The Doctor Part 1
Title: The Doctor
Rating: R(or M?) (For blood guts, gore, cursing and the like.)
Warnings: Blood, serious injuries, the fixing of injuries. John is a Doctor after all. Violence, I suppose.
Characters: John/Sherlock (No romance, but a strong connection. I hesitate to call it friendship...)
Wordcount: 14,000 (give or take)
Summary: I went to war to save people, and learned how to kill. I left the war because of an accident, but the war didn't leave me.
Beta/Britpick: The lovely lizzlie whom I can't thank enough!
Author's Notes
In a tent, in a camp, in a dusty desert in Afghanistan, there is a man. This man sits atop his camp bed in that tent in the desert, alone, and focuses very intently on his task. Knees spread awkwardly, his broad hands cradle an item gently between them, his brow furrowed in concentration. The Browning High-Power 9mm is a comforting weight in his hands. Cool, heavy, solid. It comes apart like a puzzle underneath his stubby yet dexterous fingers. He curls a leg up on his bed, turning, and places each piece of his gun on the blanket. The magazine comes out first, which he lays to the far side for last. A small screwdriver pushes out pieces holding the grip together and everything goes smoothly from there.
He's removing the springs and inspecting the moving parts when the light shifts, signaling someone lifting the tent flap.
“Captain Watson,” someone says, but the doctor doesn't look up.
He can tell by the tone of voice that it isn't a question and that whoever it is knows full well who he is.
“Yes,” his hands move assuredly over his pistol, or at least the body of it that's left. He puffs air into crevices, searching out insidious dust, and reaches without looking for the bottle of solvent to lubricate the parts. The man stands in the doorway of the tent, flap lifted, and observes him, but the doctor doesn't even twitch. His gun might be in pieces, but he's got a knife in both boots and his SA-80 rifle
on the cot beside him. He doesn't figure he'll need them.
“A good decision, Captain Watson.” The voice seems full of good humor. “It would be...inadvisable for you to make any sudden moves.” The man lets the flap fall behind him, and the bright light is cut off. Dim light glows through dusty plastic window panels, but the bulk of things are lit by an old and flickering fluorescent strip hanging from the ceiling. It glints off the soldier's gun as his fingers clean the sections of his gun with a soft rag.
The doctor looks up at the well-dressed man leaning on an umbrella and blinks only once. “Shall I leave this here, then?” he asks, but lays the remainder of his gun and his cleaning supplies to the side without waiting for an answer. He stands smoothly and without fanfare, sweeping down his fatigues with strong and sure hands.
The man nods, smiling a slow and dangerous smile. “And your knives, if you will.”
He's of good height. Auburn hair cut short in the fashion that tells John he mostly does it so that he doesn't need to worry about care, and that he needs to look good at his job. His suit is understated, and surprisingly dustless for the terrain, and he wears it well; as though he lounges about his house on his days off in it.
Posh, then.
John nods amiably and bends to pull a knife from each boot. He doesn't fear baring his neck to this man; he could be across the tent with his hands around the politician's neck before he could attempt anything.
He tucks his knives under his pillow and straightens.
“Very good,” the man says coolly. “I'll let you keep the one on your back, since you nearly got it by me.” He turns and pushes the tent flap to the side with the umbrella , his broad back a perfect target for said knife. He turns his head to smile mildly, but with a hint of smugness, at the soldier. “Coming?”
The doctor steps forward without a word. Of course he does: no one ever realizes that he keeps a third knife. The only thing that would impress him more would be if he noticed...
“The cord around your boot will stay there, of course.”
Watson allows a smile to flit across his face. “Yes,” he agrees noncommittally.
“Fantastic,” the man drawls.
Upper middle class, the doctor decides. Sedentary, only can be budged from his desk for something important. His steps don't falter, but his mind does. Am I something important?
“You might be, Captain. You might be.”
Said doctor doesn't even pause before getting into the back seat of the conspicuously black, conspicuously shiny, and conspicuously government car.
“All right, then.” Watson says agreeably, settling onto the leather seat.
The man smiles, follows Watson into the car, and shuts the door behind him.
“Dr. John Watson,” he begins, propping his umbrella between his feet and grasping it with both hands, “Do you prefer that over Captain? No matter, you are a doctor at heart, I believe, and you seem to be just the man for whom I have been searching.” He sits on the leather seat next to the doctor as though it is a throne and makes the doctor feel plain and scruffy.
He self-consciously makes sure that there is a full seat between himself and the other man, then assuredly meets his gaze. “I'll take your word for it,” he replies, squaring his shoulders and sitting up straight.
“Do you think you ought to?” The man peers at him.
“No,” the doctor says, shortly. “But I will until you give me reason to do otherwise.”
The man laughs and Watson is almost surprised.
“Very good, doctor. Very good.” He offers a hand at last. “You may call me Mycroft, Dr. Watson.”
“Please,” the doctor replies. “Call me John.”
Mycroft smiles like a lazy lion.
“I believe that there is an officer passing secrets to the other side, sensitive secrets...”
“And you need a soldier to find out.”
It's not a question.
Mycroft tilts his head. “I need another officer to do whatever is necessary to protect Queen and Country.”
