The Last Perdition

Author: Howlynn

Realm: Sherlock

Chapter Title: The Last Perdition of John

Summary: John's past becomes his final problem. Can John face Sherlock knowing that he indeed never was a very nice man, but a wolf in a wooly jumper?

Character/Relationships: John/Sherlock

Note: I know you have waited for this final chapter, but here it is. Yes it is long, but I have now watched all the Sherlocks many times and think the time spent was worth it. Let me know what you think.

John had no way of measuring the passing of time because the drugs they gave him to keep him docile kept him without ability to judge the routines of staff, or even remember for certain how many times Sherlock had visited. He could only glimpse his bandages and judge by the fading amounts of fluids seeping from them that weeks rather than days had passed. They never allowed him to be conscious while they attended to his needs. He had remained perfectly cooperative and passive, yet they still restrained him, sedated him and treated his every movement as a possible hostile escape strategy.

They were not wrong. He had every intention of getting away. He knew what Mycroft wanted and he had repeatedly refused point blank. John was a product of his training, but he would never be willing to train more soldiers to be like him. In the first place, the things he imagined they expected him to teach were so evil that they didn't need to be passed on. If he were given one-hundred of Mycroft's finest agents, John could break half of them by the end of the first day. It might take more than one batch of hard-eyed hopefuls before John could actually replicate himself one time and the trail of psychological damage it would require to hand Mycroft another was not worth it.

Mycroft probably thought he knew a lot about John by this time, but the truth was far deeper and darker than the brothers Holmes could possibly imagine. There was one other factor playing out in John's mind. He just didn't want Sherlock to ever realize that not so long ago, his skills had a purpose. He'd seen the look many times on the faces of those who had seen his specialties. He would rather die than see that dawning on Sherlock's face.

There was a reason Watson was so alone when he'd met Sherlock. There was a reason he had such deep seeded trust issues. He'd tried so hard to be a fluke, a success story, the one guy who emerged from his career relatively intact. John had watched most of his superiors die over the years. Those who had trained him were all gone. Only five had even attempted the transition into civilian life. Most had nothing to go back to so they picked some showy end and that was termed southern retirement. There were a few who found themselves in a situation similar to his own and they were offered the chance to pretend.

John had done well, in fact. Four and a half years had eclipsed the others. Simon Grove had made it two before he gone loose. Peter Sheffield had lasted twenty-six days before he'd murdered eight people and dined on two of them. John had been sent to clean up Paul Rearick's little home-for-the-holiday's scene. He could still remember what Paul said before John did what was required.

"Oh, Johnny-boy, they have buggered us in ways you can't even see? Not yet. But if you ever get the offer, run. Take the southern. Don't let them shuck you off to this, old boy. It will never work and they all know it. We can't go back. This is what happens. Now get on with it. Do what they pay you for. Just…remember…"

John had not let Paul finish his tirade, nor had he let him finish the last connections to the home-made explosive device Paul's fingers were desperately finalizing as he spoke his last advisement to his onetime friend. It took more than 30 hours and three remarkably close calls to disassemble the contraptions he'd left behind. If a local bomb force had found the devices, it probably would have made international headlines for weeks. Explosives were not John's area but he did see the debrief due to the fact he'd taken him out just in the nick of time.

All John liked to remember was Paul had loved Christmas and he always found some way to celebrate it no matter what kind of shit-storm they were in at the time. He'd once dragged a tumbleweed into a secret-ops barracks somewhere in south Texas and decorated it with live rounds, five pair of women's frilly knickers and he'd made little explicitly naughty figures out of tongue depressors. It was a magical Christmas.

John wouldn't have made it at all if he hadn't met Sherlock. He had never planned a future financially. Gambling during his recovery period had left him in a financial bind. Sherlock had made living possible. He'd also taken it away, when he had died. Now things were worse than ever but John knew some of the fault had been his own as well. He'd been angry and he'd played with Sherlock. Sherlock was just too fragile to play with John. There was nothing he could do for him now.

Every day Sherlock tried to convince John that a simple yes would fix all their problems. He'd tried all his usual tactics. First he'd called John an idiot and made jokes about how much fun it would be to spend Mycroft into the poorhouse while they wiled away their time in Malta.

When John had refused, Sherlock had acted stroppy and put upon. Then he'd told John that Mycroft was making him leave. He'd gotten tearful as he told John how Mycroft would have to turn John over to the cleaning crew if John didn't snap out of this childish pout. Sherlock had spent two visits glaring at John, one offering some very tempting favors of a sexual nature, and now Sherlock was probing the limits of supposed depression. Every one of these visits broke John's heart in a different way, but he'd kept his expression pleasant and his voice quiet but firm. John's answer was simply, No.

