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Chapter Text

In an apartment in the middle of London, there lived a consulting detective.

Not your regular detective, who followed rules and did paperwork, and not your regular consultant, who did taxes and had a calling card and was all things respectable:

This was a consulting detective, and that meant trouble.

Sometimes he came looking for trouble, and sometimes trouble came looking for him.

"Hm," he remarked upon realizing the doorbell was ringing, might have been ringing for some time. "Mrs. Hudson!!" he yelled, but there was no answer. He attempted to continue with his chemical experiments at the dining table, until the ringing became insistent and unbearable and it was impossible to ignore.

After an eternity, he got up and answered the door.

The unwitting consulting detective was treated to the sight of a bald man with exceptionally broad shoulders and a leather jacket and a particularly menacing scowl.

"Dwalin, at your service," was the greeting.

"Service?" the consulting detective, whose name was Sherlock, snorted. "Get off my porch." He'd asked for no Dwalin. As no Dwalin was expected, it made sense to turn this Dwalin away. He attempted to shut the door, but the Dwalin in question held it open with one hand.

The Dwalin in question was a big, burly sort of man, though the consulting detective detected no enmity in him. There was a jungle knife hidden in his belt... and in his chest pocket... and in his boot... but there was no immediate danger of any of those being drawn.

He could spend all afternoon analyzing this man - and he saw that he was going to have the chance. The man just walked in like he owned the place, surveyed his surroundings like he was thinking of owning it.

Sherlock's first impulse was to wrestle him bodily back to the porch, but the need to exercise his brain gained instant dominance. The man called Dwalin might have been military, but he wasn't military now. It was obvious in how his clothing and bearing clung so dearly to the memory of his time in battle. Accent said Scot, but the visible scars said he'd seen action in many other places outside of his motherland.

Not given to smiling, or showing much emotion. Every move deliberate. An experienced, trained killer.

One of John's army friends?

The man called Dwalin lingered when he got to the kitchen. He eyed the equipment scattered all over the table.

"What's this?" he asked, sounding not very interested.

"Cortisol, mostly," Sherlock shrugged. "I could start discussing the need to examine its behavior in low temperatures with you, but I don't think you'd - "

With one broad sweep of one broad arm, Dwalin had cleared the table.

Okay, he missed the beaker on the corner. He flicked that off impassively.

He didn't seem concerned at all that he was now standing in a mess of broken glass and potentially toxic chemicals. Anyway, his thick, stylish (Garmont, tactical, not bad) all-terrain boots could handle all that.

"You'll need to clean this up," he said gruffly. "People will want a place to eat."

What?

The doorbell again.

He swore beneath his breath for the timing Mrs. Hudson chose to overstay at bingo.

He opened the door and an older gentleman stood there - white-haired, with a healthy growth of white beard, as if making up for the earlier visitor's lack of head and facial hair.

"Balin," he said with a wide, kindly smile. "At your service."

"Off," Sherlock answered, glowering. "My. Porch."

"Lovely to make your acquaintance," the older gentleman called Balin greeted as he stepped into the apartment.

Well. At least he got off the porch.

This one also ended up engaging Sherlock's attention. The way he carried himself also said military, and the calm he outwardly projected did nothing to quell Sherlock's impression of him as someone who had a massive kill count. In fact, his limbs were currently relaxed, but Sherlock knew those strong, gnarled fingers could reach out and snap a man's neck in an instant.

What were all these thugs doing in his personal space?

"Interesting choice of nicknames," Sherlock pointed out as he trailed Balin's steps.

Balin looked back, still smiling, but did not stop walking toward the kitchen, where one could clearly hear someone making some sort of commotion. "I'm sorry?" he asked.

"Dwalin. Balin. It's code for something, isn't it? Perhaps something cooked up in Colombia?"

The man called Balin stopped walking at the doorway to the dining room/kitchen, and his stillness drew the man called Dwalin's attention.

They were both staring dangerously at Sherlock. What made it seem even more dangerous was that Balin was still smiling.

"Clearly you were both there," Sherlock pointed out. "And clearly you both survived the experience with new names. Get out of my workspace."

"You'll want to call Bombur," Dwalin said to Balin, after having decided that there was in fact no need to draw any of his knives just yet. "Tell him to bring food. It seems we were not expected." He closed one of the cupboards that were full of Sherlock's bottled chemicals. It was likely that he had gone through all of them in search of food.

"Weren't we?" Balin said pleasantly. He headed toward the refrigerator.

And opened it.

Sherlock smirked. He would've thought the sight of a human head in it would drive even a hardened killer screaming out of the apartment.

But Balin made a cooing sound and pinched it on the nose.

"I like it here," he remarked as he closed the fridge door. "Reminds me of the Equator."

The smirk quickly fell off Sherlock's face.

And the doorbell rang again.

As he walked to the door, he whipped out his phone and texted the person he shared the apartment with: FREAKSHOW IN PROGRESS, WHERE ARE YOU -SH. He expected that wherever John was, he was going to come running home after a text like that. John was never one to refuse an invitation to a circus.

And on the way to he door, he came across two especially young, especially fine-looking men coming down the stairs.

Sherlock balked at them. He distinctly remembered he had locked the door after Balin came in.

"Yo yo," one of them, the dark-haired one, greeted. "You must be Dr. Winston!"

The blond one bowed slightly. "Fili," he said.

"And Kili."

"At your service," they said together. It was creepy, although the charming smiles pasted on their young faces said they had meant for it to be cute.

"Wha- HOW DID YOU GET IN?"

