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John often thought about his blog as London swirled around him.
He hated writing the damn thing, but it was all but enforced upon him as a condition of his treatment. He’d recently written that nothing ever happened to him, and it was true. As a Queen’s Guard, nothing ever really did, and planning a blog post was enough to fill his mind. It was a good way to pass the time because he liked to write about the people he had seen.
He had tourists out his bearskin, and he couldn’t do a thing about it, so thinking about the thinly veiled comments he might make about them on his blog was his way. Some Grenadiers thought about women, some counted sheep in their head. Some just fucking stared at point until their eyes crossed and they could take 15 steps again.
John, for his part, even got to the point that he came to await the Prince of Wales’s exits, just so he had cause to salute or present arms. Unlike most, he hadn’t ever intended to be a ceremonial guard. He wanted to be on the front, somewhere he could actually use his medical training and his skills as a solider to do his bit. But according to Ella, the army shrink they had him seeing, being part of the ceremonial guard for a time would help him transition back to civi life. It was a great honor, and it was also a way to help him understand what he really was a soldier. Or so they said, not that John agreed. An honorable discharge after his injuries would have been merciful. Ella insisted that would have been to his detriment.
John snuck a look towards his bearskin. This American tourist who was plastering herself to his side wasn’t doing anything but making him want to twitch. John fleetingly wondered if diagnosing her halitosis was worth his post.
Likely not. At least it was better than the foreign tourists who asked him questions. He sometimes wanted to answer. He sometimes wanted to scream that hey weren’t fucking experts because they’d seen Guarding the Queen on the Beeb. John had once made eye contact with a vet who’d confessed he was sducidal. He was a doctor, after all, and a solider. Her Majesty would have wanted that man to feel not alone. John could not let that man die.
In his head, John eventually ran through every bone in the body and considered a blog post about a patient he’d once had who had exploded and bone shrapnel had...
It felt like hours out here. It was worse than sleeping in his battle position. It was worse than working A&E on a slow night. And yet, this was the only way he could feel connected to people who weren’t Army, oddly enough, since he’d been back from Helmand. John was off in his own world, blindly focused, when he heard a silky voice to his right.
The man stepped to face John, a respectful but intent distance, “Hm. Pain in the shoulder. Gun rests uneasily. Possible disdain for cats. Middle class. Possible second generation grenadier.”
John blinked hard. He wasn’t hearing this, was he? Some brilliant, blindingly amazing, nutter was standing before him. John took in the £1000 coat the man wore over a bespoke suit. Certainly Seville Row. Bond street, maybe? John knew enough, given the fucking class divide in Her Majesty's Army. He could pass, if he had to, and he made it a point never to have to do so. He’d earned his rank, his degrees, same as any public school boy.
The man stopped, as if he could feel John’s consideration of him, as if he could read the questions in John’s stiff, exact, bearing. “I’m deducing you. Do keep up. Lestrade refuses to give me cases. Stickler for the rules. Obvious.”
Was that him, or this Lestrade fellow? John wanted to know. He’d never been called a stickler before.
John had to step away, do his 15 paces, and come back. When he turned on his heel, he observed the man still standing there, staring at him intently. When John returned to his post, the man’s mouth ran as though his words couldn’t keep up with his brain. Possibly manic, John decided.
“Second generation. Learned the steps as a child. Left handed, ambidextrous with a weapon. Favors left hand for gun, right for driving. Possibly. Single, no children. Too much time given to glossing.”
Finally, after another ten minutes, some tourist screamed, “Oi! Fucking get away from him, you tosser! He can’t talk!” The man’s broad country tones, deeply Lancastrian, made John want to smile.
The man winked, winked, and said, “At ease, soldier.”
Something in his tone made John wonder what he really saw in the clench of John’s gloved hands.
John chewed his chicken. He was once again living in army barracks. He wanted to go back to Helmand. He never would have the chance. His leg and shoulder were too mangled, even if it wasn’t enough for a medical discharge. “Hey Doc.”
John returned the greeting. John tried to keep his past under wraps, and was glad when a few of the men saw just John. He wasn’t the soldier he used to be, not anymore.
Pete stuck a fork in his steak and ale pie. Just the thought of something that heavy turned John’s stomach. They were having good food, lately, or better than usual. John had seen the higher-ups escorting a man with an umbrella around the barracks, past postings, through the buildings. He was likely behind the good showing that was going on around here.
John had not spoken to him, but he had seen the man more often than he thought was normal. John pegged him as someone from Whitehall, looking to either check boxes or feel as though he could take credit for their successes. John had once bumped into his PA. Her calculating expression had stuck in his brain, and John had found himself puzzling over the whole thing in quiet moments.
Pete let food fall off of his fork as he spoke, “There's this guy who came around, not sure what to do about warning the others. Any advice?”
“Is he exposing himself?” John asked. Disgustingly, that was rather common. There was a protocol in place for that, which typically ended in someone being carted off and arrested, after having a gun pointed at their dick.
