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Series: Sherlock BBC
Prompt: John is a mastermind with his own agenda.
Synopsis: John can't stop Sherlock from meeting with Moriarty without blowing his cover: the John Watson everyone knows is just a front.
Rating: PG-13, swearing and violence
The problem with geniuses is that when they are wrong, they are very good at convincing themselves they are right. For the most part that had worked in John’s favor. It was easy to convince Sherlock that he was simply the soldier/doctor with an eye for danger and nigh inhuman patience.
Now, though, Sherlock’s mistake was going to make things very difficult.
“She’s my landlady,” he said, pointedly not looking at John. Expecting John to be too exhausted, emotionally and physically, too overcome by worry for Mrs. Hudson to press the issue. Sherlock had been distant and fidgety the entire night. If he’d just been bored or frustrated he would be acting out. No, Sherlock was plotting something and didn’t want John there for it. This was just like last time, when he had made that bloody stupid plan to meet Moriarty at the pool.
If John stays, he could ruin his whole cover. Years of maneuvering would be done in by one uncharacteristic moment. If he leaves, Sherlock would meet Moriarty. One or both of them would end up dead. Their deaths wouldn’t completely ruin the plan, but would make it much more difficult.
So he leaves.
As soon as he walks out of Bart’s John takes his phone back out and dials a number. It rings three times.
“Wondered when you’d call,” says Moran.
-----------
A bullet ripped through the air three meters to John’s right. Corporal Laurence faltered. His right leg collapsed beneath him. In the seconds it took for John to rush to his aid, another bullet had hit the Corporal’s left leg.
“Shit,” John swore. “Laurence, stay with me.” The Corporal had only shouted in pain for a moment. He was in shock. John took out a knife and sliced open the Corporal’s trousers around the bullet holes. The first one was mostly a graze. The second was deeper, but hadn’t hit the femoral artery. Laurence was going to need a lot of recovery time, but if he got care soon he would live.
The firefight had broken out around them in earnest now. The enemy (Al Qaeda, most likely, using a mix of old Soviet weapons and newer guns) came from the high ground to the north. They were six miles from base. There was a village just past the next hill, but going there would just complicate things.
“Watson! What happened?”
“Laurence is down!” He took out his kit. “Not fatal, but he needs proper attention!” John took out a tourniquet. The second wound would be fatal if he didn’t staunch the blood flow. As soon as he did that he could move Laurence to a more defensible position.
Pain erupted from John’s left shoulder. The whole world seemed to go blindingly white.
Oh, God—
Three days later, John Watson was recovering from surgery. No one had told him what had happened to Laurence. No one really talked to him about anything, except to tell him he was recovering nicely. He could tell, thanks. If he wasn’t on these bloody painkillers he could probably tell exactly what had happened during the firefight, but the chemicals cloyed to his body and mind. Moving felt like a chore. Thinking properly was a challenge. He felt like his thoughts were wading through quicksand.
If he’d been more alert he wouldn’t have mistaken the conversation outside for normal chitchat.
As it was, he was surprised when a man walked in who wasn’t wearing a uniform. Instead he was dressed in plain, baggy clothes that had seen a lot of wear. The man’s face was a bit square, plain, and forgettable.
“You look like shit,” Moran greeted him.
John coughed out a laugh. It hurt, but it was worth it.
“How ‘d it go?” John asked, his voice slurred from the medicine.
“Corporal’s dead.” Well, yes, he’d gathered that much. Thankfully Moran continued talking.
“Once you went down there was so much confusion… you know.” Meaning, Laurence had bled out because no one else had been able to patch him up in time. That was what everyone would think, at least.
“That was you, then,” John said quietly. Moran gave a curt nod.
“Hired guns,” he growled with an honest grimace. “Wouldn’t ‘a needed to if they hadn’t cocked up their side of it.”
John took an agonizing moment to process everything. Laurence had been the target. He had been facilitating the movement of biological weapons into this area of Afghanistan for the last couple of years. John had been tipped off to the operation and found the prospect of tracking down WMD smuggling within the army to be too exciting to pass up. At the time it had made perfect sense. He didn’t trust anyone else to keep up the act for however many years this would take, to notice the tiny details that would tip him off, or to be able to think on their feet if a problem came up. John could have put anyone else on the job, but obviously the only man for it was himself.
