Chapter Text
Sherlock was strangely silent when John returned to Baker Street the next morning. John was about to pretend he hadn't seen the texts from the day before, but as Sherlock wasn't volunteering any information, John eventually felt he had to ask.
The simple answer to "What was that about?" was "Nothing important." John even imagined that Sherlock sounded a little peeved, but he couldn't arrive at what.
His roommate didn't ask where he'd been, but John volunteered anyway that he'd gone to see a friend who'd been badly hurt ("had a bad fall," he specified, though he knew what a terrible liar he made) and he would like to visit this friend every day until his friend recovered. Would that be a problem?
Why would that be a problem, was the monotone reply.
It was pointless to butt heads with Sherlock when he was in one of his moods, so John decided just to push through with his schedule. He saw Oakenshield for at least an hour every day, marveling at how quickly the man recovered from life-threatening injuries.
He tried not to be too surprised when he came home after a few days of visiting Oakenshield, and found Sherlock off on his own again - with no note, or even a text to say where he'd gone and when he would be back.
On his fifth day of recovery, he could already sit up without assistance, and would have started trying to get back on his feet if his Ereborian friends had not threatened him with restraints.
John's estimate of four months of recovery was thus cut down to two. Oakenshield - Thorin now, he had to remind himself, but only when no one else was around - was recovering at an even faster rate than when he was a young soldier in Afghanistan, which puzzled his doctor... but he wasn't going to take issue with it, not at all.
It was as if Thorin was getting stronger as he got older - not all that unusual, of course, especially if one lived healthy, but it was still a curiosity for the good doctor. John supposed it helped that Thorin was in the company of such a lively support group. They laughed and joked with him as if he were one of their own, but fussed over him as if he had some status, apart from being their organizer and unofficial leader.
Within John's earshot, they still called him "Oakenshield," though John supposed that some of them had the privilege of calling him by his Ereborian name in private, like he was expected to.
"I still don't think I'm used to it," John laughingly confessed. Thorin had been transferred to a flat that was converted to a hospital ward - much more comfortable than the warehouse office in which he had spent his first week of recovery. John had more room to move around, but since the chair beside the bed was more comfortable than the chair that was in the warehouse, he made liberal use of it. "Sure, 'Oakenshield' is a mouthful, but how long have I been using it now?"
"Too long," Thorin answered with a smile. "I should've given you my Ereborian name the first time you saved my life. I fear my ancestors have been rolling in their graves all this time."
John returned his smile. "I don't really believe I saved your life, you know. What happened was, you cheated death twice. I didn't do much except be there."
He would be humble, of course. He knew his limitations as a doctor, and he knew he had not exceeded them.
But this docility drew words out of Thorin's heart, words that he stopped before they could leave his lips:
The first time I escaped death, it was for my country. The second time, it was for you.
"Thorin..."
Hearing that name from John's lips arrested Thorin's senses. As John said, it was going to take some getting used to... but for Thorin, the difference was welcome. Like fresh air entering his lungs after a lifetime of smog.
"You refused to take treatment until the Company promised they would fly you back to London." John was being careful with his words. He didn't want to offend. "It's... not something that people who are about to die often do."
"What does it matter?" Thorin chuckled, trying to sound light-hearted.
But it wasn't that easy to change John Watson's mood. His tone of voice may have softened, but he was no less serious, as he leaned forward in his seat and said: "It matters. I need to know. Why did you come back?"
John knew his name now, and that meant it was more difficult to keep secrets from him, especially when John was looking deeply into his eyes.
Thorin stammered, "It's going to sound strange."
"Try me for strange," John said gently, flashing a small smile.
The smile was encouraging enough. Thorin took a deep breath and began, "In my country there's a belief - that after you die, your spirit spends a certain amount of time in the place where you died. The amount of time differs from person to person. There's no way to tell how long your spirit will stay on Earth, before it is called away."
It wasn't the whole story, but Ereborians were never comfortable telling foreigners something as personal as their beliefs in the afterlife... even if those foreigners did know their Ereborian names. Thorin decided to conclude before it could enter John's mind to ask him any questions.
"Since my own home was... inaccessible... I wanted to die in yours. I wanted to haunt the streets on which you played as a child, the places where you fell in love, the people and things you're always going to come back to. I wasn't going to die in a strange place, though it was where I killed my last and most dangerous target. Not if I could help it."
The closeness was familiar. John had been coming here every day, and it reminded Thorin of his recovery in Afghanistan, and there were times - such as this one - when it felt like nothing at all had happened in between that time and this.
It felt like he wasn't on the run. Like he had never killed a single innocent, had not lived a nightmare for years. Like there was nothing to start over from.