Sherlock was currently in the middle of a hunger strike, saying he considered 'convincing John' to now be a case and either the case would end or his transport would. "Whichever is first, no pressure."

Seeing Sherlock working so hard to find John's magic 'yes' button was both comical and so very sad. John had so rarely set his foot down and denied Sherlock anything, that the poor man truly hadn't realised that John had it in him to do so.

Mycroft had attempted to exert his own polite torture techniques. He let it be known that forcing Sherlock to escape for each visit was just his attempt to keep his brother entertained but he did warn John that he would not be allowed such leeway.

"I am sorry John. You have three days. If we have not come to an understanding by then, I am afraid there is little more I can do for you," Mycroft said in a bored tone that he also managed to feign sympathy in such a patronizing bully voice that John had curled against his restraints in mirth.

Mycroft's face didn't betray his anger but his words conveyed it spectacularly. "I am thrilled you find this situation so amusing. I am about to send Sherlock out on the most dangerous assignment I have ever allowed him to attempt, without you. I have the choice of either allowing him to do it with what small protections I can manage or watch him try to fool me, disappear and do it anyway. Can you deduce the probable results of such an action? I do hope I will be able to keep him intact when he understands my warning of your imminent demise was factual. He thinks I have omniscient powers and only deny his whims to annoy him. I have limits, you know. I am asking, one last time. I can't force you. For a man who repeatedly proposed to die for Sherlock Holmes, you now appear determined to see the opposite come to fruition."

John sighed and shook his restraints in frustration. "You don't have a clue what you're asking of me. Why are you doing this to him? I can't. I won't. Can't you just leave us alone? Or send me instead…I'm obviously expendable."

"You have no idea how much I wish I could do just that."

"Then just end this. I swear to you, I am not that bloody important to your schemes,"
John said with a pleading sincerity.

"No. You aren't that important to me. I could happily do without you. Sherlock would be better off without you at this point."

"Finally, we agree."

"Almost. My brother is quite capable of living a productive, useful life without you."

"I know. My point entirely," John agrees.

"And the thus the contrary truth. He's capable. But, he's not willing. It seems thinking Moriarty would be the death of my brother caused me to overlook the actual force that would bring about his demise. All the bullies and bad-guys, drug dealers and psychotic stalkers outsourced by one small doctor." Mycroft's eyebrows rose and he twirled his umbrella dramatically as he turned and without another word, left John's room.

It had been hours before Sherlock had appeared. His face was dark with betrayal and the corners of his mouth were puffed out in misery. He didn't meet John's eyes as he entered but instead he noisily pulled the chair to the side of John's bed and without warning flopped down and buried his face in John's stomach and latched his arms around John as if he'd just been told one of them was about to face a firing squad.

John automatically brought his hand to Sherlock's head and ran his fingers through his curls.
"Sherlock. God. I'm so sorry."

Sherlock's hands balled into fists and he gripped John even tighter. "I don't understand. Anything. Anything at all, if you will just say yes." Sherlock rolled his face toward John and in a whisper of desperation added, "Please. Please."

John sighed. He took a deep breath and held it, blew it out, shook his head and finally said, "I can't. I know you think… Sherlock, you don't know me. You don't know who I become. You will end up hating the sight of me. And that's if they don't take me out the second I set foot out from under your brother's thumb. I will get away. I'll be fine. It is the only way."

"I don't care. I know enough. I know what I've done to get here only to lose you again."

"Look. It isn't the end. I know what he thinks, and what he's told you, but I have only stayed because you are here," John told him this quietly and tried to get Sherlock to raise his head and look at him.

"He's making me leave in three days. I should be gone now. Every moment I waste here, I am letting someone else down. I have to go. Without you. You will be killed. How is that not the end?"

John smirked and then couldn't help but laugh. "Do you really think these little bits will keep me here five minutes past the time I want to be here?"John asked as he held up his restraints.

"You have shown no ability to escape thus far. I visit you."

"Really? Well, the first thing you need to learn is not to show off so much. The more information you hand the enemy the harder it is to surprise him. You always have to be so clever that you are rarely underestimated. The idea is to win, not parade your superiority," John told Sherlock gently.

Sherlock sat up and examined John. "You are saying that you think you can get out of here? You don't know where you are. You have no clue what day it is, but you expect me to believe that you can walk out at your leisure? Please." His eyes rolled at the idea.

