Fic: The Prize 13/16
Jan. 20th, 2012 04:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trillsabellsTitle:The Prize
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
trillsabells
Beta:jupiter_ash
Rating: This chapter R, NC17 overall
Length: This Chapter 4500, overall nearly 100k
Spoilers: None
Summary: On 29 January 2010 an unknown Event wiped out 98% of the population. This is the story of the survivors, four months on. Based on this prompt here
Warnings (for entire fic): Starts with the death of over 6 billion people and goes downhill from there. Death, destruction, disease, violence, fire, plane crashes, slavery, graphic sex and serious consent issues
Author's Note: Hope to get the next chapter up Wednesday. Please note I said ‘hope’. The next chapter needs serious work, possibly even rewriting from scratch and probably lots of beta consultation. Am going to try and do as much as I can this weekend but if Wednesday comes and goes and there isn’t a new chapter please don’t yell at me too much, I’ll get it up as soon as I can.
Chapter 1 : Chapter 2 : Chapter 3 : Chapter 4 : Chapter 5 : Chapter 6 : Chapter 7 : Chapter 8 : Chapter 9 : Chapter 10 : Chapter 11 : Chapter 12
For the first time since he had arrived at the Enclave, John finally truly understood what everyone had meant when they talked about Sherlock’s ‘strays’.
Sherlock’s straightforward, “This is Kayla. Her sister did me a favour, so I said she could come here and have an abortion,” was met with barely an eye roll from Lestrade and they were let in without any further problems.
‘Sustained exposure to the outside population’ meant the long route decontamination and its requisite blood tests and poking. Even though he now knew the names of all the medical staff and who was likely to be called in for attendant duty, he still couldn’t tell who it was underneath the hazmat suits. At least whoever it was listened to his instructions to get Kayla properly scanned and examined, and depending on exactly how far along she was – although Kayla was so skinny she couldn’t possibly be that far along – to schedule in the procedure for later that week once the teenager had had the chance to build up her strength with some proper food.
While Kayla went through the tests necessary for initial entry into the Enclave he took Sherlock aside to finally attend to the other man’s wound. It wasn’t that bad, just a slight clip to Sherlock’s side. While it would require stitches and would probably hurt for some time it had at least missed the intestines, although he would be a lot happier when it was properly disinfected.
After administering no doubt much needed painkillers he took his time getting all the threads that had passed from Sherlock’s clothes and the tea towel out with tweezers, then carefully washed the wound with saline. Sherlock remained silent but craned his head around to watch him work, an almost child-like fascination on his face. It was rather endearing actually and he had to work hard to keep from smiling.
He finished cleaning the wound but held off on the stitches for the moment, covering it up with a waterproof dressing instead and helping Sherlock to the showers. The showers with the multitude of chemicals most of that really needed two hands to apply properly. The two hands that Sherlock couldn’t spare as the combination of the painkillers kicking in a flagging of his energy resulted in him having trouble just propping himself up.
Right.
It was the first time John had ever showered with one of his patients, although admittedly not the first time he had showered with one of his lovers. Even excluding showers where getting clean was not the main purpose he had plenty of experience. At university he had gone out with a girl in his class called Peta for four months. They had both been so useless at getting up in time for class after a late night together that they had often showered together as a way to save time. Comparing Sherlock to Peta was even weirder than comparing him to Aiden. The only thing they had in common was that John now knew how it felt to wash both of their hair.
Sherlock’s had more tangles but was oddly softer and he wouldn’t object to running his fingers through it more often.
Sherlock didn’t reciprocate any of the cleaning efforts and instead just watched him while he applied the body soap to himself. The other man’s sharp examining eyes taking him in entirely in a way that should have been far more disturbing and less arousing than he actually found it.
He only paused in the final medical room long enough for them to collect their new wristbands from Helen before he dragged the other man off to the Infirmary to stitch him up properly.
Sherlock remained oddly quiet, a faraway look on his face as John pushed him to lie down on a bed and removed the temporary dressing. It was only when John began numbing the wound that the other man spoke in a hushed tone,
“Moriarty.”
“What’s that?” John asked without looking up from what he was doing.
“The name.”
“The name you were after?”
Still concentrating on his work he couldn’t see the frown but could hear it in Sherlock’s tone when he snapped,
“Of course the name I was after. What other names are important?”
“None worth getting shot for, I guess.”
Sherlock waved the hand closest to him vaguely. “Barely a scratch. Hardly hurts anymore.”
“No?” He reached for the needle and thread then jabbed.
“Ow!”
“Sorry about that. Guess you need some more anaesthetic then.”
He felt the glare.
There was another few minutes of silence before a finger was ran across the shell of his ear, tracing the same route a certain tongue tended to follow. He swallowed.
“You should put a plaster on that,” Sherlock said.
What? Oh, his ear.
“It’s just a nick.”
“Now who’s the one brushing off his wounds?”
“Except that this is just a scratch on my earlobe no worse than a piercing. You have a gouge out of the side of your body, so I think you deserve a bit more of my attention right now.”
“Well I won’t argue with that,” Sherlock said almost under his breath.
John tried not to smile.
“You could make my job a lot easier though if you avoided this sort of thing,” he said after another small pause.
“You do realise that if you are suggesting I should have dodged the bullet that is rather hypocritical of you?”
“No, I’m just saying you shouldn’t be so reckless.”
“Reckless?”
“It seems that every time we go out we end up getting shot at.”
“That’s a gross exaggeration.”
“Not by much.”
“There are a many instances when we were outside and no one shot at us.”
“Really?” he asked, finally looking up after injecting one final dose of anaesthetic.
Sherlock wasn’t looking at him but was gesticulating with his hands as wildly as he could while trying to keep his body as still as possible.
“Take, for example, the first time we met.”
John raised an eyebrow. “And we were attacked by those thugs?”
That wasn’t much of an argument against his.
“But you were the only one who was armed. And while you did shoot in my direction, geographically speaking, you weren’t shooting at me.”