It was a strange illusion, one that Thorin had never thought to be prepared for.
"And I wanted to be where I could keep you safe." The tips of his fingers barely brushed John's hair. "For as long as I possibly could."
John reached for Thorin's hand and trapped it in his own. Thorin's hand was rougher and larger than his, and it surprised John how it always felt so frail, so weak in his grip.
John never tried to convince himself that he knew the depth of the other man's emotions. There were too many moments, such as this one, when he thought he caught an intention, a glimmer of hope in those blue eyes... but then Thorin would look away, and the moment would pass just as suddenly as it came.
Then John would be tempted to crack a joke, or clear his throat, or do anything just to lighten the mood. Every day it felt to John that he saw more of the real self of this very secretive person - but just when he was approaching the core, a giant chasm opened up between them, putting them back in their respective places. John wasn't even conscious of who took a step back first, most of the time, but he was sure someone did.
Like now. When Thorin pulled his hand back. It felt like, if John had held his hand for just a fraction of a second longer, something else might have happened, something great and terrible that they couldn't turn back from - but John couldn't tell if the chance had passed because Thorin had pulled away, or because John had let him.
So different from Sherlock in his excessive self-restraint, John noted. He wondered with some frustration why he always found himself in the company of self-destructive men who needed him more than they could admit to themselves. And why it always felt like there was nowhere else for him to be but by their side.
Oakenshield thought it was a good thing that Gandalf's summons came when it did. Every chance he got to speak to John Watson made it just that much harder for him to leave London. It was starting to feel like it was his God-given right to see John every day - which, of course, it wasn't. God wasn't in the habit of giving him rights.
Gandalf had phoned him to say that their new client expected Oakenshield and the rest of the Company to be en route to Moscow - the tickets had been bought, accommodations secured, new passports issued, and there was no excuse not to go. This new client, whoever it was, was wealthy enough to hire the entire Company, and to pay for their transport and accommodations in advance.
Oakenshield did not know who this new client was. There were such things as "anonymous clients" in their line of work, after all. Gandalf just needed to tell him what needed to be done, and when.
But the truth was, Oakenshield had every intention of unmasking this mystery benefactor. The new strike, codenamed "Homebound," had drawn him out of his recovery bed, poured strength back into his body. For Homebound, he had to be in the best shape possible.
It had energized even the others in the Company. He received communications daily from nearly all of them, expressing their excitement and anxieties about the upcoming strike.
"I don't believe it. We're going back to Erebor? EREBOR?"
"Too shady, Thorin. I don't like it."
"Who is this client? How can he or she have all the resources to just up and give us something we've been working for, for years?"
"Who cares?! Smaug's had this coming for a long time!"
"At last! Right up his jacksie!"
"I see you're on your feet," said a voice from close behind, coming nearer at a leisurely pace. "I expected a wheelchair, or crutches at least, but one can't ask for too much. An arm sling would do."
Oakenshield didn't need to turn; he already knew who that voice belonged to. He'd had two weeks to engrave it into his consciousness. In that time, he had heard it go through a wide range of emotions, from absolute calm (as it talked about the best distances and angles from which to shoot the Sinnerman in the head) to stark raving mad (as it told him in so many words that he was a suicidal fool for going against the plan, just before Oakenshield tore his earpiece off and crushed it under his heel).
Very few other voices could so fill Oakenshield with disdain.
Sherlock Holmes stepped up beside Oakenshield and locked his hands behind his back, pretending to study the flight information boards up and ahead of them.
"Good job coming back from the dead," the consulting detective said. There was a touch of "genuinely impressed" in that statement.
"Thanks," Oakenshield spat. Then he added, drily, "Really don't think you can beat that."
"Oh, I don't know," Sherlock was quick to counter. "I could always stage my own demise, leave John in pieces for years..."
The very thought of Sherlock doing this just to watch John suffer irked Oakenshield, just because he knew full well that Sherlock Holmes was capable of doing it.
Still, he wasn't as annoyed as he had expected to be. Maybe because he had more confidence now that John wouldn't suffertoo much, with him back in contact.
"I suspect you've permanently lost some efficiency in your dominant arm. By how much, I wonder? Ten, eleven percent?" Sherlock shrugged. "Not that it matters, because I know your aim is impeccable even with your left hand, and an eleven percent infirmity isn't a problem if you simply want to kill someone by slicing the carotid open. I don't expect your formerly life-threatening injuries will significantly damage your stellar career." He eyed Oakenshield sidelong. "I gather you're off to another job?"
"It's no concern of yours." Sharply.
Sherlock turned to him finally and smiled. "Isn't it?" He held up the piece of cardboard he had been keeping hidden from Oakenshield's sight, tapped it a few times against his own chin.