“You want me to kill him,” John says bluntly.
“Whatever is necessary,” Mycroft repeats. “Are you unwilling?”
John heaves a sigh. “Why do you believe that I could do that?”
“Let us just pretend that you don't secret weapons on your person like most would handkerchiefs, and let me ask you this: do you believe that you can?”
John frowns. “Of course.”
Mycroft smiles and spreads his hands expansively, leaning his umbrella against the seat next to him. “Well, there you are.”
John scowls outright. “Are you telling me that you believe I can do this because I believe I can?”
“You are a very capable man, Dr. Watson. You are unusually aware of your own capabilities. If you say you can, there is no doubt.”
“Wouldn't anyone say that they could? Boasting, trying to look good and all that rot? I could be doing that too, I hope you realize.”
Crow lines crinkle in silent laughter around Mycroft's eyes. “It's a sign of your good character that you honestly believe what you believe.”
“If that was supposed to make sense, then you fell quite short.”
“Au contraire, docteur.” Mycroft murmurs. “We both know that is not true.”
“It's easier to believe that I am normal, than it is to pretend that I am,” John says reluctantly.
Mycroft's face smooths into solemnity. “Wouldn't you rather not have to do either?”
“Oh God, yes.” John says. He looks shocked for a moment, ready to bolt, then sinks back into the seat. “God. Yes.”
“You'll be an independent agent,” Mycroft warns. “No team, no back up. You get into trouble, you get yourself out of it. Me comprenez-vous?”
“Oui. Je vous comprends parfaitement.” (1)
Mycroft smiles. “Excellent.”
~~
When Dr. John Watson lies on top of his bed that night, fully dressed, his eyes close and he slips into a peaceful sleep. His mind is calm, his dreams are clear. In the morning he rises before his bunkmates and tucks away all of his weapons about his person and into his rucksack. When he bends to pull clothing from his larger pack to put in his small one, his dog tags fall from his shirt with a clatter and swing freely for a moment before he straightens. He sits heavily on his bed and draws the chain over his head.
Dr. John H. Watson. Captain.
He crumples the tags, chain and all, into his other hand, then shoves them into a cargo pocket on the side of his trouser leg. Soon, he knows, he'll never see them again.
He doesn't have many possessions, just clothing, weapons, and a couple of books. A dog-eared paperback of Oliver Twist fits easily in a pocket, but he pauses at his hardbound book of poetry. Oliver might be dog-eared but it's dirty and smudged enough to reveal next to nothing fingerprint-wise.
The poetry, on the other hand, has his very distinctive handwriting in the margins.
He runs his calloused fingertips over the cloth-bound cover and frowns for a moment. For now, he decides, and tucks it into his rucksack. If it proves a liability, I'll chuck it later.
“Men cannot conceive the wonders of the world,” he murmurs, “Until the world conceives of him”
He leaves the tent without a backwards glance.
~~
The mole is a joke. Well, not literally. He is feeding secrets to the enemy, but any old Joe Blow with the capability of giving someone a Chinese burn could have gotten a confession out of the traitorous officer.
For John Watson, it takes even less.
He is “officially” transferred to the camp where the officer is stationed, if by officially you mean that Dr. John H. Watson's name disappears and a newly born Jack Willows walks unassumingly up to Major Jackson at a new camp.
“Hullo,” John says quietly, offering a hand and shaking the officer's with all the politeness of a typical Englishman. Then he steps back and salutes. “Lieutenant Willows, sir.”
The man's eyes graze him from top to bottom, then they land on a particular patch on John's shoulder. “You're a medic?”
“A GP before I joined up, sir,” he agrees, and the lie about being a normal, forgettable GP instead of a surgeon comes easily. “Since trained as a medical officer.”
He's neither relaxed, cocky, nor stiff. He's normal. Utterly normal and forgettable.
Major Jackson has already forgotten about him.
“Welcome aboard,” he's told, then is escorted to the medical tent by a private as the colonel strides away. As a new man, it's just easier to give him a cot in Hospital, which is fine by him. It means there is no one to account for his comings and goings.
~~
Two weeks and he's invisible. He's not a buddy, or a stranger: he is just someone the eyes drift over without seeing. He stays out of the field because, apparently, Mycroft wants him to stay out of the field. Which is fine with him. It's also fine with the soldiers, because he quickly proves that he can efficiently handle anything they approach him with once they return to camp.
“Private...” John greets as a young man enters the hospital tent.
“Reynolds, sir. Private Reynolds.”
John allows a small smile to creep across his face and gestures the boy forward. “I'm just a lowly Lieutenant, Reynolds. Willows. Jack Willows.”
Reynolds offers his injured hand, which Watson grasps, prodding it gently, and allows himself to be steered to a cot. He sits down upon quiet urging from the doctor.
“What happened?”
“Was tinkering with a machine, got caught in a small place.”
John tsks and releases the hand. “It'll need anesthetic.”
“All right,” Reynolds says agreeably. “I'm not afraid of needles or anything.”
John treats the soldier in silence, going through the same old motions, before Reynolds breaks it.
“You're not just a medic,” he comments, almost offhandedly.
“I'm just a GP,” John deflects. “Trained at Barts.”
