The Irresistibility of Orbits: Korengal Calling. Chapter Eight. Damn the Valley.
Title: The Irresistibility of Orbits: Korengal Calling. Chapter Eight. Damn the Valley
Author: ghislainem70
Word count: 2100
Rating: NC-17
Summary: John returns to Afghanistan with Sherlock.
Warnings: graphic violence, explicit sex, torture, non-con, reference to child abuse, brutality, mayhem.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat, BBC et al.
Chapter Eight. Damn the Valley
The return of John and Sherlock to Outpost Typhon without Castro was met with howls of grief and rage from Cat, his closest friend; and distrustful silence froth the others. There were mutters of the universal curse of Korengal soldiers: "Damn the Valley."
Van, the third weapons specialist, burst out finally, "Guess you showed Castro after all, eh, Fifty?"
The air in the room suddenly felt hot and dangerous. Sherlock shook his head, disgusted at this obvious stupidity. He was still covered with blood from trying to save Castro in the cave.
John, boiling with pent-up aggression from the day's battles, the cave ordeal, Sherlock's near-entrapment, and grief at the loss of Monroe, and now Castro, lunged across the room, eye to eye with Van, fists clenched.
"He almost got killed himself -- giving Castro CPR. Alone. In a meter-high tunnel under Taliban fire. Castro getting killed is down to my call. I led us down that tunnel. So anything you have to say you can say to me, not him," he shouted.
George sprang forward and separated John and Van before they tore into each other.
"Watson, Van, Cat -- they extracted Castro. He might not make it -- but as of right now, he's still alive."
The atmosphere changed in the blink of an eye. The news was met by whoops and crushing hugs all around, and the men awkwardly thumped John on the back. Sherlock accepted a few punches on his good arm.
***
Sherlock calmly rummaged in his pack and brought forth the CD he had picked up in the cave. He slid it into the laptop and started to work.
"Hey, Fifty," Tunes asked, "what the fuck's up with your shoulder?"
Sherlock didn't look up from his work on the damaged disk. "In the end, my shoulders were bigger than the tunnel."
"Oh yeah?"
"So Doctor Watson kindly removed the joint from its socket for me. Much more --flexible-- that way."
There was stunned silence at this, as the boys processed what must have gone down.
George interrupted. "Holmes -- I need you back to FOB Wright."
Sherlock snorted scornfully. "My shoulder is fine." He paid no notice to the huge bloody cuts and gouges on his face, arms and torso from being dragged over the sharp rocks of the corkscrew.
"No. The man Watson shot on the mountain. We captured him alive. I need you back at Wright. You can assist in the interrogation. You have knowledge from the caves, you can be an asset. We think he is on the Critical Target List."
Sherlock nodded and started gathering his things.
"Hang on a bit, Forsyte. How do you expect Holmes to get down to the landing field? His shoulder's dislocated." John was forcing Sherlock to sit still for a new sling to bind his shoulder, and was cleaning out the worst of his gouges, patiently removing grit and gravel. Sherlock was trying to work on the laptop at the same time.
"He won't need his gear. No one goes alone. Cat and Tunes will cover him down the trail. If he's not fit they'll help."
Cat snarled at this.
Sherlock stood up abruptly, shoving John roughly away. The men watched with obvious curiosity to see what Fifty would do.
"I'm perfectly fit. I can get down with one arm. I certainly don't need a nanny. But I'll take one of these," Sherlock grabbed the CQBR and hefted it with his left hand.
John kept his face impassive and turned away. He attended to his own gun, taking it apart methodically. He realized that he felt . . .hurt. John saw that Sherlock was becoming more like them. Like a real soldier. Hard.
Well, what did he expect? Sherlock had seen trouble now, since they came to the Korengal. The Valley of Death. Today's firefight and escape from the cave was about as rough as it got. He had to admit that Sherlock, inexperienced in 'real' combat though he was, had performed admirably: cool under pressure, fearless with his weapons. He was even proud of Sherlock. What do you want, he lectured himself sternly, that Sherlock should be vulnerable? Ridiculous. All that mattered was getting back home alive.
Which was starting to look improbable.
George said, "I have new orders for Watson, too."
"You're not sending him back to the caves, Forsyte." Sherlock said. It was not a question. It was a warning. He stared coolly at Forsyte.
"No. The compound northeast of the cave. We're going later tonight. Recon. All of us."
"I'll go, too," Sherlock said fiercely. "We're already down one man with Castro out. From what I saw in the caves, they may well have hauled all their ammo up to the compound. It'll be a massacre. It's sheer idiocy. Don't send me away, back to Wright."
Forsyte was silent a moment and the men tensed. A few were nodding their heads in agreement. Sherlock was close to insubordination. John bit his tongue, forcing himself not to interfere. He badly wanted Sherlock back at the base, out of harm's way. But Sherlock had different ideas.
And he was using the word, "we."
Fifty was part of the unit now.
* * *
Suddenly the laptop was making fuzzy noises and Sherlock was completely focused on it, Forsyte, the men, forgotten. He might have been in 221b. After a moment, the screen flashed with moving images. It was grainy video. Forsyte stopped to look, John looked over their shoulders.
It was a group of turbaned Afghan men, seated in a square around a patterned rug with tall brass coffee servers and trays of sweets. There was tinny, shrill Arab music. Then the camera zoomed in. There were some slender figures seated behind the men in gorgeous, jewel-toned silk shalwar kameez. One rose and began a sinuous, suggestive dance. The men clapped to the music, their eyes shining with desire as they followed the dancer, whose wrists and ankles were encircled with tinkling bells. Some of the men tossed paper money at the dancer's feet. The camera zoomed in closer. The dancer was smiling provocatively, with bold eyes.