John smiled. "I don't need to know any of that. Not important. "

"Because you're an idiot. This is not a lock up in the MET, John. These people know what they are doing. I can barely get around."

"And that is why you left me behind. Ever question what you think you see? Ever wonder how I was tied to a chair and sent a bolt precisely into the throat of your attacker, missing not only Sarah, but you? That was all strictly luck in your mind? A Chinese contraption aimed at her heart. Guess I'm a lucky guy, huh? Ever wonder how I made that shot when you were taking that pill, got away, and just so you are aware, shooting that bomb Jim strapped to me would not have detonated it. Good threat though. Trouble is, I had disarmed it, otherwise it would have blown when you unbuckled it and threw it halfway across the room. That was his plan. Think you're safe and boom. That's why he came back. Wanted to know what went wrong, why he wasn't dodging building bits."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed and he sat back, confusion and disbelief written on his face. "What are you saying?"

"Who stands up to your brother, Sherlock? I mean ever, besides you. Hell, I could introduce you to some really scary people. Mycroft? Basically a nosy git with a rescue complex and mostly good intentions. Not saying I can do what you do. But I assure you, nobody can keep me away from you other than you. Had I known you were alive, I would have found you within a week. The whole world isn't big enough to hide from me. Moriarty would not have won if you had let me be on your side. You said that your last enemy was dead, but you didn't kill him. Mycroft didn't kill him. Guess who did kill Sebastian?"

"You couldn't have. John, he was betrayed by his own men."

John snorted and smirked. "I am very good at what I do. The trick is that you never advertise and it keeps you from getting caught. People see exactly what they want to see. In Afghanistan I had four different lungees and spoke Dari and Pashto. I quoted both the Koran and Ghulam Muhammad Tarzi. I still have friends there, you know. And not all of them are aligned with the ideals of British values."

Sherlock rarely looks completely mystified. "Wool jumpers, tea and ordinary. It's your urban camouflage?"

John's lips pull into an indulgent smile. His eyes dance and for a brief second, Sherlock see's the outrageous engine of an extraordinary mind churning. "I do genuinely like jumpers and tea…just so you know."

"Your brilliant, aren't you? You are like me in a different way?"

"No. Not as brilliant as you. Never will be. But perhaps a bit above the tree-bark dull you gave me credit for."

"I never…"

"Yes. You did. When I came back to London, it was like learning a new part. I wallowed in middle of the road, British dismal. It was a challenge, but the trouble was that once I got to the point that I could pass, there was no mission to accomplish. That was it. I fit in, but it didn't matter, because there was no further goal. No organization to infiltrate, no mark to gather intelligence on. It was abysmal. It was like trying to steer a sinking warship. The night I came to Baker Street. When you played the violin, I had no intention of keeping my appointment with you the next day. I finally understood that life was over as I knew it. But you…" John stopped and sighed.

"I became your mission."

"Yes."

"Pity? You pitied me? Wanted to fix me perhaps? Thought me a freak like the rest of them?"

"No. I didn't. Not at all. I could help you and you helped me. Not just the leg either. I woke up knowing where I belonged for the first time in a long while. I had a reason to wake up again."

"Not important. You're an adrenaline junky. That just makes me your new dealer," Sherlock said with frustration.

John smiled and shrugged. "Well, I was filling in for a skull. If you want to get technical."

"Perhaps. Go on." Sherlock twirled his finger wanting John to get to the point.

I just kept…seeing things…in you. I didn't love every second I was around you. God, you are an arse most of the time. But, when you left that next night…and you went with the killer. I followed, because I knew – I already knew – that you were going to be a full time job. I knew then that you would make every damned moment of my experience worth having. You know, I killed him in cold blood. It wasn't self-defense. He was not threatening your life. You had won. You chose to play anyway, Sherlock."

"But you didn't shoot him until you perceived that I was in danger."

"Not what happened. I watched you. You were about to leave. He tricked you. Drew you back in. You stood there all puffed up, debating. You went back by your own choice."

"I knew I was right. I was right." Sherlock said with a dismissing wave.

John looked at him skeptically. "Where would we be this moment, if I had left Baker Street, after the drugs bust? If I hadn't followed you?"

Sherlock shook his head in disgust at the question. "I imagine, I would be at the window, playing my violin and you would be … I don't know. Married and playing house?"

"Wrong. We would both be dead right now," John states firmly.