“The Major,” the boy blurts, looking away and blushing. “He likes to drink after a skirmish. Late. On the edge of the compound.”
John doesn't even pause in wrapping the hand. “Why are you telling me?”
The boy shrugs, still looking away. “Thought you should know. Am I done?”
John studies the hand and bandages, then nods. “Yes, you are.”
“Good luck, doc.”
When Reynolds leaves, he stands up with a sigh. He's just lucky it was a good kid that put the pieces together. Or maybe it's the kid who is lucky.
As the tent flap swings, he replaces his knife into his wrist sheath and starts thinking.
Likes to get hammered, eh? We'll see how this pans out, then perhaps I'll pass Reynolds' name on...
~~
With each step through the shadows of the compound, John Watson's stature grows. Not literally, but his quiet strength is no longer so quiet, and he confidently strides, soundlessly, to his mark. No longer is he the normal, quiet, unassuming medic who rarely leaves his tent. No. Now he is the Doctor. Cool, confident, and indeed catching sight of the elusive Major at a small fire.
John steps into the flickering light, and two bleary eyes raise up to peer at him. Dark shadows ring them, as though the Major has lost sleep, and a wordless growl snarls its pleasure at the back of John's mind. Good. He deserves it.
“Hullo there, mate,” the Major slurs, evidently gone enough that he doesn't bother standing. He squints as John crouches on the other side of the small flames. “Do I know you?”
“I'm the Doctor.”
“A doctor? You here to join me, doctor?”
“How many died in the skirmish today?”
“Five,” the Major replies promptly. “Five poor buggers died today.”
“Five poor buggers died because of you,” John says quietly. “Five soldiers went out there, not knowing they didn't stand a chance, and it's all your fault.”
The man's hands shake, and he clasps his bottle of whiskey closer. “Yes,” he whispers. “Yes.”
“Yet you sit out here and drink every time. Are you guilty?”
“Yes.” His knuckles are white.
John prods at the crackling embers with a stick. “Then why did you do it? Why do you continue to pass on information?”
“I don't know,” he murmurs hoarsely, devastated and trapped in his own mind.
“Run,” John stares over the fire into the drunk officer's eyes. “Run as fast as you can, and hope I can't catch you.”
The Major stumbles to his feet, eyes wild. “Is it over?”
John stands as well, drawing the machete out of its sheath on his back.
“Not yet,” he promises.
The Major bolts.
John can hear him charging wildly like a mad bull, stumbling and tripping in the darkness. John kicks sand over the campfire, and tilts his head to both sides, cracking his neck. He follows at a gentle lope, treading silently over the uneven ground. In the moonlight, he tracks the Major farther and farther away from the camp. Soon he hears a gun's report, and a scream. John pauses, listening. The gun doesn't fire again. He follows the signs: broken plants, scuffed dirt, divots, footprints, all at a leisurely pace. A tiger stalking through the darkness, he finally finds the Major's body.
Wide eyes stare straight up, frightened and glassy. John reaches for the officer's carotid artery, but already knows what he will find: no pulse.
He replaces the machete, deliberately tears off the insignia identifying him as medic, and strides away. Back at the camp, he carefully stows away that part of himself. Less intensity of the eyes, relax the features, walk less gracefully, turn down the menace. When he spots the sentry, he's again the small, mousy medic whose name no one remembers.
Normal. Normal. Normal.
“Sergeant, sergeant!” he cries out, breaking into a run and gasping as though he is in distress.
“Yes, soldier?” The sentry turns towards him calmly, and takes in his frantic state.
“The Major ran! He was drunk and bolted straight out of camp!”
The soldier's eyes sharpen as John stoops, hands on knees, panting as though he is out of breath. “I heard report,” he continues. “You don't think...”
“Shit,” the soldier swears. “I'll get a team. Good work, soldier.”
In the fuss, no one notices John, pack on his back, walk right out of the camp.
Yeah, he can do this.
~~
“You've been to Afghanistan, Mycroft,” a voice floats down the hall from the sitting room.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft says with a sigh, depositing his umbrella in its stand and turning on the hall light. “I gave you a key,” he calls. “Must you insist upon breaking in? One of these days you'll be in disguise and my men will take you out.” He waltzes down the hall, carpet muffling his footsteps, and loosens his tie as he spots his brother.
“I should hope not,” Sherlock says with disdain from his sprawl over Mycroft's favourite chair. “A shooting in Kensington Palace Gardens? God forbid.” A cigarette dangles from his fingertips and ash flutters onto the expensive Persian rug.
Mycroft purses his lips.
“I wouldn't be very good if I got caught. Besides, I lost your key.”
“You threw it away,” Mycroft says as he slides his coat off and drapes it over his arm. “Into the bin. And then I gave it back to you.”
“Directly after, I accidentally dropped it into the garbage disposal. Oops!”
“How many copies did you make first?” Mycroft asks wryly.
Sherlock twitches the smoking cigarette at him dismissively. “Irrelevant. How was Afghanistan? You have a lovely sunburn.”
Mycroft turns and walks away from Sherlock to his bedroom. “Don't be so smug, I sent you an email telling you where I was going so that you wouldn't dig.”
