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Guilty Pleasures	By : CodyMThomas Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 8167 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or content associated with BBC Sherlock, I am merely playing with them for my own amusement and make no money from this fic

Chapter List
- 1-Guilty Pleasures
- 2-2
- 3-3
- 4-4
- 5-5
- 6-6
- 7-7
- 8-8
- 9-9
- 10-10
- 11-11
- 12-Chapter 12
- 13-13
- 10
- 11
- 12
A/N: Um this chapter actually needs a squick warning this time. I figure if MY stomach turned a bit while writing it, even with how desensitized I am, then yours definitely might. I have been in the medieval study and re-enactment field for FAR too long, so when I describe something as TORTURE, you can be damned sure it's accurate and that I MEAN it. I will mark that part with *WARNING* and finish with *SAFE* so you can skip it if you want to. I am a benevolent author, I will not squick you without your consent. So here you go:
WARNING: Possible squick. This chapter contains realistic gore and graphic descriptions of injuries acquired through torture. Also medical stuff just in case people have a trigger or phobia. The section WILL be appropriately marked!
Now you can't say I didn't warn you, so no complaints!

.11.

It wasn't pleasant to wake up in the middle of the afternoon from an after shag nap, to an armed squadron of special forces busting down the bedroom door and grabbing your naked arse out of bed while they restrained your lover. John was barely able to grab the comforter to wrap around himself before they were ushering him through the apartment in the middle of their group with guns at his back, then down the stairs and out the back door and into an unmarked black van in the alley. He was seated between two men and across from four others as the van drove off silent, efficient, and without a word from anyone. One of the men across from him handed him a set of his own clothes, shoes, and his wallet, all neatly folded and waiting. Mycroft then. Well, probably. This could be bad, or very VERY bad.
John knew better than to fight with six armed men without knowing the whole story, and he was willing to deal with the situation as it occurred, so he calmly set about dressing himself, after all he was military, far more men than this had seen his arse naked before.
"I don't suppose any of you could tell me if he's just in THAT much of a hurry or THAT inordinately pissed could you? ... Guess not. Chances are you probably don't even know who the hell I'm talking about. Okay, I know none of you are going to tell me your names, so I'll just call you Mike, James, Peter, Will, Tom, and Steve okay? I'm John. And if anyone has a mint or a stick of gum they are willing to share before I have to talk to a man who may or may not be in the mood to level a few nations before dinner, and definitely has the capabilities to do so, I would really appreciate it. Mike? Peter? Steve? Ah thank you James. I got into the habit back in Afghanistan, they couldn't keep our unit supplied with enough soap or bandages for me to keep our boys patched up, but there was always a case of friggin mints and gum in every shipment. But I suppose an addiction to mint is far healthier than cigarettes in the long run anyway. Here you go- really? Cheers mate."
He tucked the pack back into his pocket when the man refused to take it back. The ride was completely silent, not even any radio as they drove who knows where. Silence is one thing, but awkward, uncomfortable silence is another matter entirely.
"Is he really so strict he won't even let you guys have music on the road?"
Tom rolled his eyes in disgust and turned a volume control on the radio panel on the ceiling. Slow, droning, deep and somber orchestral music filled the back of the van for a few moments before it was viciously turned off again. John smiled.
"Ah, yeah, that'll do it. Never was much of a fan of classical either, but my lover plays the violin, and made me a fan of at least that. He's really good at it, even composes his own songs. He doesn't think I've caught on to the fact that he plays right after I've found out he's stuck eyeballs in the olive jar again or has stashed another bag of thumbs or a head in the fridge. Last week it was some poor bloke's pelvis in the crisper, not the whole torso mind you, just the pelvis, and I winced in sympathy for the poor bugger. Skin and muscle still on and his bits and family jewels stuffed with wires and electrodes, sitting not three inches away from the celery. God only knows what he was up to with it, and is it sad to know I've gotten used to this sort of thing? I admit most of that posh culture stuff is able to bore me to tears, but him playing the violin, I like it, and it's something he doesn't do much for other people, so I kind of get to keep it all to myself. Though I'm seriously still debating on investing in a second fridge, the electric bill has to be worth the sanitation and health concerns I'd think."
James looked a bit green around the gills and Steve looked like John might be nuts. Tom however looked like he was fighting off a laugh. Perfect.
"Look I know you're all under orders, so I won't try to get you guys to tell me where we're going or anything, so just a simple nod or shake of the head will do. Is this drive going to take a while?"
James nodded.
"Great." he said and wrapped the blanket around himself again. "Well, in that case I'm just going to continue my little kip. You learn to rest when you can when you live and work with these mad geniuses, they tend to run on caffeine, nicotine patches, sleep deprivation, and sheer bloody-mindedness for days and weeks at a time. I'm sure you'll wake me when we get there. Ta."

