Remix of thirtypercent: "Big Game Hunting"
Original Story:
Author: thirtypercent
Title & Link: If on a winter’s night…
Pairings & Rating: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Mature
Warnings/Content Notes: graphic violence
Remix Story:
Author: nox_candida
Title: Big Game Hunting
Pairings & Rating: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, PG-13
Warnings/Content Notes: implied major character death
Beta: NA
Britpicker: NA
Summary: Reichenbach AU. John receives a mysterious postcard. Someone has a job for him.
It’s not until he’s put away his shopping that he sees the post that’s been left on the kitchen table. And it’s not until he gets closer, sorting through the bills, that he spots the brightly coloured postcard near the bottom. The text proclaims “Belgrade” in large letters, with ten different pictures of the cityscape and its most iconic landmarks. It’s lovely, but it doesn’t help with the question of who on earth has sent it, and why.
So John, frowning slightly, flips it over. His name and address are written out in neat, blocky, though unremarkable, handwriting. The message is puzzling:
John,
Belgrade lies 116.5 metres above sea level and has a population of 3.4 million people. The city was founded in 86 BC by 3 different celtic groups and the fight over the area lasted for 2 years, though it wasn’t until 6 AD that it was given the name.
The city’s map is very unique. There are more than 51 different districts, the largest of which houses 510,388 people and is in the north section of the city. The smallest district is to the west, and only 8930 people live there.
Come tonight. You won’t be disappointed.
Bill.
At first, he can’t make heads or tails of it. Last he heard, Murray was comfortably at home in Sussex with his new wife and child, not gallivanting off to Belgrade and sending his old army buddy a nonsensical postcard. It’s only when he takes a closer look that he spots the small print in light ink: 159.1.24.4 184.9.1.5
John gulps, his heart racing. He’s seen that combination of numbers before.
Trust me.
Sherlock. It has to be. The method is new, but it has to be him. He’s even more certain after a quick glance at the Wikipedia page for Belgrade confirms that all of the facts stated on the postcard are completely wrong.
He can’t stop the grin from spreading over his face. It’s been months-far too long-since he last heard from his friend, last received a coded message to be somewhere at a specific time, to finish off a member of Moriarty’s criminal empire. To finally be of use.
Each previous instance was quick, easy, almost anti-climactic. A man dragging a body in the countryside; a punk kid, hands and face covered in red, eyes dilated on cocaine, and most recently a man dressed in a suit, standing over a freshly dead body, stuffing a hold all with money and weapons.
Nothing to diminish the righteousness that flared through his veins, adrenaline thudding in his chest, the glow of accomplishment that came with defeating evil and helping Sherlock.
Now, that feeling comes over him again, weak but growing. Addictive.
His breathing is quick and steady, his fingers tingling, itching with need. It’s been so long that he’s played the devastated friend, forced himself to embrace his dreary, dull existence in the name of keeping Sherlock safe. He remembers returning from Afghanistan, the helplessness, the hopelessness, the grey days stretching endlessly in front of him, and he method acts his way to his greatest ever deception, but it’s a balancing act. A trick to not tumble over the edge and lose himself in the process.
But now, the pulls back, grounds himself at the promise of excitement, of danger, of the need to feel useful.
It’s the work of a moment to pull his book from the bookshelf and hunt through it to decipher the message. Hunting tiger, Sherlock tells him and gives him a map reference: 51.510388, -0.008930. With the help of Google, he discovers that he’s to go to an abandoned school, called Woolmore, in Poplar.
He finds himself grinning as he hurries to his nightstand, dropping down and pulling out the strong box he keeps nestled behind it and against the wall. Dragging it out, he puts in the combination, pulling the lid open with a metallic creaking sound. Inside lays his sig, ammunition, and cleaning kit. He pulls the weapon out gently, runs his fingers over the pistol grip, curls his palms around the weapon, and looks it over with an intense gaze. It’s been far too long since he’s held it, since he’s used it, and it will need a thorough clean before he can go to his rendezvous point, but that’s fine. He’s got time enough for that.
***
Woolmore School is dark and eerily quiet, not surprising in the wee hours of a winter’s night. John walks quickly to the front of the school, and-seeing the place boarded up and surrounded by a tall wall-moves closer to the gate at the front. The lock has already been broken, but the gate is closed, so John pushes it open, appreciating that whoever has come through before him has clearly oiled the hinges to minimize the noise.
John enters, tucking his hands into his coat to keep them warm and to rest his left hand on the pistol grip reassuringly. The front door is cracked open and John allows himself a dark grin as he climbs the steps and eases his way through and into the darkened interior of the former school’s main building.
