Chapter Text
John is buzzed on his office intercom, just after his last patient of the day, and he is ready to close out the final patient record on his laptop. "Watson," he answers.
"Need you for a quick discussion." Surprisingly, it's the medical director Dr. Clark, the physician in charge of their surgery where John works. It bothers him less than it used to, that it's called a surgery and he is no longer a surgeon. He is a good GP, a hard worker, and if he was rough in the beginning, well, they all understood why. In truth, he is still a little numb, a little subdued, but they didn't know him before, so it's fine. Once Mary befriended him, tolerated his quiet moods, and coaxed him through those darker months, he seemed a little more settled, and evened out overall. "My office. Now. Please." He adds the final word belatedly, an afterthought.
"Of course." John is supposed to meet Mary for dinner later at hers, more because it's easier than feeding himself alone than because he necessarily wants or needs to. Despite the plans, he isn't stupid enough to say no to his boss, or even that he's pressed for time.
The door is closed, not uncommonly, but John raps twice quickly and enters.
And halts.
And then remembers to breathe through the emptiness, the thudding hollowness in his chest.
The sight in front of him is confusing, shocking actually, and draws him up short. Mycroft sits across the table, next to his overseeing physician who is respectfully - mayhap even fearfully - silent. Though he hasn’t seen him since … the funeral, he forces his mind elsewhere, he finds Sherlock's brother mostly unchanged. Mycroft wears his typical armor, his bespoke three piece suit, though his neck button is slightly loosened under the tie. His cheeks are a little gaunt and there is a weariness in his eyes, but before John can really study much else, he is drawn to some movement. A gesture at the end of Mycroft's hand, his fingers long - like Sherlock's but definitely not those of a violinist, not nearly so elegant or graceful - make a motion to enter and close the door, somehow all at once.
Obediently, John complies. Then wishes, fleetingly, that he'd turned tail and run.
"Dr. Watson."
"I don't understand." He can no sooner stop the words, his response, than stop breathing. Or stop missing Sherlock, every damn day, and it washes over him in fresh pain. A few seconds tick by, and John thinks of adding, 'nor do I wish to,' when Mycroft casts a deliberate glance at the vacant chair.
John almost scoffs as he remains standing. If needed, he certainly can stand for longer than Mycroft will wait.
He knows knows knows Mycroft will take every moment to enhance the dramatic effect, to attempt to influence whatever nonsense is brewing, whatever this power dynamic is, in his own favour, so he simply waits, and watches. It's the car park all over again, but John feels slightly more empowered. At least, he reasons to himself, at least now he knows who he is dealing with.
John will later question that concept, question that he knows anything whatsoever about him.
Mycroft's tone is detached. "I have a job for you."
"I have a job here." John can feel the spontaneous, natural defiance, firmly set in his chest, radiating through his chin, and coming across in his speech.
The other doctor, uncomfortable, clears his throat and almost pityingly says, "We have been instructed to free you from the schedule, from your current commitments, effectively immediately."
Another glare is directed this time at Mycroft. "I don't know why you think I'd want to see you, let alone work for you. I have zero interest in that." With more bravado than he feels, he thinks about reaching for the door handle.
He speaks as if John hasn't protested. "Time is of the essence. And I find I'm in need of your skill set, your expertise, your background. Along with your previous affiliations."
John tries not to sigh as he engages, despite not really wanting to. He still has zero intention of agreeing, of assisting. Seeing Mycroft again after these months is still hard, and rips the scab off anew. Even so, he asks, "A special assignment as a physician? Or a soldier?"
"Both.”
”Retired from the one, as you well know.”
”I have a person in need, broken in body and in spirit." A brow raises, but Mycroft's tone does not change as he relates these facts, impersonally. "And currently in grave danger. In enemy hands."
"No thanks." Both men stare as John refuses. "I'm not interested."
Dr. Clark looks as if he wants to reply, his face tight with surprise at John's stubborn refusal, but it is Mycroft who speaks. "I'm asking you, as a personal favour, that you change your mind."
"This is me saying no."
Mycroft hardly reacts, simply looks at the other man in the office, gives a barely perceptible nod, and Dr. Clark walks out leaving John to face Mycroft Holmes on his own.
"Please have a seat." The command comes with an insistent brow raising. Clearly, people don't tell him no often.
Inwardly, John is a little bit thrilled to do so as he relaxes, standing, into a comfortable, somewhat defensive, parade rest. "I don’t threaten easily, if you’ll remember.”