“I deleted it,” Sherlock pronounces smugly.
“After you read it.”
“Semantics.”
“Sherlock,” Mycroft calls from his bedroom as he leans into his closet. “Why are you here, exactly?”
“I'm bored, Mycroft. Yesterday I fetched a puppy out of a tree.”
“Shouldn't it have been a kitten?” Mycroft muses, unbuttoning his shirt in the doorway of his bedroom and raising a skeptical eyebrow in Sherlock's direction. He knows that Sherlock's lazy sprawl with his head and shoulders hanging over the side of the chair is actually a carefully honed technique that allows him to see into Mycroft's bedroom. At least it proves Sherlock's paying attention to him, Mycroft supposes.
“A puppy,” Sherlock repeats derisively. “I suspect someone hid it to give me a,” here he pauses dramatically and uses over-exaggerated air-quotes “'Case.'”
Mycroft chuckles and ducks back into the bedroom.
“This morning it took me less than five minutes after I entered my client's house to figure out that the husband is having a dalliance with the maid and that's where the wife's precious jewels disappeared off to.”
“Oh, dear.” Mycroft's socked feet pad down the hall and he reappears in casual trousers, sans his tie and waistcoat. “Did you break it to her gently?” He tugs a soft jumper in a light brown with a v-neck over his shirt and carefully straightens his sleeves.
Sherlock watches him closely, nearly upside down, and his brows draw together in frustration. “I didn't have to. We stumbled across said dalliance whilst she was giving me a tour of the house.”
“Why did she even call upon you?”
“Why indeed.”
“Tea?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Mummy would be proud.”
“Re~flexes!” Sherlock sings out, taking a final drag from his cigarette and stubbing it out on the carpet. They cease speaking until Mycroft returns with a tea-service and bullies Sherlock into sitting up properly.
“You'd like something to do,” Mycroft extrapolates, pleased. He sits on the settee across from Sherlock, adding a sugar to his tea and stirring the steaming cup with a tiny silver spoon.
“Not a job with you,” Sherlock qualifies quickly, shifting in his seat and cradling the tea cup and saucer carefully. “If I never have to work in an office, it will be too soon.”
“You could be a private detective for the wealthy.”
“I'm a private detective for all classes,” he dismisses. “Last week I was given a ham for finding someone's lost child.”
“Was it a nice ham?”
Sherlock grimaces. “No, it wasn't even cured yet.”
Mycroft smirks. “Barts would hire you as a researcher in a heartbeat.”
“Boring. I don't want my interests to be restricted.”
“They offered you a teaching position as well, I understand.”
“People are idiots. It doesn't matter if a genius teaches them, they're still idiots.”
Mycroft nods.
“You seem to take shameless advantage of the labs at Barts, regardless.”
“Occasionally I throw them a bone,” Sherlock explains. “I found an antidote for something or other last month.”
“I saved the clipping from the newspaper for Mummy.”
Sherlock looks up from his cup of tea, surprised. “It was in the paper? No, never mind, unimportant.” He sips quietly. “What about your dog, isn't he with the murder division?”
“Gregory? Yes, he's with CID at the Yard. And he's not my dog, Sherlock. I don't have him in my pocket, or whatever quaint colloquialism you'd care to use to imply that I've bought him off: he's my lover.”
Sherlock flaps a delicate hand at his brother. “Yes, yes, emotional mush, same concept. Absolutely boring. His job however, that's what I find interesting. I see dead bodies in the morgue all the time.” Then he leans forward eagerly. “But a crime scene,” he breathes reverently. “That would be brilliant.”
Mycroft scowls and leans back in his chair. “You wish me to lean on my lover to allow you access to crime scenes as if they are playgrounds? Absolutely not.”
“Just think about it,” Sherlock jumps up to crouch on the chair, hands clasped in front of him. “Murders are interesting. Do you really want me to be bored?”
Mycroft gazes at his brother, taking in his manic eyes, pale skin, and shaking hands. “Are you high?”
Sherlock frowns. “How plebeian a term. I prefer 'stimulated.'”
“Have you taken a stimulant, Sherlock?” Mycroft demands.
“No,” Sherlock responds petulantly, sinking back into the chair. “Not right this second. I'm not addicted, you know.”
“Of course not,” Mycroft placates automatically, his mind churning busily. “I'll consider speaking with Gregory if you give them up, Sherlock.”
“Give what up? My toes? My informants? My clients?”
“Don't be coy.”
“I have to give up drugs for you to even speak to him? That hardly seems a fair deal.”
“Do you dismiss my persuasive abilities?” Mycroft interjects smoothly.
Sherlock pauses, frowning at the cigarette butt on the rug. “Must I give up smoking as well?”
“No, but I am sure nicotine patches would be an excellent substitute.”
Sherlock springs to his feet. “You'll speak to...'Gregory,' then? If I have to investigate another domestic affair then so help me...”
“Yes,” Mycroft soothes. “If you cease 'shooting up',” Mycroft pronounced the term disdainfully, “I'll see what I can do.”
“Thank you.”
And then Sherlock is gone.