He halts just inside, allows his eyes to adjust to the total darkness, before finally seeing the general layout of the room, thanks to the faint glow visible underneath the door across the room. The light, dim though it is, allows him to edge carefully into the room, avoiding the detritus that would give him away in the oppressive silence He grips his gun a bit tighter, but he’s only taken a few steps when he hears a faint noise, a shuffling sound, which seems to come from above and in front of him.
John peers around himself, looking hard for a set of stairs. Even with the dim light, it’s impossible to see from where he is, so he continues into the room, sticking to the balls of his feet and stepping quickly and nearly silently. He can’t hear his own steps over the rushing of blood in his ears and the sound of his own breathing, but he can also still hear his target moving above him and trusts that he will still have the element of surprise.
When he reaches the door, he carefully pushes it open and pokes his head out into what turns out to be a hallway. Further down the hall he spots a portable light propped up, the only source of light that he can see. Trash and debris litter the floor and he has to stop himself from stepping on old ceiling tiles and paper that will undoubtedly give his presence and position away. He takes a moment to glance around his location and notices a door open at the far end of the hall, near the light. It’s difficult to tell from here, but it appears to be a stairwell.
And in the midst of the debris, as his eyes roam over it, he sees a trail of dark stains that look exactly like congealing blood, finally the evidence that he’s been looking for, proof that he’s in the right place and about to end the life of another of Moriarty’s henchmen.
There’s a sudden clatter of noise from up and to his right--a door creaking open and footsteps moving quickly-and John instinctively ducks back into the entrance room, slipping the door shut and moving to hug the wall, gun drawn, heart racing.
The sound of heavy footsteps comes to an abrupt halt at the end of the hall, and the dim light that John can just barely see under the door snaps off. John breathes through his nose, finger calmly on his trigger, eyes riveted to the door. He’s exposed in the room-it’s far too dark and he’d had too little warning to find cover-but his location behind the door when it opens should be all the cover he needs.
His adversary obviously knows-or suspects-that John’s here because it’s now completely silent in the hallway. John swallows and quickly examines his options.
He can try to wait out his target, but for all he knows, he’s got supplies with him, supplies that John does not have. He can take the initiative, but without knowing where exactly his target is-there had been other doors and, presumably, other rooms in the hallway that his quarry can hide in-it’s not his best option. Or he can hide, stay his hand until his target lets his guard down, and then try to regain the element of surprise.
But moving in the completely dark room, with the possibility of stepping on something and giving himself away, is not an option he particularly cares for either.
And then, just as he’s resigned himself to waiting, he hears the sound of movement, the sole of a shoe squeaking against the tile, the rustle of detritus moving along the floor. John sucks in a breath; the sound isn’t far and, even better, the light has clicked back on and, under the door, he can see it moving, shadows shifting, flickering.
The target is losing in.
It’s now or never.
One last deep breath, one last caress of the trigger, and he moves stealthily from his place against the wall, to the door as the knob starts to twist. Before his target has a chance to enter the room and spot his end waiting for him, John fires through the door twice, the report echoing loudly in the room.
He hears the flopping sound of the body hitting the ground and breathes out calmly, his heart bursting out of his chest even as his hands remain rock steady. John waits a beat, and then he hears a slight grunt and slides to his left, taking aim again-
And hears the report of a weapon from the hall as he fires his own, the two shots sounding almost simultaneously and in the next moment, feels a line of fire along his right bicep.
With a grunt, he ducks back and further to the left, grits his teeth and blocks out the pain to pay attention and end this.
There. Movement on the ground by the door. The target has his own gun and is trying to guess at where John is, is fighting back. None of them have before.
The end game, he thinks, and takes his time, lines up his shot.
And fires.
***
One Week Later
John’s brow furrows as he inspects his wound in the mirror. It’s healing well and, thankfully, was just a graze. He still needs a thick bandage, but it shouldn’t be long before it’s little more than yet another battle scar.
His face clears in satisfaction and he finishes up his morning routine before stumbling downstairs and rummaging through the kitchen for breakfast. His hunt for food is halted when there’s a knock at the door.
Sighing, John shuts the cupboard he’s been staring into and wanders towards the front door of the flat, idly thinking about making a trip to the shops to get something better in than beans and toast. He’s been somewhat reluctant to go out in the last week, not only because of the injury that he would have difficulty explaining, but also because he suspects that the disguise he’s been wearing for the last two years would be suspiciously unconvincing.
When he opens the door, no one is there.