"The window was open," the one called Kili innocently pointed out, gesturing to the room upstairs. John's room.

Sherlock began to explain that no, no, John Watson (not Winston, thank you for remembering) always kept the window closed and locked if he was stepping out, clearly this was a case of breaking and entering, so if they did NOT MIND -

"You should get that," the one called Fili said helpfully. Finally Sherlock remembered that the doorbell had not. Stopped. Ringing. And sighed loudly.

"DON'T move," he told them. Almost immediately after that, they raced to the kitchen, jostling each other like schoolboys at recess.

Sherlock opened the door abruptly. And the gentleman with the funny hat who was attempting to pick the lock from outside stumbled in.

"Oh," the gentleman said from the floor, wide-eyed under the brim of what was that - coonskin? "Hi."

Sherlock glared. At him, and at his gaggle of equally weird-looking companions.

He counted seven. SEVEN. He doubted they would all fit in the house, much less the kitchen, where everyone else seemed to have congregated.

"You, um, weren't answering." Coonskin Gentleman cleared his throat and pocketed his lockpicks with haste. "We thought nobody was home."

"So you decided it was all right to pick the lock," Sherlock finished for him, exasperated. "Brilliant."

"Thank you!" Coonskin Gentleman stood, drew himself up and strutted in. "Did everybody make it?"

Following him into the apartment were his six rowdy companions, and Sherlock was inevitably reminded of Disney's seven dwarves, singing on their way to the mines.

Breaking and entering, destruction of property, attempted lockpicking... he should really call Lestrade.

But one of them, the last in the whole freaking lot, stopped just as he was whipping out his phone again.

"Pardon our manners," this one said almost sweetly. "We came at the invitation of Dr. Watson. You've seen Bofur, Bifur, Oin, Gloin, and my brothers Nori and Ori. I'm Dori." He bowed, notably more deeply than anyone else who had performed the gesture earlier. "At your service."

That phrase, "at your service," was probably another sort of code. Sherlock sincerely hoped John was familiar with it and they uttered it for his benefit. Because he swore to high heaven, if he heard it one more time -

"There are three more coming," Dori very nicely informed him. "Thank you for accommodating us!" And not intending to waste any more time, he strode off after his companions.

The consulting detective heard sounds of cracking and clinking and loud laughter coming from the kitchen. He was definitely in no mood to go back there. But his decision to contact Scotland Yard was stalled by his curiosity. The men newly come into 221B Baker Street were definitely not your run-of-the-mill freeloaders, they were all specialists at things that were above the scope of the law, and they had come with a purpose.

Though his place was probably getting more trashed the longer he stood around doing nothing about it... it was promising to be an interesting day.

Apparently, standing at the porch holding the door open was a good idea, as mere moments later a white van pulled up in front of the apartment.

And a large, jolly, redheaded gentleman stepped out.

"Bombur," he greeted cheerfully, "at your service. By the way, could you help me with this?" 

There was food inside the van. Lots of it. Also a computerized surveillance setup that Lestrade would definitely love to know about, but the man called Bombur made it clear that Sherlock was to pretend he never saw it. Sherlock was only to help him bring the bags of food into the apartment. They were far too many and Bombur's large arms could only carry so much.

Sherlock snickered. "Yeah. No," he declared, and started marching back to his porch. 

A call of "Sherlock?" from a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks.

The consulting detective shared his apartment with a man. This man was a doctor and the consulting detective just decided that he enjoyed spending time in the company of weirdos way too much.

The doctor was exiting the passenger side of a white Ferrari convertible, which was being driven by an elderly gentleman wearing shades and a gray suit. It was no longer a surprise to the denizens of that street to see the doctor stepping out of swanky cars; it was certainly no surprise to Sherlock, who had stepped out of swankier.

"What's this?" the doctor, whose name was John, asked Sherlock.

Before Sherlock could answer, the elderly gentleman, who had also exited the car, said loudly, "This - is more than enough food for everyone. Thank you, Bombur." He bowed to the jolly redheaded gentleman.

"No need to thank me! I'm not paying for it." The jolly redheaded gentleman proceeded to haul his stash bag by bag from the van.

Thankfully, some of the men in the kitchen heard the Ferrari pulling up and excitedly ran to the door to help carry the bags. The van was emptied out in almost no time (save for the computer equipment, of course. Which everyone readily pretended wasn't there).

Great, Sherlock said to himself. Food stains on top of toxic goo and broken glass. Mrs. Hudson and John were going to have a ball cleaning all that up.

Sherlock looked over the elderly gentleman. For him, this was the most interesting of his new visitors, in spite of the boring clothes. Immaculate suit, well-groomed, with a sturdy walking cane... but with hints of old scars underneath the cloth. Most could be missed by the common beholder. Some scars were small, and some looked like they had been deep enough to have been life-threatening - Sherlock counted at least twenty-five of them.

"Oh..." John said reluctantly to the elderly gentleman. "I thought I was only going to speak with -"

"He'll be here," the gentleman assured him, with a somewhat impatient tone. "I just thought it would be best to discuss the contract with everyone involved present."

"Contract?" John sounded nervous, and Sherlock's eyebrow rose. What was this John was getting into? "I... of course. Yes. I suppose we should go in."

John caught himself on the way to the porch and introduced his new companion to Sherlock as "Gandalf." Another nickname, obviously, given the lack of family name (and of course, Gandalf. Like all the other nicknames, he viewed it as a puzzle. Perhaps it was a contraction of some sort - "Grand Alfred"? "Gannon D. Alfonso"?).