"Not necessarily. There are too many factors to calculate a definitive outcome…"

"No. It is simple. I would have read about you being the fifth victim in the papers the next morning and I would have shook my head and finished my tea and the very bullet that killed the cabbie would have made a transverse path through my own cranium before nightfall. We would both be dead."

"Well, we won't ever know that, because the pills got mixed up at the lab. I am eighty-percent certain that I was right. It wasn't that difficult to see that he—"

"You're a bloody idiot. You picked the wrong pill, Sherlock. You guessed and you guessed wrong."

"No way of knowing," Sherlock quickly argues.

"I know."

"What? How?" Sherlock glared at John trying to understand what made him so certain. It was true, Sherlock had just grabbed one randomly taking his fifty-fifty chance, but he could not see how John had deduced this fact.

"I'll walk you through it. Shall I?"

Sherlock smirked and gestured his hands in a palms up display of invitation. "Please. By all means, dazzle me?"

"First of all, a normal person will always push the danger away. He knew that. He also knew that the average person will always pick the pill that was not offered. They will choose the one he seems willing to take, perceiving it as the one he wanted to keep. If he had not made the move, it would have been a more difficult game, but it still would have worked out in your circumstance. He gave you the good pill. You picked wrong."

"Not true. He said it could be a double or a triple bluff. He assumed I would do the opposite of normal and gave me the bad pill."

"No. He only had one move. It had worked every time and it worked this time too. The grass is always greener, Sherlock. You proved it. And…"John held up his hand to stop the protest already forming on Sherlock's lips. "And, if you picked the right pill, he would have stopped the game. He would have shrugged, laughed and said you could have beaten him."

"No. He had nothing to lose. He played because he wanted to die. He had the bad pill and intended to take it, as per Moriarty's instructions. His only other option was jail and his eventual brain bursting fate to look forward to." Sherlock stood and paced the room.

"No. Sherlock. He knew if he could get you to take that pill, that he walked away free and clear with all that money and he got to claim that he was the best. He even beat you. Jim probably had a bonus the size of a small country in the promised reward if he got you."

"He was dying. He didn't care. He didn't want to spend his last moments in boredom. Jail," Sherlock's voice was low, but his ever-present certainty was faltering. He found John's line of thought offensive, because Sherlock hated being wrong.

"Yet you said he offered to come quietly, be arrested and go to jail before you ever got in his cab. You saw what his pills did. How they killed. His victims died in agony and he watched them. Is that how you would choose to die? Moot point, obviously. The only person in that room, who was bloody-well playing with fire, was you. He never planned to just sit there and wait to be arrested. He played on your emotions and found your fault, because pretending emotions don't exist, when they obviously do, is your weakness. Yes you fool some people with your act, but it doesn't work on all of us."

"It isn't that simple, John. Yes he did read me…and I read him too. He was ready to make his departure. He lived for his game and he wanted it all to end. You were not there. You didn't see his eyes."

"You may be right, partially. But if you were not a bloody egotistical idiot, and you did decide to kill yourself, without incentive. Would you pick something that horrible? Hell, the aneurism wouldn't have been that bad. Awful headache, but not hours of writhing gut wrenching agony. He wanted to watch it happen to you, Sherlock. People, like him, like to watch. They are afraid of death and they think they will see some magical epiphany that will make it okay for them. You have no idea how many there are out there, exactly like him. You were with him when he died. Was he calm, serene? Or was he terrified?"

"He was mostly in pain. I may have failed on the compassion lark, due to the fact I was more interested in information." Sherlock appeared to blank out for a second, playing his memory back, searching for some proof that John was wrong. He evidently didn't like what he saw because he whispered, "But he knew the risk."

"He knew which pill was life and which one was death. You lost. He died, knowing he'd beat you. I knew it too. I always wondered if you would ever admit it."

"But…That."

"He was not threatening you in any way. You beat him by walking away and then when your guard was down, and he saw his chance, that was his real game. He would have petted your ego and declined, if you picked the pill that he was about to take. You were losing fair and square. No reason to blame him at that point. He wasn't forcing you."

Sherlock's mouth slowly opened, "No, he wasn't." Then his eyes locked on John, questioning, probing, finally understanding.

John leaned forward a little, dropping his chin to his chest and looking determinedly up at Sherlock as if speaking some stern warning," I killed him anyway. To get your attention. I wasn't risking that much. I would have been gone before you and Lestrade put it together. I have knack for disappearing. I have a knack for killing as well. The men who are after me, the ones Mycroft is kindly hiding me from? I trained them. It is possible that they may eventually get me. We all make mistakes. But I didn't teach them everything I know. The day you walk out of here, so will I."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave John a look of dismissal,"You are serious? Just like that? Do you really expect me to believe that? This is Mycroft."