It had been a very convincing argument before he’d been shot.
Moran had known that Laurence wasn’t dead. John couldn’t simply let him die. It might not have blown his cover immediately, but it would look suspicious if anyone decided to double-check.
How could John have easily patched up much worse injuries and then let Laurence simply bleed to death?
This was probably the only chance they would get to kill Laurence. So Moran had taken matters into his own hands and shot John himself. Laurence died, John had an excuse, everyone was happy.
“What now?” Moran asked.
“I’ll be invalided,” John said dourly. The job was done here, but he still felt disappointed. This wasn’t how he wanted it to end. “They’ll send me back to London. Then I’ll find the source.”
--------------
Whatever Sherlock was planning had to happen in enough time for John to get to Baker Street and back. It didn’t give him much time.
“You’re sure Big Brother isn’t listening?” Moran asks.
“Yes, I am.” John is careful to avoid the CCTVs, and has a jammer made especially for the signal on the bug that Mycroft put on his phone. “What’s going on?”
“Jim’s plan’s to convince your boy to kill himself. Die in disgrace, life’s work ruined.” John bites back a curse. Moriarty is brilliantly and ruthlessly poetic. Had he been thinking about this part of the plan when he’d “sponsored” that cabbie?
“How?”
“Three assassins, three targets.”
“Always with the bloody hostages,” John grumbles.
“Your call, Doc,” Moran says.
There aren’t many choices. They’re close to finding the last link in the chain. If John lets this happen it might even help him out—Mycroft might take pity on his brother’s distraught friend and offer him a way to stay busy, or he would have an excuse to disappear and take a more active role in the investigation. If Moriarty died his underworld empire would crumble. It wouldn’t be hard for John to pick up the pieces. He might have been a shadow player for the last few years, but he still had a lot of influence. But something about that plan just doesn’t sit right with him.
“Is there any sort of failsafe?” John asks.
Prompt: John is a mastermind with his own agenda.
Synopsis: John can't stop Sherlock from meeting with Moriarty without blowing his cover: the John Watson everyone knows is just a front.
Rating: PG-13, swearing and violence
The problem with geniuses is that when they are wrong, they are very good at convincing themselves they are right. For the most part that had worked in John’s favor. It was easy to convince Sherlock that he was simply the soldier/doctor with an eye for danger and nigh inhuman patience.
Now, though, Sherlock’s mistake was going to make things very difficult.
“She’s my landlady,” he said, pointedly not looking at John. Expecting John to be too exhausted, emotionally and physically, too overcome by worry for Mrs. Hudson to press the issue. Sherlock had been distant and fidgety the entire night. If he’d just been bored or frustrated he would be acting out. No, Sherlock was plotting something and didn’t want John there for it. This was just like last time, when he had made that bloody stupid plan to meet Moriarty at the pool.
If John stays, he could ruin his whole cover. Years of maneuvering would be done in by one uncharacteristic moment. If he leaves, Sherlock would meet Moriarty. One or both of them would end up dead. Their deaths wouldn’t completely ruin the plan, but would make it much more difficult.
So he leaves.
As soon as he walks out of Bart’s John takes his phone back out and dials a number. It rings three times.
“Wondered when you’d call,” says Moran.
-----------
A bullet ripped through the air three meters to John’s right. Corporal Laurence faltered. His right leg collapsed beneath him. In the seconds it took for John to rush to his aid, another bullet had hit the Corporal’s left leg.
“Shit,” John swore. “Laurence, stay with me.” The Corporal had only shouted in pain for a moment. He was in shock. John took out a knife and sliced open the Corporal’s trousers around the bullet holes. The first one was mostly a graze. The second was deeper, but hadn’t hit the femoral artery. Laurence was going to need a lot of recovery time, but if he got care soon he would live.
The firefight had broken out around them in earnest now. The enemy (Al Qaeda, most likely, using a mix of old Soviet weapons and newer guns) came from the high ground to the north. They were six miles from base. There was a village just past the next hill, but going there would just complicate things.