John shook his head and turned his attention back downwards. He tested the skin with another prod of the needle, gentler this time.
“How’s that?”
“I already explained that since the only one shooting was you-“
“No,” he looked back up. “I meant does this hurt, right here right now?”
“Oh,” Sherlock turned his attention back to him, looking mildly surprised as if he had forgotten John was there for anything other than a pleasant conversation. “No, that’s fine.”
Then, after a moment.
“Do you concede the argument?”
“Yes, fine,” he said. “You don’t always get shot at.”
They both fell silent as he concentrated on the stitches for a while. Even though he was using the thickest thread available this would probably need eight. After he had finished five he said,
“But you’re still reckless. I thought you didn’t have scars but they’re all waist down. You’ve got one over here,” he nodded towards one on Sherlock’s thigh just down from where he was working, “that looks like a car knocked into you and I don’t even know what happened to your toe.”
Sherlock started to shift as though he was going to bring his foot up for inspection but John laid a careful hand on his leg to stop him. Instead Sherlock remained still when he said,
“I got it caught in a mouse trap. I was twelve.”
John sucked in a breath in sympathy.
“They had no problems reattaching it.”
“You lost your toe?”
“No,” Sherlock said as if it was obvious. “It was right there. I just picked it up, put it on some ice then got Mummy to drive me to the hospital. As I said they reattached it with no problems and it hasn’t affected my balance to any significant degree.”
There was a pause during which John finished the final stitch and he was glad he had finished as it probably would have been bad to have burst out laughing when he was still mid stitch after Sherlock went on to say,
“Of course that spelled the end to any hopes I may or may not have had of becoming a professional ballet dancer.”
The mental image of Sherlock in pink tights and a white tutu hit so hard he almost fell over from the force of it. If anyone could pull off that look, Sherlock could. He would look so elegant.
Once he could stop laughing he straightened up, beamed a smile at Sherlock and said, “Tragic, you would have been so good at it.”
Sherlock frowned. “Of course I would.”
He laughed again then didn’t resist the urge to place a hand on Sherlock’s chest and kiss him.
When he pulled back Sherlock looked equal parts delighted and surprised. It took a moment for it to sink in exactly why that might be. It was the first time he had ever kissed Sherlock without Sherlock kissing him first. It was the first time he had ever initiated anything in this… whatever it was between them. What was he doing?
Sherlock took hold of the hand on his chest and laced their fingers together. Then he started to pull John towards him, all the while shuffling further away on the bed.
What the…? Was Sherlock…? Did Sherlock want to…? No wait-
“Your stitches,” he managed to stammer out.
Sherlock seemed to pause for a moment, considering, then switched the hand that was holding John’s, reversed his shuffling direction then started to guide John round to the other side of the bed.
Brain temporarily shutting down and unable to take his eyes off the man in front of him he followed where he was led then, on reaching the other side, climbed in so he was lying next to Sherlock. There wasn’t much room, hospital beds not exactly being made for two, but he was able to find a comfortable position slightly on his side, curled around Sherlock’s body. The other man seemed satisfied with that. Sherlock brought their still linked hands up to his mouth and planted a kiss on John’s knuckles. Then he clasped it firmly to his chest before closing his eyes.
John couldn’t help the small fond smile that crossed his lips. Sleep seemed like such a good idea after the day they had had so he let out a sigh, rested his head on the section of pillow between Sherlock’s head and shoulder and decided to join in.
His brain reengaged only long enough for him to think, I think I love him, before he drifted off to sleep.
~
Sherlock was woken by a loud bang as a trolley was pushed through the doors of the Infirmary while someone shouted,
“Well call Mr Wearing then!”
“I have called him,” someone – Helen Webber, he recognised her voice – responded angrily.
“He’s going into cardiac arrest!” a third person said.
He sat up, grunting a little at the pain in his side and immediately noticed a distinct lack of John. The space on the bed beside him was cold so it wasn’t that the doctor had flung himself up to assist with the emergency. He examined the scene. In fact John wasn’t there at all.
Fisher was though.
Helen Webber, assisted by a nurse and two of the guards from the cells where Fisher had been being kept, was attempting to resuscitate an unconscious Fisher with multiple shocks from a defibrillator.
“What happened,” he asked, getting to his feet just as Helen shocked Fisher for the third time.
“Sinus!” the nurse – whose name he had never bothered to learn – said.
Helen didn’t answer him. “Do a blood test. I want to check for any abnormalities. Particularly his blood oxygen levels, his skin is completely pink.”
The nurse nodded and set to work. Before Sherlock could ask again the doors were pushed open and Wearing charged in.
“What happened?”
Infuriatingly Helen answered him when he asked.
“Not sure. Apparently he collapsed during his dinner and started to seize. Could be food allergy, his food has been changed.”
“Changed?” Sherlock stepped forward. “How?”
“He was on standard prison rations,” one of the guards said. “But we got notice through today that it had to be changed to a strictly vegetarian diet. He got some kind of vegetable curry tonight.”
“Why the change?”
The guard shrugged. “Medical reasons, they said.”
“Who’s they? Who signed the order?”
“Doctor John Watson.”
John? No!
“Did he give the orders personally?”
“It just came through on the system with his signature on it when the food came down. It checked out so we let it through. We swear we didn’t know he was allergic-”
“He’s not allergic, you imbecile, he was deliberately poisoned.”
“Poisoned?”
Oh for goodness sake, Helen sounded hysterical. Must everyone around him be so incompetent?
“Cyanide poisoning, isn’t it obvious?”
“I concur,” Wearing said, shocking Sherlock to a standstill. “He’s showing all the classic signs and it would have been easy enough to slip it into a vegetable curry. If there’s any left or if he vomited at all I’d like it tested as soon as possible to confirm it before I administer an antidote. Hurry.”
The man was actually mildly capable of his job, how astonishing.
