The Irresistibility of Orbits: Korengal Calling. Chapter Five: Not A Game.
Title: The Irresistibility of Orbits: Korengal Calling. Chapter Five: Not A Game.
Author: ghislainem70
Word count: 1850
Rating: NC-17
Summary: John returns to Afghanistan with Sherlock
Warnings: explicit sex, graphic violence, torture, non-con, brutality, mayhem.
Disclaimers: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs. Gatiss, Moffat, BBC et al.
Chapter Five: Not A Game
The open, joyous faces of the medics froze momentarily in surprise as Sherlock, tall, pale, and predatory, stepped to their periphery. Sherlock's intensive training regimen with Spartan had put over a stone of hard muscle on him, and he loomed over the younger men like a panther coiled to spring.
He swiftly locked his hand, firmly, possessively, on John's shoulder. John felt the warmth and tightness of Sherlock's grip through the fabric of his shirt, and smiled.
"Boys, I want you to meet my friend, Sherlock Holmes. I'm afraid it's up to you fine lads to pick up my slack, now. I'm permanently out of circulation." He let his own hand move up to briefly cover Sherlock's own on his shoulder. "And how is Sophie, our Miss Bomb Disposal, then?”
The boys processed this, only one with actual surprise; the others each shook hands in turn with a slightly glowering Sherlock with something like fearful awe; and one hung back, biting his lips and blushing furiously with ill-concealed jealousy.
"Sophie went off with Briscoll - you know, from the officer's mess," said one. John laughed. Greg Briscoll was a Cordon Bleu trained chef who had lost his restaurant in the crash and joined the Army as a lark. For those he chose to favor, Greg could still whip up miraculously delectable feasts from limited ingredients.
"Well God love her, then. Cheers to old Soph," John said.
"Yeah, she's put on a stone since you left, but she wears it well.”
"Hey John, bring your- friend - and let's have a drink. Tom here has some whisky stashed. The good stuff, the Americans gave it to us on the way out," one said, as they were all starting in on the endlessly fascinating topic of Sophie's various delectable parts, to Sherlock's mixed amusement and boredom.
God, was it really going to be like this? Empty-headed youths drooling over mindless, doubtless unskilled sex, food, and booze? Like dimwitted teenagers? How would he endure it? He ground his teeth unconsciously. Sherlock consoled himself with recollecting that this trip to Forward Operating Base (FOB) Wright had been a temporary diversion. Tomorrow, he and John should be well settled in the field, away from FOB Wright and these ridiculous children.
Especially the dark-haired, muscular one that kept devouring John with his eyes. Sherlock was seriously contemplating whether there would be any repercussions if he were to break the boy's neck with one of his quite amusing new Spartan moves.
He saw that John was about to accept, and was steeling himself to pretend to be sociable for an hour or so but was saved by the appearance of George Forsyte, their coordinator from Spartan.
"Watson, Holmes. Meeting. Now," he said with easy tones that nevertheless were clearly an order.
* * *
John said hurried but heartfelt goodbyes to the lads. Sherlock contented himself with a brief nod in the boys' general direction, and a pointed warning stare at the blushing one, who blanched and turned slowly away, trailing the others who had resumed their rousing rendition of “This Is Why I’m Hot.” Sherlock followed George and John into the barracks.
George clapped John on the back.
"John, amazing work today, you too, Holmes. Spartan is very grateful that Melty will be right back in action shortly. He's one of the best gunners we've got."
John nodded good-naturedly, but Sherlock saw a questioning crease between his brows.
"And if I hadn't been able to pull him back together? If Markham hadn't been able to return to duty? I assume Spartan would be equally - grateful?" John asked evenly.
George laughed; a natural, spontaneous-seeming laugh that Sherlock pegged immediately as false. He understood completely that George was neither malicious nor sentimental. It was simply a matter of practical asset management. Sherlock did not disapprove, to the contrary; but he knew well how John would feel if he detected any hint of mercenary considerations where their safety was concerned.