1. “On the contrary, Doctor”, “Do you understand?”, “Yes, I understand perfectly”
Part 2
Rating: R(or M?) (For blood guts, gore, cursing and the like.)
Warnings: Blood, serious injuries, the fixing of injuries. John is a Doctor after all. Violence, I suppose.
Characters: John/Sherlock (No romance, but a strong connection. I hesitate to call it friendship...)
Wordcount: 14,000 (give or take)
Summary: I went to war to save people, and learned how to kill. I left the war because of an accident, but the war didn't leave me.
Beta/Britpick: The lovely lizzlie whom I can't thank enough!
Author's Notes
In a tent, in a camp, in a dusty desert in Afghanistan, there is a man. This man sits atop his camp bed in that tent in the desert, alone, and focuses very intently on his task. Knees spread awkwardly, his broad hands cradle an item gently between them, his brow furrowed in concentration. The Browning High-Power 9mm is a comforting weight in his hands. Cool, heavy, solid. It comes apart like a puzzle underneath his stubby yet dexterous fingers. He curls a leg up on his bed, turning, and places each piece of his gun on the blanket. The magazine comes out first, which he lays to the far side for last. A small screwdriver pushes out pieces holding the grip together and everything goes smoothly from there.
He's removing the springs and inspecting the moving parts when the light shifts, signaling someone lifting the tent flap.
“Captain Watson,” someone says, but the doctor doesn't look up.
He can tell by the tone of voice that it isn't a question and that whoever it is knows full well who he is.
“Yes,” his hands move assuredly over his pistol, or at least the body of it that's left. He puffs air into crevices, searching out insidious dust, and reaches without looking for the bottle of solvent to lubricate the parts. The man stands in the doorway of the tent, flap lifted, and observes him, but the doctor doesn't even twitch. His gun might be in pieces, but he's got a knife in both boots and his SA-80 rifle
on the cot beside him. He doesn't figure he'll need them.
“A good decision, Captain Watson.” The voice seems full of good humor. “It would be...inadvisable for you to make any sudden moves.” The man lets the flap fall behind him, and the bright light is cut off. Dim light glows through dusty plastic window panels, but the bulk of things are lit by an old and flickering fluorescent strip hanging from the ceiling. It glints off the soldier's gun as his fingers clean the sections of his gun with a soft rag.
The doctor looks up at the well-dressed man leaning on an umbrella and blinks only once. “Shall I leave this here, then?” he asks, but lays the remainder of his gun and his cleaning supplies to the side without waiting for an answer. He stands smoothly and without fanfare, sweeping down his fatigues with strong and sure hands.
The man nods, smiling a slow and dangerous smile. “And your knives, if you will.”
He's of good height. Auburn hair cut short in the fashion that tells John he mostly does it so that he doesn't need to worry about care, and that he needs to look good at his job. His suit is understated, and surprisingly dustless for the terrain, and he wears it well; as though he lounges about his house on his days off in it.
Posh, then.
John nods amiably and bends to pull a knife from each boot. He doesn't fear baring his neck to this man; he could be across the tent with his hands around the politician's neck before he could attempt anything.
He tucks his knives under his pillow and straightens.
“Very good,” the man says coolly. “I'll let you keep the one on your back, since you nearly got it by me.” He turns and pushes the tent flap to the side with the umbrella , his broad back a perfect target for said knife. He turns his head to smile mildly, but with a hint of smugness, at the soldier. “Coming?”
The doctor steps forward without a word. Of course he does: no one ever realizes that he keeps a third knife. The only thing that would impress him more would be if he noticed...
“The cord around your boot will stay there, of course.”
Watson allows a smile to flit across his face. “Yes,” he agrees noncommittally.
“Fantastic,” the man drawls.
Upper middle class, the doctor decides. Sedentary, only can be budged from his desk for something important. His steps don't falter, but his mind does. Am I something important?
“You might be, Captain. You might be.”
Said doctor doesn't even pause before getting into the back seat of the conspicuously black, conspicuously shiny, and conspicuously government car.
“All right, then.” Watson says agreeably, settling onto the leather seat.
The man smiles, follows Watson into the car, and shuts the door behind him.
“Dr. John Watson,” he begins, propping his umbrella between his feet and grasping it with both hands, “Do you prefer that over Captain? No matter, you are a doctor at heart, I believe, and you seem to be just the man for whom I have been searching.” He sits on the leather seat next to the doctor as though it is a throne and makes the doctor feel plain and scruffy.
He self-consciously makes sure that there is a full seat between himself and the other man, then assuredly meets his gaze. “I'll take your word for it,” he replies, squaring his shoulders and sitting up straight.
“Do you think you ought to?” The man peers at him.
“No,” the doctor says, shortly. “But I will until you give me reason to do otherwise.”
The man laughs and Watson is almost surprised.
“Very good, doctor. Very good.” He offers a hand at last. “You may call me Mycroft, Dr. Watson.”
“Please,” the doctor replies. “Call me John.”
Mycroft smiles like a lazy lion.
“I believe that there is an officer passing secrets to the other side, sensitive secrets...”
“And you need a soldier to find out.”
It's not a question.
Mycroft tilts his head. “I need another officer to do whatever is necessary to protect Queen and Country.”