He didn't know if they believed him or not, but he closed his eyes anyway and relaxed. He didn't expect them to start chatting their heads off or anything, but he did want to put out the air of confidence that he wasn't afraid of these guys. He figured he could easily overpower three of them, four if he was damned lucky, Will and Steve however looked like they could easily break him in half. James and Tom were the sympathy plays, the mints and music had been an excuse, to check their responses, they at least viewed him as an individual now, it would be slightly harder for them to harm him. If it came to a fight he'd have to go for a gun quick and use human shields. Mike was the smallest and not in a 'small but scrappy' way, John KNEW he could take him out. Peter didn't look very strong, but could probably put up one hell of a fight regardless.
The ride lasted a good forty minutes at least and John never gave up the pretense of being anything other than asleep. Sherlock had taught him about a dozen little tricks to it: routinely make sure no part of your body is tense, take slow, deep breaths that you hold for about three seconds before exhaling, don't lay completely still but shift a bit every so often as if getting comfortable, if you are being moved and trying to gather information you can halfway open your eyes in a quick, fluttering eye movement for about a second or two after any kind of jostle, deep bump, or sharp turn.
He knew them all, and employed most of them. Sherlock would have known exactly where they were just by turns and how long it would take them to get to each, but he couldn't do that. Eventually the van stopped and James shook his shoulder to wake him up, he popped one of the mints into his mouth that James had given him before Steve put a black cloth sack over his head. He tried to take his blanket with him but they made him leave it at the door they led him into, John knew it would most likely be back at home when he returned. He was ushered into a small room and through the little he could make out between the weave of the fabric, he was facing a one way mirror that reminded him of every single cop interrogation scene on telly he'd ever seen, but it wasn't near as funny when you had the sack over your head, were handcuffed to the chair, and had Steve the tank behind you.
They waited there in full silence for several minutes, seemed a small eternity of course, but he made sure to keep his breathing steady and even, no hint of fear, no showing of nerves. Though he could feel that his hand was as steady as stone. Mycroft must be pissed about something to have these guys pick him up instead of the aloof assistant, and he had been trying to puzzle out why when he remembered the one way mirror and almost broke out into a cold sweat as he figured it out. Big Brother was always watching. Mycroft had bugged the flat again from the last time Sherlock had done a surveillance sweep, he had seen what had happened to Sherlock last night. Oh great buggering fuck, not even Sherlock was going to be able to find the pieces of his body.
It had taken three of them to hold Sherlock down on the bed he'd been fighting so hard when they had taken John. He realized now that it wasn't frustration at his brother he had been seeing, the detective had been furiously terrified until Will had knocked him out with a rag of chloroform. Sherlock had figured it out even back then, he knew what was going to happen. Fuck, John didn't want that to be the last image of Sherlock he'd ever see, he tried to focus back to before that, pinned under Sherlock on the living room floor, desperate and needy and that intense gaze that missed absolutely nothing and stored it in that brilliant eidetic memory of his. He'd seen Sherlock steal his hairbrush before for some nefarious purpose, and return it as clean as when it was new, so Sherlock probably even had his DNA matrix memorized if he went looking for it in his mind palace. If he ever found so much as a fingernail, he'd know it was John's, and somehow that was comforting.

The door opened and clicked shut and a second later the hood was pulled off right before he was slugged across the face. Thank gods Mycroft had probably never truly been in a fist fight before, he missed his nose entirely and hit him square on the cheek. Hurt, yes, but he'd had far worse. It probably wouldn't be a good idea to laugh and tell Mycroft his sister routinely drew blood with one punch when she slugged him. Well she had until their mother told them that if Harry threw the first punch, John was allowed to hit back whether she was a girl or not. A few busted lips and noses later and Harry had stopped hitting him altogether.
But the posh git had actually slugged him instead of having Steve bust his skull open. That was personal, Mycroft was pissed as hell if he was willing to get his hands dirty.

"I have to admit, John, that I have been rather... disappointed in you of late. I had thought my previous actions had been enough to impart upon you what I was expecting from you... "
He mostly tuned out when Mycroft started listing off his crimes and the inconvenience he'd caused, all the favors the man had done him. While they were true of course, John realized that Mycroft couldn't scare him, he'd already come to terms with it. This was one of the most dangerous men in the world, and John had pissed him off and hurt his little brother. He was most likely going to just disappear off the face of the earth, Mycroft could probably arrange it so that there was no evidence he had ever even been born or existed except in the minds of the people who remembered him.
"I only asked you to do ONE thing John, do you remember what that is?"
"Protect Sherlock."
The response was almost automatic, after all, that's what he had been living for. Over three years, and all he could even think of doing anymore was running after the mad genius consulting detective and pulling his arse out of the fire, or away from the cliff, or shooting a serial killer trying to take him out. Sherlock would remember him, that was enough, even if Mycroft erased him as completely as he could, he would always exist for Sherlock, so it was fine, it was all fine.
"That's right." Mycroft nodded to Steve who still stood behind John, and grabbed his hair, forced his head back and pressed a vicious looking Bowie knife under his chin. Dead serious, steady, a trickle of blood trailing down his neck from the razor-sharp edge. Yep he was fucked.
"After all of my leniency and generosity, is this really the gratitude I receive in return John, Sherlocks' physical and sexual abuse? Given your complete and utter repetitive failures in this endeavor, perpetuated by your own two hands no less, can you give me one singular reason as to why I shouldn't kill you right now and leave your worthless corpse to rot?"

What, he wanted begging, pleading, excuses? That wasn't John's way. He doesn't run from his mistakes, he doesn't hide from the truth, he doesn't make excuses for his own faults or play pin the blame instead of taking responsibility. He's a regular, ordinary, flawed human being, and Mycroft is an idiot if he thinks John ever believed himself to be anything but that. Sherlock would be safe now, the dark beast inside him would never be able to hurt him again. Mycroft had succeeded where he had failed.
"Not really, no. You kill me and Sherlock's safe again, I get it. Just tell him I'm sorry and I love him. Sorry I let you down Mycroft." John closed his eyes, because the last thing he saw wasn't going to be Mycroft damnit, it was going to be Sherlock, that weekend a few months ago when he'd had the detective wrapped around his entire body as he'd taken him against the wall in his bedroom where Mrs. Hudson couldn't have heard. Sherlock had actually blushed that day, apparently there was this one spot he had been hitting just right and the stoic man had been blushing and whimpering and repeating John's name in a seductive mantra that had sounded like a desperate prayer. If it's possible to wait around after death, he'd do that, look after Sherlock until the mad git either did himself in or got himself killed.
'Sorry Sherlock, I love you, I'll still be there even if you can't see me.'
A pager began beeping uncontrollably and Mycroft immediately went for his belt. The fact his eyebrows rose momentarily was enough to worry John. The world was ending somewhere if Mycroft actually managed to look worried like that. A beat, then another, before a signal was given and John's hair was released and the knife removed.
"Good, because I despise pointless excuses and people too pathetic to take responsibility for their own actions."
The cuffs around his wrists were released and John hesitantly rubbed the circulation back into his hands, Steve wasn't the most careful person with handcuffs.
"Given the fact you understand the position you are in, you will accompany me for the foreseeable future. I have a few favors I need you to perform, nothing you would find distasteful Doctor, in fact I believe it will be work you will enjoy immensely. This is not a request, and arrangements will be made at the clinic for a substitute, though why you continue to try and work there is beyond me."
So had this all just been a power play or had the pager had something to do with this? With all the available technology, why did Mycroft even still HAVE a pager? And if that had been a bluff John never wanted to play the man at poker.

"Because it makes me feel normal Mycroft, it's the one part of my life that still makes sense and I have some control over."
"Really? Considering how little time you spend there, and how easily you are called away from it on short notice for one of Sherlocks' little whims, Doctor, I feel it safe to say you no longer enjoy feeling 'Normal' all that much anymore. In fact one might even say that you are using it as a crutch to try and once more protest against your love of adventure and action because somehow such an affinity would make you seem abnormal in your own eyes. There is no shame in enjoying what you are good at, and you are FAR too good at what you do to be buried in mediocrity and say it's what you truly want with any conviction, Doctor. My brother cured you of your first crutch, perhaps I shall be successful in fully ridding you of the second. Come Major Watson, the helicopter is waiting."
He wanted to protest, Sherlock was one thing, he wanted to follow after the mad git, Mycroft was another matter entirely, he wasn't some pet to call to heel when beckoned. But he also knew Mycroft may have just changed his mind about slitting his throat, probably to offer him a devil's deal in exchange for his life, but something had come up, something he could be useful in, something that might let him walk away without selling his soul, and so he warily followed after Mycroft, grabbing a few tissues to clean up the blood on his neck.

They were air lifted to a remote storage area out in the middle of nowhere, there hadn't even been any visible roads nearby. The huge shipping containers were piled up to four high, four long, and eight across. The blocks were intersected here and there with single rows of other containers instead of just all being stacked in rows. As if a giant had made a block city out of storage containers. After they landed in an open space designed to hide them from any outside observers, John realized it wasn't storage at all, it was a facility in disguise. The doors of the containers opened up on several levels, all facing in towards the helicopter, filled with armed special forces that were all aiming at them. The facility he could see through the doors was completely modern and VERY high-tech. Mycroft didn't even hesitate to get out with John right behind him, and walk straight towards one of the opened doors. The men all stood down at once and except for the ones at the door they were heading to, they all disappeared back into the structure and the doors closed once more. John was reminded of trapdoor spiders.
"Mr. Holmes Sir, it's an honor to see you." said the only unarmed officer there, a colonel by his mark of rank who actually saluted Mycroft.
"I was nearby. How long ago did you find him and what is his condition?"
"About an hour ago Sir. We called you the minute we got him back within communications range, but he's not doing well Sir, he's been severely tortured and dumped, so who knows what he may have said. We don't know yet if they managed to find the information, but we will soon."
"He's still alive and can probably tell us who took him if he survives. Also it's highly unlikely they would have left him alive if they had obtained the information or truly believed that he had it on him to begin with. They don't want to be the ones at fault for starting a war, they want to blame us for it. This is Dr. Watson, brief him and get him to the patient, he's cleared to know everything, notify me when you know more."
Mycroft left him there without another word and John was alone with the colonel.

*WARNING* *WARNING* *WARNING*
*WARNING* *WARNING* *WARNING*
*WARNING* *WARNING* *WARNING*

"Colonel William S. Davis MD, senior medical officer here."
"Major John H. Watson MD, Retired combat surgeon, personal bodyguard of Holmes the younger and apparent on call lackey for Holmes the elder."
"Wonderful to meet you, we were getting pretty desperate. This way. I'm afraid you'll find the entire government and armed forces of the United Kingdom is Mycroft Holmes' on call lackey. Six months ago I was a Lieutenant Colonel and team medic in the middle of the biggest firefight of my career on my third deployment to Afghanistan when two unmarked Apaches come out of nowhere and rained a barrage so heavy against the opposition that it was over in under fifteen seconds. They landed, one with immediate supplies and transport for my unit, the other with a woman who didn't even have a vest on and looked like she had just left a London office simply to take her lunch in the middle of a war zone that day. She just stood there completely nonplussed in the sands of Helmand in a pencil skirt and heels, texting on a blackberry, and informing me that I had just been reassigned. I thought I was dreaming until I found myself in Kabul boarding a private jet that made a non-stop flight back to London where a helicopter picked me up and brought me here. Weird has been par for the course ever since."
"Yeah, I doubt anything short of the entire planet losing electricity could shake that woman up. So, torture victim?"
"Yes, and I assume you were the closest surgeon who had clearance. Welcome to Iron Town. This really is an emergency, we have sterile facilities and some basic surgical equipment, but we only specialize in minor surgical placement and recovery of microchip data hidden in the subcutaneous tissues of our operatives, things that usually wouldn't even require full anesthesia most times. I don't think Mr. Holmes understands the fact that just because you are a medical doctor who works somewhere with an operating theater, doesn't mean that you and the facility are qualified or ready for any emergency that comes up, especially one like this. The medical staff here consists of myself, four lieutenants, and a second lieutenant they are all RN's. I'm the most highly trained here, since I am a doctor, but I'm locum work, emergency first aide, A&E at most, not trauma ward, and definitely not something this seriously advanced. We are a Military Black Ops information base, not a medical facility designed to handle this sort of thing, but we are the only secure base with any medical facilities that we could get him to immediately. We will assist you however we can, but guess who gets to beat back Death and order around a superior officer today?"
"Wonderful, and my command voice is nearly two years rusty. At least the conditions are better than a canvas tent in the desert, and I used to work bloody MIRACLES in those. What's his condition?"
"Probably grateful that he's unconscious, the poor bastard. I'm going to go with critical, since he's having trouble breathing on his own, he has a sucking chest wound, and we had to resuscitate him once already. He fell off our radar nearly two weeks ago then popped up again just a few hours back with his emergency GPS activated. We were the closest secure location, and I would seriously recommend transport if I already knew he probably wouldn't make it that long without some sort of stabilizing treatment first. Code name Peregrine, Aliases Robert Fletcher or Robert Blackhawk, given name so classified even I'm not allowed to know it, 35 year old male, 178 centimeters, 95 Kilos and in really bad shape. No known allergies, or pre-existing medical conditions, blood type A positive.
Suffering from severe head trauma, internal bleeding in abdomen, punctured right lung, five abdominal stab wounds, possible organ damage, multiple mild to moderate lacerations everywhere, but about twenty severe ones. Second degree fire and electrical burns over about twenty-five percent of his body, severe bruising over the entire body, kidney damage, dental torture that removed seven teeth, they ripped off every single fingernail and toenail and stuck sharpened bamboo into the quicks, a broken and dislocated jaw, broken right humerus and left ulna. Every finger, both wrists, both ankles and both tibias are definitely broken at least once, they went the extra mile for us and made sure the tibias broke through the skin, left one on the front, and the right through the medial side. The pelvis is shattered, and left femur is dislocated, looks like they tried to impale him or something.
And here's the kicker; copper plated steel nails, thirteen centimeters long, thirty-five of them total, either hammered manually or inserted with a nail gun into ball and socket joints and tendons to be used as probes for electrical torture, they all still have copper wiring wrapped around their heads. Four were hammered directly into the ball joints of the humerus on both sides of the shoulder, four through each of the femoral joints at the hip, two through his spine, one through the right popliteal fascia in the back of the knee, one through the left lateral knee, three through each foot, seven through the sacrum, and two through his scrotum, nailing his nuts between two pieces of copper sheeting to a wooden block. There is an estimated fifteen cm by two cm copper tube that was inserted in the penis like a catheter, and the flesh is melted to it with either second or third degree electrical burns. These bastards went for maximum pain and they sure as hell got it.
I'm no expert on bone and nerve damage, but even I can tell it will be a blessed miracle if he walks again. God only knows what else they did to him before they got down to hard torture. We could be dealing with complications from unknown drugs, infection, septicemia, starvation, and he was probably raped too. He's in the middle of receiving full body X-rays and a CT scan so we know what we are dealing with. We also put him on a two bag saline drip to combat severe dehydration and gave him an injection of morphine. It's all I knew that I could do without causing harm. We've staunched the bleeding as best we can, but he's a mess internally and I didn't want to close him up when it looked pretty obvious that he needs internal surgery. There's no way on gods green earth he escaped under his own power with these injuries, they dumped him to die or to be found, so we have to check him for tracers, as well as see if the information he was carrying is still intact.
I'm not going to lie to you Major, I've known this man a long time, even if I didn't know what all he was up to, hes been a very good friend and a mentor to me. He's been an operative for nearly seventeen years, and I can tell you with all honesty, he wouldn't want to continue on like this, in fact he has a DNR with my name as witness on it that we've already been ordered to ignore unless he goes brain dead. If you manage to, he's not going to see you saving him as a kindness, in fact it's probably down right cruel of us to make him try and live through the aftermath. And if his mind survives this intact after what he's been through I just might stop believing in the existence of any kind of benevolent God. But that's not what I'm allowed to want or pray for this time. He has information we desperately need, he's a good man, and he deserves a chance to make the ones who did this to him pay, and knowing him, he'd want to."

"Alright then, saving a patient who'll hate me for it. Feels like Afghanistan all over again. We'll see which one of us is more stubborn. I need clean scrubs, a nail brush, and nail clippers to start my surgical prep work. I also need the patient's vitals and the test results as soon as you have them. I'll do my own preliminary exam before I do a full surgical scrub, because if we can move him, I want to be able to determine how fast. And please tell me ONE of you is an anesthesiologist."
Davis shook his head. "We deal with locals, mild sedatives, and nitrous oxide for the most part. If someone needs to go under they bring a specialist and their own supplies. The closest hospital is a thirty minute flight out from here, and they don't have clearance. Mr. Holmes has the list of approved hospitals. We've got only the most basic supplies, and I can get more pretty quickly, but the thing is I really don't know what exactly we would need for this, this is way beyond my level of training, so you're the expert right now, and officially in charge unless Mr. Holmes says otherwise."
"Remind me to punch Mycroft when this is all over. Do you have oxygen, basic vitamins and minerals? Blood or plasma?"
"Oxygen yes he's already on it, yes common vitamins and minerals, as well as antibiotics, a full spectrum of inoculations and immunizations, steroids, some sodium pentothal, and phenobarbital. No on blood or plasma, but we have IV's, tubes, bags, and a centrifuge."
"Why in the hell do you have phenobarbital?"
"We use a one tenth diluted solution in our tranquilizer darts, useful to put a threat down for three or four hours if you need to transport him."
"Fetch it. I hate to use it but it's the best we've got right now, not like he isn't already going to feel like shit if he wakes up anyway. Also add a unit of potassium, magnesium, A, B and C vitamins, iron, and calcium to his drip, start him on a round of general antibiotics, and give him a tetanus shot, his system doesn't need another thing to fight right now.
Tell Mycroft I'm good but I am not God, if he wants me to save this guy I am going to need some fully trained help. If we can't transport him I want him to fly in a full surgical team and equipment. I can't be the only surgeon with clearance, I was just the closest, and if this man is going to have any kind of fighting chance he first needs to be given one."

John pulled off his jumper and pulled on the scrubs, washed and prepped his hands, and put on a mask and gloves. Fletcher was just being wheeled out of X-ray and John immediately did a full analysis. Head injury was definitely going to need a specialist, and except for the chest and stab wounds he was actually in pretty stable condition, the lacerations were all different ages, most had already clotted, internal bleeding was severe but his pulse was still strong, oxygen was supplementing and dear gods the guy might actually stand a shot if they could get him to an actual operating room because the nails had mostly cauterized their own wounds.
"DAVIS! I need a list of those hospitals NOW!"
He started randomly pointing to the medical staff around him.
"You, get me suction and a bladder, you sutures and needle, and as much gauze as you can carry. Who is the best with blood work?"
A young man raised his hand. "Trained phlebotomist Sir."
"Perfect, I want you to find a main vein and start a picc line, the more lumiens the better. Right arm would be ideal, but I'll take whatever I can get. Is anyone blood type A Positive or O negative?"
"I am type A Positive Sir" said a petite brunette with green eyes, one of the few people he hadn't given orders to yet.
"Are you clean? Not sick, or have any communicable diseases, or gotten a tattoo in the past year?"
"No sir, tested just last week, results clear."
"Wonderful." He turned to the one he had ordered to do the picc line. "I also want you to get a pint from her and get it here as fast as you can." He turned to the other woman in the group.
"I don't care how you do it but find anyone else who is type A Pos or O Neg that is clean and willing to donate even just a half pint. I need another three pints to have a chance of stopping this bleeding and stabilizing his BP. Everyone else, lets wheel him to the surgery room, cut off the rest of those clothes, clean him up as best you can so I can see what I am doing, and prop him higher off those nails with rolled towels. Support everything that isn't pierced, I want absolutely no pressure on any of them. Leave a 4-6 centimeter gap between every nail head and the table in case we have to resuscitate him again."

John was running back to the scrub room when he saw Mycroft in a small office typing on his computer. He flung open the door.
"Mycroft, what are the approved hospitals we can transport this guy to?"
"Royal London, St. George's, Broomfield-"
"Broomfield! I need transport there ready on my signal. Do you have my mobile?"
"It isn't secure-"
"Fuck your security, do you want me to save this man or not? Give me my bloody phone."
For reasons beyond his understanding Mycroft handed it over without another word.
John scrolled through the contacts and punched the call button on the one listed as BO. Two rings later there was a click.
"Hello?"
"Browning."
"Sig?"
"You still at Broomfield?"
"Yeah. You in the area? My shifts done in two hours if you want to grab a pint."
"I'll buy you a full steak dinner if you stay on and do a tandem with me for this. I have a crit coming to you airlift I need you on the roof with a trauma team and a fully stocked OR ready within the next hour. Tell either the Surgical Director or the highest uppity up you can find that full liability and expenses are being claimed and covered by Mycroft Holmes, that should keep them calm. The patient has head trauma, sucking chest wound, internal bleeding, multiple punctures, stabs, burns, electric, and blunt trauma. Starvation, dehydration, infection and drugs. You're going to need rib cutters, pliers, and a claw head hammer, ice, an electric bone saw, two full length leg halos, minimum eight units of A positive, casting materials, all the screws, bolts, and pins you can find, and probably every suture in the hospital, and gods just get everything in that room you can possibly fit into it and the strongest stomachs you can get to assist. we're going to need all of it."
"John what the fuck are you bringing me?"
"Someone trying to do a Six Squad Sunday all on his own, but he has a real shot if I can get help. He's a D and T BO looking at a minimum twelve hours of Emergency Surgery, and my orders are to save him no matter what. I'll be there as soon as I can get this chest wound stable. And get the best neurological surgeon you can find, orthopaedic surgeon too if you can manage it, and bribe them with whatever you have to in order to get them in that room as fast as possible, and I do mean ANYTHING. The window is small and we need all the miracle working help we can get."
John clicked the phone shut and handed it back to Mycroft who had his hand out waiting for it.

"D and T BO?"
"Detained and Tortured Black Ops. That was Mark Hamsfeld, he's a buddy of mine from Afghanistan and one of the best combat surgeons I've ever known, we worked tandems together for six months. His security clearance was level five before I even GOT to the war, so you shouldn't have a problem vetting him. I'll call you when Fletcher can be moved."
Six Squad Sunday was the worst day Mark and he had ever had working together. It was the year before he was invalided home. Four separate squads had come under direct attack, and two squads had an unfortunate encounter with landmines that day. The wounded were coming in not even an hour apart from each other, and they were the closest med station available within fifty clicks in any direction. They had only been able to save two of the thirty-five critically injured soldiers who had been transported in that day. They were short on supplies, people, transport, and worst of all, time. It was a complete no win situation and after that thirty-four hour nightmare shift, John had gotten drunk. Not just any drunk, but I-can't-even-move-let-alone-think-about-walking drunk. They had broken into Mark's private reserve and polished off three and a half large bottles of fine Irish whiskey together. John had a feeling they both would need a drink after this one too.

'Robert Fletcher' apparently wanted to live as much as everyone else wanted him to. He was stable enough for transport within thirty minutes and the chopper flew as fast as it could to Broomfield. Mark was waiting with a full team and even some of the most hardened nurses were looking rather green around the gills once they saw the extent of his injuries. John and Mark worked for twenty hours, with an assisting staff of ten and only taking two breaks a piece. It reminded him of the war, ignoring his own body in favor of saving the life before him.
Fletcher's heart stopped four times in the early stages from shock and blood loss but they revived him each time and kept working. Dr. Greenburg, their miracle neurosurgeon, showed up during hour four and saw the full damage as they were trying to repair shredded intestines, a punctured liver, and removing the irreparable kidney, now that the patient was able to be placed supine thanks to Dr. Wheaton the orthopaedic surgeon and two members of his fellowship team having finished pulling out the nails in the shoulders, spine, sacrum and hips, and now beginning to work on the ones from the waist down.
"I never thought a split cranium with multiple skull fractures, intracerebral hemorrhaging and bone shards in the brain matter would have ever been the lesser surgical job. You boys sure have your work cut out for you, if he lives this is a surgery for the history books, I hope you're recording it." Then set in on the head and brain surgery.