A frown touched Oakenshield's face.
"Mr. Holmes..." he said in a low voice.
"Your Highness."
"That boarding pass..."
"How astute! Have you given a thought to running a private detective agency on the side? You should, it's very lucrative."
Sherlock held out the pass for closer inspection. He had the good sense not to hand it to Oakenshield, lest it accidentallysuffer some sort of mishap and not find its way back to its owner.
"Different airline, different flight times, better seats for me," Sherlock cheerfully clarified. "But same city." He tucked the boarding pass into an inside coat pocket.
"But... why would..."
"Oh, you didn't know?" The consulting detective smirked. "I take it Gandalf hasn't shown you a copy of that new contract I signed with your Company. Completely different from the one I signed for the Sinnerman strike. For one thing, this is codenamed Homebound."
The wariness vanished from Oakenshield's face; surprise took its place. "You're our client for Homebound?"
Sherlock ignored the question and nonchalantly continued, "I believe there's a procedure where the client's identity remains hidden from the people who will conduct the actual strike? I invoked that with Homebound. I also specifically requested the services of your 12 colleagues. I believe you will each serve my purposes, though not all of you need to be aware of my involvement."
"Why disclose it to me now, then?" Oakenshield would've conducted the strike anyway, especially since it involved a deeply personal matter - but he had simply assumed that his benefactor was a more influential party, like another border warlord, or a foreign government. Maybe even the British secret service.
"Purely and simply," Sherlock answered, "the look on your face."
Oakenshield let out a small sigh. He had a feeling it was something that petty.
"Relax, we'll be there and back again before you know it." The confident tone of his voice was as insulting as a pat on the shoulder might have been at that point. "Assassinations are supposed to be quick and dirty, after all. Though our strike on the Dragon is going to be a little more elaborate than what we did with your 'Sinnerman,' I don't expect we'll take very long... though this time, I expect you'll follow my instructions exactly."
"I can't make that promise." Then added, as a very quick afterthought, "Shitbag."
Sherlock laughed heartily. "Such language! Really, Your Majesty, there's no need to be rude. Our new contract will reinstate the royal line! Although of course what happens after the assassination is entirely your problem. I don't know if the people of Erebor will restore the royal line... especially after it's been dug up that their king-to-be used to annihilate entire mob families and tribal villages for payment. Or, that he took someone else's money to orchestrate the downfall of their tyrannical conqueror. Would they really take you back as king?"
Oakenshield's face was hard, expressionless. But it wasn't just his face Sherlock was watching for a reaction. He read the response in the man's body language, the way the muscles on his neck and shoulders tensed for the briefest of moments, before Oakenshield forced himself to relax.
"Oh, I see," he said quietly. "You don't intend to assume the throne, do you? You're looking to your nephews to inherit. That explains why you insisted on minimizing their kill count and personal risks during the Sinnerman strike. And why you put your life on the line, instead of theirs. It wasn't just about family loyalty - oh I should've seen it then." He clapped his hands once, and though the sound was muffled by his gloves, it still grated in Oakenshield's ears. "So what are you planning to do when you finally come home? No, wait, don't tell me, I'm not really interested." And he sounded like he meant it, too; his bullet-train mind had already left one station and was speeding toward another.
"Why is it any concern of yours what happens to my kingdom, anyway?" he snapped before Sherlock could change the subject again.
But just then another familiar voice came from behind.
"Sherlock!" John's voice and footsteps fast approached. "There you are, where the devil have you been? I turned around and you were gone, I was talking to myself for all of - oh."
Oakenshield had in fact contemplated fleeing and vanishing into the crowd. He could have easily done that, if he had acted fast enough. But the sounds of John coming closer had rooted him to the spot.
John held a boarding pass in his hand - first class, similar to the one Sherlock had flaunted not so long ago.
"You massive," Oakenshield whispered aside to his companion, "SHITBAG." But once again, the insult slid right off.
"John!" Sherlock cried. He threw an arm around John's shoulders and pulled him close to his side. "Look whom I came across at the airport, completely by accident! You remember our old friend? Rather, I meant your old friend. And when I say 'friend'..."
"Thor- I mean, Oakenshield," John stammered.
Sherlock looked down at his friend and raised an eyebrow.
Oakenshield privately gloated.
"You're heading abroad, as well?" John said, with a touch of worry. "I have to say, as your doctor, that might not be a good idea..."
"I'm fine, John." He adjusted the sling to better cover his still-healing right arm. "It's been over a week since we last spoke, after all. I've gotten much better since."