"Of course, John! Of course. Anyway, John, even after Melty went down, you hit two of the shooters today with the Lynx's M3M. That's confirmed. And we nailed the little nest of vipers that hit Tikmal today, Holmes -- your coordinates led us right to their trail. Of course we have satellite on that, but eyes on is often best. Smaller cave complex up the mountain. Tactical Team Mercury took them out an hour ago. So, it's been a good day for Spartan."
"When can we get out of here? What is our assignment?" Sherlock asked. They had been kept in the dark as to their specific mission, other than it involved fighting the reinvigorated Taliban presence in the Korengal.
"Tonight. We don't want to wait till daylight. We are taking you to the north end of the valley. You can make camp there, but that's for show. We want you out on recon, both of you of course. We need to find where the leaders of the new Al Qaeda camp are holed up. We believe they have a substantial weapons cache hidden in the mountains. They've been accumulating it since the Americans left. Either in a compound, or in a cave complex, maybe both. They parcel out the weapons to the camps, and from there the new fighters are shipped out all over the world to fight for Al Qaeda. We have reason to believe that over one third of the Taliban's weapons capacity, guns, rockets, explosives, is hidden in this valley, somewhere.”
"How are they getting something that large into the valley without your seeing it from satellite or drones?"
"Good question. That's what we need you to find out. The forest up high makes visibility hard. Because of the lumber embargo it hasn't been thinned at all for nearly a decade. And the cave complexes are endless, almost unexplored. We know of at least one complex that connects to the border with Pakistan. Anyway, up here, borders are meaningless."
They sat and studied maps of the area, making notes, for over an hour before George said that he had to make sure that everything was ready for their departure and suggested they grab an hour's sleep before they had to go.
"You know the drill, Crack --sleep when you can."
* * *
Finally they were alone, unbelievably, for the first time since before John's surgery six weeks ago.
John and Sherlock stared at each other with undisguised hunger.
Part of keeping them apart had, of course, been deliberate. Spartan was well aware of John and Sherlock's relationship, of course; it had swiftly been decided to view it as an asset more than a liability, so long as the men could usefully be teamed together. Sherlock was found to be so extremely antisocial in his psych tests as to be virtually worthless as a member with any sort of team unit; but his attachment to John was so overpoweringly strong and unshakeable that there was no other arrangement that made sense. As Sherlock's other formidable talents proved to be everything advertised, and far more, the arrangement suited everyone-- except possibly John, who still was secretly prey to constant worry over Sherlock's fundamentally reckless approach to risk. Still, Spartan's world-class training regimen had taught even Sherlock a few things, and John could only hope that impulse control was one of them.
This, however, was not a moment for impulse control.
Their kiss was like an incendiary device detonating, explosive and hot. As John was tearing his uniform off, Sherlock muttered against his neck,
"I never asked -- exactly why do they call you Crack? Surely not drugs."
John pointed his finger, like a gun, between Sherlock's eyes. "From my sergeant in Para training. ‘Crack shot.’ Now shut up, Sherlock.” His mouth was traveling urgently downward.
Sherlock was delighted and grabbed John's finger to lick it. "I'm surprised they didn't make you a sniper."
"Takes more than accuracy to make a sniper,” John muttered as he found the precise spot that he thought would stop Sherlock talking altogether. It worked.
A few minutes later, their uniforms were completely wrecked but they were happily basking in a too-short afterglow, their hunger for each other barely satisfied. But George would be here momentarily.
"Next time I want to fire the M3M,” Sherlock said, giving John’s lower lip a final bite.
John laughed. "All right. But it's not a game, you know."
Ssherlock's eyes were positively glittering with excitement. So far, Afghanistan suited him very well.
"Oh, but it is, " Sherlock said.
John shook his head fondly, but with a shadow of foreboding.
* * *
On the way to the helicopter that would drop them near their camp, John stopped to ask George if he could make a phone call before they left base.