"Sorry," John said quietly, mostly avoiding Sherlock's gaze, "about this. I didn't expect all these people!"

"It's fine," Sherlock said with a calm smile. "Let me just get my coat."

Sherlock strode back into the apartment, and John followed close behind, seemingly upset that he was leaving -particularly, that he was leaving John alone with all those strangers.

Sherlock rolled his eyes because really, was he expecting anything else?

Sherlock locked the door to his room and booby-trapped it as well, in case those youngsters or Coonskin Gentleman got any funny ideas. He also did a few other things while he got his coat, ignoring everyone who tried to talk to him or ask him something ("What should I do with my plate?" was most certainly NOT his problem).

He noted John's lost and confused "HELP ME" look as he passed him by on the corridor, but he was in no mood to extend him any charity.

"They're here for you and you exclusively, Mr. Congeniality," he sharply pointed out. "I don't relish the prospect of being around all this noise and... humanity. Text me when they're gone."

Shopping for new laboratory equipment would be an excellent way to pass the time while waiting for the circus to leave town. He lugged along John's laptop because he only ever shopped online, of course.

Besides, it was the only way he could keep track of what was going on inside his apartment without actually being there himself.

Chapter Text

It really was rather noisy. John found himself wishing he'd accompanied Sherlock in getting the hell out of there as fast as he could. For a clandestine operation, this was sure to attract the attention of the neighbors.

"I thought," he said aside to Gandalf, "they were discreet."

Gandalf raised his eyebrows at John. "Discretion, my dear doctor," he said, "comes in many forms. You may see a group of rambunctious fellows making a mess of your kitchen - I see a group of highly trained operatives cleverly disguising the nature of their meeting by pretending to have a stag."

John blinked. Huh. He hadn't seen it like that. Although 221B Baker Street was not famous for its stag parties, it was known to be a place for strange occurrences. Something this noisy and overt, passers-by could just shrug off.

They were giving a good show of it, though. The fellow with the, er, interesting head wound - Bifur, was it? - was deftly juggling the good china, while the youngest three were throwing food and insults at each other. Everyone else was trading stories and drinking beer, which was pretty much what you would expect from old friends who had not seen each other in ages.

John spared a thought for the kitchen table, which was currently filled with a variety of food and semi-liquid stains - hadn't Sherlock set up a chemical lab there? What happened to all his equipment? There seemed to be no sign of them, not even a bit of glass on the floor to indicate that any of them had encountered an eerie fate.

There was, however, one thing he noticed - the one whom he believed was named Nori was going around touching and inspecting everything. At first glance he was just an obnoxious house-guest, appraising the street value of all the stealable items. He certainly had the look of a thief, with those swarthy eyes and that swarthy hair, sticking up in all directions... but he could also easily have been scouring the house for surveillance equipment. And if this was the case, John had to admire his skills at burglary emulation.

Gandalf had introduced them all to John as members of a Company - a secret cabal of specialists who all had extremely useful talents.

"Dwalin and Balin are ex-military," Gandalf relayed. "Fili and Kili are... well, they work as a team."

"He's a sniper," Fili explained. Kili made a pretend-gun with thumb and forefinger and playfully aimed at something just behind John's left ear. "I'm more close combat, but we do trade skills sometimes."

"Skills," Kili snickered, "and other things."

"What does that mean?" John asked, noting the way the two looked at each other. They seemed permanently conspiratorial, and extremely close. Brothers?

"They can read each other's minds," the one called Bofur (or Funny Hat Guy, as John had come to call him) elaborated. "Useful for simultaneous strikes. And more secure than radio waves!"

"Oh." They were speaking about telepathy as if it was an everyday thing. John thought it best to play along.

"Bofur is a master lockpick. Nori is a counter-espionage expert. Bombur and Ori are world-class hackers."

"That gut," the gruff one called Gloin noted, patting Bombur's hefty stomach, "is the product of 10 years of stress-eating while breaking into things from his armchair." Bombur tried to swing at Gloin, but missed, laughing all the while.

Ori, the teenager with thick spectacles and hunched shoulders, only nodded shyly at being mentioned. Bits of flung fish and chips clung to his ginger hair.

Gandalf continued, "Gloin is a close combat expert. Dori is our linguist and code-breaker. Bifur is an explosives man. Oin is also an explosives man. They both suffer from communication issues, but they can understand each other well enough, thank God." John knew nothing of sign language, but Bifur made a hand gesture that looked obscene to him. The rest of the Company, including the hard-of-hearing Oin, laughed again.

"And, of course, there is one we must not forget -"

Gandalf had barely finished saying this, when the doorbell rang.

One would think that the person on the other side had been standing there all the while listening, so he could ring the bell on cue.

John rose to open the door, and everyone fell silent. It wasn't the "oh shit the cops are here hide your drugs" kind of hush, but more like "oh shit the boss is coming hide your porn" kind, which comforted him somewhat. That eliminated the threat of a shootout. Shootouts were harder to clean up after.

John opened the door, and there he was.

His countenance, grim at the onset, seemed to rapidly shift to wide-eyed surprise at the sight of John.

"Dr. Watson," was the warmer than warm greeting. His long, lean arms engulfed the doctor in a crushing hug.

When the hug had loosened and John could breathe again, he breathed "Oakenshield."

He had been an Ereborian soldier, fighting in Afghanistan as an ally of the Crown. John never quite found out his rank, or his real name, as Erebor insisted on its citizens traveling abroad with different monikers than the ones their mothers gave them at birth; he'd only ever known him as "Oakenshield." In exchange, the man only knew him as "Dr. Watson."