He pokes his head out into the hallway, glancing back and forth, but he doesn’t see anyone. He’s about to slam the door in frustration when his eyes slide down to the ground and he stops. Sitting at his door is a large packing envelope, brown in colour, no address listed. In fact, the only thing on the envelope is his name, written in the same neat, blocky writing from the postcard. With one last look around, he bends over and picks up the envelope. It’s lightweight, and a gentle squeeze tells him that whatever is inside is soft, like clothing. He hears something crinkle inside, perhaps a letter or piece of paper.
Suspicious, he brings the package in and shuts the door, setting it on the kitchen table and staring at it. This did not come through the post; someone brought it directly to his door.
Sherlock…
But that’s getting ahead of himself. He tries to deduce what he can, but he’s never had his friend’s abilities and his gut is telling him that he will learn far more about what this is and who may have sent it simply by opening it.
Licking his lips, he pulls at the flap of the envelope until the adhesive gives way. The paper of the envelop crinkles in his hand as he upends the envelope, shaking it. Cloth, something soft and blue, slides straight out of the envelope and onto the ground so quickly that he can’t really register what it could be. Instead, it’s the torn sheet of note paper that flutters out and onto the table that catches his attention.
Dr Watson, the note begins, written in the same blocky lettering as before, I have two gifts for you, congratulations for a successful hunt. The first is the trophy contained with this note. The second is your continued existence.
For now.
Tiger Moran
The hair rises on John’s arms, on his neck, his heart beating against his ribs. His eyes, inevitably, moths drawn to a flame, drop to the object puddled on the ground.
Blue, woven, expensive. Achingly familiar.
John chokes, collapses, reaches for it and then pulls back, unwilling to touch it, especially now that he can see the large, dark stains mottling the blue fabric.
John scrambles for the note, clenches it in his hands and glares. He stares at it hard, keeps losing the thread as the horrifying thought what have I done intrudes before he gets to the end, forcing him to start yet again. He’s not sure how long he sits there, staring, angrily swiping at his face until the words penetrate, really get through, and he growls.
Tiger Moran.
He balls up the paper, throws it away from him, clenches his fists and breathes through his nose, before he scrubs at his face and breathes in sharply, out slowly.
Calm.
John stands, walks purposefully to his room and retrieves his gun, ignores the nausea that threatens to send him rushing to the toilet at feeling it in his hands once again.
Tiger.
The hunt is on.
***
END.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Remember to leave feedback for both authors!
Author: thirtypercent
Title & Link: If on a winter’s night…
Pairings & Rating: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Mature
Warnings/Content Notes: graphic violence
Remix Story:
Author: nox_candida
Title: Big Game Hunting
Pairings & Rating: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, PG-13
Warnings/Content Notes: implied major character death
Beta: NA
Britpicker: NA
Summary: Reichenbach AU. John receives a mysterious postcard. Someone has a job for him.
It’s not until he’s put away his shopping that he sees the post that’s been left on the kitchen table. And it’s not until he gets closer, sorting through the bills, that he spots the brightly coloured postcard near the bottom. The text proclaims “Belgrade” in large letters, with ten different pictures of the cityscape and its most iconic landmarks. It’s lovely, but it doesn’t help with the question of who on earth has sent it, and why.
So John, frowning slightly, flips it over. His name and address are written out in neat, blocky, though unremarkable, handwriting. The message is puzzling:
John,
Belgrade lies 116.5 metres above sea level and has a population of 3.4 million people. The city was founded in 86 BC by 3 different celtic groups and the fight over the area lasted for 2 years, though it wasn’t until 6 AD that it was given the name.
The city’s map is very unique. There are more than 51 different districts, the largest of which houses 510,388 people and is in the north section of the city. The smallest district is to the west, and only 8930 people live there.
Come tonight. You won’t be disappointed.
Bill.
At first, he can’t make heads or tails of it. Last he heard, Murray was comfortably at home in Sussex with his new wife and child, not gallivanting off to Belgrade and sending his old army buddy a nonsensical postcard. It’s only when he takes a closer look that he spots the small print in light ink: 159.1.24.4 184.9.1.5
John gulps, his heart racing. He’s seen that combination of numbers before.
Trust me.
Sherlock. It has to be. The method is new, but it has to be him. He’s even more certain after a quick glance at the Wikipedia page for Belgrade confirms that all of the facts stated on the postcard are completely wrong.
He can’t stop the grin from spreading over his face. It’s been months-far too long-since he last heard from his friend, last received a coded message to be somewhere at a specific time, to finish off a member of Moriarty’s criminal empire. To finally be of use.