The dancer was a boy.
No older than twelve.
John groaned in disgust and Sherlock pounded his fist. "Foul bastards," he cursed.
John had seen this sort of thing before. The Afghan translators would have such videos and shyly watch them when they could. With women heavily sequestered, unable to look at or speak to a man on pain of honor killing until the day she spoke her wedding vows, some powerful Afghan men's proclivities went to victimizing young boys. Bacha bazi, "boy play," it was called. The Taliban forbade the practice, especially rampant in the northern provinces, but warlords, wealthy merchants and drug dealers were addicted to bacha bazi, and openly competed to have the most beautiful boy. The youths were taken from their households as young as age nine, trained in dancing, music and "seduction." The boy of a wealthy man was treated with the attentions of a pampered mistress; clothes, jewelry, pop music, toys. And abused for the pleasure of adult men. A poor family that resisted giving up a chosen son risked grave reprisals. In a tribal society, no one wanted to be shunned, or worse. Better to earn money from the boy.
Boys that did not cooperate, who tried to escape the system, disappeared. Or turned up dead.
George pointed to a man seated near the front of the circle, on cushions, watching the dancer with apparent ennui. "That looks like Tariq Khan. Powerful northern warlord. And some of these men are Pakistani. This party was at a war summit."
John felt nauseous and was looking away when something caught his eye. The face of a dancer rising now to take his turn. His face was grim; eyes, haunted: but as he stepped forward onto the carpet and began to stamp his feet to the music, a horrible, practiced simper transformed his face. He began to twirl.
"Stop! There!" John said. Sherlock stopped the video, catching the boy in a graceful spin with his face toward the camera. John looked closer.
"Oh my God. It's him."
Sherlock turned, hearing John's shock, not understanding. "John, what is it? Who do you see?"
"That boy. The dancer. He's the one that shot me. In North Waiziristan. I know it."
"Do you mean. . ."
John nodded slowly. "The one Monroe is supposed to have killed."
"Executed," George said. "Anyway, you can't be sure. He's just a kid. They all look alike, these boys."
John did not appear to be listening. He reached out and touched the screen with his fingertip and turned away.
"You're wrong. I'd know those eyes anywhere," John said sadly.
* * *
Sherlock said, "I'll go to FOB Wright. Let's see what he has to say. Possibly you can wait to hit the compound. Until I have a chance to question him."
"It's a coordinated mission. Everything is set. We know what we need to know. And that, Holmes, is all you need to know. Now you need to leave in thirty to head down that trail. Eat something, hydrate. Mac's coming. Cat, Tunes, cover him and get back here double-time."
Everyone started gearing up. John pulled Sherlock behind a stack of MRE cartons.
"Sherlock. I don't know why Forsyte is doing this. It doesn't feel right. Just watch your back. And when you get into base, get to hospital and see to that shoulder. . . .That video of the boy. It means something. Why was it here, in the cave?"
"All right. It's all right. John, I can handle myself. It's you that needs to watch your back. I don't like it. I want to go with you. But maybe, at least, I can find something out about the boy. About Monroe's case."
"Remember what you said. Back at the flat."
They both remembered. That if either of them were to die, the other would be there.
They looked at each other and John saw exhaustion in Sherlock's eyes. The side of his face was covered with raw wounds from the cave. But if he knew anything about Sherlock, it was that his endurance would carry him through. He wanted to hold him. They had sworn not to do so when with their unit. He contented himself with squeezing his good shoulder, hard.
"So come back to me," Sherlock whispered.
***
Sherlock quickly burned a copy of the bacha bazi video and surreptitiously did some hacking into the Judge Advocate's system, which was ludicrously easy.
Monroe had been held in the brig at Bagram Airfield, where British forces were stationed at the US-operated facility as part of joint coalition operations. His court martial had been scheduled to take place there. Before he made a court martial redundant by hanging himself in his cell.
He downloaded what he could and snapped the laptop shut. Then he retrieved fresh ammo clips and tightened his sling. His shoulder was on fire. John had given him some tablets for the pain and he took them now. He had a very high pain tolerance but he didn't need the distraction while he climbed back down the steep trail to the landing field.
With a final nod at John, who though outwardly composed looked stricken with loss to Sherlock's eyes, he headed out. Yes, he could still read every expression on John's face. That hadn't changed. That will never change, he swore to himself.
Cat took point and Van the rear. The climb down was a bit easier without eighty pounds of gear strapped to his body. But the trail was near-vertical and his right arm strapped into the sling threw him off balance. He fell hard more than a few times. He refused any help and Van respectfully did not try again after his first offer.
"Try not to get killed tripping on a rock, Fifty," Cat said sarcastically. Sherlock ignored his provocation. He could not imagine what he must be feeling, knowing Castro was hovering between life and death, his face blown to pieces. Cat didn't say anything else.
Their senses were alert. After today's battle in the caves, the enemy could well be planning a counter-strike on Outpost Typhon.
But they achieved the landing field without incident. Mac hovered down and Sherlock ran into the copter.
"Good luck tonight, Cat, Van," he shouted to them as it lifted off.
Their hands waved farewell and he thought he heard Cat yell after him,
"Damn the Valley!"
To be continued . . .
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