John nodded, and shrugged. "Just like that. Yes. He wouldn't be putting this much into me if I couldn't. Mycroft isn't stupid. He has found something. Won't tell me what. But he wants something specific or he would not be pushing you to convince me."

"He isn't. This isn't about him. When my main goals were accomplished and it was all over and I could have returned, it was my choice. Don't blame him. Don't say no because you think this was his fault," Sherlock said carefully.

"Which brings us to the subject of Sebastian Moran." John says slowly.

"I tracked him for months. Couldn't get close to him. In the end, it didn't matter. He ended up just as dead. One less gold star for me, I suppose, but he should have picked better friends. " Sherlock shakes his head thinking of all the failures that name brought to his mind. "Where did you hear that name?"

John took a sip of water before speaking. His voice didn't have a gloating tone, but it did sound satisfied. "He got sloppy. He didn't do his research. I knew him by reputation. Very talented man, but he didn't know his enemy. He bought the camouflage, just like you. I thought Mycroft would have caught on at least, after the body was discovered six blocks from his office. Lestrade helped me. You thought I was seeing him. He did pretty well, but of course he'd been out for a long time. "

"Was it you? Is that what your saying? You killed him?"

"It was. I was aware of him. He'd follow me around for days, then he would disappear. It had been going on since before you… left. He had several chances. I kept expecting him to make some move that would explain what he wanted. Even approached him once, spoke to him. Invitation if you will. I didn't actually associate him with Moriarty until after. Thought Mycroft had eliminated the three lone gunmen. They were strictly amateurs. Moran was not in their small-fish pond. His mistake was in following Mary. That was the point I decided. He could have me, at that time. Happy to play. But not my Mary."

"You actually loved her. Or was it just that overactive martyr thing you think I haven't noticed."

"She was easy to love. Martyr thing? Just for clarity here, I didn't jump off a building when a few phone-calls and warnings could have had the same effect. You should have called Mycroft or paid a little more attention to who your best friend was, rather than trying to save the world alone. Pot calling the kettle hot, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What became of his rifle?"

"Back of your closet, next to the harpoon."

"How?"

"I simply shoved past the fire-suit and other costumes with one hand and slipped it…"

"You are trying to be amusing?"

"That's a brilliant deduction. Extraordinary, actually." John said, meeting Sherlock's annoyance with a calm secretive smile.

"Oh. Sarcasm is one of your tells, you know?"

"Then ask things that matter. Not things proving how stupid you think I am. I could have helped you. You never gave me the chance." John glared at Sherlock.

The room was quiet as they each sized the other up, reevaluating the friendship in the space of a few minutes. Sherlock licked his lip, aching for a cigarette or something stronger. John examined his hands, cleaning his nails on the edge of the sheet and disliking how long they had grown.

Sherlock's voice was soft when he spoke again. He didn't meet John's eyes, yet the gesture somehow made his question carry more weight. He stood with his shoulders sloped, leaning against the drab grey concrete wall on the far side of the room, unable to hide his fear of what the answer might be. "That day. When I came back? Why? You left me…after we…" Sherlock pushed off the wall and turned to observe John's reflection at the mirrored observation frame. It was the closest thing this room had to a window.

He looked toward Sherlock, but didn't meet Sherlock's eyes in the reflected silver square. He spoke calmly but there were tremors that kept forcing him to clear his throat. Sherlock studied him, but didn't move as John attempted to explain. "I'm not a leader. Being your sidekick, your assistant…it suited me. But knowing you didn't come back for me. That the next time you perceived me as an inconvenience…you'd leave me again. Or at some point, you go off and get yourself killed permanently rather than…thinking of trusting me, the way I always trusted you. I lived to redeem you and you found no value in that pursuit. You danced for Moriarty. Now you were dancing for Mycroft. You pay attention to people who make you dance, Sherlock. I thought. I thought perhaps…if I made you dance you would notice me."

Sherlock turned, fury in his eyes and distinct enunciation. "Notice you? For God's sake, John. In case you haven't noticed, I nearly died. Dancing for you. In fact, I would prefer that to the alternative."

John didn't get a chance to say more than, "Sherlock," before he stormed out the door. It didn't slam, but the whisper-snick of the security engaging sounded similar to John.

