OPERATION SEPARATION (Chapter 4)
PLANNED AND UNPLANNED
It was late when John trudged back wearily, his steps becoming heavier as he neared the flat. Spending the day with Sarah had been soothing, but they hadn't yet reached 'spending the night' stage. Besides, he had confided only half of what had been bothering him. He couldn't bring himself to cough up all the trivial things getting under his skin, before talking to Sherlock about them first. He shook his head, huddling deeper in his jacket against the biting cold. Just talk it out without losing your temper…
As he opened the door to the flat and stepped into the foyer, he heard the sound of something being dropped upstairs. What was that oaf upto now?
He entered through the living room door to find Sherlock unmoving, stretched on the sofa as usual, back to the room. If John hadn't heard the noise, he would have thought that the Detective was asleep.
"I know you are awake, Sherlock, we need to talk…"
Sherlock's answering voice was muffled by the sofa cushions, "I wasn't expecting you tonight. I assumed you would prefer to stay over at Sarah's."
"Yes…well…as I said, I needed to talk to you. As for today, Sarah agreed to let me have a replacement paycheck."
"Oh good…that's taken care of, then."
Muffled by the sofa… John had thought; but now he could hear the words slur. What the hell!
"Sherlock", his voice was sharp.
"Hmm… go away Watson. We can talk in the morning."
Did he say Watson…bloody hell!
"Sherlock…LOOK AT ME. I said …turn around and look at me before I make you."
At these words Sherlock turned, his movements boneless, like his muscles had turned to water, to look at John now towering over the sofa, and giggled, "Captain John Watson …SIR…"
FUCK NO!
His pupils were blown wide, the usually razor-sharp gaze completely unfocussed, his cheekbones two high points of colour. The dark curls were matted to his forehead with sweat. John yanked up the arm of the blue dressing gown to display fresh needle tracks on the smooth inner skin of the left elbow. He dropped the hand like it was on fire. Sherlock was high, that beautiful mind tainted with poison. He dropped to his knees checking pulse and respiration. His pulse was fast, but not life-threatening. John was surprised at his coherency, considering the pupil size, but there was tolerance to consider, not to mention that the drugs would probably not affect Sherlock the way they did your run-of-the-mill addict. He took Sherlock's face in his hands, the way his face had been held less than a week before, in front of a freshly painted wall. His voice was urgent.
"Sherlock, you need to listen to me. What exactly did you take? When did you take it and how much?"
He shook his head out of John's hands. Incredibly he was still giggling," Oh come on John… I'm not ODing here…even you can see that. Just…go awaaaay will you? Don't need you right now."
"Like hell you don't, if this is how you react to the first fight we have."
"Oh please!"Even slurred, Sherlock's voice was dripping with disdain."Don't flatter yourself, John…or me, for that matter", he added as an afterthought. You know this is just a habit; as though Lestrade's fake drugs bust hadn't been enough of a clue… don't worry …you won't see me like this the next time. I don't usually indulge myself in the flat. Just…leave me alone for tonight."
John forgot his intention to keep his temper in check. He exploded, "There won't bloody be a next time, Sherlock. I am your friend and I won't stand by and watch you do this to yourself."
"FRIEND", Sherlock snorted. "I thought we were colleagues as you so succinctly pointed out to Seb."
"That was because he is an obnoxious git who has no grasp of the concept of friendship."
At this Sherlock laughed a high, cold, cutting, slap in your face kind of laugh," Seb has always been an obnoxious git, John…makes it easier to deal with him. YOU on the other hand with your patience and platitudes and…presumptions; are a bloody hindrance. Your interference over the last three weeks has made my work impossible. And thanks to your saintly behavior, I can't even tell you to GET THE HELL OUT OF MY LIFE!"
John's answering voice was tight," I …interfere in your work?… I saved your sorry life."
At this Sherlock stood up swaying dangerously, towering over the smaller man. He brought his hands together and clapped them hard, a terrible parody of an applause," Well done John! You were a right HERO, shooting an unarmed sixty-year old man; whose death left me with half a name to go on. Or would you like a bow for how you got Soo Lin killed, when you followed me instead of staying with her?"Sherlock paused to observe the effect of his words, like bullets on a target. Outwardly there was nothing to see except a white face under the tan, and the hand which had moved almost convulsively to clutch the thigh with the non-existent limp. This was how easy it was, to bring a proud Afghan war-veteran to his knees without any tangible weapons. What he himself was feeing at the moment, was part unendurable pain and part vicious pleasure. The pain of self-flagellation came with the knowledge, that whatever hell John was bearing right now, he himself was suffering far more. The vicious pleasure came with the belief that he DESERVED it…
He continued mercilessly, his voice like the riding-crop he held in his hands."Your puppy-like devotion is pathetic. And now that you have conveniently convinced yourself that we are 'FRIENDS'; you want to impose your pithy rules on me. You ask me to choose between you and a high, as though that is a choice worth…" John's fist slammed into his left cheekbone; the sound cutting off his words with finality and dropping him back on the sofa like a stone. By the time he looked around, John was gone, the thud of the door to his room being slammed reverberating in his ears.