“You want me to kill him,” John says bluntly.
“Whatever is necessary,” Mycroft repeats. “Are you unwilling?”
John heaves a sigh. “Why do you believe that I could do that?”
“Let us just pretend that you don't secret weapons on your person like most would handkerchiefs, and let me ask you this: do you believe that you can?”
John frowns. “Of course.”
Mycroft smiles and spreads his hands expansively, leaning his umbrella against the seat next to him. “Well, there you are.”
John scowls outright. “Are you telling me that you believe I can do this because I believe I can?”
“You are a very capable man, Dr. Watson. You are unusually aware of your own capabilities. If you say you can, there is no doubt.”
“Wouldn't anyone say that they could? Boasting, trying to look good and all that rot? I could be doing that too, I hope you realize.”
Crow lines crinkle in silent laughter around Mycroft's eyes. “It's a sign of your good character that you honestly believe what you believe.”
“If that was supposed to make sense, then you fell quite short.”
“Au contraire, docteur.” Mycroft murmurs. “We both know that is not true.”
“It's easier to believe that I am normal, than it is to pretend that I am,” John says reluctantly.
Mycroft's face smooths into solemnity. “Wouldn't you rather not have to do either?”
“Oh God, yes.” John says. He looks shocked for a moment, ready to bolt, then sinks back into the seat. “God. Yes.”
“You'll be an independent agent,” Mycroft warns. “No team, no back up. You get into trouble, you get yourself out of it. Me comprenez-vous?”
“Oui. Je vous comprends parfaitement.” (1)
Mycroft smiles. “Excellent.”
~~
When Dr. John Watson lies on top of his bed that night, fully dressed, his eyes close and he slips into a peaceful sleep. His mind is calm, his dreams are clear. In the morning he rises before his bunkmates and tucks away all of his weapons about his person and into his rucksack. When he bends to pull clothing from his larger pack to put in his small one, his dog tags fall from his shirt with a clatter and swing freely for a moment before he straightens. He sits heavily on his bed and draws the chain over his head.
Dr. John H. Watson. Captain.
He crumples the tags, chain and all, into his other hand, then shoves them into a cargo pocket on the side of his trouser leg. Soon, he knows, he'll never see them again.
He doesn't have many possessions, just clothing, weapons, and a couple of books. A dog-eared paperback of Oliver Twist fits easily in a pocket, but he pauses at his hardbound book of poetry. Oliver might be dog-eared but it's dirty and smudged enough to reveal next to nothing fingerprint-wise.
The poetry, on the other hand, has his very distinctive handwriting in the margins.
He runs his calloused fingertips over the cloth-bound cover and frowns for a moment. For now, he decides, and tucks it into his rucksack. If it proves a liability, I'll chuck it later.
“Men cannot conceive the wonders of the world,” he murmurs, “Until the world conceives of him”
He leaves the tent without a backwards glance.
~~
The mole is a joke. Well, not literally. He is feeding secrets to the enemy, but any old Joe Blow with the capability of giving someone a Chinese burn could have gotten a confession out of the traitorous officer.
For John Watson, it takes even less.
He is “officially” transferred to the camp where the officer is stationed, if by officially you mean that Dr. John H. Watson's name disappears and a newly born Jack Willows walks unassumingly up to Major Jackson at a new camp.
“Hullo,” John says quietly, offering a hand and shaking the officer's with all the politeness of a typical Englishman. Then he steps back and salutes. “Lieutenant Willows, sir.”
The man's eyes graze him from top to bottom, then they land on a particular patch on John's shoulder. “You're a medic?”
“A GP before I joined up, sir,” he agrees, and the lie about being a normal, forgettable GP instead of a surgeon comes easily. “Since trained as a medical officer.”
He's neither relaxed, cocky, nor stiff. He's normal. Utterly normal and forgettable.
Major Jackson has already forgotten about him.
“Welcome aboard,” he's told, then is escorted to the medical tent by a private as the colonel strides away. As a new man, it's just easier to give him a cot in Hospital, which is fine by him. It means there is no one to account for his comings and goings.
~~
Two weeks and he's invisible. He's not a buddy, or a stranger: he is just someone the eyes drift over without seeing. He stays out of the field because, apparently, Mycroft wants him to stay out of the field. Which is fine with him. It's also fine with the soldiers, because he quickly proves that he can efficiently handle anything they approach him with once they return to camp.
“Private...” John greets as a young man enters the hospital tent.
“Reynolds, sir. Private Reynolds.”
John allows a small smile to creep across his face and gestures the boy forward. “I'm just a lowly Lieutenant, Reynolds. Willows. Jack Willows.”
Reynolds offers his injured hand, which Watson grasps, prodding it gently, and allows himself to be steered to a cot. He sits down upon quiet urging from the doctor.
“What happened?”
“Was tinkering with a machine, got caught in a small place.”
John tsks and releases the hand. “It'll need anesthetic.”
“All right,” Reynolds says agreeably. “I'm not afraid of needles or anything.”
John treats the soldier in silence, going through the same old motions, before Reynolds breaks it.
“You're not just a medic,” he comments, almost offhandedly.
“I'm just a GP,” John deflects. “Trained at Barts.”