“No, he just talks.” Pete allowed, “Tells you about yourself. Every scathing detail. He knew my mum had an affair. He knew my Gran…" Pete summarized, "He talks and then he never comes back.”
He doesn’t seem all that bad, John thought. He just seems… Lonely, John wanted to say, desperate for someone to hear him.
“Oy, Cap.” Pete declared, “Wait until you see him, and hear what he says about you. Then, you’ll be signing a different tune.”
Oddly, John wasn’t singing a bad tune, not even weeks later.
This man seemed to be the only person that could cause him to focus, and not feel like time was spinning. John figured out that he was the only guard to whom he voiced every thought in his head. He visited others once. Him, though, he’d seen at least twenty times. He had long ago stopped questioning why he was flattered and calmed by his attentions.
John had forty minutes left to go before changing out, and the man in his Belstaff appeared. “You’re a doctor. A surgeon. Rigor can be manipulated, of course, but this bruising pattern...”
John followed along. It was clear that the man was missing a few things. Clearly, the victim had had a disease that had caused this bruising pattern to intensify. Maybe she was on blood thinners. John couldn’t say anything but his brain was screaming Coumadin, Coumadin, Coumadin. He considered coughing out an answer, but chose not to do so.
Just as the Man in the Belstaff was winding down, another man, with silvered hair came along, “Sherlock! Leave the poor bloke alone. He’s only listening because he can’t get away.” He bustled up to Sherlock, and looked at John, “Jesus, mate. I’m so sorry. Bloody Holmeses think the entire military is at their beck and call. Jesus Christ.”
John wanted to blink. He didn’t. That was rather new, but at least he had a name for The Man. John had long ago come to know that Sherlock only came when John was on guard duty, unless someone new was available to deduce. Now if he could only figure out Umbrella Man’s name, his curiosity would be at rest.
“It is, for Mycroft. Why should he have anything I don’t?” Sherlock asked, lazily. “I share you, Lestrade. He should share his tin soldiers.”
Fury raced through John. He wanted to punch that perfect mouth. He wasn’t a fucking tin solider. He had bled, and left parts of him in the desert so that this posh bloke could stand here and declare himself superior to some other man with a freaky sounding name. He had buried far better men than Sherlock would ever know.
John was glad that at just that moment, he could snap away, and count to fifteen. Stupid fucking tossers. John turned back. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Ireland. Bosnia. Too many places in Africa to count. The Eastern fucking bloc. Seven. Eight. Nine. He could hear the two men arguing. “--cut off my crime scenes!”
Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. “Sherlock. They are not your crime scenes.”
Fourteen. Fifteen. Finally, John got so tired of hearing them bicker at each other than he stamped his feet, rigid and insistent. He had to do something before his brain melted. He had to do something before he irrationally stuck up for the posh git.
He stamped in just the way that terrified tourists. Well, some. Others laughed, despite the fact that he was a solider. And had a fucking gun and had killed people with his bare fucking hands.
Lestrade grabbed Sherlock by the coat and hauled him away.
Good man. John surveyed the crowd. Maybe giving an unstable man a gun and the ability to scream at people wasn’t the best idea.
The Japanese tourists laughed. John just dared that grown man to climb the fence.
Darkness had fallen. There was a scuffle, and John heard feet thudding towards St. James Palace. John wished night vision goggles came standard with his greatcoat in the coldness of early Autumn. The light spilled from his sentry box, and he saw a man fall to a heap, just where his fourteenth stride would have been.
John slammed the button in his box, and rushed to the man’s aid. This wasn’t a drunken stagger. When he got there, he saw that it was Sherlock. His aristocratic body was curled around a wound that was pouring blood. “Fucking hell, Sherlock, fucking hell.” John knelt down, and quickly assessed the situation. Airway was fine, pulse was a little erratic. He was losing blood, but he’d survive the trip to A&E. John wasn’t doing surgery here, but he could if he needed to do so.
There was a knife jammed low in Sherlock’s belly. It looked rusted, even from the hilt. “You fucking prat. You stupid fucking prat. You’ve gone and opened your mouth and fucking gotten stabbed. Fuck, fuck.”
A low chuckle emanated from the man who was now prone on his back. “You don’t curse so much in my head.”
“I’m a soldier, Sherlock.” John assessed the wound with steady hands. “It’s what we do.”
“Bet that goes over well in the Officers Mess.” Sherlock twitched with pain, and his legs began to shake. Blood loss, then. Shit. Internal bleed. Fuck.
“After eight, we unlock the naked ladies and have a go at being base.” John admitted, willing to say anything to keep those bright eyes focused and alert. He would even admit that he was up for promotion, not that he wanted it.
He tore Sherlock’s shirt. The buttons went flying as Sherlock’s eyes went wide. John had to use something to stabilize the entry point. John had heard Sherlock go on about not taking fees, so he assumed that he had the money for another 50 custom shirts.
Sherlock was fading as he whispered, “As if naked females do anything for you.”
“Sherlock, you are absolutely not allowed to pass out.” You need to stay with me, John thought. He couldn’t say that, though. He would never say that.
