Prequel to Once a Soldier, Always a Soldier
FIC: Military Man
Title: A Military Man
Characters: Sherlock/John, Moriarty
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1000ish
Spoilers: Up to the end of The Great Game Summery: John finally realizes that his military training was kicking in at just the right time.
Authors Note: Dipping my toe into the fandom that has sucked my soul into it's gaping maw. I swore I'd never write another fic, but then these two broken and dysfunctional boys came along and who can resist that?! Just a small fic to test the waters a bit, and I wanted John to remember he wasn't just a medic, he was a soldier and it was time to act like one!
***
John was still crouched on the floor where his legs had given out on him, looking between Sherlock and Moriarty. For the moment, the two only had eyes for one another, John’s gun in Sherlock’s hand, pointing at the bomb-laced vest.
It had taken far too long for John’s military training to kick in, which he would suitably kick himself for later. But as he’d been crouched down there on the floor, he’d been searching the railings above the pool for the snipers. With as many dots as were floating off and on his body, there should be at least one sloppy one one amongst the lot. But they were good, because he could see nothing, not even when he tried to trace back the laser light.
That’s when John realized there were no snipers, no gun men of any kind. He’d lived through a war and he knew when guns were pointed at him. But the hair on the back of his neck was still lying in place, no sign of goosebumps, and no feeling of eyes upon him.
It was a risk, to be sure, but at this moment, it looked more and more likely that they were all going to be blown to bits anyway. So if he was wrong, he was just dying a tad earlier than expected.
John rose slowly to his feet, his hands raised and out in the open. “Jim, is it? You didn’t let me say much when you were strapping the bomb to my chest, rather bad form, don’t think?”
“John, what are you doing?” Sherlock growled, not taking his eyes from the bomb.
“John. Dear, faithful pet, John,” Moriarty replied, looking bored. This game was between Sherlock and himself, John was just a pawn that had been used and now discarded. “Do sit back down like a good boy. You wouldn't want to make daddy angry,” Moriarty ordered, his pitch rising up a notch.
John took a step forward, putting a foot of distance between himself and Sherlock, just in case he was wrong.
“John!” Sherlock hissed.
Damn, how had John not noticed that before! This all could have been over and done with!
“Shoot me.”
“What?” The question came from both Sherlock and Moriarty.
John shrugged, looking relaxed. “I said shoot me,” he repeated. “You have us surrounded by snipers, surely one of them is capable of shooting me.” He held out his arms and twirled around, the red dots flashing around his body. “Shoot me!” he shouted.
Silence.
“It would seem I underestimated your pet, Sherlock,” Moriarty said, looking a bit more uncomfortable. “I’m afraid he’s called my bluff.” He looked up to the upper floor. “Get out!”
The red lights immediately disappeared.
“Laser pointers,” John whispered softly to Sherlock. “I would know when there was an actual gun pointed at me, let alone a half dozen guns.”
Sherlock’s grin was feral as he looked at Moriarty. “Oops. I’m afraid you underestimated my colleague. War veteran and all.”
Moriarty was tapping his lip, looking at the two of them.
“Well isn’t this a pickle,” he said, grinning brightly.
“There’s nothing to stop me from shooting you,” Sherlock pointed out, his finger caressing the trigger.
“You won’t shoot me now, anymore than you could shoot me earlier, don’t be tiresome Sherlock. If you kill me, the game ends. Boring,” he intoned in a sing song voice.
Moriarty sighed. “I guess this is goodbye then. For now, at least.” He looked pointedly at John while speaking to Sherlock. “At least now I know exactly where your heart lies, Sherlock.”
“If you lay a finger on John, there will nothing on this earth that could possibly stop me from hunting you down and killing you. Slowly.” Sherlock’s voice was deadly calm. “I suggest you leave. Now.”
Moriarty huffed, made a gun out of his fingers and mockingly shot at John.
“Goodbye Sherlock. Keep a close eye on your pet,” Moriarty warned as he disappeared once again.
Not taking any chances this time, Sherlock kicked the bomb into the pool, then grabbed John by the collar and pulled him physically from the indoor pool and back out into the open. He searched the streets and the rooftops and saw no immediate threat.
Pulling out his phone he sent a quick text to Lestrade to take care of the bomb, and while he did that, John sent a text of his own to Mycroft. I need a firing range. All types of weapons. He’d barely hit send when Sherlock grabbed John’s arm, his fingers digging into the flesh as he pulled him along. “Why did you do that?” he finally asked, spinning John around to face him. “What if you’d been wrong? What if they’d had guns and shot you?” Sherlock shook him. “You could be dead!” he growled.
“As you can see, I’m not, though you are making inroads at causing me severe bruising on that arm you’re crushing.”
Sherlock didn’t release his grip as he glared at John. “Don’t do that to me again...just..don’t,” he pleaded, sounding as though he was just getting his breath back.
John rested a calming arm on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock, look at me. No, properly look at me,” he grumbled. “Perfectly alright. In fact, I’m feeling rather chuffed at the moment. You don’t need a Doctor or a Colleague, Sherlock. What you need, is a body guard who knows how to kill, who has done it before to save your life once already. I think until this mess with Moriarty is over, Dr. Watson is going on vacation, and Captain Watson is reporting for duty.”
“You’re mad,” Sherlock said, looking at him with eyes wide with horror.
“I’m a soldier. And I know the alternative. You’ll have Mycroft tuck me in some safe-house until it all blows over and that’s not going to happen Sherlock.” He pulled his gun from Sherlock’s waistband and tucked it into his own. “My place is with you.”
Already, John was switching into combat mode. His eyes had started searching the streets, looking for potential threats and dangers.
“Shall we go home? I rather fancy a cuppa,” he said, smiling at Sherlock, who merely glared.