“The Major,” the boy blurts, looking away and blushing. “He likes to drink after a skirmish. Late. On the edge of the compound.”
John doesn't even pause in wrapping the hand. “Why are you telling me?”
The boy shrugs, still looking away. “Thought you should know. Am I done?”
John studies the hand and bandages, then nods. “Yes, you are.”
“Good luck, doc.”
When Reynolds leaves, he stands up with a sigh. He's just lucky it was a good kid that put the pieces together. Or maybe it's the kid who is lucky.
As the tent flap swings, he replaces his knife into his wrist sheath and starts thinking.
Likes to get hammered, eh? We'll see how this pans out, then perhaps I'll pass Reynolds' name on...
~~
With each step through the shadows of the compound, John Watson's stature grows. Not literally, but his quiet strength is no longer so quiet, and he confidently strides, soundlessly, to his mark. No longer is he the normal, quiet, unassuming medic who rarely leaves his tent. No. Now he is the Doctor. Cool, confident, and indeed catching sight of the elusive Major at a small fire.
John steps into the flickering light, and two bleary eyes raise up to peer at him. Dark shadows ring them, as though the Major has lost sleep, and a wordless growl snarls its pleasure at the back of John's mind. Good. He deserves it.
“Hullo there, mate,” the Major slurs, evidently gone enough that he doesn't bother standing. He squints as John crouches on the other side of the small flames. “Do I know you?”
“I'm the Doctor.”
“A doctor? You here to join me, doctor?”
“How many died in the skirmish today?”
“Five,” the Major replies promptly. “Five poor buggers died today.”
“Five poor buggers died because of you,” John says quietly. “Five soldiers went out there, not knowing they didn't stand a chance, and it's all your fault.”
The man's hands shake, and he clasps his bottle of whiskey closer. “Yes,” he whispers. “Yes.”
“Yet you sit out here and drink every time. Are you guilty?”
“Yes.” His knuckles are white.
John prods at the crackling embers with a stick. “Then why did you do it? Why do you continue to pass on information?”
“I don't know,” he murmurs hoarsely, devastated and trapped in his own mind.
“Run,” John stares over the fire into the drunk officer's eyes. “Run as fast as you can, and hope I can't catch you.”
The Major stumbles to his feet, eyes wild. “Is it over?”
John stands as well, drawing the machete out of its sheath on his back.
“Not yet,” he promises.
The Major bolts.
John can hear him charging wildly like a mad bull, stumbling and tripping in the darkness. John kicks sand over the campfire, and tilts his head to both sides, cracking his neck. He follows at a gentle lope, treading silently over the uneven ground. In the moonlight, he tracks the Major farther and farther away from the camp. Soon he hears a gun's report, and a scream. John pauses, listening. The gun doesn't fire again. He follows the signs: broken plants, scuffed dirt, divots, footprints, all at a leisurely pace. A tiger stalking through the darkness, he finally finds the Major's body.
Wide eyes stare straight up, frightened and glassy. John reaches for the officer's carotid artery, but already knows what he will find: no pulse.
He replaces the machete, deliberately tears off the insignia identifying him as medic, and strides away. Back at the camp, he carefully stows away that part of himself. Less intensity of the eyes, relax the features, walk less gracefully, turn down the menace. When he spots the sentry, he's again the small, mousy medic whose name no one remembers.
Normal. Normal. Normal.
“Sergeant, sergeant!” he cries out, breaking into a run and gasping as though he is in distress.
“Yes, soldier?” The sentry turns towards him calmly, and takes in his frantic state.
“The Major ran! He was drunk and bolted straight out of camp!”
The soldier's eyes sharpen as John stoops, hands on knees, panting as though he is out of breath. “I heard report,” he continues. “You don't think...”
“Shit,” the soldier swears. “I'll get a team. Good work, soldier.”
In the fuss, no one notices John, pack on his back, walk right out of the camp.
Yeah, he can do this.
~~
“You've been to Afghanistan, Mycroft,” a voice floats down the hall from the sitting room.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft says with a sigh, depositing his umbrella in its stand and turning on the hall light. “I gave you a key,” he calls. “Must you insist upon breaking in? One of these days you'll be in disguise and my men will take you out.” He waltzes down the hall, carpet muffling his footsteps, and loosens his tie as he spots his brother.
“I should hope not,” Sherlock says with disdain from his sprawl over Mycroft's favourite chair. “A shooting in Kensington Palace Gardens? God forbid.” A cigarette dangles from his fingertips and ash flutters onto the expensive Persian rug.
Mycroft purses his lips.
“I wouldn't be very good if I got caught. Besides, I lost your key.”
“You threw it away,” Mycroft says as he slides his coat off and drapes it over his arm. “Into the bin. And then I gave it back to you.”
“Directly after, I accidentally dropped it into the garbage disposal. Oops!”
“How many copies did you make first?” Mycroft asks wryly.
Sherlock twitches the smoking cigarette at him dismissively. “Irrelevant. How was Afghanistan? You have a lovely sunburn.”
Mycroft turns and walks away from Sherlock to his bedroom. “Don't be so smug, I sent you an email telling you where I was going so that you wouldn't dig.”