Each previous instance was quick, easy, almost anti-climactic. A man dragging a body in the countryside; a punk kid, hands and face covered in red, eyes dilated on cocaine, and most recently a man dressed in a suit, standing over a freshly dead body, stuffing a hold all with money and weapons.
Nothing to diminish the righteousness that flared through his veins, adrenaline thudding in his chest, the glow of accomplishment that came with defeating evil and helping Sherlock.
Now, that feeling comes over him again, weak but growing. Addictive.
His breathing is quick and steady, his fingers tingling, itching with need. It’s been so long that he’s played the devastated friend, forced himself to embrace his dreary, dull existence in the name of keeping Sherlock safe. He remembers returning from Afghanistan, the helplessness, the hopelessness, the grey days stretching endlessly in front of him, and he method acts his way to his greatest ever deception, but it’s a balancing act. A trick to not tumble over the edge and lose himself in the process.
But now, the pulls back, grounds himself at the promise of excitement, of danger, of the need to feel useful.
It’s the work of a moment to pull his book from the bookshelf and hunt through it to decipher the message. Hunting tiger, Sherlock tells him and gives him a map reference: 51.510388, -0.008930. With the help of Google, he discovers that he’s to go to an abandoned school, called Woolmore, in Poplar.
He finds himself grinning as he hurries to his nightstand, dropping down and pulling out the strong box he keeps nestled behind it and against the wall. Dragging it out, he puts in the combination, pulling the lid open with a metallic creaking sound. Inside lays his sig, ammunition, and cleaning kit. He pulls the weapon out gently, runs his fingers over the pistol grip, curls his palms around the weapon, and looks it over with an intense gaze. It’s been far too long since he’s held it, since he’s used it, and it will need a thorough clean before he can go to his rendezvous point, but that’s fine. He’s got time enough for that.
***
Woolmore School is dark and eerily quiet, not surprising in the wee hours of a winter’s night. John walks quickly to the front of the school, and-seeing the place boarded up and surrounded by a tall wall-moves closer to the gate at the front. The lock has already been broken, but the gate is closed, so John pushes it open, appreciating that whoever has come through before him has clearly oiled the hinges to minimize the noise.
John enters, tucking his hands into his coat to keep them warm and to rest his left hand on the pistol grip reassuringly. The front door is cracked open and John allows himself a dark grin as he climbs the steps and eases his way through and into the darkened interior of the former school’s main building.
He halts just inside, allows his eyes to adjust to the total darkness, before finally seeing the general layout of the room, thanks to the faint glow visible underneath the door across the room. The light, dim though it is, allows him to edge carefully into the room, avoiding the detritus that would give him away in the oppressive silence He grips his gun a bit tighter, but he’s only taken a few steps when he hears a faint noise, a shuffling sound, which seems to come from above and in front of him.
John peers around himself, looking hard for a set of stairs. Even with the dim light, it’s impossible to see from where he is, so he continues into the room, sticking to the balls of his feet and stepping quickly and nearly silently. He can’t hear his own steps over the rushing of blood in his ears and the sound of his own breathing, but he can also still hear his target moving above him and trusts that he will still have the element of surprise.
When he reaches the door, he carefully pushes it open and pokes his head out into what turns out to be a hallway. Further down the hall he spots a portable light propped up, the only source of light that he can see. Trash and debris litter the floor and he has to stop himself from stepping on old ceiling tiles and paper that will undoubtedly give his presence and position away. He takes a moment to glance around his location and notices a door open at the far end of the hall, near the light. It’s difficult to tell from here, but it appears to be a stairwell.
And in the midst of the debris, as his eyes roam over it, he sees a trail of dark stains that look exactly like congealing blood, finally the evidence that he’s been looking for, proof that he’s in the right place and about to end the life of another of Moriarty’s henchmen.
There’s a sudden clatter of noise from up and to his right--a door creaking open and footsteps moving quickly-and John instinctively ducks back into the entrance room, slipping the door shut and moving to hug the wall, gun drawn, heart racing.
The sound of heavy footsteps comes to an abrupt halt at the end of the hall, and the dim light that John can just barely see under the door snaps off. John breathes through his nose, finger calmly on his trigger, eyes riveted to the door. He’s exposed in the room-it’s far too dark and he’d had too little warning to find cover-but his location behind the door when it opens should be all the cover he needs.
His adversary obviously knows-or suspects-that John’s here because it’s now completely silent in the hallway. John swallows and quickly examines his options.
He can try to wait out his target, but for all he knows, he’s got supplies with him, supplies that John does not have. He can take the initiative, but without knowing where exactly his target is-there had been other doors and, presumably, other rooms in the hallway that his quarry can hide in-it’s not his best option. Or he can hide, stay his hand until his target lets his guard down, and then try to regain the element of surprise.
