The Irresistibility of Orbits: Korengal Calling. Chapter Two
Title:The Irresistibility of Orbits: Korengal Calling. Chapter Two: Korengal Calling.
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2000
Warnings: graphic violence, explicit sex, torture, non-con, brutality, mayhem.
Summary: John Returns to Afghanistan
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs. Gatiss, Moffat, BBC et al.
Chapter Two: Korengal Calling
John's shoulder seemed to be getting worse. He was spending long hours in physical therapy and coming back with an expression that was increasingly alien to Sherlock. Possibly, his confidence in his infallible ability to read John had been misplaced.
Privately, Sherlock had concluded from his covert examination of John's Army correspondence, and from observing John's recent punishing fitness regime, that John was preparing some sort of contingency plan for what to do in the event Sherlock inevitably got himself killed in the course of a case. Sherlock counted no less than four very close calls with death, not counting his near-fatal cocaine overdose, in the span of just the past few months. John had saved him from each of these, and in other ways too fundamental for Sherlock even to articulate.
Finally, Sherlock decided to risk whatever consequences would arise from prying into forbidden territory.
"It is obvious that the reason for your shoulder pain worsening is that you are working it far too hard."
John's face was pale and stony. He did not answer, but shrugged his jacket off and threw down a heavy pack he had been carrying around lately with quiet stoicism, refusing to favor the left shoulder.
"You aren't resting enough between these sessions," Sherlock pursued.
Still no answer.
"Are you ever going to tell me why?"
John's back was to Sherlock and now his shoulders sagged a little. Sherlock saw that his chest was heaving.
"Sherlock, if I ask you a favor, will you do it?"
There was a time when such a question would have caused Sherlock's rapidfire thought processes to produce a number of preconditions, prevarications; even evasions. Now he simply said:
"Anything."
He waited. John didn't turn around. "Then leave it alone. Please."
He started to go off to his own room, but without realizing it, Sherlock found himself quite firmly stopping him by grabbing his right arm. For a horrible moment Sherlock thought John would actually pull away; the strong muscles of John's arms had become like iron.
"No," Sherlock said quietly. "I won't. Not anymore."
John did start tugging now, actually trying to escape from Sherlock's grasp.
Sherlock could not believe this was happening.
Before this could get worse, he conquered all of his worst impulses to the contrary - impulses to seize John, keep him locked away, a prisoner if need be, until this nightmare passed -- the visions were almost overpowering - and slowly released his hand from John's arm.
John would not look at him. "You said anything."
"No, John, no -- you asked if I would do you a favor. I may not be - I have become aware - of my - shortcomings . . . but even someone such as myself can see that this - this- is hurting you. I need to know what this is, everything, and you - well, you need to tell me. You're . . .hurting yourself. Don't ask me - don't ask me to hurt you. That's what you meant. For me to just - stand by and watch you take it.
"And I can't, I just can't do it."
John's face, if anything, had become paler, harder and more impassive. Sherlock briefly wondered if this is how others had experienced his own impenetrability, before. Before John. It felt like losing his center of gravity.
John took a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and tossed it at Sherlock, who easily caught it. He froze as he understood that he had been found out. Before he could start to try to justify his conduct, John started to speak.
"I won't be getting any better. This is as good as it will ever get for me," John said, remotely. He lifted his left arm to show how it would not raise much above his shoulder.
Sherlock kept his mouth shut and read the letter. Dated yesterday, it informed Captain Watson that after all, he had "been deemed an unsuitable candidate for shoulder replacement, and he should anticipate contact from the appropriate departmental officials concerning his medical discharge."
Sherlock's heart soared, but he swiftly tried to clamp down on his emerging joy and relief, seeing John's pain.
"Well, you have been doing well enough, really. If you wouldn't strain it so, it wouldn't pain you. . ."
John sat down heavily and put his face in his hands. Sherlock felt an urge to go to him but, remembering John pulling away a moment before, he just stood, awkwardly. He didn't think he could bear it if John pulled away a second time. When John finally looked up, his face was devastated. Sherlock felt a cold fury rising for whoever, whatever was doing this. Doing this to John. He would make them pay, somehow.
"All right. You're right. You deserve to know. I'll tell you now. What I can. Some things, though, I can't tell you. You're just going to have to accept that."
"All right," Sherlock said, mind already racing ahead, to how he would go about finding out the parts John would not tell him. Because, infuriatingly, Mycroft had after all refused to turn over John's files to Sherlock, causing an unbridgeable breach in their always frosty relations.
"Sherlock. I haven't known how to tell you this, so I'm just going to say it.
"I have to go back to Afghanistan."
* * *
"No. . ." Sherlock whispered.
John's expression was adamant. "What I mean is, I am going back to Afghanistan. There is someone there - who needs my help, and I have been trying to help, from here, in London. . .but it's no good. Not good enough. I have to be there, in Afghanistan, to do any good at all. And I would give anything - not to go back like this." He slapped his own shoulder, where the injury was. "But if that is what I have to do, I will. I must."