But what was John’s signature doing on the food order? There was no reason for Fisher to be switched to a vegetarian diet other than to offer a meal where the almond smell of cyanide wouldn’t be out of place. John wouldn’t have anything to do with that. Couldn’t.
“Where’s John?” he asked.
The exasperated tone to Helen’s reply told him he wasn’t the first to ask. “I don’t know. I tried calling him but he isn’t answering his phone.”
Sherlock took his mobile out and tried for himself. Straight to voicemail. Why had John turned his mobile off? Something had to be wrong. John had no reason to try and kill Fisher. But no one else knew where Fisher was and it was a rather large coincidence that Fisher was fine in captivity for a month but the day after Sherlock and John had had an interview with him an attempt was made on his life. No, it was inconceivable. But where was John?
Leaving the medical team to their business he headed straight for the security office.
Unfortunately, Donovan was on duty.
“What do you want, freak?”
He aimed for business-like. “I need to know the location of Doctor Watson.”
“I can’t go into the security database every time one of your strays slips its leads,” she said with a smile.
The smile vanished when Sherlock dropped both his hands onto the desk in front of her so he could look her straight in the eye. “You just registered an emergency alert in the cells which then triggered a medical alert in the Blue Zone Infirmary. Don’t you think it should concern you a little if the doctor who should be responsible for that infirmary just happens to go missing at that point?”
She stared him down for a few more seconds, then humphed and started typing something into her computer.
“Records show the last door his wristband was registered at was B202.”
“That’s the corridor to the embarkation bays,” he mused aloud.
“That was an hour ago, no registered activity after that.”
He went round to her side of the desk, leaning over her shoulder to look at the screen and ignored the annoyed expression on her face as she leaned away from him.
“Was there any other registered activity at that door around the same time.”
She clicked a few buttons.
“One other wristband was registered at that door the exact same time as Watson passed through it. Colonel Sebastian Moran.”
Dammit, he had told John to stay away from him.
“What was the last registered activity for Colonel Moran?”
More buttons.
“E2.” She frowned. “He’s left the Enclave? There aren’t any registered excursions for today.”
“Three minutes after he and John entered the corridor right outside together. He cut off John’s wristband and they left together.”
“Someone has altered his permissions,” Donovan said, her frown deepening if at all possible. “So it wouldn’t give off an alert when he left.” She turned her head to look at him. “If you weren’t standing here panicking I’d say this was your work.”
John had left the Enclave the same way Sherlock and John had left a dozen times before. No, it wasn’t possible. John couldn’t be working with Moran, helping him send information on the collectors all this time. John hated collectors. Had shot collectors.
But he had been friends with Moran….
No. John had to have been tricked or forced to leave against his will. His signature had to have been faked. No.
For the first time in his life he didn’t know what to think.
~
When John had woken up that evening, his head pressed into Sherlock’s curls and his arm wrapped around Sherlock’s chest he remembered what he had thought just before he had fallen asleep and the first thing that went through his mind was, Shit.
Because it was insane. It was completely insane. This arrangement with Sherlock had been manageable, he could deal with it, they both got what they wanted out of it. But now he had fallen in love? With someone who had climbed into his bed without permission and was holding his future over his head in exchange for sexual favours? That was about as screwed up as it got. He had even invited Sherlock to his bedroom, was he mad? He had liked Sherlock, he had genuinely liked him as a person and even as a friend but this was… he didn’t know, some really weird version of Stockholm syndrome or something and he had to get out, he just had to.
He had to get Harry and now it couldn’t possibly be a case of trying to talk Sherlock into letting them both back into the Enclave, he had to get them both as far away as possible.
He had gone to see Seb and told him he needed out immediately. Seb jumped at the chance; the man had already been packing. Within ten minutes they were in a jeep driving as fast away from the Enclave as the debris stridden streets would let them.
Now they were free of the city, driving through the countryside heading into the slowly sinking sun.
Neither of them said anything. John was trying not to think about Sherlock or the Enclave or what he and Harry were going to do afterwards. It was tough; the thoughts kept creeping into the back of his mind, so he was forced to retaliate by not thinking at all. That didn’t leave a lot of brain power for small talk. Seb was concentrating on the road, dodging obstacles and keeping to whatever route he must have memorised because the colonel never paused to look at a map as far as John could see. The only time Seb said anything was when his mobile rang about forty-five minutes into the drive. Seb suggested he turn it off lest Mycroft use it to track them, so he obeyed.
It was strange being around Seb when he was so quiet. John was so used to Seb in chatty mode on his breaks, talking about this that and nothing in particular. He supposed this was Seb in concentration mode, like he would be when he was out on a mission. It was a little odd though. John had thought that Seb would be even chattier on their journey due to the excitement of finally getting away to his fairytale. He expected to be bombarded with information about the place but his expectations had clearly been wrong. Seb told him nothing about where they were going. Not a thing.
Shortly after the phone call they took a turn towards the north and over a bridge over a motorway. John started to pay more attention to their surroundings. The only place name he recognised was ‘Woking’ but they seemed to be heading in the opposite direction to that. They were on ‘Windsor Road’ but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
“Where is this place anyway?” he finally asked as they went past signs for ‘Sunninghale’ which could have been anywhere quite frankly.
Seb chuckled. “Somewhere the Enclave lot would never expect.”
“Do they know we’re coming?”
“I called ahead,” Seb said, shark-like grin firmly in place. “There might even be a welcome party.”
That sign said ‘Ascot’. As in the race track? Wasn’t that not too far away from Sandhurst? He needed to get a grip on where they were if he and Harry were going to get away. They were going too fast for him to see the next sign.
Seb took a turn off through an open gate and into what looked like it had once been a country park. There were fresh grass and new plants everywhere, the shoots and beginnings of a new forest beside the old, burnt one. Except that John could see tree stumps through the torn and tattered remains of the outer trees of the old woods. Too deep into the trees to be the Event and too cleanly cut to be the weather. They had been chopped down recently by someone. In fact, by the looks of it, quite a few had been chopped down. They had to be close.
Then he saw it.