John didn't even make it to the bed. His leg gave out as soon as the door to his room shut; the phantom pain back with a vengeance. He slid to the floor, his back to the door, head held in his hands. He had never felt so lost…so wrong-footed in his entire life. He wasn't naïve. He had always known that his actions couldn't always fall in two neatly labelled boxes of right and wrong. But he had never had an occasion to regret his actions. In the army, he had taken lives; but saved quite a lot more. He felt guilty both for the killings and the lives he had been unable to save, the nightmares were a proof of that; but he had never faced a moral dilemma of right or wrong when he had to ACT. He had been so sure that shooting the cabbie had been the right thing to do. He hadn't even paused to consider whether Sherlock was worth killing for… never questioned that Sherlock may neither need nor want his protection or friendship…
All lies…there was no bond… no friendship…just conjurations of his sick mind, which had been starved of purpose after being invalided home. He was a thorn in Sherlock's side, being tolerated for the sake of propriety and a sense of misplaced obligation…
And poor Soo Lin…her death HAD been his fault. But the hindsight didn't make him regret his actions. Even if he had paused to choose between her and Sherlock, he would still have run out leaving her behind.
But given the choice, Sherlock, would choose a high over him, any day…
So what do you do now, Captain John Watson, R.A.M.C. veteran? You have gone and fallen in love with a man who is incapable of love. You are ready to kill for him, probably die for him, and he notices your existence only to tolerate you… what do you do now?
Thankfully John was a practical man, with no illusions of being extraordinary enough to change Sherlock Holmes. He had to leave. He had to get away, as far as possible from Sherlock… it was the only way…
He sat there for what felt like a long time, finding no strength to move, when he first heard the dull thud from downstairs. Not his concern any longer, he reminded himself. That was followed by an almighty crash that jolted John to his feet. As he opened the door, he heard raised voices…one …no…two voices, that were not Sherlock. They didn't sound friendly…home invasion at midnight…unlikely to be friendly. He silently walked back into his room to retrieve his gun, army knife and his phone. He tiptoed down and peered around the banister to find both the landing doors shut with no one outside. The voices were too muffled to make out what was being said. He came down the stairs and saw that there was no look-out in the foyer. His breath caught, as the door to the stairs shuddered with the unmistakable sound of someone being thrown against it. He viciously quashed his first instinct to rush inside, gun blazing. He had no idea exactly how many they were, or what weapons they had… stupid heroics would only get them both killed. He withdrew to Sherlock's bedroom while dialing Lestrade, and cursing himself internally for having no way of contacting Mycroft. Although Sherlock would have probably considered it rank treachery. No he wouldn't, John reminded himself. Treason can be committed only when there is an expectation of loyalty… he shook his head, noting his rock-steady hand and now pain-free leg. Snap out of it Watson, he ordered himself. Get out of this mess alive, with Sherlock. There will be plenty of time later for torturing yourself later.
Unsurprisingly on a late Sunday night, Lestrade's answering voice was thick with sleep.
"Hello."
John spoke rapidly, his voice barely above a whisper, "Detective Inspector Lestrade, this is John Watson, Sherlock's flat-mate. You need to listen very carefully as I won't be repeating myself. We have had a break-in, at the flat, about twenty minutes ago by two, possibly more men. They have locked themselves in the living room with Sherlock." He could here Lestrade moving already, the sound of a cupboard door being yanked open." I was in my room at the time. I don't know who they are, or what weapons they have, but from the sounds of it, they are knocking him around pretty badly. Get your ass down here ASAP." He hesitated before adding,"Lestrade, you should know …when I had seen Sherlock less than an hour before, he had been high."
"Jesus!" Lestrade swore…" but they didn't search the flat for anyone else? Your landlady?"
"Out for the weekend."
"Thank God for small favours. They sound like amateurs."
John didn't think that was a cause for celebration. Amateurs were jittery, thought with their guns. Amateurs got people killed.
"John!"There was a warning note in Lestrade's voice now. "I will be there in less than fifteen minutes. Don't do anything stupid. If you can leave the flat safely, do that. If not, try to remain inconspicuous. You don't know how armed they are, or what they could be capable of. You don't want to barge in there and end up turning a fist-fight into a gunfight. Just… wait for us!"
So much for their 'who killed the cabbie' bit.
"You are wasting time. Don't worry about me. Just do your job." He cut the call and switched the phone off. He hated doing that to Lestrade, who was a good man and a good cop, Sherlock's bias against the Yard notwithstanding. Of course he was going to take his advice and walk away, but not right now. They had to hold the fort for fifteen minutes. Sherlock may not want his help, but he was especially vulnerable right now and needed it. His decision had already been made for him, just as during all the times before. He never really had a choice. Breaking the door open was not an option. Creating a distraction to lure them out was tempting, but if this was an exercise in revenge, it might just force them to act faster. He debated keeping the gun, but amateur or not, they would search him; so he thrust it under Sherlock's mattress. The knife would have to do.
Then, nerves singing with adrenaline, he crossed the landing in four easy steps and calmly knocked three times on the door…
Next Chapter