"Why? I don't understand. You're about to be discharged, it says so in this letter. What can possibly concern you there, now? And you’re a doctor, aren’t you, you can still do surgery, you are fine, what does it matter?"
"A man from my troop. . .he's in trouble. Serious trouble. I’m the only one who can help him. It has to do. . .with the day I got shot. With my getting shot. And what happened, afterward.
"You see, there's an investigation. And from what I understand, a court martial is about to go down."
Sherlock was relieved in a way. A court martial, a trial. John as a witness. Maybe he could just fly in for a week, do what he had to do, and come home. And Sherlock would go with him, of course.
"Don't look like that," John said. "If I go, I need to go in and be able to . . .do some things. Take care of some things. I thought if I got my bloody shoulder fixed, I could just redeploy, go in and be able to -- but now I have to find another way."
"Why? What are you saying? Can't you just go, give your evidence, and come home?"
John looked at Sherlock with an entirely new expression. It took a moment for Sherlock to actually process it, identify it.
Pity.
"Sherlock, there's things you just can't . . .can 't understand. I'm sorry, but it's true. There is no way I want to be going back to Afghanistan as a discharged - cripple - no matter how many medals they pin on me. When I go back there, I have to have - standing, I have to be able to make a difference."
Sherlock felt as though John were speaking a foreign tongue. In a way, he was. For a moment he was at a loss for what to say. A million questions battled for precedence in his brain, but what he heard himself say was,
"But, in Scotland. . .we said --- forever. Now, you're leaving." Unbelievably his voice was shaking but he didn't care.
John shook his head, but his expression did not soften. "Not leaving you. Never that, Sherlock. Leaving London. I have to -"
There was a brisk knock at the door. They hadn’t heard any steps on the stair. Then John rose to answer it, clearly relieved by the interruption.
"George, what in the hell -- come in," John opened the door. A very tall, angular man with a deep tan and a granite jaw entered. He was wearing a close fitting black turtleneck with a red insignia, "Spartan LLC," with a spear underlining the words. John introduced Sherlock briefly and George immediately asked John if he could speak with him privately.
"Why didn't you phone me?" John asked.
"You know about Monroe?"
John looked at Sherlock, then nodded. "I do."
"Didn't want to phone, then, did I? This is best."
John hesitated then said, "Whatever you need to say, please say it now. In front of both of us. If it's something you can't say in front of Sherlock, you better not say it."
George just nodded as if he already knew this was what John would say.
"I have an offer for you, Crack."
"Call me John. What kind of offer?"
"Come on, John, you know the score. Special Forces are being pulled out. It’s all about private contractors, now. Even Obama is pulling his men out of Afghanistan and selling contracts to the private boys. It's brilliant. Look, I heard about your trouble. Let's just say for the sake of argument that Spartan would be willing to pay for you to replace that wonky shoulder. State of the art. Super rapid healing process, patented; I've seen what they can do. In a month, you'll be back in action."
"I can't make that kind of commitment to Spartan. I won't sign a two year deal."
"What the fuck are you on about. Yesterday you were going to be redeployed and that would have been two more years so don't fuck with old George. But it doesn’t matter, because this deal is no strings attached. No contract."
George looked at John steadily. John didn’t blink.
"What’s the catch?"
"It’s a single mission. They want you and only you, Crack. It’s all about double and even triple threats, these days."
"What's the mission?"
George smirked. "Now that, I’m sure you understand, I can’t discuss in front of your- friend. If you want to do it, call me."
He scribbled something on the back of a business card and handed it to John.
"Short time window. I need your answer in 24 hours. From what I understand you really don't have a choice. I’d hate to see you go down like this. Come with us, it's righteous. Don't wait too long."
He punched John, hard, on his left shoulder and smiled.
John didn't flinch.
"See ya, Crack. Nice to meet you. . .Sherlock Holmes."
He slammed the door but his footsteps were as silent down the stair as they had been coming up.
Sherlock ripped the card from John's hand.
It said:
George Forsyte
Special Tactical Operations Unit
SPARTAN LLC
888-000-0000
Gforsyte@spartanllc.com
On the back in bold writing was scrawled a single word:
Korengal.
* * *
Sherlock and John stared at each other.
"Do you know what the Korengal is?" John asked. He couldn’t be sure whether global military operations were necessarily something that Sherlock retained.
Sherlock nodded. Now he was paler, too. "Korengal Valley. Kunar Province. A base for Taliban insurgents. The U.S. failed spectacularly in their campaign to establish control of just part of the Korengal. They withdrew; the U.S. abandoned all bases and outposts in the Korengal just a year ago. It was a clear Taliban victory."
John nodded. "You are right. And it’s not just called the Korengal. Not by the men who served there.
"They call it the Valley of Death."
To be continued . . .
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