“Watson! What happened?”
“Laurence is down!” He took out his kit. “Not fatal, but he needs proper attention!” John took out a tourniquet. The second wound would be fatal if he didn’t staunch the blood flow. As soon as he did that he could move Laurence to a more defensible position.
Pain erupted from John’s left shoulder. The whole world seemed to go blindingly white.
Oh, God—
Three days later, John Watson was recovering from surgery. No one had told him what had happened to Laurence. No one really talked to him about anything, except to tell him he was recovering nicely. He could tell, thanks. If he wasn’t on these bloody painkillers he could probably tell exactly what had happened during the firefight, but the chemicals cloyed to his body and mind. Moving felt like a chore. Thinking properly was a challenge. He felt like his thoughts were wading through quicksand.
If he’d been more alert he wouldn’t have mistaken the conversation outside for normal chitchat.
As it was, he was surprised when a man walked in who wasn’t wearing a uniform. Instead he was dressed in plain, baggy clothes that had seen a lot of wear. The man’s face was a bit square, plain, and forgettable.
“You look like shit,” Moran greeted him.
John coughed out a laugh. It hurt, but it was worth it.
“How ‘d it go?” John asked, his voice slurred from the medicine.
“Corporal’s dead.” Well, yes, he’d gathered that much. Thankfully Moran continued talking.
“Once you went down there was so much confusion… you know.” Meaning, Laurence had bled out because no one else had been able to patch him up in time. That was what everyone would think, at least.
“That was you, then,” John said quietly. Moran gave a curt nod.
“Hired guns,” he growled with an honest grimace. “Wouldn’t ‘a needed to if they hadn’t cocked up their side of it.”
John took an agonizing moment to process everything. Laurence had been the target. He had been facilitating the movement of biological weapons into this area of Afghanistan for the last couple of years. John had been tipped off to the operation and found the prospect of tracking down WMD smuggling within the army to be too exciting to pass up. At the time it had made perfect sense. He didn’t trust anyone else to keep up the act for however many years this would take, to notice the tiny details that would tip him off, or to be able to think on their feet if a problem came up. John could have put anyone else on the job, but obviously the only man for it was himself.
It had been a very convincing argument before he’d been shot.
Moran had known that Laurence wasn’t dead. John couldn’t simply let him die. It might not have blown his cover immediately, but it would look suspicious if anyone decided to double-check.
How could John have easily patched up much worse injuries and then let Laurence simply bleed to death?
This was probably the only chance they would get to kill Laurence. So Moran had taken matters into his own hands and shot John himself. Laurence died, John had an excuse, everyone was happy.
“What now?” Moran asked.
“I’ll be invalided,” John said dourly. The job was done here, but he still felt disappointed. This wasn’t how he wanted it to end. “They’ll send me back to London. Then I’ll find the source.”
--------------
Whatever Sherlock was planning had to happen in enough time for John to get to Baker Street and back. It didn’t give him much time.
“You’re sure Big Brother isn’t listening?” Moran asks.
“Yes, I am.” John is careful to avoid the CCTVs, and has a jammer made especially for the signal on the bug that Mycroft put on his phone. “What’s going on?”
“Jim’s plan’s to convince your boy to kill himself. Die in disgrace, life’s work ruined.” John bites back a curse. Moriarty is brilliantly and ruthlessly poetic. Had he been thinking about this part of the plan when he’d “sponsored” that cabbie?
“How?”
“Three assassins, three targets.”
“Always with the bloody hostages,” John grumbles.
“Your call, Doc,” Moran says.
There aren’t many choices. They’re close to finding the last link in the chain. If John lets this happen it might even help him out—Mycroft might take pity on his brother’s distraught friend and offer him a way to stay busy, or he would have an excuse to disappear and take a more active role in the investigation. If Moriarty died his underworld empire would crumble. It wouldn’t be hard for John to pick up the pieces. He might have been a shadow player for the last few years, but he still had a lot of influence. But something about that plan just doesn’t sit right with him.
“Is there any sort of failsafe?” John asks.
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Date: 2012-04-23 05:56 am (UTC)From: