Watson's War Verse

Don't own Sherlock. Want it. More specifically, him. John Hamish Watson, Captain, Doctor, and BAMF of the first degree.

Andrea Martin was known as Mouse on the streets. Quiet and pale with wide grey eyes and a closed-mouth smile that hid her teeth. Even at twenty four, seven years wandering homeless had left her teeth stained and rotting. So she kept her mouth closed and rarely smiled that small, sweet half-smile that led everyone that looked at her to think of Mona Lisa.

She was inconspicuous, slinking brokenly about in her ratty grey sweater and thin, worn-down jeans. When she walked, her toes peeked out from the holes where the rubber of her sneaker had rotted and worn down.

That was another reason she rarely smiled. She was rarely happy. She was afraid, angry, pensive, but rarely happy.

Then there was the man.

Sherlock Holmes with his ridiculously expensive jacket, high cheekbones, and black curly hair that slipped in front of his eyes. His eyes. Cold and grey. Always twinkling at some inner joke, laughing at the whole world as he played it like his infamous violin. On the occasions that he donned his absurd disguises and played on the streets, sometimes as the old Jewish man with the hat held out for alms and his arms sawing out a soft lullaby, and sometime as the young, smoking layabout with the open violin case and the jaunty tunes. She would watch him when he did that, watch from the dark, damp corners that she hid in, slept in, lived in.

He was strange that one. No matter how well she hid, he'd smile that knowing smirk in her direction, gather the money he'd gained as he left, and leave the whole lot lying on the bench where he sat. It was only the third time he did it that she had the guts to dart out and take it. The woman feeding the birds had glanced up and grinned at herand she had jumped when she realized it was him behind the wig, his scarf stuffed down his shirt and his jacket collar turned about.

She ran, the money in hand.

The next time, he left a note.

The time after that, he spoke to her, told her of his idea, the Network, his eyes twinkling with power and charisma. A child playing God.

It still surprised her years later that his ridiculous plan had actually worked. That the homeless network meant she ate a good meal every night and that she had shoes that fit. When he moved, he rented that place, on Baker Street.

He smiled saucily at Mouse when he handed her the key.

"221 C," he said, winking. "Just for emergencies, mind you."

He was rewarded with a Mona Lisa smile.

It was after that that she met HIM. Not Sherlock, with his smirk and grand airs, playing with the world, but HIM, the one with the magnifying glass and the whole world his colony of ants.

Mouse met his goon first. Fist first, that is. She struggled against the tight hold on her neck, feeling his fingers dig into her windpipe, threatening to snap her frail neck. Mouse opened her mouth. Nothing came out, she was silent, as always.

Tears stung in the icy wind as he felt her up before reaching into her pocket and grabbing the key. His key. Sherlock's key. Then the blonde man chuckled, and slammed his mouth against hers, pushing her up against the wall. The rough bricks made the tears flow faster as they dug into her back. She bit his tongue as he shoved it between her teeth, for once appreciating them despite their faults.

He dropped her. "Shit!" He cursed.

"Sebastian!" A voice drew him away before he could reach for her again. Spitting blood at her, he stalked off.

Limp, Mouse fell against the ground, blood streaming from between her lips. And Sherlock said she didn't stand up for herself. She smiled, bloody teeth bared.

It had been HIS voice, she later discovered.

At the time, she had simply pulled her tangled hair away from her face and clambered stiffly to her feet. She needed to have a conversation with Sherlock.

Not long after that, she met the third man. It was coincidental.

She had seen him, the short, pleasant looking man in the jumper, and recognized him. His kind face was oddly familiar, she thought, as he rushed out of the grocery with a gallon of milk in one hand and a bag in the other.

She contemplated going closer, curious... But the blonde man. She jumped, hand going to the finger shaped bruises that wrapped around her neck, hidden by the purple scarf Sherlock had given her, frowning gruffly as if to pretend his kindness didn't mean anything. She knew better.

The blonde man was behind the man in the jumper, reaching out. She caught the glint of metal. He began to bring the syringe down. Mouse began to run, as if she could stop the scene that was playing out before her.