Of course they had been recording it, it was Mycroft, the worlds most thorough voyeur, there were probably multiple camera angles in full color with audio. That didn't mean anyone outside of a level ten security clearance would ever get to see it, especially fresh faced surgical students eager to learn.

It took twenty-four hours total before the last of the eighteen hundred and thirty-two stitches was in. Fletcher was stable but would most likely never walk again, in fact he probably had no feeling at all from the chest down, maybe from below the navel if he was lucky. He'd be in traction for several weeks and had lost a kidney, five feet of intestines, a large chunk of his liver, his testicles, and half of his penis, But he was alive and breathing on his own, and neural scans showed that his brain was still functioning at a normal level. A full body CT showed that the data chip had survived against all odds and John extracted it himself from the medial bicep of the right arm. He handed it directly to Davis who had come along specifically for the retrieval process and was gone again just as quickly.
Cleaned and stitched and stable, the only thing left was to see if the man would wake up and retain his mind. Exhausted and weary, John Watson, Mark Hamsfeld, Carl Greenburg, Michael Wheaton and his fellows had truly done all they could. Robert Fletcher was a miracle case and had survived against some of the worst odds.

*SAFE* *SAFE* *SAFE*
*SAFE* *SAFE* *SAFE*
*SAFE* *SAFE* *SAFE*

At his own insistence Mycroft had handed John a fresh suit, a huge strap of cash, and vehicle transport that John used to take the four of them along with Carl and Michael's wives Diane and Cecile down to Brentwood to treat them all to dinner and their own bottle of wine at Masons.
There was small talk and reminisces of the good old med school days before they realized they didn't know everything. They talked shop, and about relationships, Mark had been divorced for five years, and had apparently been dating this spitfire of a redhead named Natalie for the last eighteen months who loved nothing more than showing him off like he was the prize stallion in the stable, even though she was fourteen years younger than him and a classy executive that made her minions cower in fearful respect everyday. She was currently in Germany on business.
John told them about Sherlock, and how he was absolutely smitten with the man. As well as the fact he was a mad genius that took pleasure in tormenting the Met and the Yard by waving their own obliviousness in their faces.
They all marveled that their patient was still breathing, and Mark insisted they double date sometime, he wanted to see what Sherlock was like for himself if he'd managed to get 'Three Continents Watson' to settle down and be monogamous. If nothing else than to get together when there wasn't a dying man between them, maybe more dinners and drinks acting like normal blokes instead of super surgeons.
The extremely enjoyable company after the long day and the lovely meal he didn't have to dash away from right in the middle of, had John feeling more relaxed than he had in ages. It also had him missing his brilliant madman, and John finally realized what Mycroft had meant.

Normal for him was in the heart of a life or death situation, or smack dab in the middle of the frenzied fray and getting his hands dirty. He was a combat surgeon and a damn good one, and he thrived under pressure and adrenaline. A man was still breathing today because he had been up to his elbows in viscera doing surgery instead of treating another case of strep, or writing out another script for cough syrup, and just like with the cane, he couldn't go back to it now.
Mycroft obviously had some plan of occupying John's time in order to take him away from the clinic, in fact it would scare him if Mycroft ever DIDN'T have several plans waiting in the wings for whatever things he wanted done. And knowing how much Mycroft probably still wanted him to look after Sherlock, it was probably a damn interesting one that didn't take up too much time and wouldn't interfere with Sherlock's own mad schemes or schedule too badly. He wondered how long he could keep it from Mycroft though, that smarmy bastard would NEVER get the smirk off his face if he thought he had won so easily, and Sherlock would never forgive him if he gave in without a fight.
John sighed, Mycroft still had him on a total communications lockdown aside from that one phone call he'd allowed. John honestly wondered if it was more to punish John himself, or to torment Sherlock for some unknown petty reason. Neither answer would surprise him, but he hoped Sherlock was doing alright.

TBC

A/N: So Happy Yule/Winter Solstice to all of you, I hope a 7,000+ word chapter less than a week after my last posting counts as an acceptable gift to you, even if it might have been more Halloween appropriate with all the gory bits in it. I hope that you enjoy celebrating the wintertide festival of your choice with the people that you love and that you all have a safe and happy new year.
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Guilty Pleasures