"Oh, I don't think that a threat will be necessary." He acts as if he's holding all the cards, and John is bristling at his assurance, his confidence. "I'll need you to sign this agreement of non-disclosure."
"Why would I do that?"
”National security.”
Sure, John smirks. "No."
Mycroft eases back in his chair, twirling his expensive pen in his fingers. John wonders randomly if it's a Montblanc, if Mycroft has ever used a low quality, generic Bic like the ones in his own shirt pocket. They wait, neither a stranger to silence and the power it wields. Mycroft begins, "You are to tell no one what I am about to say to you."
"I'm not signing that." He raises a brow at the paper that is between them. He feels a little like a toddler, figuratively crossing his arms and stomping his feet, obstinate for the sake of it; perhaps it rubbed off on him from years of observing Sherlock, of refereeing the pair of brothers. Seemed like nearly every damned time they were together. For Sherlock, it had been as natural as breathing, the joy of aggravating his brother.
Dear lord, John misses him. Even that.
Perhaps now, staring down at Mycroft, especially that.
For some reason, Mycroft capitulates on that tiny point. "Fine. But this is classified. For your ears alone." John sighs, his shoulders untightening, sagging a little in what he knows is him giving in, in his defeat, and, slightly disappointed in himself, he nods one single time. "Word has just come out of Serbia. One of my agents is in peril. As such, a rescue mission leaves tonight."
"And?" John tries to be casual, but he is puzzled. Curious why this is in front of him.
"You might be interested in his identity." He pauses, and a few things flicker over his face, behind his eyes as he meets John's curious look. "Sherlock is alive," Mycroft says, directly yet gently as he can, then softer, he repeats more slowly, "Sherlock is alive," though there is a flat sorrow underneath the words. "Ba-arely." The word catches on his tongue and splits into three syllables. "And he needs extraction, quickly. Treatment. He's going to need you."
John blinks in slow motion, a half-gasp of a giggle coming forth before he can stifle it. "What?"
"I have details, when you are cleared for them.” Wryly, Mycroft doesn’t need to indicate the paper again, that he has already won that little skirmish. John is beyond caring about that, too stunned. “There is no one else, John, who can do this," he says with a moderate emphasis on John's name - not accidental, not by a long shot. His first name makes it more personal. “I know this comes as a shock, but if we don’t act soon, he will die.”
I never got the chance to tell him. To apologise for the machine comment. And the rest … Oh god, If this is true, I still might not.
And then the anger descends as he realises. “I saw him, I watched …” Subconsciously his fists clench. “You’ve lied to me, both of you apparently. Deceived me for almost two bloody years.” He grits his teeth, hard enough to hurt, and his nasal inhale is raspy, upset, forced. “Why should I believe you now?”
“Simple, John.” Mycroft whispers. “Because without you, this will never work.”
Years before, Mycroft had correctly deduced John's need to be needed, his need for adventure, his craving for danger. Although it has been suppressed under a long time of grief, of simple survival, it is still there. Mycroft has again, awakened it, appealed to it, fanning those dormant embers back to life.
John reels inwardly with the news. This is not a flair for the dramatic. It is not nonsense. Apparently, it is indeed a life and death matter. Calm descends, and, setting the rest aside for now, John gets his head in the game. He lost everything once, and has no intention of sitting idly by while it happens again.
++
Not more than ten minutes later, John has signed where Mycroft’s finger pointed, gathered a few meagre things from his office, his mobile charger, his coat, and comes abruptly toe to toe with Mary just outside his door. Visibly riled up, she pounces. “You’ve been removed from the schedule. And no one is talking.”
”I’m being recalled for a military consultation.” When Mycroft’s suggested explanation doesn't placate her at all, he adds, "A temporary military assignment."
”And you agreed to it? Without discussing it with me first?” Her accusation is sharp, sharper than it needs to be. Their relationship has been slow moving, more of comfort than passion, more of convenience than commitment. "How could you?"
It feels like scales fall off his eyes and suddenly, he sees her more clearly. Shrewish. Shrill. Controlling. The fragile connection breaks, and John doesn’t really even care. Did he ever? “Look, I’m sorry. I didn't plan it this way, but ... I’m not sure this,” and he gives a weak gesture between them, “is working out. I’m not …”
”Captain?” A man in fatigues is at the open door, and John and Mary turn. "The car is ready."