"It's about Monroe," John said.
"I shouldn't worry about Monroe," George said. "Come on, we are behind schedule."
"George, don't mess about, okay - you knew going in what I have to do, what I am going to do. I just need five minutes. I won’t have another chance."
George stopped, calculating. "I didn't want to tell you this."
John became still and his eyes deadly. “Tell me what.”
“John, look, it’s not your fault. Nothing you could have done.”
“Tell me.”
“Monroe’s dead, John. He’s dead.”
John stood still in the middle of the airfield. “What happened. Tell me, George. What the hell happened?”
George wouldn’t look at John. “He hung himself. In his cell.”
“No!!!” John screamed over the helicopter. “No!! That’s a bloody lie. He would never. He knew I was coming!! When - when did this happen?”
Sherlock put his hand on John to steady him but John paid him no notice, his face contorted with grief and horror.
George looked at him then, and his face reflected genuine pity now.
“A week ago.”
John cried out, “Oh, God, God!!! No! But - he knew, Monroe knew that I was coming, coming for him! A week ago - before we --- before we ever left London. -- ” John was almost hyperventilating with mad grief and dawning fury.
“ - and you knew? You knew all this time, and you let us come here anyway? George? You let me get Sherlock involved in this, bring Sherlock to this cursed place, and you knew, all along, that Monroe was already dead and gone?”
George put his hands on John’s shoulders. “John, we thought it was for the best -“ he said gently.
John cold-cocked him.
Blood sprayed from his nose.
George was laid flat out and cold on the tarmac before he could finish his excuses.
Sherlock grabbed John’s arm before he could do George any more damage.
“He knew . . .they all knew . . .and now it's all for nothing,” John said. “Monroe’s gone, I can't believe he's gone --- and I can’t help him now. I can never help him.”
John was weeping now, tears flowing hotly. He dashed them angrily from his face.
Sherlock grabbed him in hard embrace. “We’ll just see about that, John. We can help him, and we will. We’re getting to the bottom of this before we leave this godforsaken place,” Sherlock swore.
To be continued . . back: Four next: Six
Author: ghislainem70
Word count: 1850
Rating: NC-17
Summary: John returns to Afghanistan with Sherlock
Warnings: explicit sex, graphic violence, torture, non-con, brutality, mayhem.
Disclaimers: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs. Gatiss, Moffat, BBC et al.
Chapter Five: Not A Game
The open, joyous faces of the medics froze momentarily in surprise as Sherlock, tall, pale, and predatory, stepped to their periphery. Sherlock's intensive training regimen with Spartan had put over a stone of hard muscle on him, and he loomed over the younger men like a panther coiled to spring.
He swiftly locked his hand, firmly, possessively, on John's shoulder. John felt the warmth and tightness of Sherlock's grip through the fabric of his shirt, and smiled.
"Boys, I want you to meet my friend, Sherlock Holmes. I'm afraid it's up to you fine lads to pick up my slack, now. I'm permanently out of circulation." He let his own hand move up to briefly cover Sherlock's own on his shoulder. "And how is Sophie, our Miss Bomb Disposal, then?”
The boys processed this, only one with actual surprise; the others each shook hands in turn with a slightly glowering Sherlock with something like fearful awe; and one hung back, biting his lips and blushing furiously with ill-concealed jealousy.
"Sophie went off with Briscoll - you know, from the officer's mess," said one. John laughed. Greg Briscoll was a Cordon Bleu trained chef who had lost his restaurant in the crash and joined the Army as a lark. For those he chose to favor, Greg could still whip up miraculously delectable feasts from limited ingredients.
"Well God love her, then. Cheers to old Soph," John said.
"Yeah, she's put on a stone since you left, but she wears it well.”
"Hey John, bring your- friend - and let's have a drink. Tom here has some whisky stashed. The good stuff, the Americans gave it to us on the way out," one said, as they were all starting in on the endlessly fascinating topic of Sophie's various delectable parts, to Sherlock's mixed amusement and boredom.