Without warning, the man in the jumper met her eyes, saw the fear directed behind him, and whipped around. The blond man with his rough, hot hands and his cold eyes fell for no apparent reason, slammed onto his back. The mother who had been cradling a "baby" dropped the empty blanket and threw a right hook at the man in the jumper. He ducked under it, darting forward and snapping her jaw out of place with his elbow. Mouse could hear the snap. Just as soon as the woman had gone down though, there were more of them, everywhere. The jumpered man who had seemed so inconspicuous fended them off expertly. Without realizing it, Mouse had run straight into the fray. Throwing up an arm to block a vicious blow, she was shocked by the sudden chill of a cold metal barrel to her head.

"Stop!" The blonde man growled at the man in the jumper, who saw her and froze. "Stop, or I'll shoot her." He was pressed against Mouse, hard and unyielding.

"Do it," she whispered, trying to sound defiant. When he chuckled, he blew hot, wet air into her ear. "Oh, I want to, you have no idea how much I want to..." The words were meant for her. She shook under his grip.

"Drop down, Watson, or the little bitch here gets it in the head." His mouth was so close that she felt his lips brush her ear.

She was going to die. This Watson didn't know her, wouldn't care. Few would. Watson's arms fell and Mouse watched in shock as he sunk to his knees.

"I have friends," Mouse whimpered. "He'll find you. Sherlock Holmes will catch you."

As the cool breeze whipped against Mouse's thin body, a voice colder than the wind spoke. That was when she first met HIM.

"Ooh!" He groaned, the sound excited and pleasured at once. "I hope so." Dark hair and pale skeletal features grinned at her.

Watson was being bundled into a vehicle. His sweater had blood sprayed across it.

"A black sedan?" He grunted. "How incredibly original. The goon on his right raised a fist to punch him, but HE smiled.

"Not yet," he chuckled. "I want him recognizable for our Great Game."

He glanced back at Sebastian, whose gun was against Mouse's head.

"Seb, darling, I know you'd love to stay and play, but we have other things to attend to."

"Gotta go, sweetheart," the blonde man whispered, lips pressed to Mouse's ear. Then suddenly and without warning, he bit down.

Mouse screamed as she felt her ear tear, blood pouring from the gaping stump where her ear was meant to be.

"It was my turn for the goodbye kiss," the blonde whispered. Mouse couldn't hear him over her own agonized screams.

...

She was barely out of the hospital when she saw him again. Sherlock had just left with a jaunty good bye wave and a reassurance that if her doctor didn't want his wife knowing certain things, he wouldn't question her injuries or file a report, when she saw Watson, once again in a frumpy jumper, loitering outside her room.

Forgetting that she was a stranger, forgetting eight years now of hard learned wariness, she launched herself at him.

"Watson! I thought you were dead!" She froze hesitantly just in front of him.

He grinned, and for a second she swore she could have seen Sherlock, mad with the world, in his eyes.

"Mouse. I've got a business proposition for you."

That got a confused expression, a raised eyebrow.

"Well, less you, and more the network. I heard what you said, and I know you are one of we merry few who consider Sherlock a friend. You'd bite the tongue off of a mercenary for him and I know better than I would have liked to that I'd strap myself to semtex for him. I want to know if next time you hear of a threat on either of our lives, you'll bring it to me first. Even a threat on you." He smiled amiably and Mouse suddenly remembered the blood spattered jumper. "I'll deal with it then, because Sherlock's way of dealing with these things is debatable to say the least. Holding a gun on a bomb seems a bit unstable to me."

Mouse's lips turned up and John found himself struck by her Mona Lisa smile.

"Only if you count me in, mate."

Two incredibly innocent looking faces morphed into grins that hid a sort of sharp edge as they looked at each other with understanding.

"So she drank?" John asked sympathetically.

"Invariably. He left?"

"So it's that way for both of us then?"

Mouse nodded. "You've been spending too much time around Sherlock."

Watson laughed. "So I hear..."

"So what should I call you?"

"John Watson," he held out his hand. "Doctor John Watson. You don't seem like a mouse to me..."

The Mona Lisa smile again. "Not anymore, Doc." There was the sound of footsteps outside, accompanied by a soft tap-tap-tap. John winced.

"That would be Mycroft. He'll offer you money to spy on me and probably Sherlock. Take it. See how he feels when you tell him I'm serial killing and singing karaoke songs in my spare time."

John was pulling the window open.

"Are you, Doc?"
Mouse watched him.

He winked. "Only the bad ones."