This tall, rugged man with dark short-cropped hair and roughly-trimmed beard, was all but painfully familiar to him.

He remembered a younger man, curled up in the trenches, losing blood by the ton. He was riddled with bullet holes, but the most alarming one was the gaping hole in his chest, too near the heart. He was scared. It was his first time seeing death up close, John could tell - his first time staring death in the face.

The noise of a helicopter landing somewhere nearby. A hand desperately clutching the front of John's uniform. "My men. Doctor, where are my men? Is there anyone left?"

John must have been staring, because Oakenshield began to look uncomfortable. He ducked his head, touched his beard self-consciously.

"Have I changed that much?" he quietly asked.

"It's just." John drew back a bit. "Your eyes. I don't remember them being so blue."

Oakenshield's features softened further, though his smile was still restrained. Years dropped from his shoulders and he was almost that younger man in the trenches again. Or on that hospital bed, looking up hopefully.

"That is," John quickly corrected, "you look good! Lots beter than when I last saw you, at least, which is... good."

Oakenshield looked like he was going to get embarrassed by the small talk taking this turn, but he found an easy out. "I can tell by the noise that I'm very late," he remarked. "I apologize. I'm not all that used to London roads yet."

Oh wow, you got lost? John was about to quip, along with something about how difficult it actually was to get lost in Central London... but someone cried out Oakenshield's name from the kitchen. It was echoed as a cheer by eleven other voices, and the expression on his new visitor's face hardened again. Without further ceremony he stepped past John and into the apartment, hands in his pockets.

This was the only person John had called over. He hadn't even met Gandalf before now, when he was picked up by the man in a flashy white Ferrari while he was on his way home. He introduced himself as "an agent for the Company" and began talking to him about how Oakenshield had received his message and was working on something he might find useful.

But Oakenshield was the only one John had really been looking forward to talking to. He hoped he would have the chance for that before the night ended.

Chapter Text

The contract Gandalf had referred to was, in fact, straightforward. John Watson, theretofore referred to as the Client, was entitled to 1/14th of the profits (spoils, Dori explained, and phat lootz, Kili further elaborated) of the mission... but since he wasn't paying the Company a single red cent to conduct the mission, he forfeited any percentage of the profit due him and surrendered it to the Company, as "payment in kind."

He didn't mind. John didn't want to have in his possession anything that could link him back to the mission. In fact the very idea of the mission made him greatly uncomfortable.

But his sense of right and wrong made it difficult for him to even consider calling the whole thing off.

Everyone acknowledged James Moriarty as a threat. They had even encountered him once; the man had approached Gandalf with a proposition for an especially dangerous mission involving a high-level assassination. He was remembered as young, charming, organized, and evil as sin.

Of course they took the job, but it proved especially traumatic; Gandalf made it a point never to endanger the Company so carelessly again.

"I've made mistakes," Gandalf admitted humbly. "Working for James Moriarty almost cost the lives of certain members of the Company." John wondered who exactly he meant. And if Oakenshield was among them.

"I'll be blunt, Doctor," Gandalf said in confidence to him, having drawn him aside while the Company was cleaning up the kitchen and every other area they had abused with surprising speed and efficiency. "I didn't want to take this mission. James Moriarty is by no means easy prey. But Oakenshield is adamant. He says there is no option."

"No option?" John chuckled nervously. "I can't even pay you! I don't really know why I'm troubling you about this. You could just walk away and pretend this meeting never happened." He had to admit to himself, he wasn't sure the Company was capable of taking Moriarty on - they had kids, for Christ's sake, kids and old men in their team. He just had to take them at their word when they said they had pulled off seemingly impossible tasks in the past... and also that they had almost died pulling off a seemingly impossible task for Moriarty in the past.

Not for the first time, John found himself wishing Sherlock was there to help assess the situation... though he knew Sherlock would not have approved of what he wanted to do. He would not have cared, of course - what were total strangers to him, what was it to him if John was willing to gamble away their lives - but he might not have contributed. He might not even have been interested.

"Is... is he really that dangerous?" John ventured asking.

Gandalf held his gaze steadily. He did not need to answer; his stare alone said there were few things on Earth more dangerous than James Moriarty.

"If you're having second thoughts about this," Gandalf said carefully, "you should speak with Oakenshield. Something tells me that if anyone can dissuade him, it's you."

"Me?" John said incredulously. "Are you sure it's me, and not common sense?"

Gandalf shrugged. "I don't know your history, Doctor," he admitted. "I just know that Oakenshield himself may be stubborn, but as the leader of a complicated group such as this, he is not lacking in common sense. He doesn't take on high-risk, low-profit jobs on principle. I presume there's only one reason he's betraying his own principles... and that reason has something to do with you."

He found Oakenshield standing in a shadowed part of the sidewalk, far from the merrymaking and the beer and the warm fireplace. And it seemed he had brought the entire seriousness of the situation with him.

It was true John had not seen him in years, but he could not remember the young soldier Oakenshield ever looking this grim. Just standing beside him made John feel like he was entering a war zone.

"James Moriarty is not unknown in our operations," was the stern greeting. "He goes by many names for us - Snake-charmer, Fathomless, Sinnerman are just a few of them. I daresay he holds no human life precious, even his own. This will have to be a delicate operation, Doctor."

"John."

Oakenshield looked at him, surprised.

"I'd appreciate it if you called me John," he said quietly. "I'm not... comfortable being called 'Doctor' while I'm asking for a man to be murdered."

