GV Butterworth
New Member
John stood in front of the unremarkable building and double checked the note in his hand. This was it: 221 Baker Street. He was to knock on the door of Apartment B. He just wasn't ready, yet.
He gripped his cane all the more tightly and leaned on it to ease the ache in his leg. The "interrogation" had been thorough and traumatic, although the facility doctors had assured him that there was no actual muscle damage. They had urged him to forsake the cane once he was released back into civilization, convinced that once he was returned to his natural environment, the psychosomatic limp would right itself. The last week in his newfound freedom proved otherwise.
John lifted his hand to knock the jauntily askew knocker, but found he couldn't. He went instead into the cafe adjacent, ordered a coffee, and sat down.
He wished he'd been allowed to keep the brief on this, his current and ostensibly eternal assignment. The man with the umbrella had given him only twenty minutes with the manila folder that would outline the rest of his life. Twenty minutes to decide whether he would accept his current post, or face lifetime imprisonment for his prolific career as an ex-military assassin. Not a difficult decision, really. He was lucky to have gotten more than twenty seconds.
What he remembered most from the brief was that the man with the umbrella seemed more than professionally interested in this assignment. John was kind enough -- professional enough, really -- to pretend he didn't notice. But it was a detail he couldn't forget. Was the man with the umbrella sending him to act as a bodyguard for a personal friend? A lover? Family? There was no photograph of this Sherlock Holmes to give him a better sense of what the relationship between them might be, and John suspected this was on purpose. That the man who held the sword of Damocles over John's neck might be deeply emotionally attached to the man John was being sent to protect made the situation all the more volatile.
Sherlock Holmes. Strange bloody name. The brief had listed the potential threats to the life of Sherlock Holmes and they varied from Belgravian assassins to university professors, and rounded out with potential heroin overdose. His profession was stated to be 'consulting detective' which was something John had never heard of, but seemed to explain itself. The relationship section, including family and friends, had been entirely blank. John had enquired after the omission and was told he had better spend the few remaining minutes he had absorbing the information that was actually on the page, rather than wasting it with stupid questions.
The cover story was complete and simple. Sherlock Holmes had placed an ad for a flatshare and John Watson, retired military doctor, was to apply. Of course, the obvious question had to be addressed: What if Sherlock Holmes, John Watson's principal target, did not wish to share rooms with a retired and newly crippled military doctor whom he neither knew or trusted?
In response to this query, the man with the umbrella gave the most reptilian smile John had ever seen and assured him, "He will have you."
Perhaps it was that smile that made John hesitate. Even the recollection of it made his skin crawl and made him consider the possibility that perhaps bodyguarding was not all that he was being sent here for. However, baseless speculation was unproductive and futile, so John enjoyed the last few sips of his black Colombian roast, checked his hair in the napkin holder's reflection, and rose to meet his destiny.
skylarhaven
He gripped his cane all the more tightly and leaned on it to ease the ache in his leg. The "interrogation" had been thorough and traumatic, although the facility doctors had assured him that there was no actual muscle damage. They had urged him to forsake the cane once he was released back into civilization, convinced that once he was returned to his natural environment, the psychosomatic limp would right itself. The last week in his newfound freedom proved otherwise.
John lifted his hand to knock the jauntily askew knocker, but found he couldn't. He went instead into the cafe adjacent, ordered a coffee, and sat down.
He wished he'd been allowed to keep the brief on this, his current and ostensibly eternal assignment. The man with the umbrella had given him only twenty minutes with the manila folder that would outline the rest of his life. Twenty minutes to decide whether he would accept his current post, or face lifetime imprisonment for his prolific career as an ex-military assassin. Not a difficult decision, really. He was lucky to have gotten more than twenty seconds.
What he remembered most from the brief was that the man with the umbrella seemed more than professionally interested in this assignment. John was kind enough -- professional enough, really -- to pretend he didn't notice. But it was a detail he couldn't forget. Was the man with the umbrella sending him to act as a bodyguard for a personal friend? A lover? Family? There was no photograph of this Sherlock Holmes to give him a better sense of what the relationship between them might be, and John suspected this was on purpose. That the man who held the sword of Damocles over John's neck might be deeply emotionally attached to the man John was being sent to protect made the situation all the more volatile.
Sherlock Holmes. Strange bloody name. The brief had listed the potential threats to the life of Sherlock Holmes and they varied from Belgravian assassins to university professors, and rounded out with potential heroin overdose. His profession was stated to be 'consulting detective' which was something John had never heard of, but seemed to explain itself. The relationship section, including family and friends, had been entirely blank. John had enquired after the omission and was told he had better spend the few remaining minutes he had absorbing the information that was actually on the page, rather than wasting it with stupid questions.
The cover story was complete and simple. Sherlock Holmes had placed an ad for a flatshare and John Watson, retired military doctor, was to apply. Of course, the obvious question had to be addressed: What if Sherlock Holmes, John Watson's principal target, did not wish to share rooms with a retired and newly crippled military doctor whom he neither knew or trusted?
In response to this query, the man with the umbrella gave the most reptilian smile John had ever seen and assured him, "He will have you."
Perhaps it was that smile that made John hesitate. Even the recollection of it made his skin crawl and made him consider the possibility that perhaps bodyguarding was not all that he was being sent here for. However, baseless speculation was unproductive and futile, so John enjoyed the last few sips of his black Colombian roast, checked his hair in the napkin holder's reflection, and rose to meet his destiny.
skylarhaven