“Bloody hell, that’s Windsor Castle!”
Seb grinned. “Yep.”
“That’s the place?”
“Yeah.”
“You said it was a farm.”
“Don’t worry, there’s a farm too.”
There were also two men, armed to the teeth, guarding a gate where the long straight road through the grounds intersected with what looked like a main road.
“Heavy security,” he said, wishing he had his gun with him.
“Has to be,” Seb said.
They didn’t stop but slowed down just enough for the men to acknowledge Seb’s professional nod and wave them on. The men clearly recognised Seb on sight. Despite Seb having said he had never been here before.
Shit.
He reached into his pocket as surreptitiously as possible and tried to turn his mobile back on. He really hoped the cheery noise it made on start-up wouldn’t be audible over the sound of the engine. His hopes were dashed when Seb, without taking his eyes off the road in front, held out his hand and said,
“Hand it over, Doc.”
He considered refusing. He considered that that was probably a bad idea. He handed it over and the other man pocketed it.
“And before you start trying to work out whether you could survive jumping from the vehicle going at this speed,” Seb said in the same tone of voice someone would use to talk about how mild the weather had been of late, “the doors are locked.”
John stared out the window as they approached the castle. He had never been to Windsor before. These were the last circumstances under which he had ever thought he would visit it. Desecrating a royal palace like this seemed so… unpatriotic.
“Do you even have a sister?” he asked.
“Not anymore.”
“Did they recruit you at the same time as Fisher?” he asked meaning, have I been an idiot all this time or just for a bit of it?
Seb laughed. “Fisher was just a lackey. Thanks for letting me know he was still alive, by the way, gave me the chance to remedy that.”
He felt sick.
“No, I’ve been in this game a long time. Look, didn’t I promise you a welcome party?”
There were at least eight armed guards waiting at the gate of the castle as Seb pulled up, all marking him very carefully. He deliberately kept calm. If they wanted him dead Seb could have pulled over and shot him shortly after they left the Enclave. They wanted him for something – had wanted him for three months since the first time they came after him in the West End – and that something involved him being alive. As Seb got out the jeep and walked round to his side he tried not to think about whether the fact that he had killed a large number of their men in that time could alter that assumption.
Seb opened his door and grabbed his arm, so he climbed out of the jeep before he could be pulled out. The guns tracked his movement.
“Arms behind your back,” Seb said, accepting a pair of handcuffs that were offered to him by one of the guards – whose gun didn’t waver during the gesture.
He raised his eyebrow and looked around at the guards. “What exactly do you expect me to do?”
“Let’s just say some of the lads aren’t comfortable being around a trained soldier who can find the jugular vein first time,” Seb said, serious face on. “Especially one who’s killed six of their mates. Now arms behind your back.”
With little choice to do otherwise, he clasped his hands together behind him and turned around.
“You’re a right bastard, Seb,” he said as the colonel clapped the handcuffs around his wrists.
“Language,” Seb said, warningly before grabbing his shoulder and dragging him forcefully into the building.
If the embassy had been lavish this was opulence with a cherry on top. Red velvet carpeting, gold bordered wallpaper, chandeliers hanging from high elegantly decorated ceilings and suits of armour lining the walls. Someone had clearly gone to a lot of effort to maintain the place, or at least made sure someone else went to a lot of effort to maintain it. A young woman in a maid’s outfit and a metal collar paused in her work with a large feather duster to watch them go past. She flinched and skittered back to her dusting when Seb turned to look at her.
“I’d give you the grand tour,” the colonel said as he pulled John along the corridors. “But you won’t need it. You won’t be seeing outside of the one room that often.”
“Where’s Harry?” John asked.
Seb snorted. “How should I know? They would have sent her back to work as soon as I sent word you were coming.”
“What work?”
Seb grinned. “Well, she wasn’t exactly a looker so she won’t be a house slave now, will she?”
He was going to shake off Seb’s grip, kick him in the skin followed swiftly by the solar plexus, back of the shoulders and head. Then he was going to break his own hand to get out of the handcuffs, steal Seb’s handgun then shoot every single one of the group of soldiers who were travelling down the stairs they were currently going up.
“I want to see her,” he said, calmly, leaving Seb’s grip where it was.
“Keep wanting, Doc, not going to happen.”
They went past the group of soldiers who halted immediately and saluted. Seb acknowledged the salute without stopping.
“Right now,” the colonel went on. “His Majesty wants to see you.”
Chapter 14
Author:
trillsabellsBeta:
jupiter_ashRating: This chapter R, NC17 overall
Length: This Chapter 4500, overall nearly 100k
Spoilers: None
Summary: On 29 January 2010 an unknown Event wiped out 98% of the population. This is the story of the survivors, four months on. Based on this prompt here
Warnings (for entire fic): Starts with the death of over 6 billion people and goes downhill from there. Death, destruction, disease, violence, fire, plane crashes, slavery, graphic sex and serious consent issues
Author's Note: Hope to get the next chapter up Wednesday. Please note I said ‘hope’. The next chapter needs serious work, possibly even rewriting from scratch and probably lots of beta consultation. Am going to try and do as much as I can this weekend but if Wednesday comes and goes and there isn’t a new chapter please don’t yell at me too much, I’ll get it up as soon as I can.
Chapter 1 : Chapter 2 : Chapter 3 : Chapter 4 : Chapter 5 : Chapter 6 : Chapter 7 : Chapter 8 : Chapter 9 : Chapter 10 : Chapter 11 : Chapter 12
For the first time since he had arrived at the Enclave, John finally truly understood what everyone had meant when they talked about Sherlock’s ‘strays’.
Sherlock’s straightforward, “This is Kayla. Her sister did me a favour, so I said she could come here and have an abortion,” was met with barely an eye roll from Lestrade and they were let in without any further problems.