Oakenshield looked lost for words for a long time, and the "why" of it did not immediately occur to John. It took him a while to figure it out:

Ah yes... that thing Ereborians have with names. They didn't give out their real names just like that, did they? Most non-Ereborians were stuck calling them by their weird one-word monikers, perhaps all their lives. They only told each other their real names, and only when they trusted each other with their lives.

It must have meant a great deal to him to be told John's first name (or, rather, to be allowed to refer to him by his first name. He was positive Oakenshield would already know his first name - it was in all the forms he had signed for him, back in Afghanistan). Certainly more than John expected. It was only too visible how Oakenshield choked back looking embarrassed and not a little honored.

"There is no doubt he is dangerous, Doc - John," he said gently, "and if he has threatened your life, and may threaten your life again, there is no option but to kill him." There it was again - "no option." Coming from Oakenshield himself, the phrase sounded unusually definite.

"Yeah but the thing is," John said quickly, "won't it put you in too much of a risk?"

Oakenshield started to reply, but caught himself. There was no way to answer this question easily. He dropped his gaze.

"I understand I might be asking you to get in over your head," John continued. "I want you to know, that is not my intention. And I will understand completely if you refuse."

There. He'd done it. He'd placed the decision in Oakenshield's hands. If Oakenshield showed any hesitation, or indicated in any way that he wanted out, John was going to follow through and cancel the deal. It was going to be easy.

But Oakenshield looked at him, trying to catch his gaze, until he found it. Then he held it.

There was not the slightest hint of reluctance in his stare.

"Do you remember when my father died?" he asked.

John nodded. "Sixteenth of September. It was raining." A sad smile. "You were inconsolable."

The young Oakenshield had needed three months to recover in the British army hospital in Afghanistan. It seemed that during those three months, many things had happened that were beyond his control. Though John considered himself a friend to the distressed soldier, he was never told anything of significance. Why Ereborians had to be such a secretive lot, he had no idea. Oakenshield preferred to listen than to talk, which suited Dr. Watson just fine at the time; he was also a young doctor, prone to regaling starry-eyed foreigners with tales of his adventures as a carefree lad in London.

It was inevitable that he learn about the death of Oakenshield's father, however. On a particularly rainy day in September, the lone Ereborian soldier in the British hospital went mad with anger and grief. The only clinical way to refer to it was a complete meltdown; though still recovering from serious injuries he was breaking and overturning important lifesaving equipment, managing to avoid getting subdued by hospital security while stumbling out of the premises.

Thankfully, that was a day when Dr. John Watson came visiting. He met the injured soldier in the corridor leading out of the hospital, and stopped him cold by trapping him in a careful embrace. Careful, because the soldier's wounds were starting to reopen and bleed through the bandages. Careful, because the soldier was holding a knife and could easily have slit John's throat.

His gamble paid off; Oakenshield dropped the knife, and cried and cried on his shoulder. The orderlies came at him with sedatives, and John waved them off. He escorted the young soldier back to his bed, and stayed with him until he had exhausted his tears.

"My father is dead" was all he was told. Looking at him, John felt it meant more than that, more than just losing a beloved family member. It was a day of important, life-changing news... but Oakenshield fell asleep on that day having told him nothing more.

"That was the first and last time I wept in front of anyone," Oakenshield revealed. "I don't believe you understand what that means."

Well... the truth was, John didn't. Soldiers had meltdowns all the time. John had a meltdown himself, after he got shot in the shoulder. People had seen him weep - he had never assigned any sort of importance to it.

"It means," was the patient explanation, "if you are ever in need of me, I will be there. It means there is no one else in the world who matters as much to me. It means... that if what you ask is within my power to give, I will grant it. I say I will protect you from this man, and I will."

"You"? Technically it wasn't just John who needed protection from that maniac. It wasn't even just Sherlock, who was the maniac's main target... it was everyone. If Oakenshield and the Company could indeed erase James Moriarty from the face of the Earth, they would be doing the Earth a huge favor.

"But this," John said quietly, "this is too much to ask. Of anybody. Isn't it?"

John knew nothing of Ereborian custom. He barely knew anything of import about Oakenshield.

So when Oakenshield took John's hand and held it up as if to bring it to his lips, he froze.

But the hand didn't go up higher than the level of Oakenshield's heart - it stopped in front of the exact spot on his chest where John remembered a hole had been, where a bullet had miraculously pierced clean through without hitting anything vital.

"I am at your service," Oakenshield declared, hard blue eyes shining bright even in shadow. "Among my people, that means I will keep any word I make to you. No matter what risk it entails."

Chapter Text

It was annoying enough that the microphones he had planted around the apartment were almost all ferreted out and wrecked by the counter-intelligence guy named Nori (one remained - the one stuck under the windowsill outside the living room, which was all but useless given its location) - it was even more annoying when the voices of John and the man named Oakenshield dropped out of earshot.

They must have stepped out of the building. Wonderful.

Then again, Sherlock had already been eavesdropping on the trespassers to his personal space for far too long. It was time to head back, even if John hadn't SMS'ed him the all clear yet.

He was able to make out precious little anyway - besides the poor quality of sound, the obnoxiously loud bastards in the Company sometimes spoke in a foreign tongue which Sherlock recognized, but had never bothered to learn and was never going to.

He packed John's laptop inside the box, laid it on top of the chemistry equipment he'd acquired from the store across the street from the cafe he was staying in (delivered, of course; he wasn't going to flit about when spy work needed to be done) and made his way out - his coffee cold and untouched, bought only to shut the ornery cafe owner up.