He only knew Sherlock from his deductions, and standing nearby and deducing the tourists did not count as a date, “Get blood on my greatcoat, and I will end you.” John ordered, knowing that the faint expression on Sherlock’s face was more smile than grimace as John pushed down more, trying to slow the bleeding and improve circulation, “Ah, here comes the calvary.”
Footsteps raced towards him. He saw Pete and Hampton. Two more guards were rushing from their places to help. Last time someone had pushed the button, some loon had tried to rip the gun off of someone’s shoulder and had ended up on their back.
John’s attention was pulled back to Sherlock. He was confused. “You’re not a calvary regiment.”
John didn’t know if it was something he’d deleted or something he was forgetting due to blood loss. Sherlock had stood by his post and explained his process of deletion to him. Rather to John it sounded like a way to repress and ignore painful memories. “John Wayne isn’t your forte, then?”
Sherlock wheezed, shit, shit, shit, “Who?”
“Right then.” Pete blurted, coming up the steps. “Somebody call 999.”
Hampton nodded off into the road, “No need.”
And there wasn’t any need, not that John had noticed anything beyond Sherlock. A huge black SUV had peeled to a stop just as few pandas pulled up, followed up by an ambulance, lights spinning and sirens blaring. John could not believe that he hadn’t heard, but he had been tearing yet more of Sherlock’s shirt to pad the wound as the expensive cotton soaked with blood.
Lestrade hopped out of the car and came running. A man with an umbrella followed at a more sedate pace. Umbrella Man had been around barracks a lot lately. John had heard through the grapevine that he was conducting a security assessment. John called him Umbrella Man because he never went anywhere without that thing.
“Fuck.” Sherlock hissed, “Who called Piecryoft?”
“Be nice to your brother.” John admonished, pushing dark curls away from an ashen face, “Doctor’s orders.”
Umbrella Man was Mycroft Holmes. Good Good. With that clicking into place, John knew.
“Bossy, are you, Captain?” Sherlock breathed.
It tore through John like a knife on the heels of his realization. John knew most everything he could gather about Sherlock, but Sherlock didn’t even know his name. “John, actually.”
Pete snorted from where he was supporting Sherlock’s head. John quelled him with a glare.
Hampton was standing at his post. Good man, him. John was glad they had enough time to move him before Hampton would need to walk here. He wasn’t too keen on having Hampton step over Sherlock. He would do it, though, easily and without so much as a glance at the man below him.
“Brother, this behavior simply must stop.” Umbrella man said, as a backboard was slid under Sherlock by a bevy of paramedics, one who was probably a trauma doctor, “I offered to...”
He was always going to be Umbrella Man in John's head.
“That’s immaterial.” Lestrade inserted, with a dark look between the brothers.
He had his phone out, and was likely calling his people. According to Sherlock, his team was inept, but was the only one would could be forced to work with him. John knew that, despite what Sherlock said, the team was decent. Except for Anderson. Sally was a puzzle to John. She seemed to respect Sherlock, but she called him names. John had come to the conclusion that she was jealous.
Mycroft did not move for the paramedics, and John frowned at him. Mycroft took a step back. He still had it.
Mycroft asserted, “You were stabbed seven blocks west, Sherlock.”
“Eight.” Sherlock snapped, hissing as the board was lifted onto a transport. John supported his left side as the count ended. “Did you forget to insert you cake today?”
No, John thought. Mycroft knew just what he was telling John. Sherlock had come to him, reached out to him.
“Shut up, Sherlock.” John ordered, as the paramedics took over. John provided what little information he had. Sherlock was awake, but that didn’t say much about his condition internally, not really. Sherlock was amazing, and if he wanted to stay awake, he would. “He’s packed and ready for transport. Internal bleed, though. I’d run a line.”
The female paramedic glared at him, “Sir, we’ll make the determination.”
“It’s done, do as Dr. Watson says.” Mycroft ordered, “Don’t waste my time.”
As Sherlock was rushed away, Lestrade called out, “Forgive him, he’s on Atkins.”
“Gregory.” Mycroft sounded shocked. John, for the first time in a long time, wanted to laugh so hard that his stomach ached with the pain of restraining it.
“Leave be, Mycroft.” Lestrade chastised.
“This cannot continue.” Mycroft looked down at the puddle of blood, “He cannot be loitering at the palace gates and...”
“Skulking about the barracks?” John asked, throwing his voice behind a hunch that was unfurling in his belly, “Oh, wait. Wrong Holmes, wasn’t it?”
“Mycroft.” It was then that John gained the satisfaction of ratting the elder Holmes out to his partner. He’d seen him around before, but had always called him Umbrella Man. “I thought you promised to let him figure his friendships out by himself. He’s a big boy, doesn’t need us setting up playdates anymore. Poor sod.”
“No, he arranged this one quite admirably, didn’t he?” Mycroft’s soft voice was pained. He looked over at John, “Dr. Watson...” he looked over at the guard post, “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
John shoved his bearskin at Mycroft. “Yeah, actually. I do.”
John ran towards the ambulance just as a paramedic was getting ready to shut the door.