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Sometimes people forgot what John had been before he’d met Sherlock.
They forgot that he’d invaded Afghanistan. That he’d survived the desert and being shot at and that he had loved it and managed to not put a bullet in his brain when all of that was taken from him.
And dammit, he was tired of sitting around waiting for Sherlock to come back from wherever he thought he couldn’t take John. He was never the type to sit and wait. He was the type to go out and get shit done, because sometimes the higher-ups didn’t know shit about what they were talking about and John was never the type to distrust his instincts when they had saved his men so many times.
And his instincts were telling him that Sherlock was being a bloody idiot about this and that if he had just told John they wouldn’t be in this mess with him on one end of the world and Sherlock on the other.
If he ever found Sherlock he was going to kill him.
He went around the room adding some last minute essentials to his bag. He shut his suitcase just as his mobile went off.
Everything went perfectly. You are now dead, an unfortunate victim of a hit-and-run. Even Sherlock believes me.
Great. The plan still the same?
Yes. You’re going to Rio. Have fun at Carnival.
John snorted and pocketed his phone before picking up his bag and leaving the hostel Mycroft had stuck him in when the plan was put into motion. After all, a dead man can’t be seen walking around London.
The black car was waiting outside, and he quickly stepped inside. The ride to the private airport was quick, and he soon found himself on his way to Rio. After that, who knew.
He grinned. He would have fun picking apart Moriarty’s web. He’d missed this.
He couldn’t wait to start running.