The consulting detective had had a field day isolating the accents of the Company. He'd found Australian, Scot, Irish, New Zealand, and even caught strains of Latvian and Burmese. And under all of that, the undeniable twang of the obscure hermit kingdom:

Erebor.

These people had come from different parts of the globe, but they had all originated from Erebor. It must've taken considerable patience and cash to get them all together in one place.

Gandalf was the only one who had a legal and verifiable identity as a British citizen, and he didn't have a trace of the accent at all, so Sherlock thought it safe to rule him out.

The voice of the one called Oakenshield had been especially fun to pick apart. Strong English accent, betraying he had stayed in England for some time, though not London. Leicester, perhaps, with a few years in Nottingham. It was likely he got his military training onshore, before he moved offshore to work with British forces.

Underneath all that lay the accent: very light, hardly detectable to the untrained ear. The one clue that the Queen's English was not in fact his first language.

Sherlock found himself looking forward to meeting this Oakenshield fellow. Why couldn't he have been among the weirdos he had encountered earlier in the day? For one thing, hacking into John's email account revealed some interesting information...

Apparently, he and John knew each other from the army, where their relationship wasn't exactly that of equals: John had once been very important to Oakenshield, and Oakenshield had never quite forgotten. Oakenshield had left the military and found employment with a private security firm, which John thought was fortuitous, because there was a security issue he needed taking care of. They were to discuss it over the phone.

After this phone discussion took place, Oakenshield declared that he would not take John's money, in spite of John's insistence that he was going to pay the fees - in installments that would last all his life, if it came to that. He would not address John's further inquiries of "how much," up to the end of their dialogue, which was an email from John giving directions to 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock had to see who it was that was only too eager to refuse an army veteran's money. If he wasn't out to scam John, who was he?

When he got there, these were the first things Sherlock noticed:

Piercing blue eyes. Distinctive nose. Squared shoulders. Could be military, but the comfortable way he carried himself upright spoke of many more years of conditioning than British military training afforded.

Austere eater. Worked out regularly. Rough-trimmed beard, indicating that he wasn't used to much facial hair, but felt he had to grow some, perhaps out of a desire not to be recognized.

Moneyed - his shoes said that much - but he preferred not to advertise it. And he clearly had taste; even if his casual clothes were off the rack, they were very well thrown together...

And these clothes were new. Much thought had been put into their choosing.

He'd dressed up for John.

Sherlock permitted himself a smirk.

"Ah! Speak of the Devil," John announced as he approached. "Oakenshield, this is the person I've been telling you about. My flatmate, Sherlock Holmes."

"Pleased to meet you." Not "at your service," Sherlock noted. He sounded civil, but a little wary. John must not have been telling him very flattering things.

"Oakenshield, is it? Bit unusual. Is that a first name, or...?"

John was the one who scrambled to answer: "It's... just what we used to call him, back in the army. Remember, because of that oak branch you once used as a shield? During war games?" Oakenshield looked as if he had absolutely no knowledge of this, and that he thought John had a screw or two loose. "Yeah, and it just sort of stuck," John followed through regardless.

"Of course." Addressing Oakenshield again: "How's Venezuela this time of year?"

This made Oakenshield pause, but also made his stare at Sherlock a little less friendlier. Not the kind to back down, he answered "Rainy. I wouldn't recommend going until around June."

"Yes." Sherlock sensed John's discomfort, John's burning desire for him to shut the hell up. Unfortunately for John, it only spurred him on. "And how is the kidnapped brother of the Mexican drug lord's son-in-law? I presume that after his safe extraction, he was able to travel home safely?"

This next pause was more blatantly hostile. John could literally feel Oakenshield's hackles rise. But somehow Oakenshield was able to answer in a level voice, almost an entire octave lower, "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Oh I'm sorry," Sherlock said quickly. "I must've been thinking of someone else. You know John has so many friends, I thought I heard him mention -" He waved one hand in the air, "accidentally" losing his grip on the box of laboratory equipment he was carrying. The open box and some of its fragile contents tumbled to the ground.

"Is that my laptop??" John cried as he rescued it from the pavement.

"You said I could borrow it!" Sherlock defended. He was busy collecting the test tubes that had fallen close to Oakenshield's feet. Which Oakenshield was pointedly NOT helping him pick up.

"It would just be nice if you asked first," John sighed. His laptop still worked, thank goodness. It had been on standby, and it booted up without a hitch.

What was this website open on his browser - Shadowfax Securities?

"Well," Sherlock said after he had neatly packed all his new, undamaged equipment into the box again, "I think I should get these inside. In fact, why are you two out here in the cold? Come in and let's have Mrs. Hudson make some tea."

"She already did," John revealed. He put his laptop on standby again, tucked it under his arm, safely out of Sherlock's reach. "And I think we're all out of tea. And biscuits. I don't think she's very happy about that."

"I'm sorry my friends and I have been an inconvenience," Oakenshield said to John, stiffly formal. "It's late. We've imposed on you long enough." He took a step toward 221B even before Sherlock could.

"But we'll meet again, yes?" John said after him. It made Oakenshield stop in his tracks.

Interesting, Sherlock thought. 

"If you like," Oakenshield tentatively replied. The question took him by surprise. "I'll be in London for a few more days. If you like... we could..."

"Lunch on Wednesday. And I'm paying. I insist."

A small smile touched Oakenshield's face. Sherlock also thought it interesting how he brightened up at the invitation. The man must not have many friends who offered to pay for his lunch. How sad.

"I might have plans," Oakenshield told him, "but I'll let you know." He strode into 221B again, clapped his hands twice when he got to the doorway. "You lot, we're leaving," he said loudly, and John could swear his deep, commanding voice carried all of three blocks down the street.