God, was it really going to be like this? Empty-headed youths drooling over mindless, doubtless unskilled sex, food, and booze? Like dimwitted teenagers? How would he endure it? He ground his teeth unconsciously. Sherlock consoled himself with recollecting that this trip to Forward Operating Base (FOB) Wright had been a temporary diversion. Tomorrow, he and John should be well settled in the field, away from FOB Wright and these ridiculous children.
Especially the dark-haired, muscular one that kept devouring John with his eyes. Sherlock was seriously contemplating whether there would be any repercussions if he were to break the boy's neck with one of his quite amusing new Spartan moves.
He saw that John was about to accept, and was steeling himself to pretend to be sociable for an hour or so but was saved by the appearance of George Forsyte, their coordinator from Spartan.
"Watson, Holmes. Meeting. Now," he said with easy tones that nevertheless were clearly an order.
* * *
John said hurried but heartfelt goodbyes to the lads. Sherlock contented himself with a brief nod in the boys' general direction, and a pointed warning stare at the blushing one, who blanched and turned slowly away, trailing the others who had resumed their rousing rendition of “This Is Why I’m Hot.” Sherlock followed George and John into the barracks.
George clapped John on the back.
"John, amazing work today, you too, Holmes. Spartan is very grateful that Melty will be right back in action shortly. He's one of the best gunners we've got."
John nodded good-naturedly, but Sherlock saw a questioning crease between his brows.
"And if I hadn't been able to pull him back together? If Markham hadn't been able to return to duty? I assume Spartan would be equally - grateful?" John asked evenly.
George laughed; a natural, spontaneous-seeming laugh that Sherlock pegged immediately as false. He understood completely that George was neither malicious nor sentimental. It was simply a matter of practical asset management. Sherlock did not disapprove, to the contrary; but he knew well how John would feel if he detected any hint of mercenary considerations where their safety was concerned.
"Of course, John! Of course. Anyway, John, even after Melty went down, you hit two of the shooters today with the Lynx's M3M. That's confirmed. And we nailed the little nest of vipers that hit Tikmal today, Holmes -- your coordinates led us right to their trail. Of course we have satellite on that, but eyes on is often best. Smaller cave complex up the mountain. Tactical Team Mercury took them out an hour ago. So, it's been a good day for Spartan."
"When can we get out of here? What is our assignment?" Sherlock asked. They had been kept in the dark as to their specific mission, other than it involved fighting the reinvigorated Taliban presence in the Korengal.
"Tonight. We don't want to wait till daylight. We are taking you to the north end of the valley. You can make camp there, but that's for show. We want you out on recon, both of you of course. We need to find where the leaders of the new Al Qaeda camp are holed up. We believe they have a substantial weapons cache hidden in the mountains. They've been accumulating it since the Americans left. Either in a compound, or in a cave complex, maybe both. They parcel out the weapons to the camps, and from there the new fighters are shipped out all over the world to fight for Al Qaeda. We have reason to believe that over one third of the Taliban's weapons capacity, guns, rockets, explosives, is hidden in this valley, somewhere.”
"How are they getting something that large into the valley without your seeing it from satellite or drones?"
"Good question. That's what we need you to find out. The forest up high makes visibility hard. Because of the lumber embargo it hasn't been thinned at all for nearly a decade. And the cave complexes are endless, almost unexplored. We know of at least one complex that connects to the border with Pakistan. Anyway, up here, borders are meaningless."
They sat and studied maps of the area, making notes, for over an hour before George said that he had to make sure that everything was ready for their departure and suggested they grab an hour's sleep before they had to go.
"You know the drill, Crack --sleep when you can."
* * *
Finally they were alone, unbelievably, for the first time since before John's surgery six weeks ago.
John and Sherlock stared at each other with undisguised hunger.