But moving in the completely dark room, with the possibility of stepping on something and giving himself away, is not an option he particularly cares for either.
And then, just as he’s resigned himself to waiting, he hears the sound of movement, the sole of a shoe squeaking against the tile, the rustle of detritus moving along the floor. John sucks in a breath; the sound isn’t far and, even better, the light has clicked back on and, under the door, he can see it moving, shadows shifting, flickering.
The target is losing in.
It’s now or never.
One last deep breath, one last caress of the trigger, and he moves stealthily from his place against the wall, to the door as the knob starts to twist. Before his target has a chance to enter the room and spot his end waiting for him, John fires through the door twice, the report echoing loudly in the room.
He hears the flopping sound of the body hitting the ground and breathes out calmly, his heart bursting out of his chest even as his hands remain rock steady. John waits a beat, and then he hears a slight grunt and slides to his left, taking aim again-
And hears the report of a weapon from the hall as he fires his own, the two shots sounding almost simultaneously and in the next moment, feels a line of fire along his right bicep.
With a grunt, he ducks back and further to the left, grits his teeth and blocks out the pain to pay attention and end this.
There. Movement on the ground by the door. The target has his own gun and is trying to guess at where John is, is fighting back. None of them have before.
The end game, he thinks, and takes his time, lines up his shot.
And fires.
***
One Week Later
John’s brow furrows as he inspects his wound in the mirror. It’s healing well and, thankfully, was just a graze. He still needs a thick bandage, but it shouldn’t be long before it’s little more than yet another battle scar.
His face clears in satisfaction and he finishes up his morning routine before stumbling downstairs and rummaging through the kitchen for breakfast. His hunt for food is halted when there’s a knock at the door.
Sighing, John shuts the cupboard he’s been staring into and wanders towards the front door of the flat, idly thinking about making a trip to the shops to get something better in than beans and toast. He’s been somewhat reluctant to go out in the last week, not only because of the injury that he would have difficulty explaining, but also because he suspects that the disguise he’s been wearing for the last two years would be suspiciously unconvincing.
When he opens the door, no one is there.
He pokes his head out into the hallway, glancing back and forth, but he doesn’t see anyone. He’s about to slam the door in frustration when his eyes slide down to the ground and he stops. Sitting at his door is a large packing envelope, brown in colour, no address listed. In fact, the only thing on the envelope is his name, written in the same neat, blocky writing from the postcard. With one last look around, he bends over and picks up the envelope. It’s lightweight, and a gentle squeeze tells him that whatever is inside is soft, like clothing. He hears something crinkle inside, perhaps a letter or piece of paper.
Suspicious, he brings the package in and shuts the door, setting it on the kitchen table and staring at it. This did not come through the post; someone brought it directly to his door.
Sherlock…
But that’s getting ahead of himself. He tries to deduce what he can, but he’s never had his friend’s abilities and his gut is telling him that he will learn far more about what this is and who may have sent it simply by opening it.
Licking his lips, he pulls at the flap of the envelope until the adhesive gives way. The paper of the envelop crinkles in his hand as he upends the envelope, shaking it. Cloth, something soft and blue, slides straight out of the envelope and onto the ground so quickly that he can’t really register what it could be. Instead, it’s the torn sheet of note paper that flutters out and onto the table that catches his attention.
Dr Watson, the note begins, written in the same blocky lettering as before, I have two gifts for you, congratulations for a successful hunt. The first is the trophy contained with this note. The second is your continued existence.
For now.
Tiger Moran
The hair rises on John’s arms, on his neck, his heart beating against his ribs. His eyes, inevitably, moths drawn to a flame, drop to the object puddled on the ground.
Blue, woven, expensive. Achingly familiar.
John chokes, collapses, reaches for it and then pulls back, unwilling to touch it, especially now that he can see the large, dark stains mottling the blue fabric.
John scrambles for the note, clenches it in his hands and glares. He stares at it hard, keeps losing the thread as the horrifying thought what have I done intrudes before he gets to the end, forcing him to start yet again. He’s not sure how long he sits there, staring, angrily swiping at his face until the words penetrate, really get through, and he growls.
Tiger Moran.
He balls up the paper, throws it away from him, clenches his fists and breathes through his nose, before he scrubs at his face and breathes in sharply, out slowly.
Calm.
John stands, walks purposefully to his room and retrieves his gun, ignores the nausea that threatens to send him rushing to the toilet at feeling it in his hands once again.
Tiger.
The hunt is on.
***
END.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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