John leaned back and sighed. He finally decided that his only option would have to be a yes. He catalogued his skills and weighed them against a life with Sherlock. He knew it was one of the most selfish things he'd ever done, but nothing was worth another minute without Sherlock. He knew it was down to the wire, but he would give them what they wanted and let the cards fall as they would.

He was about to shout it to whoever was watching him, when he was interrupted by the low sound of a buzzer that infiltrated even his own soundproof quarters.

John had little doubt what the sound meant. "Bloody hell, Sherlock," he whispered as he slipped out of his restraints.

Fifteen minutes later, John was quietly making his way up through a maintenance shaft for the lifts used in this subterranean complex. He had no idea where he was headed but instinctively knew that up was out. He was weak from his time in the hospital and still barefooted, though in a uniform and Id badge of one of his many attendants, who currently rested peacefully restrained in John's place, enjoying the sedative meant to be flooding John's mind at this very moment.

Movement both above and below him made him swear under his breath. Sherlock was about twenty stories above him, using the same shaft he'd chosen as a conduit for escape. Below, the elevator began to rise at an alarming speed. John scrambled for a safe perch and shouted a warning upwards.

Sherlock's face appeared a tiny white dot looking down in confusion. "John?"

John laughed and looked up. "Who else?" He waved at Sherlock as if this precarious situation were simply some standard airport reunion.

Sherlock grinned. John waited for the lift to pass and stepped over and leapt for the undercarriage mechanism, being careful to keep his fingers out of the works. He passed a cursing Sherlock and unsteadily jumped back to the ladder, coming to land a story or two above Sherlock at this time.

"Fancy meeting you here," John said downward. He tried not to look too cocky at Sherlock's confused shock.

"How did you?"

John shrugged and spoke before Sherlock finished sputtering. "I assumed that was your signal, right? Because you wouldn't be stupid enough to leave me behind again. You are a genius and all." John stated as he efficiently resumed his climb upwards.

Sherlock scoffed, "Course not. Knew you'd turn up."

"No you didn't. I used to think you got off on putting your life in danger. Getting suspicious that it's my life you in fact enjoy testing."

"What does it matter? Same difference."

John looked down between his feet with angry incredulity on his face. "If I go through with this training thing, the first thing I am going to do is whittle that enormous ego you have down to a manageable C-4 cargo plane size… and—"

"Not ego. Just fact," Sherlock interrupted his breath heavy from the exertion of their quick assent.

John looked down at him again. "Yeah? Well, here's a news flash—"

"Go to hell, John. I am not willing to live without you. How you seem to always miss this one glaring fact of my personality never fails to…"

"Yet off-out you go? Intending to leave me behind? That your plan?"

"No. Idiot. I have three days, probably much less, to plan your rescue. Mycroft is handing you over and I have to be outside to have any hope of your intact recovery thanks to your stubborn refusal to train me."

"Train you? What are you talking about?"

"One of your specialties is, I believe, the hostile recovery of critically injured detainees. Says so in your file. I have let you down and you no longer want to work with me. It's fine, but I won't leave you to die."

"Is that so? Just out of curiosity, what were your plans after you saved me from dismemberment and deadly nightshade?" John asked, trying a hatch he was passing and finding it blocked.

Sherlock was silent.

"Have you any actual plans?"

"Once you are safely away, I have one last thing to do. Then, I'll go home." Sherlock says voice low.

"You're having a piss, right? To Baker Street, you mean?"

An age of sighs pass before Sherlock responds, "Baker Street means nothing if you are not part of it."

"Then spell it out, because I can't see you kipping on Mycroft's sofa with much enthusiasm."

"I'll never speak to fatso again. Don't be stupid. The only thing left to a misfit like me, is the among those like me."

"Oh. So they have a special island of mad geniuses? Like Santa's misfit toys? Hopefully it has a better location than the North Pole. Brain freeze sucks."

"London. Homeless network, John."

"Oh. Planning to take up with your old pals then. Cocaine, heroin-"

"Whatever it takes. I'm tired. Cocaine and alcohol produce the interesting cocaethylene effect. Responsible for most deaths among casual users. Correct? Perhaps a personal account on my blog would have use to someone. " He snapped.

John stopped and leaned over, his face a mask of disgust. He stepped off the ladder onto a ledge and waited for Sherlock to come up level with him. "Let me understand this correctly. Look me in the eye and tell me you are setting out to intentionally destroy your mind. Your next career goal is Consulting Zombie?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No reason to lie about it now, John. Why are you even pretending surprise? Am I not simply meeting everyone's predictions of the only possible outcome any of you have ever imagined from me? Drug busts, and danger nights, and Oh God forbid…he's bored and he's smoking again. Let's all run around pretending we have to save him. I have even proven Sally right, John. Lots of bodies out there, I am responsible for quite a few of them in the last years. Guess what. There will be more. Until there isn't. Not playing by the rules any more. I told you the rules are wrong. I have eliminated all the other possible lives I might have had. It leaves me one. Now, shut up and climb."