‘Sustained exposure to the outside population’ meant the long route decontamination and its requisite blood tests and poking. Even though he now knew the names of all the medical staff and who was likely to be called in for attendant duty, he still couldn’t tell who it was underneath the hazmat suits. At least whoever it was listened to his instructions to get Kayla properly scanned and examined, and depending on exactly how far along she was – although Kayla was so skinny she couldn’t possibly be that far along – to schedule in the procedure for later that week once the teenager had had the chance to build up her strength with some proper food.
While Kayla went through the tests necessary for initial entry into the Enclave he took Sherlock aside to finally attend to the other man’s wound. It wasn’t that bad, just a slight clip to Sherlock’s side. While it would require stitches and would probably hurt for some time it had at least missed the intestines, although he would be a lot happier when it was properly disinfected.
After administering no doubt much needed painkillers he took his time getting all the threads that had passed from Sherlock’s clothes and the tea towel out with tweezers, then carefully washed the wound with saline. Sherlock remained silent but craned his head around to watch him work, an almost child-like fascination on his face. It was rather endearing actually and he had to work hard to keep from smiling.
He finished cleaning the wound but held off on the stitches for the moment, covering it up with a waterproof dressing instead and helping Sherlock to the showers. The showers with the multitude of chemicals most of that really needed two hands to apply properly. The two hands that Sherlock couldn’t spare as the combination of the painkillers kicking in a flagging of his energy resulted in him having trouble just propping himself up.
Right.
It was the first time John had ever showered with one of his patients, although admittedly not the first time he had showered with one of his lovers. Even excluding showers where getting clean was not the main purpose he had plenty of experience. At university he had gone out with a girl in his class called Peta for four months. They had both been so useless at getting up in time for class after a late night together that they had often showered together as a way to save time. Comparing Sherlock to Peta was even weirder than comparing him to Aiden. The only thing they had in common was that John now knew how it felt to wash both of their hair.
Sherlock’s had more tangles but was oddly softer and he wouldn’t object to running his fingers through it more often.
Sherlock didn’t reciprocate any of the cleaning efforts and instead just watched him while he applied the body soap to himself. The other man’s sharp examining eyes taking him in entirely in a way that should have been far more disturbing and less arousing than he actually found it.
He only paused in the final medical room long enough for them to collect their new wristbands from Helen before he dragged the other man off to the Infirmary to stitch him up properly.
Sherlock remained oddly quiet, a faraway look on his face as John pushed him to lie down on a bed and removed the temporary dressing. It was only when John began numbing the wound that the other man spoke in a hushed tone,
“Moriarty.”
“What’s that?” John asked without looking up from what he was doing.
“The name.”
“The name you were after?”
Still concentrating on his work he couldn’t see the frown but could hear it in Sherlock’s tone when he snapped,
“Of course the name I was after. What other names are important?”
“None worth getting shot for, I guess.”
Sherlock waved the hand closest to him vaguely. “Barely a scratch. Hardly hurts anymore.”
“No?” He reached for the needle and thread then jabbed.
“Ow!”
“Sorry about that. Guess you need some more anaesthetic then.”
He felt the glare.
There was another few minutes of silence before a finger was ran across the shell of his ear, tracing the same route a certain tongue tended to follow. He swallowed.
“You should put a plaster on that,” Sherlock said.
What? Oh, his ear.
“It’s just a nick.”
“Now who’s the one brushing off his wounds?”
“Except that this is just a scratch on my earlobe no worse than a piercing. You have a gouge out of the side of your body, so I think you deserve a bit more of my attention right now.”
“Well I won’t argue with that,” Sherlock said almost under his breath.
John tried not to smile.
“You could make my job a lot easier though if you avoided this sort of thing,” he said after another small pause.
“You do realise that if you are suggesting I should have dodged the bullet that is rather hypocritical of you?”
“No, I’m just saying you shouldn’t be so reckless.”
“Reckless?”
“It seems that every time we go out we end up getting shot at.”
“That’s a gross exaggeration.”
“Not by much.”
“There are a many instances when we were outside and no one shot at us.”
“Really?” he asked, finally looking up after injecting one final dose of anaesthetic.
Sherlock wasn’t looking at him but was gesticulating with his hands as wildly as he could while trying to keep his body as still as possible.
“Take, for example, the first time we met.”
John raised an eyebrow. “And we were attacked by those thugs?”
That wasn’t much of an argument against his.
“But you were the only one who was armed. And while you did shoot in my direction, geographically speaking, you weren’t shooting at me.”
John shook his head and turned his attention back downwards. He tested the skin with another prod of the needle, gentler this time.
“How’s that?”
“I already explained that since the only one shooting was you-“
“No,” he looked back up. “I meant does this hurt, right here right now?”
“Oh,” Sherlock turned his attention back to him, looking mildly surprised as if he had forgotten John was there for anything other than a pleasant conversation. “No, that’s fine.”
Then, after a moment.
“Do you concede the argument?”
“Yes, fine,” he said. “You don’t always get shot at.”
They both fell silent as he concentrated on the stitches for a while. Even though he was using the thickest thread available this would probably need eight. After he had finished five he said,
“But you’re still reckless. I thought you didn’t have scars but they’re all waist down. You’ve got one over here,” he nodded towards one on Sherlock’s thigh just down from where he was working, “that looks like a car knocked into you and I don’t even know what happened to your toe.”
Sherlock started to shift as though he was going to bring his foot up for inspection but John laid a careful hand on his leg to stop him. Instead Sherlock remained still when he said,
“I got it caught in a mouse trap. I was twelve.”
John sucked in a breath in sympathy.
“They had no problems reattaching it.”
“You lost your toe?”
“No,” Sherlock said as if it was obvious. “It was right there. I just picked it up, put it on some ice then got Mummy to drive me to the hospital. As I said they reattached it with no problems and it hasn’t affected my balance to any significant degree.”
There was a pause during which John finished the final stitch and he was glad he had finished as it probably would have been bad to have burst out laughing when he was still mid stitch after Sherlock went on to say,
“Of course that spelled the end to any hopes I may or may not have had of becoming a professional ballet dancer.”
