except now. The hatchet-faced man with the broad grin and dead eyes had taken his cane, but John hasn't noticed even a twinge after 90 minutes of standing still. Shifting his weight carefully, he closes his eyes, remembers the phone call, sifting through to find information he can use to escape.
CALL NOW came up as a text message on one of the cell phones the ugly man had given him moments before he melted into the crowd. He called the only contact in the second phone and waited for an answer.
"...Hello."
When he hears the gorgeous baritone voice with the posh accent, his mind wants to scream help me I'm strapped to explosives I'm going to die everyone here is going to die.
"Hello, Sherlock Holmes. I've been so looking forward to this." John tries to speak boldly even when reading the texts from the first phone, to show this unknown man that he's brave, unafraid, a soldier.
"Who is this? Who are you?"
"So hasty! You'll know soon, my dear. I've sent you a little puzzle. You have four hours. Tick tock goes the clock - especially for this doctor!" Looking his own death in the face, John's voice cracks slightly on the last sentence.
Another text from the first phone: END THE CALL. John broke the connection and was alone again in the sea of tourists.
John is shaken from his reverie when a passing pedestrian bumps him slightly - a mild admonishment for standing still in the middle of the steps. He barely notices. His eyes are on the buildings around him - the gallery behind him, Trafalgar Square and Nelson's Column in front. King George V not too far away. The Canada House to his right. Obviously, there's a sniper on him. This does little to rattle John - he too well knows the weight of the crosshairs.