He faces Mary, and though he stands beside her, the distance between them is actually quite vast. That it has been, perhaps all along. "I have to go."
"If you do, if you go, we are done." Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are wide as she quite nearly hisses at him.
We are done anyway, he doesn't say. He wants to respond, to defend himself with harsh words, to return something hurtful. "I'm sorry," is what he chooses instead, and then he speaks to the man at the door. "I'm ready." He can feel her eyes blazing on the back of his head as he walks away.
Once inside Mycroft's roomy stretched car, he finds Mycroft and several other strangers, all wearing civilian clothing but screaming military. John knows beyond a doubt they are not only in some branch of the armed forces, but tactical experts, well versed in small, perhaps single operative missions. He can just tell. Mycroft introduces them all, and then says, "The plane is waiting. On it will be the best and most current gear, along with technical support." He blinks, choosing his words. "And a great deal more, of course, in case it is needed. I will be leading and taking point, infiltrating the bunker where our target is being held. We will use whatever means necessary to secure his release." When he slows down and emphasises the words 'whatever means,' they all understand that they have both permission and blessing to shoot to kill to accomplish their ends.
"You're leading the mission?" John queries, a little blind-sided that Mycroft is doing any active field work. He is the only one there who is surprised. "What is the plan?"
"Rescue first and foremost. Retaliation, if necessary." He glances about again. "The Serbian jailer has been advised to expect a remote affiliant officer come for a short-noticed inspection." His smile is anything but bland - and John thinks that the Mycroft he's always known is just possibly the mere tip of the iceberg. "What he will get instead is something quite different. Unexpected. Dangerous." He has been holding something in his lap, and deftly tucks it on his head - it is a fur-lined, Russian hat, a Ushanka. Then he quickly, effortlessly delivers a rather sharp statement in a language John doesn't recognise. It seems to John, the delivery if not the message is very confident, fluent, and direct. The ice man, apparently, has secret skills hidden underneath all that he presents on the surface. He is more, certainly, than meets the eye. “We will review in more depth once we’re airborne.”
London scenery, buildings, street signs with their letters and numbers painted on corners, currently they are passing through Westminster, fly by as John looks somewhat blankly out the window next to him. Across from him, two men study what appears to be blueprints. A laptop is open, and they seem to be comparing the various satellite images with the papers, talking strategy of approach. John's gaze flicks between all of it, and at one point, he catches Mycroft's somber, somewhat distressed appearance. Without consciously deciding to, John gives him the slightest nod, he hopes one that conveys support, one that expresses determination toward a goal. Mycroft's cool expression returns, but his eyes silently express his gratitude. With that, John slides across to where there is now some conversation regarding weaponry of choice. "I'm quite accurate with my army Glock. Be glad to help, if one's available."
"There will be several for you to choose from, John, on the plane." Mycroft is all business now, sharp and focused. "There will be state of the art, in-ear pieces for communication over the short range. Briefly, you will act on my signal, once I have determined our best timing and laid eyes on him. You two," he indicates those next to John, "will go in, blaze the trail as it were, neutralise the scene. The moment of surprise will be yours. And mine. You'll take up next, John, securing him and getting him to safety will be your mission, with our support." He has a few other details, but John vividly recalls the few rescue missions he's been on before, those in Afghanistan. Most went well; some involved retrieving bodies rather than injured soldiers. And the one right there at the end, that resulted in several deaths, multiple injuries including his own, and his final day serving his country as an RAMC surgeon.
Not much else is sinking in, and he deliberately quashes all the unanswered questions, all the unknowns, and almost all of his emotional reactions. It all seems very unreal, from seeing Mycroft, hearing his request, actually agreeing to it, breaking things off with Mary - which, he realises is more than a little bit of a relief - and now being on his way. To what? To Sherlock, the crazy nutter of a madman that he hasn't stopped missing. His emotions threaten to break through, and he presses them down again.
He tries anyway, not entirely successfully. Oh God, Sherlock, he thinks. What have you done? Are you okay? As the car arrives at the private airstrip, where a supply plane waits, large doors open, moveable stairs in place, John settles and slows his breathing. He knows he'll be doing a lot of that throughout this unexpected turn of events, this assignment, not knowing what lies ahead. He uses the rhythmic biofeedback of calming the body, mitigating stress through respirations. His thoughts change, a new mantra, Hang on, we're coming. Inhale, hang on; Exhale, we're coming.