Chapter Text
We need milk -SH
John -SH
We need milk -Sh
Milk -SH
Milk -SH
Milk -SH
You could just tell me. I’m sitting right here you know -JW
Milk -SH
Fine. -JW
Where are you? -SH
Honestly John I only sent you to get milk -SH
Gone and got yourself kidnapped again? -SH
Seriously John, how long does it take to get milk? Had another row worth the chip and pin machine? -SH
John? -SH
“Turn around, drop the gun and put your hands up. I’m warning you, I’m armed. Nice and slow, that’s it,” he ordered. Of course John’s day couldn’t get any worse. All he wanted was to get the bloody milk and for people to stop disrupting him so he could watch the latest Doctor Who episode. Was it really so much to ask? But no. He had to end up witnessing what was most likely a murder in a secluded alleyway 4 miles from their nearest Tescos. And now he was facing off with an unknown armed assailant whilst furiously cursing Sherlock for being too lazy to buy his own goddamn milk. It seemed that danger really did follow him. Or maybe he followed it? Whatever it was, Sherlock would never let him hear the end of this one.
“Really John? Couldn’t help but stop for a quick adrenaline fix on your way to get the milk? I know you always tell me not to have fun without you John, but perhaps I should say the same to you. You can’t even get the milk without following a strange man into an unknown alley to see him shoot an unknown victim. Honestly, one would think you went searching for danger. Did you at least get...”
“Shit fuck bloody buggering fuck!” John swears, and then groans.
“I think there were two fucks in there; you should be a bit more creative in your swearing,” Sherlock grins, raising one eyebrow in question.
“After all that... I didn’t get the bloody milk!”
He could see it play out in his head, Sherlock’s laughing eyes, his twitching lips. Another attempted trip to the store to get finally get the bloody milk. A phone call from Lestrade, asking him if he went actually went looking for killers. Vague references to the incident being used to tease him for months. John groaned internally. Why was it always him? Not to say he didn’t enjoy it of course (he’d never admit though).
His attention flicked back to the unknown man, who was slowly standing up, having placed the gun on the ground. He frowned. For a killer the man was sure dressed strangely: polished, black shoes, leather gloves, slick blond hair and most noticeably, a very very expensive suit. He’d go as far as to say it was tailored. He really should know this sort of thing, having lived with a rich toddler who never accepted anything but the finest silks for the past few years. He glanced back up at the man, who still had his back to him.
“Turn around. Slowly. Don’t get any funny ideas. Don’t speak,” John said cautiously, keeping his own gun trained on the strange man. Suddenly, the man chuckled. There was something about that chuckle that John couldn’t quite place. Where had he heard it before? Memories he hadn’t thought of in years began to intrude at the edge of his brain. He recognised this man.
No. No no no. It couldn’t be. He had left this life behind, he’d moved on, compartmentalised, hadn’t thought of these people in years. Yes, it had hurt when he’d walked away; yes, he’d had to leave friends behind, but he’d needed out. He had left that life behind for a reason. Sherlock couldn’t know. Sherlock could not find out about this. How do you hide something from a man who sees everything? You don’t, his brain supplied.
Well shit. John Watson’s worlds were about to come crashing together.
First deal with the immediate problem. Right. Of course.
“Wait. Forget that. Listen to my instructions. Don’t move until I’ve finished speaking.” Thoughts raced through his head, desperately trying to remember this mans habits. He had once known them as well as his own. The memories began to flood back in. “Take off you jacket. Very slowly. Keep one hand in the air. Remove the handgun from the shoulder holster. Put it on the floor. What happened to the Walther? Did Q get fed up of you breaking his toys? No. Don’t answer that.” The man chuckled again, knowing it would infuriate John.
“Finally realised who I am then?”
“What did I say about not talking?” John snapped back. “After you’ve done that, remove the knife from your left sleeve and roll both of your cuffs up. Then lean down and slowly, and I repeat slowly , take out that third pistol I know you’ve got in your leg holster. Slide it along the ground towards me, along with the second dagger. Take off both shoes as well. Move. Now.”
“Really John? Is this any way to treat an old friend?” The man asked, proceeding to do as John asked. Finally, he took a ballpoint pen out of his pocket, holding it up in one hand. “Do you want the exploding pen as well?”
John snorted. “Q finally got round to making that, huh? Well put it down then. Carefully. You can turn around now, but don’t try any of your usual tricks otherwise I swear I won’t hesitate to shoot you. You know I will.”
Spinning slowly on one heel, the man turned. “You never were one to make empty threats John. Or promises,” the man said winking. John blushed slightly.
“You always did have a flair for dramatic entrances you know. Annoyed me to no end.”
“Hello, John.”
“James.”