"Can't. You'll have to squeeze in. Lift is coming back," John said shuffling to make room.

"I won't fit."

"Shut up. Put one foot here and the other there, dip your shoulder. Plenty of room." John pulled him over and shifted. Sherlock leaned in close yet he was uncomfortably stiff.

"Forget it, I will go up one," Sherlock complained.

"No time. Relax. You act like you're afraid of me. I'm not trying to seduce you for Christ's sake. If I were I certainly wouldn't have to use such a lame-brain excuse to trap you."

"If you did, I would fall for it."

John smiled and pulled him closer. "I'll keep that in mind. Tuck your elbow, unless you want it amputated."

Sherlock stretched his arm above them and latched onto a rail above, giving himself more leverage to pull into the small space. "Will you? Keep it in mind or seduce me?"

John swallowed and tilted his head. "You'll never make it through my training. "

"I have to. The Americans have word on Irene. Mycroft can't officially do anything."

"Not dead? Typical."

"By now? No idea. If she is…"

John sighed and closed his eyes. "So that's why you came back. That is what this whole bloody thing has been about. The Woman. She's what made you lower yourself and …dammit."

"No. Please stop, before you say something I will never forgive you for."

"Then you better explain. Quickly," John said, tension in his grip on Sherlock mounting toward painful.

Sherlock sighed in frustration and closed his eyes to convey that John was trying his patience. His eyes opened and he started to speak, shook his head and let the words burst forth, "You know I didn't sleep with her, and I could have. I almost did. John, after your wedding, I was not myself. I was so weak, so lost. No matter what you think of her … I would not be alive. Mycroft had washed his hands of me. Molly wouldn't even speak to me. Now she's in trouble. Probably her own fault and deserves whatever they do to her. But…"

"But you are going to try to save her. No matter what."

"Yes."

"And that is why you are so consumed with my agreeing to step under Mycroft's wing."

"She was critically injured. We know where she is, but…"

John sighed as the lift passed them. Just in Sherlock's ear he said slowly. "Do you know the risk of this sort of extraction? The odds are not good. My failure rate ran in the seventy percent range. Some died in transport. Some had no chance, and we tried anyway, but you have to be realistic. I will help you. But, first you have to know what we face. Second, if I do this, I am in charge. No questions. We do it my way and if you go off on your own, or decide I am stupid and blow the operation up in our face… I am done. I don't like to be in charge, but in this kind of situation…"

"Yes, of course. I understand." Sherlock said too quickly, like a kid itching to get his hands on a puppy and promising to sprout wings and halo if the admonishing parent will just let it in the house already.

"No, don't do that."

"Don't agree with you?"

"Don't agree without hearing and later on…"

"I won't."

"Sherlock. You hear only the bits you want to hear."

"But I know what you mean to say."

"No. Maybe you do. Sometimes, but not now."

"Come on John. Mycroft is probably negotiating away your liver at this very moment. We will sort the details after we—"

John pulls him to a stop. "No. Not details. My way."

"Fine. Will you get a move on? Your liver is probably not all that is at stake and I demand prior claim to some of your bits." Sherlock said with a poignant widening of his eyes.

Mycroft was indeed on the phone. His eyes were closed, his finger was trying to block out the sound of the alarm. He looked far less put together than normal and when Sherlock cleared his throat, the relief was evident. It was followed by a split second of fear as he realized Dr. Watson was also present, but he slammed the phone down and stood quickly. With two deep breaths he restored his equilibrium to his face and purred aloofly, "Gentlemen, I hope you enjoyed your little excursion. To what askew kindness, do I owe this unexpected social call? Isn't it nice that you interrupted your escape, to grace me with your cheery faces?"

"Well, we have always been so close, dear brother, couldn't stand an hour of your displeasure," Sherlock returned in an equally smarmy fashion.

"I'm sure. Do you intend to kill me?" He asked, partially joking and partially challenging. His eyes darted to John, leaden with expectation.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Considered it, but it's more fun to make you put up with me."

"Undoubtedly your impromptu visit has some purpose?"

John takes a step forward. "You want me to train him. That was his first lesson. Successfully executed, I might add."