"Yes, by the way, what was up with that?" Finally he squirmed out of Sherlock's clutches. Took him bloody long enough, Oakenshield grumbled. "You just stopped replying to my messages, dropped out of the radar all of a sudden. Don't tell me you've accepted another job so soon." He sounded truly upset over this.
Oakenshield scrambled for a reply. "Well... no... that is I've..." Lying was a skill he had mastered, but somehow he reverted to novice levels in front of the first non-Ereborian to whom he had told his real name.
"He hasn't," Sherlock supplied for Oakenshield, after letting him flounder for about ten utterly humiliating seconds. "He was just telling me about it. You were going on a holiday with some friends. Remember?"
"A holiday?" John relaxed. "That's a relief. Where to?"
"Moscow," Oakenshield said quickly, with an ungrateful glare at Sherlock.
John blinked. "Moscow? But that's where we're -"
"Well it's been fun catching up," Sherlock interrupted in singsong, "but Oakenshield's gate is open for boarding, isn't it? Shouldn't miss it. Rebooking is such a headache."
Oakenshield did have to go. His gate had opened for boarding a good while back. He was sure his boarding pass was safely out of sight, but he didn't need to show it - as the client for Homebound, presuming he had booked the tickets himself, would of course know when his plane was leaving.
"Wait." John addressed Sherlock. "Did you know about this? Is this some sort of scheme you're not letting me in on again?? All of a sudden you said you're required for a case in Moscow, and here's Oakenshield going to Moscow, and if you're going to tell me it's all just a coincidence -"
"But that's what it is, John. A coincidence!" Sherlock was really good at sounding innocent if he wanted to. It annoyed Oakenshield like mad. "You can't be saying I masterminded this, can you? Why would I think it was a good idea for you, he and I to be in a single city all at the same time? By the way, in answer to your question - " A cool sneer in Oakenshield's direction. "It's not."
The daggers that Oakenshield's eyes shot Sherlock did not escape John, though he had no idea what it was about. He just thought then that it was a good idea for Oakenshield to leave, before anyone got hurt.
"Well, then, maybe we can meet up there?" John asked hopefully.
Oakenshield reluctantly nodded. He was going to say something grim, but he decided at the last minute to smile at John instead.
"Perhaps." He faced John and gave a deep bow. "I am at your service, Dr. John Watson." Then he faced Sherlock squarely, and his bow was not as deep. "Mr. Holmes," he coldly muttered.
And he strode off.
John pelted Sherlock with questions until he saw he was getting nothing out of the man. Sherlock had something in mind, but he wasn't going to tell John anything just yet - if he ever would - so why in hell was he going along with all this? He had no idea.
But Sherlock definitely had something in mind.
From a practical standpoint, John was his insurance policy. Having John around meant Oakenshield wasn't going to do anything rash. Like deviating from established plans and unnecessarily risking his own neck.
And from a scientist's point of view, it was going to be interesting, watching how John would shift his time between Sherlock and Oakenshield, while they were shuffling about separately in Moscow.
Sherlock was telling the truth: he had no interest whatsoever in Erebor. He no longer had any concern for what would happen after Smaug was disposed of. They could transform into a democracy and run themselves to the ground, for all he cared. His aims were much less complicated.
Quite simply, he needed something to do with Moriarty's riches, acquired rightfully by contract (and to be sure, he'd called for a redrafting of the contract. For what kind of idiot would sign for a "1/14 share" of anything when one could assure that everyone involved got a fair amount of cash after the strike - and still keep a hefty amount for himself?) and buying two first class tickets to Moscow - a not-so-nearby launchpad for the hermit kingdom of Erebor, which did not exactly have a lot of gateways to and from the rest of the world - as well as securing accommodations, weapons and gear for 13 underlings were, for him, a decent place to start.
Sherlock was well aware that it wasn't like him to dip his feet into the sewer. Politics was boring, world politics even moreso, and assassinations were especially tedious and messy and a pain in the neck, but it wasn't the procedure he was ultimately interested in - it was the outcome.
Even without his throne, Sherlock doubted Oakenshield would leave Erebor again. He would stay and make a life for himself there, and a place for John as well, which was what Sherlock was looking forward to. There was of course a chance that he would have bigger, more important concerns than ensuring John's comfort - but Sherlock could trust that any concern of Oakenshield's that involved John in any way would take priority.
One objective had always been to level the playing field between Oakenshield and himself.
Another was to kill boredom.
Mycroft would of course not approve if he found out (and why would he find out?) what Sherlock was up to, but then there was a long list of hypocrisies Sherlock could throw back at him at the first sign of a hissy fit.
It was perfectly rational. After all - what do you do for fun, after you've taken down your arch-enemy?
Why, you slay dragons, of course.