The mental image of Sherlock in pink tights and a white tutu hit so hard he almost fell over from the force of it. If anyone could pull off that look, Sherlock could. He would look so elegant.
Once he could stop laughing he straightened up, beamed a smile at Sherlock and said, “Tragic, you would have been so good at it.”
Sherlock frowned. “Of course I would.”
He laughed again then didn’t resist the urge to place a hand on Sherlock’s chest and kiss him.
When he pulled back Sherlock looked equal parts delighted and surprised. It took a moment for it to sink in exactly why that might be. It was the first time he had ever kissed Sherlock without Sherlock kissing him first. It was the first time he had ever initiated anything in this… whatever it was between them. What was he doing?
Sherlock took hold of the hand on his chest and laced their fingers together. Then he started to pull John towards him, all the while shuffling further away on the bed.
What the…? Was Sherlock…? Did Sherlock want to…? No wait-
“Your stitches,” he managed to stammer out.
Sherlock seemed to pause for a moment, considering, then switched the hand that was holding John’s, reversed his shuffling direction then started to guide John round to the other side of the bed.
Brain temporarily shutting down and unable to take his eyes off the man in front of him he followed where he was led then, on reaching the other side, climbed in so he was lying next to Sherlock. There wasn’t much room, hospital beds not exactly being made for two, but he was able to find a comfortable position slightly on his side, curled around Sherlock’s body. The other man seemed satisfied with that. Sherlock brought their still linked hands up to his mouth and planted a kiss on John’s knuckles. Then he clasped it firmly to his chest before closing his eyes.
John couldn’t help the small fond smile that crossed his lips. Sleep seemed like such a good idea after the day they had had so he let out a sigh, rested his head on the section of pillow between Sherlock’s head and shoulder and decided to join in.
His brain reengaged only long enough for him to think, I think I love him, before he drifted off to sleep.
~
Sherlock was woken by a loud bang as a trolley was pushed through the doors of the Infirmary while someone shouted,
“Well call Mr Wearing then!”
“I have called him,” someone – Helen Webber, he recognised her voice – responded angrily.
“He’s going into cardiac arrest!” a third person said.
He sat up, grunting a little at the pain in his side and immediately noticed a distinct lack of John. The space on the bed beside him was cold so it wasn’t that the doctor had flung himself up to assist with the emergency. He examined the scene. In fact John wasn’t there at all.
Fisher was though.
Helen Webber, assisted by a nurse and two of the guards from the cells where Fisher had been being kept, was attempting to resuscitate an unconscious Fisher with multiple shocks from a defibrillator.
“What happened,” he asked, getting to his feet just as Helen shocked Fisher for the third time.
“Sinus!” the nurse – whose name he had never bothered to learn – said.
Helen didn’t answer him. “Do a blood test. I want to check for any abnormalities. Particularly his blood oxygen levels, his skin is completely pink.”
The nurse nodded and set to work. Before Sherlock could ask again the doors were pushed open and Wearing charged in.
“What happened?”
Infuriatingly Helen answered him when he asked.
“Not sure. Apparently he collapsed during his dinner and started to seize. Could be food allergy, his food has been changed.”
“Changed?” Sherlock stepped forward. “How?”
“He was on standard prison rations,” one of the guards said. “But we got notice through today that it had to be changed to a strictly vegetarian diet. He got some kind of vegetable curry tonight.”
“Why the change?”
The guard shrugged. “Medical reasons, they said.”
“Who’s they? Who signed the order?”
“Doctor John Watson.”
John? No!
“Did he give the orders personally?”
“It just came through on the system with his signature on it when the food came down. It checked out so we let it through. We swear we didn’t know he was allergic-”
“He’s not allergic, you imbecile, he was deliberately poisoned.”
“Poisoned?”
Oh for goodness sake, Helen sounded hysterical. Must everyone around him be so incompetent?
“Cyanide poisoning, isn’t it obvious?”
“I concur,” Wearing said, shocking Sherlock to a standstill. “He’s showing all the classic signs and it would have been easy enough to slip it into a vegetable curry. If there’s any left or if he vomited at all I’d like it tested as soon as possible to confirm it before I administer an antidote. Hurry.”
The man was actually mildly capable of his job, how astonishing.
But what was John’s signature doing on the food order? There was no reason for Fisher to be switched to a vegetarian diet other than to offer a meal where the almond smell of cyanide wouldn’t be out of place. John wouldn’t have anything to do with that. Couldn’t.
“Where’s John?” he asked.
The exasperated tone to Helen’s reply told him he wasn’t the first to ask. “I don’t know. I tried calling him but he isn’t answering his phone.”
Sherlock took his mobile out and tried for himself. Straight to voicemail. Why had John turned his mobile off? Something had to be wrong. John had no reason to try and kill Fisher. But no one else knew where Fisher was and it was a rather large coincidence that Fisher was fine in captivity for a month but the day after Sherlock and John had had an interview with him an attempt was made on his life. No, it was inconceivable. But where was John?
Leaving the medical team to their business he headed straight for the security office.
Unfortunately, Donovan was on duty.
“What do you want, freak?”
He aimed for business-like. “I need to know the location of Doctor Watson.”
“I can’t go into the security database every time one of your strays slips its leads,” she said with a smile.
The smile vanished when Sherlock dropped both his hands onto the desk in front of her so he could look her straight in the eye. “You just registered an emergency alert in the cells which then triggered a medical alert in the Blue Zone Infirmary. Don’t you think it should concern you a little if the doctor who should be responsible for that infirmary just happens to go missing at that point?”
She stared him down for a few more seconds, then humphed and started typing something into her computer.
“Records show the last door his wristband was registered at was B202.”
“That’s the corridor to the embarkation bays,” he mused aloud.
“That was an hour ago, no registered activity after that.”
He went round to her side of the desk, leaning over her shoulder to look at the screen and ignored the annoyed expression on her face as she leaned away from him.
“Was there any other registered activity at that door around the same time.”