Mycroft's eyes lock to John. "I see. Welcome back, Dr. Watson. You had me worried."

"Well, don't stop. I can guarantee you don't have the full file." John said, glancing at Sherlock.

Six months later…

John removes his sweat soaked vest and wads it up before tossing it at the sun-glass wearing lanky form occupying the best deck chair on the balcony like a buttered lobster. "You are burning again. I have told you that you are never going to bronze. You are going to go from bleached whale belly straight to skin cancer. You are popping freckles faster than Mycroft pops jelly babies."

Sherlock let the disgusting shirt sit on his face for a second, taking a deep breath and appearing to revel in the scents presented. John rolled his eyes and removed it before leaning over for a kiss. Sherlock flipped his glasses up and grinned, then shading his eyes stated, "You had a good day? Did they all quit? Record first day then."

"No actually, only twelve left. It's a good group. Mycroft will be pleased." John said flopping down next to Sherlock and pulling open the tab of a cold beer, taking a swallow and offering some to Sherlock.

Sherlock curled his nose and shook his head. "You must be getting soft on them then. More than half were gone in the first class."

John grinned. "True, but you were in that class and I don't think I was responsible for almost forty of them washing out."

Sherlock smirked, "Just saving you time."

John tilted his can of beer up again and kept his eyes on Sherlock, "Yes, you are effective in that department. So how was your day? Did our fair lady give you any trouble?"

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, "She tried to seduce the maid and escaped twice. Didn't make it far. You might check on her, see if she's making any headway on the knots. This time I soaked them in seawater after she tried to blackmail the physical therapist. Figured if she wouldn't do her exercises voluntarily, this would be equally operational."

"Oh. Bit slow then, overall?" John deadpans.

Sherlock waves dismissively, "All within normal parameters, Captain."

"Well, seeing as how she will probably be occupied for the next couple of hours, would you like to join me for a shower?" John let his index finger slide slowly through the beads of sweat and oil on Sherlock's brilliant crimson chest.

"I just took one an hour ago. After the …oh look, I appear to need another. Missed some spots," Sherlock declared on second thought.

John helped him up, "Good, I can count all your new freckles," he teased.

"Fine, while I count all your new grey hairs," Sherlock replied.

"The trick to seducing people, Sherlock, is perhaps less mentioning of age related statistics."

"You mentioned my freckles first."

"Yes. I did. But I actually like your freckles, so it isn't quite the same."

"Yes it is. Your blond hair belongs to everyone. But the grey ones belong to me."

"What are you on about?'

"You said I gave them to you. That makes them mine. When you are totally grey-headed, then I know I get to keep you for always, because every hair on your head will belong to me."

John stopped and smiled at Sherlock. Sherlock stopped and turned. "Did I say something wrong? You don't want to shower?"

John sighed, and shook his head. "You have my life. And my heart. Every hair comes along with the package. You don't have to wait. I think I belonged to you from the moment you said you left your riding crop in the mortuary. We can shower afterwards…"

John reaches up to kiss Sherlock. A sound of a derisive sigh behind them interrupts. "And you call me kinky?" Irene says trailing a puddle of rope behind her as she brushes past them and closes the door to the loo.

John groans. Sherlock smirks and winks at John, knocks softly on the door and purrs, "Always welcome to join us, my dear? If you're hungry."

John's jaw drops and he's making silent motions of 'no' to Sherlock's back.

"Piss off, Sherlock," said the tired voice from behind the door.

John adds, "He was kidding."

Fifteen minutes later, John is quite occupied, when a shocking sound stops him and freezes him in place for ten heartbeats. His head slowly rotates and The Woman stands framed in the Maltese sunset. She smiles wickedly naked as the day they had met and strikes a pose, letting her body shimmer with power and playful challenges. "Maybe he was kidding, but you weren't. Doctor Watson, I would like to introduce you to my riding crop. It seems Sherlock and I have something else in common. Not to mention a special, shall we say adoration for wickedly brave soldiers who happen to need a good scolding?"

Sherlock grins down at John, obviously in on this little surprise. "Who is in charge now? Care to take a guess? The game is on, John. No rules."

John rolls onto his side, his eyes darting back and forth between Sherlock and Irene, as he groans, "Please, God, let me live?"

The end of perdition.

Thank you all for reading and I hope you enjoyed my first attempt at Sherlock. I very much enjoyed writing it and hope you will check out my other Sherlock stories, Wings Of The Damned and A Statue In The Temple Of Mendacity. Thank you all for reading.