Sherlock and John watched as their earlier house-guests, now fed and sung-out and subdued, left the building in single file, with Gandalf and Oakenshield holding up the rear. Each one thanked John and Sherlock for their hospitality as they passed them by, save for Gandalf and Oakenshield.

"I presume we'll hear from you again soon regarding our... arrangement?" Gandalf asked John. Sherlock knew they were talking about the contract. His bug had been able to pick up bits and pieces of that conversation.

John must not have signed it yet.

"Er, yes." John gestured vaguely to Oakenshield. "We'll be in touch."

"Very good." Gandalf excused himself with a bow and left. One final glare at Sherlock later, Oakenshield did the same.




"Shadowfax Securities," John said thoughtfully. "This is Gandalf's company?"

"He isn't known by the name Gandalf there, of course. You can see his real name in the company profile." Sherlock spoke as he arranged his new laboratory equipment on the empty (and surprisingly spotless, cleanest it had been in years) dining table in the kitchen. He'd only bought the basics, only what he needed for the night; for anything else, he could go to Barts the next day.

"Huh," John muttered. "I was under the impression that..."

"That our Mister Gandalf is operating in a less than legal capacity?" Sherlock finished for him. "Well, if it's any comfort, I don't believe Oakenshield and his company are part of the regular staff. Lots of security companies employ unlisted personnel. If their 'agent' didn't have a legitimate outfit as a front, I doubt he would have had the courage to drive around London in a rare white Ferrari."

"True." John was still thoughtful. The events of the day must still be weighing on his mind.

It was the perfect time for Sherlock to strike.

"Tell me something." He took a break from setting up his lab to engage John's attention. "Why Oakenshield and not Mycroft?"

John tore his eyes off his laptop screen to blink at him. "What are you on about?" he attempted to ask innocently.

"John," Sherlock scoffed, "just because you don't talk, doesn't mean you aren't obvious. The adoring way you wrote about him on your blog was indication enough." 

"Who?" Genuinely puzzled. He hadn't written in his blog in weeks. "Mycroft?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock mouthed with exaggerated dread. As if the criminal mastermind were He-who-must-not-be-named. "Remember? That guy who'd strapped military-grade explosives to your chest? Your writing was just the most overt indication. Since you wrote your last blog entry about him, you've been losing sleep, you've been skipping out on all those dates you used to enjoy, and wandering off on your own way too much."

"I'm," John replied reluctantly, "flattered you paid attention to all that. Usually, you don't even notice when I'm away." His brow furrowed. "But I don't see how that's relevant to your brother, or my old friend?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, all right, fine, let's talk about Oakenshield. Are you seriously expecting me to believe he's just an 'old friend'? A buddy from boot camp? And his motley crew was just a gang of freeloaders he'd picked up on his way over to your place to have a few beers?" Sherlock snorted. "A whole mercenary team! I'll have to be honest, I didn't know you had it in you."

John fidgeted. He knew an exchange like this between him and Sherlock was bound to happen - he was just surprised how ill-prepared he was for it. 

"Well, why don't you want him dealt with?" he challenged. "Sherlock - he's out there and he wants you dead! And all those people! That old woman! That child...!"

"And you?" Sherlock reminded him.

"That doesn't even matter," John shot back. Visibly upset now, he stood, and paced the room. Sherlock waited until he was calm enough to start speaking again.

"I did go to Mycroft," John said presently. "You can probably guess what happened."

"Tell me anyway," Sherlock demanded.

After a long sigh, John said carefully, "He said... he has no specific interest in unbalancing the system. By bringing down the one man... who has the entire criminal underworld dancing on strings."

That sounded like Mycroft, Sherlock had to agree. Mycroft liked to see himself as someone who had an eye on the "big picture"... and perhaps for him, the "big picture"needed a Moriarty. Perhaps his limited imagination could not handle thinking of a "big picture" without one, or with someone else (or a bunch of someone elses) in his place.

Perhaps for Mycroft, Moriarty was even the least troublesome of all the necessary evils he had to deal with on a daily basis.

"But that can't be okay, can it?" Here John sounded pleading, almost desperate. "That shouldn't be okay. He's out there, and he's murdering people, and one of these days he's going to come back for you and -"

His voice got louder, his words got more heated. Sherlock had to admit, this was unusual. It wasn't like John to display anger so openly.

John must've noticed, as well. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself. But the rage only simmered down to resentment, and made it clear it wasn't going away for the rest of the night.

"Sometimes I wonder," he said quietly, "about people like you and Oakenshield. How you can be so good at not giving a damn."

He stormed out of the living room, abandoning laptop and flatmate and conversation in one fell swoop. Sherlock listened until heard the bedroom door upstairs slam shut. Then he went on with his work.




There were a number of things the consulting detective did not tell the doctor that night.

One of them was that while he was picking up the test tubes he had "accidentally" scattered all over the sidewalk, he had whipped out a glass slide and scraped off a small sample of earth from the back of the heel of his "old friend"'s left shoe. 

This was what he now inspected with the newly-bought lab equipment. The soil sample was positive for the trace chemicals he was looking for. Perfect. This gave him a clear idea where Oakenshield had holed himself up. That plus the near-microscopic marks on the backs of his pants legs and jacket sleeves served Sherlock better than any tracking device.

Oakenshield was temporarily staying in East London. He took public transport to get around, perhaps thinking that he was safer in crowds. Besides, if he was only in London to meet up with John, he must have seen no need to waste money on flashy purchases, or risk exposure otherwise by leaving a paper trail of rentals.