She clicked a few buttons.
“One other wristband was registered at that door the exact same time as Watson passed through it. Colonel Sebastian Moran.”
Dammit, he had told John to stay away from him.
“What was the last registered activity for Colonel Moran?”
More buttons.
“E2.” She frowned. “He’s left the Enclave? There aren’t any registered excursions for today.”
“Three minutes after he and John entered the corridor right outside together. He cut off John’s wristband and they left together.”
“Someone has altered his permissions,” Donovan said, her frown deepening if at all possible. “So it wouldn’t give off an alert when he left.” She turned her head to look at him. “If you weren’t standing here panicking I’d say this was your work.”
John had left the Enclave the same way Sherlock and John had left a dozen times before. No, it wasn’t possible. John couldn’t be working with Moran, helping him send information on the collectors all this time. John hated collectors. Had shot collectors.
But he had been friends with Moran….
No. John had to have been tricked or forced to leave against his will. His signature had to have been faked. No.
For the first time in his life he didn’t know what to think.
~
When John had woken up that evening, his head pressed into Sherlock’s curls and his arm wrapped around Sherlock’s chest he remembered what he had thought just before he had fallen asleep and the first thing that went through his mind was, Shit.
Because it was insane. It was completely insane. This arrangement with Sherlock had been manageable, he could deal with it, they both got what they wanted out of it. But now he had fallen in love? With someone who had climbed into his bed without permission and was holding his future over his head in exchange for sexual favours? That was about as screwed up as it got. He had even invited Sherlock to his bedroom, was he mad? He had liked Sherlock, he had genuinely liked him as a person and even as a friend but this was… he didn’t know, some really weird version of Stockholm syndrome or something and he had to get out, he just had to.
He had to get Harry and now it couldn’t possibly be a case of trying to talk Sherlock into letting them both back into the Enclave, he had to get them both as far away as possible.
He had gone to see Seb and told him he needed out immediately. Seb jumped at the chance; the man had already been packing. Within ten minutes they were in a jeep driving as fast away from the Enclave as the debris stridden streets would let them.
Now they were free of the city, driving through the countryside heading into the slowly sinking sun.
Neither of them said anything. John was trying not to think about Sherlock or the Enclave or what he and Harry were going to do afterwards. It was tough; the thoughts kept creeping into the back of his mind, so he was forced to retaliate by not thinking at all. That didn’t leave a lot of brain power for small talk. Seb was concentrating on the road, dodging obstacles and keeping to whatever route he must have memorised because the colonel never paused to look at a map as far as John could see. The only time Seb said anything was when his mobile rang about forty-five minutes into the drive. Seb suggested he turn it off lest Mycroft use it to track them, so he obeyed.
It was strange being around Seb when he was so quiet. John was so used to Seb in chatty mode on his breaks, talking about this that and nothing in particular. He supposed this was Seb in concentration mode, like he would be when he was out on a mission. It was a little odd though. John had thought that Seb would be even chattier on their journey due to the excitement of finally getting away to his fairytale. He expected to be bombarded with information about the place but his expectations had clearly been wrong. Seb told him nothing about where they were going. Not a thing.
Shortly after the phone call they took a turn towards the north and over a bridge over a motorway. John started to pay more attention to their surroundings. The only place name he recognised was ‘Woking’ but they seemed to be heading in the opposite direction to that. They were on ‘Windsor Road’ but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
“Where is this place anyway?” he finally asked as they went past signs for ‘Sunninghale’ which could have been anywhere quite frankly.
Seb chuckled. “Somewhere the Enclave lot would never expect.”
“Do they know we’re coming?”
“I called ahead,” Seb said, shark-like grin firmly in place. “There might even be a welcome party.”
That sign said ‘Ascot’. As in the race track? Wasn’t that not too far away from Sandhurst? He needed to get a grip on where they were if he and Harry were going to get away. They were going too fast for him to see the next sign.
Seb took a turn off through an open gate and into what looked like it had once been a country park. There were fresh grass and new plants everywhere, the shoots and beginnings of a new forest beside the old, burnt one. Except that John could see tree stumps through the torn and tattered remains of the outer trees of the old woods. Too deep into the trees to be the Event and too cleanly cut to be the weather. They had been chopped down recently by someone. In fact, by the looks of it, quite a few had been chopped down. They had to be close.
Then he saw it.
“Bloody hell, that’s Windsor Castle!”
Seb grinned. “Yep.”
“That’s the place?”
“Yeah.”
“You said it was a farm.”
“Don’t worry, there’s a farm too.”
There were also two men, armed to the teeth, guarding a gate where the long straight road through the grounds intersected with what looked like a main road.
“Heavy security,” he said, wishing he had his gun with him.
“Has to be,” Seb said.
They didn’t stop but slowed down just enough for the men to acknowledge Seb’s professional nod and wave them on. The men clearly recognised Seb on sight. Despite Seb having said he had never been here before.
Shit.
He reached into his pocket as surreptitiously as possible and tried to turn his mobile back on. He really hoped the cheery noise it made on start-up wouldn’t be audible over the sound of the engine. His hopes were dashed when Seb, without taking his eyes off the road in front, held out his hand and said,
“Hand it over, Doc.”
He considered refusing. He considered that that was probably a bad idea. He handed it over and the other man pocketed it.
“And before you start trying to work out whether you could survive jumping from the vehicle going at this speed,” Seb said in the same tone of voice someone would use to talk about how mild the weather had been of late, “the doors are locked.”
John stared out the window as they approached the castle. He had never been to Windsor before. These were the last circumstances under which he had ever thought he would visit it. Desecrating a royal palace like this seemed so… unpatriotic.
“Do you even have a sister?” he asked.
“Not anymore.”
“Did they recruit you at the same time as Fisher?” he asked meaning, have I been an idiot all this time or just for a bit of it?
Seb laughed. “Fisher was just a lackey. Thanks for letting me know he was still alive, by the way, gave me the chance to remedy that.”