“I deleted it,” Sherlock pronounces smugly.
“After you read it.”
“Semantics.”
“Sherlock,” Mycroft calls from his bedroom as he leans into his closet. “Why are you here, exactly?”
“I'm bored, Mycroft. Yesterday I fetched a puppy out of a tree.”
“Shouldn't it have been a kitten?” Mycroft muses, unbuttoning his shirt in the doorway of his bedroom and raising a skeptical eyebrow in Sherlock's direction. He knows that Sherlock's lazy sprawl with his head and shoulders hanging over the side of the chair is actually a carefully honed technique that allows him to see into Mycroft's bedroom. At least it proves Sherlock's paying attention to him, Mycroft supposes.
“A puppy,” Sherlock repeats derisively. “I suspect someone hid it to give me a,” here he pauses dramatically and uses over-exaggerated air-quotes “'Case.'”
Mycroft chuckles and ducks back into the bedroom.
“This morning it took me less than five minutes after I entered my client's house to figure out that the husband is having a dalliance with the maid and that's where the wife's precious jewels disappeared off to.”
“Oh, dear.” Mycroft's socked feet pad down the hall and he reappears in casual trousers, sans his tie and waistcoat. “Did you break it to her gently?” He tugs a soft jumper in a light brown with a v-neck over his shirt and carefully straightens his sleeves.
Sherlock watches him closely, nearly upside down, and his brows draw together in frustration. “I didn't have to. We stumbled across said dalliance whilst she was giving me a tour of the house.”
“Why did she even call upon you?”
“Why indeed.”
“Tea?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Mummy would be proud.”
“Re~flexes!” Sherlock sings out, taking a final drag from his cigarette and stubbing it out on the carpet. They cease speaking until Mycroft returns with a tea-service and bullies Sherlock into sitting up properly.
“You'd like something to do,” Mycroft extrapolates, pleased. He sits on the settee across from Sherlock, adding a sugar to his tea and stirring the steaming cup with a tiny silver spoon.
“Not a job with you,” Sherlock qualifies quickly, shifting in his seat and cradling the tea cup and saucer carefully. “If I never have to work in an office, it will be too soon.”
“You could be a private detective for the wealthy.”
“I'm a private detective for all classes,” he dismisses. “Last week I was given a ham for finding someone's lost child.”
“Was it a nice ham?”
Sherlock grimaces. “No, it wasn't even cured yet.”
Mycroft smirks. “Barts would hire you as a researcher in a heartbeat.”
“Boring. I don't want my interests to be restricted.”
“They offered you a teaching position as well, I understand.”
“People are idiots. It doesn't matter if a genius teaches them, they're still idiots.”
Mycroft nods.
“You seem to take shameless advantage of the labs at Barts, regardless.”
“Occasionally I throw them a bone,” Sherlock explains. “I found an antidote for something or other last month.”
“I saved the clipping from the newspaper for Mummy.”
Sherlock looks up from his cup of tea, surprised. “It was in the paper? No, never mind, unimportant.” He sips quietly. “What about your dog, isn't he with the murder division?”
“Gregory? Yes, he's with CID at the Yard. And he's not my dog, Sherlock. I don't have him in my pocket, or whatever quaint colloquialism you'd care to use to imply that I've bought him off: he's my lover.”
Sherlock flaps a delicate hand at his brother. “Yes, yes, emotional mush, same concept. Absolutely boring. His job however, that's what I find interesting. I see dead bodies in the morgue all the time.” Then he leans forward eagerly. “But a crime scene,” he breathes reverently. “That would be brilliant.”
Mycroft scowls and leans back in his chair. “You wish me to lean on my lover to allow you access to crime scenes as if they are playgrounds? Absolutely not.”
“Just think about it,” Sherlock jumps up to crouch on the chair, hands clasped in front of him. “Murders are interesting. Do you really want me to be bored?”
Mycroft gazes at his brother, taking in his manic eyes, pale skin, and shaking hands. “Are you high?”
Sherlock frowns. “How plebeian a term. I prefer 'stimulated.'”
“Have you taken a stimulant, Sherlock?” Mycroft demands.
“No,” Sherlock responds petulantly, sinking back into the chair. “Not right this second. I'm not addicted, you know.”
“Of course not,” Mycroft placates automatically, his mind churning busily. “I'll consider speaking with Gregory if you give them up, Sherlock.”
“Give what up? My toes? My informants? My clients?”
“Don't be coy.”
“I have to give up drugs for you to even speak to him? That hardly seems a fair deal.”
“Do you dismiss my persuasive abilities?” Mycroft interjects smoothly.
Sherlock pauses, frowning at the cigarette butt on the rug. “Must I give up smoking as well?”
“No, but I am sure nicotine patches would be an excellent substitute.”
Sherlock springs to his feet. “You'll speak to...'Gregory,' then? If I have to investigate another domestic affair then so help me...”
“Yes,” Mycroft soothes. “If you cease 'shooting up',” Mycroft pronounced the term disdainfully, “I'll see what I can do.”
“Thank you.”
And then Sherlock is gone.
1. “On the contrary, Doctor”, “Do you understand?”, “Yes, I understand perfectly”
Part 2