Part of keeping them apart had, of course, been deliberate. Spartan was well aware of John and Sherlock's relationship, of course; it had swiftly been decided to view it as an asset more than a liability, so long as the men could usefully be teamed together. Sherlock was found to be so extremely antisocial in his psych tests as to be virtually worthless as a member with any sort of team unit; but his attachment to John was so overpoweringly strong and unshakeable that there was no other arrangement that made sense. As Sherlock's other formidable talents proved to be everything advertised, and far more, the arrangement suited everyone-- except possibly John, who still was secretly prey to constant worry over Sherlock's fundamentally reckless approach to risk. Still, Spartan's world-class training regimen had taught even Sherlock a few things, and John could only hope that impulse control was one of them.
This, however, was not a moment for impulse control.
Their kiss was like an incendiary device detonating, explosive and hot. As John was tearing his uniform off, Sherlock muttered against his neck,
"I never asked -- exactly why do they call you Crack? Surely not drugs."
John pointed his finger, like a gun, between Sherlock's eyes. "From my sergeant in Para training. ‘Crack shot.’ Now shut up, Sherlock.” His mouth was traveling urgently downward.
Sherlock was delighted and grabbed John's finger to lick it. "I'm surprised they didn't make you a sniper."
"Takes more than accuracy to make a sniper,” John muttered as he found the precise spot that he thought would stop Sherlock talking altogether. It worked.
A few minutes later, their uniforms were completely wrecked but they were happily basking in a too-short afterglow, their hunger for each other barely satisfied. But George would be here momentarily.
"Next time I want to fire the M3M,” Sherlock said, giving John’s lower lip a final bite.
John laughed. "All right. But it's not a game, you know."
Ssherlock's eyes were positively glittering with excitement. So far, Afghanistan suited him very well.
"Oh, but it is, " Sherlock said.
John shook his head fondly, but with a shadow of foreboding.
* * *
On the way to the helicopter that would drop them near their camp, John stopped to ask George if he could make a phone call before they left base.
"It's about Monroe," John said.
"I shouldn't worry about Monroe," George said. "Come on, we are behind schedule."
"George, don't mess about, okay - you knew going in what I have to do, what I am going to do. I just need five minutes. I won’t have another chance."
George stopped, calculating. "I didn't want to tell you this."
John became still and his eyes deadly. “Tell me what.”
“John, look, it’s not your fault. Nothing you could have done.”
“Tell me.”
“Monroe’s dead, John. He’s dead.”
John stood still in the middle of the airfield. “What happened. Tell me, George. What the hell happened?”
George wouldn’t look at John. “He hung himself. In his cell.”
“No!!!” John screamed over the helicopter. “No!! That’s a bloody lie. He would never. He knew I was coming!! When - when did this happen?”
Sherlock put his hand on John to steady him but John paid him no notice, his face contorted with grief and horror.
George looked at him then, and his face reflected genuine pity now.
“A week ago.”
John cried out, “Oh, God, God!!! No! But - he knew, Monroe knew that I was coming, coming for him! A week ago - before we --- before we ever left London. -- ” John was almost hyperventilating with mad grief and dawning fury.
“ - and you knew? You knew all this time, and you let us come here anyway? George? You let me get Sherlock involved in this, bring Sherlock to this cursed place, and you knew, all along, that Monroe was already dead and gone?”
George put his hands on John’s shoulders. “John, we thought it was for the best -“ he said gently.
John cold-cocked him.
Blood sprayed from his nose.
George was laid flat out and cold on the tarmac before he could finish his excuses.
Sherlock grabbed John’s arm before he could do George any more damage.
“He knew . . .they all knew . . .and now it's all for nothing,” John said. “Monroe’s gone, I can't believe he's gone --- and I can’t help him now. I can never help him.”
John was weeping now, tears flowing hotly. He dashed them angrily from his face.
Sherlock grabbed him in hard embrace. “We’ll just see about that, John. We can help him, and we will. We’re getting to the bottom of this before we leave this godforsaken place,” Sherlock swore.
To be continued . . back: Four next: Six