Title: A Military Man
Characters: Sherlock/John, Moriarty
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1000ish
Spoilers: Up to the end of The Great Game Summery: John finally realizes that his military training was kicking in at just the right time.
Authors Note: Dipping my toe into the fandom that has sucked my soul into it's gaping maw. I swore I'd never write another fic, but then these two broken and dysfunctional boys came along and who can resist that?! Just a small fic to test the waters a bit, and I wanted John to remember he wasn't just a medic, he was a soldier and it was time to act like one!
***
John was still crouched on the floor where his legs had given out on him, looking between Sherlock and Moriarty. For the moment, the two only had eyes for one another, John’s gun in Sherlock’s hand, pointing at the bomb-laced vest.
It had taken far too long for John’s military training to kick in, which he would suitably kick himself for later. But as he’d been crouched down there on the floor, he’d been searching the railings above the pool for the snipers. With as many dots as were floating off and on his body, there should be at least one sloppy one one amongst the lot. But they were good, because he could see nothing, not even when he tried to trace back the laser light.
That’s when John realized there were no snipers, no gun men of any kind. He’d lived through a war and he knew when guns were pointed at him. But the hair on the back of his neck was still lying in place, no sign of goosebumps, and no feeling of eyes upon him.
It was a risk, to be sure, but at this moment, it looked more and more likely that they were all going to be blown to bits anyway. So if he was wrong, he was just dying a tad earlier than expected.
John rose slowly to his feet, his hands raised and out in the open. “Jim, is it? You didn’t let me say much when you were strapping the bomb to my chest, rather bad form, don’t think?”
“John, what are you doing?” Sherlock growled, not taking his eyes from the bomb.
“John. Dear, faithful pet, John,” Moriarty replied, looking bored. This game was between Sherlock and himself, John was just a pawn that had been used and now discarded. “Do sit back down like a good boy. You wouldn't want to make daddy angry,” Moriarty ordered, his pitch rising up a notch.
John took a step forward, putting a foot of distance between himself and Sherlock, just in case he was wrong.
“John!” Sherlock hissed.
Damn, how had John not noticed that before! This all could have been over and done with!
“Shoot me.”
“What?” The question came from both Sherlock and Moriarty.
John shrugged, looking relaxed. “I said shoot me,” he repeated. “You have us surrounded by snipers, surely one of them is capable of shooting me.” He held out his arms and twirled around, the red dots flashing around his body. “Shoot me!” he shouted.
Silence.
“It would seem I underestimated your pet, Sherlock,” Moriarty said, looking a bit more uncomfortable. “I’m afraid he’s called my bluff.” He looked up to the upper floor. “Get out!”
The red lights immediately disappeared.
“Laser pointers,” John whispered softly to Sherlock. “I would know when there was an actual gun pointed at me, let alone a half dozen guns.”
Sherlock’s grin was feral as he looked at Moriarty. “Oops. I’m afraid you underestimated my colleague. War veteran and all.”
Moriarty was tapping his lip, looking at the two of them.
“Well isn’t this a pickle,” he said, grinning brightly.
“There’s nothing to stop me from shooting you,” Sherlock pointed out, his finger caressing the trigger.
“You won’t shoot me now, anymore than you could shoot me earlier, don’t be tiresome Sherlock. If you kill me, the game ends. Boring,” he intoned in a sing song voice.
Moriarty sighed. “I guess this is goodbye then. For now, at least.” He looked pointedly at John while speaking to Sherlock. “At least now I know exactly where your heart lies, Sherlock.”
“If you lay a finger on John, there will nothing on this earth that could possibly stop me from hunting you down and killing you. Slowly.” Sherlock’s voice was deadly calm. “I suggest you leave. Now.”
Moriarty huffed, made a gun out of his fingers and mockingly shot at John.
“Goodbye Sherlock. Keep a close eye on your pet,” Moriarty warned as he disappeared once again.
Not taking any chances this time, Sherlock kicked the bomb into the pool, then grabbed John by the collar and pulled him physically from the indoor pool and back out into the open. He searched the streets and the rooftops and saw no immediate threat.
Pulling out his phone he sent a quick text to Lestrade to take care of the bomb, and while he did that, John sent a text of his own to Mycroft. I need a firing range. All types of weapons. He’d barely hit send when Sherlock grabbed John’s arm, his fingers digging into the flesh as he pulled him along. “Why did you do that?” he finally asked, spinning John around to face him. “What if you’d been wrong? What if they’d had guns and shot you?” Sherlock shook him. “You could be dead!” he growled.
“As you can see, I’m not, though you are making inroads at causing me severe bruising on that arm you’re crushing.”
Sherlock didn’t release his grip as he glared at John. “Don’t do that to me again...just..don’t,” he pleaded, sounding as though he was just getting his breath back.
John rested a calming arm on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock, look at me. No, properly look at me,” he grumbled. “Perfectly alright. In fact, I’m feeling rather chuffed at the moment. You don’t need a Doctor or a Colleague, Sherlock. What you need, is a body guard who knows how to kill, who has done it before to save your life once already. I think until this mess with Moriarty is over, Dr. Watson is going on vacation, and Captain Watson is reporting for duty.”
“You’re mad,” Sherlock said, looking at him with eyes wide with horror.
“I’m a soldier. And I know the alternative. You’ll have Mycroft tuck me in some safe-house until it all blows over and that’s not going to happen Sherlock.” He pulled his gun from Sherlock’s waistband and tucked it into his own. “My place is with you.”
Already, John was switching into combat mode. His eyes had started searching the streets, looking for potential threats and dangers.
“Shall we go home? I rather fancy a cuppa,” he said, smiling at Sherlock, who merely glared.