He felt sick.
“No, I’ve been in this game a long time. Look, didn’t I promise you a welcome party?”
There were at least eight armed guards waiting at the gate of the castle as Seb pulled up, all marking him very carefully. He deliberately kept calm. If they wanted him dead Seb could have pulled over and shot him shortly after they left the Enclave. They wanted him for something – had wanted him for three months since the first time they came after him in the West End – and that something involved him being alive. As Seb got out the jeep and walked round to his side he tried not to think about whether the fact that he had killed a large number of their men in that time could alter that assumption.
Seb opened his door and grabbed his arm, so he climbed out of the jeep before he could be pulled out. The guns tracked his movement.
“Arms behind your back,” Seb said, accepting a pair of handcuffs that were offered to him by one of the guards – whose gun didn’t waver during the gesture.
He raised his eyebrow and looked around at the guards. “What exactly do you expect me to do?”
“Let’s just say some of the lads aren’t comfortable being around a trained soldier who can find the jugular vein first time,” Seb said, serious face on. “Especially one who’s killed six of their mates. Now arms behind your back.”
With little choice to do otherwise, he clasped his hands together behind him and turned around.
“You’re a right bastard, Seb,” he said as the colonel clapped the handcuffs around his wrists.
“Language,” Seb said, warningly before grabbing his shoulder and dragging him forcefully into the building.
If the embassy had been lavish this was opulence with a cherry on top. Red velvet carpeting, gold bordered wallpaper, chandeliers hanging from high elegantly decorated ceilings and suits of armour lining the walls. Someone had clearly gone to a lot of effort to maintain the place, or at least made sure someone else went to a lot of effort to maintain it. A young woman in a maid’s outfit and a metal collar paused in her work with a large feather duster to watch them go past. She flinched and skittered back to her dusting when Seb turned to look at her.
“I’d give you the grand tour,” the colonel said as he pulled John along the corridors. “But you won’t need it. You won’t be seeing outside of the one room that often.”
“Where’s Harry?” John asked.
Seb snorted. “How should I know? They would have sent her back to work as soon as I sent word you were coming.”
“What work?”
Seb grinned. “Well, she wasn’t exactly a looker so she won’t be a house slave now, will she?”
He was going to shake off Seb’s grip, kick him in the skin followed swiftly by the solar plexus, back of the shoulders and head. Then he was going to break his own hand to get out of the handcuffs, steal Seb’s handgun then shoot every single one of the group of soldiers who were travelling down the stairs they were currently going up.
“I want to see her,” he said, calmly, leaving Seb’s grip where it was.
“Keep wanting, Doc, not going to happen.”
They went past the group of soldiers who halted immediately and saluted. Seb acknowledged the salute without stopping.
“Right now,” the colonel went on. “His Majesty wants to see you.”
Chapter 14
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-01-20 04:58 pm (UTC)Anyway, love the way this is shaping up, please post more soon!
no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:22 pm (UTC)Thank you! More up now
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2012-01-20 05:09 pm (UTC)so very exciting!!
please-please!!!! don't take to long to post next chap!!!
no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-20 06:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:27 pm (UTC)Sherlock and Mycroft... um... more next chapter. Which is up now! Gone to bed yet? :)
Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2012-01-20 06:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:29 pm (UTC):D
Hand on heart this was written before the new series, I swear.
New part up now! Hope you like!
no subject
Date: 2012-01-20 06:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-20 06:26 pm (UTC)This will be interesting to see how it all plays out.
Pirate Sherlock to the swashbuckling rescue? Arrrgh! Since ballet!Sherlock is clearly ruled out... I kid, I kid....
Best of luck wrestling out the next chapter! :D
no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:31 pm (UTC)Sorry where was I?
Thanks! Managed to wrangle the chapter to the ground and then
no subject
Date: 2012-01-20 07:16 pm (UTC)Loved the scene of John stitching Sherlock back up. So lovely. And it made the next bit even more painful.
Thankfully, not Reichenbach painful. Thank you for being a little gentle with us. ;-)
no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-20 07:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-20 09:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-20 09:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-20 09:34 pm (UTC)Damn John why must we finally get somewhere with your feelings only for you to go right into a trap?
Also Sherlock, still failing I see. Have faith in John damn it D:
(totally not talking to fictional characters)
Wait, only 3 parts left? I'm not ready. Loved it, as usual.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:37 pm (UTC)Because :)
*shakes head*
(totally are!)
Me either! Glad you like it!
no subject
Date: 2012-01-21 01:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-21 02:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-21 11:39 am (UTC)BRI-LLI-ANT!
no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-21 12:00 pm (UTC)John! Wake up and see Sherlock loves you and is not using you for sex!
Sherlock hurry up and rescue John!
Seb. Die in a fire.
*sets up tent waiting for next part*
no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:42 pm (UTC)Thank you!
*offers marshmallows for your campfire*
no subject
Date: 2012-01-21 12:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-21 03:36 pm (UTC)I absolutely can't wait for the next!
no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-21 04:54 pm (UTC)Please, Sherlock, find him soon!!!
(I love this fic so much. The plot is great, and I love what you've done with the characters in it.)
no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-21 06:28 pm (UTC)Want! Want! ARGH!
no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:46 pm (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2012-01-21 07:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-22 08:26 am (UTC)I cannot wait for the next update.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-22 09:19 am (UTC)That, is one evil cliffhanger. And gah, men. I feel sad that they didn't talk about their feelings to one another, and oh, the consequences!
Loved the scene where John kissed Sherlock for the first time. I felt a fuzzy, warm feelings for it ♥
no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:51 pm (UTC)I like their kiss too so I'm especially glad you like it!
Thanks for commenting!
no subject
Date: 2012-01-22 09:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-22 07:21 pm (UTC)Enjoying this so much--I'm always looking forward to the next installment.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-25 09:53 pm (UTC)Glad you're enjoying it! Next instalment up now
no subject
Date: 2012-01-22 08:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-23 05:30 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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