As Sherlock processed all this, he spared a thought for the poor distressed John. His feelings were understandable; trite, but understandable. His life had been in danger, and he needed to do something. He might tell himself he was doing the world a favor by ridding it of a scourge, but that was of course not his primary motivation.

After all, John was only human - give him time and enough distraction, the fear and anger will pass. He might even have days when he forgot Moriarty was out there. And even when he did remember, there were going to be days when he would not care.

Having Oakenshield back in his life was, however, a complication for both he and Sherlock. A somewhat annoying, but admittedly interesting one.

Which Sherlock was, of course, going to have to look into.

Not the least because he wanted to know what it was that John felt both he and Oakenshield were so good at "not giving a damn" about.

Chapter Text

Lunch on Wednesday was across town. Sherlock pretended to be disinterested up to until 30 seconds after John was able to get a taxi.

Then he leapt to his feet, grabbed his coat and a pair of binoculars, and raced out the door.

Of course he knew where they were lunching. John was predictable like that. He wasn't about to make reservations at a posh restaurant with his limited funds, but he wasn't in the habit of taking visiting friends out to cheap eats, either. There were only a handful of places that fit those criteria in John's usual haunts on the other side of London, and Sherlock didn't even have to think very hard to know which one John would pick.

Thankfully, John got a table by the window facing the street - on the other side of which was a building with an indoor cafe: seedy but with dark tinted windows. Perfect for Sherlock's purposes. 

First he bribed the cafe attendant to not trouble him. Then he sat at a table by the window and got his binoculars ready.

John had coffee while waiting. Oakenshield arrived fashionably late. From where Sherlock sat, it didn't seem as if Oakenshield knew where he was going at first... but when he found the building he was looking for, he sprinted.




"- What is it?" John followed Oakenshield's gaze to the building across the street. He had been staring at the cafe with the tinted windows for a while.

"Nothing," Oakenshield answered. He casually turned his gaze back to John. "Please continue extolling the virtues of the one who's caught the Sinnerman's attention." They had decided to use that codename, in case any of Moriarty's spies happened to be listening in. Oakenshield considered all public areas risky, but went out to lunch with John anyway. "The world's only consulting detective."

John chuckled. "Extolling" Sherlock's "virtues" sounded all wrong, though he supposed that was how someone just hearing stories about him for the first time would parse it. "I was boring you, wasn't I? I can tell you didn't like him."

Oakenshield's eyebrows rose.

"Aaaand that is probably an understatement," John corrected.

"We must've just gotten off on the wrong foot." It was the kindest thing he could say. He didn't like the man upon meeting him. He liked him even less now, listening to how many times he had put John's life at risk.

"He's an idiot." John took a sip of his coffee. "But he is a great man."

"You're a great man, Doctor Watson." He caught himself and smiled. "John. I mean. He's clever, I'll grant Mr. Holmes that. But unlike you, he's not the kind of man the world would be worse off without."

John noted that Oakenshield had become freer with speaking his mind. As a young soldier he was taciturn, perhaps overcautious about sharing information. He supposed the confidence came from having to deal with life-or-death situations for years; he was an old warrior, now.

His eyes had always been eloquent, an attractive shade of blue that John was sure made him a hit with the ladies in his homeland and abroad. In the past they were shy and unthreatening. Now, as they were fixed on him, John sometimes felt they burned.

"How did our discussion get here? What is this, a date?" He reached into an inner pocket of his jacket for a sealed envelope. "I better give you this before we start talking white picket fences and taking out a mortgage."

Oakenshield's face turned grim as he reached for the envelope. "You've signed it." It wasn't a question.

"Right on the dotted line." John smiled, not as widely as he'd wanted. "So whatever this is you're getting into, I'm in it, too." 

The pensive look did not leave Oakenshield's face even as he secured the document in his own coat pocket. John had had days to think it over, so it was perhaps too late to try and change his mind.

"Look, I'm no SAS, I'm not a marine or anything like that," John said quietly, leaning forward, "but if there's anything I can do to help, anything at all... you'll let me know?"

Oakenshield understood. He leaned his elbows on the table as well, started to speak in a more hushed tone.

"John... we don't place clients in the line of fire. I know you know how to handle a gun, I've seen you do it. But I would still prefer that you use your skill with the gun to save lives, not to take them."

It was true: John had only ever used his gun in defense, of himself or of other people. He didn't forget that he'd also used it when he was in the company of the medics who had rescued Oakenshield from the trenches... though he'd always thought Oakenshield had been too out of it with shock and blood loss to notice.

"But this is like saving lives, too, right?" John asked.

Oakenshield's gaze softened. "It's not the same thing."

"Yeah. I know. It's just." John fumbled for the right words. "I don't quite like the idea of sitting still while other people do my dirty work. I've decided I'm not cut out for being a criminal mastermind."

"Don't think like that." Though hushed, his tone of voice was forceful. "He's the mastermind, the criminal. You're just the good guy who wants him gone."

Realization dawned; John smiled again. "Tell me the truth: Is this really why you won't take my money? You want him gone, too?"

Oakenshield looked uncomfortable, being asked this question.

"I won't deny it," he said reluctantly. "It's not our policy to divulge details on former clientele, but - I wouldn't turn my back on the chance to slit the bastard's throat myself."

And he meant it. The way he said that last part hung in the air between them, like a death threat.

Thankfully, their dishes arrived just at that time.

"How... appetizing," John remarked, picking up his cutlery in a hurry.




He was wearing the same jacket he wore last time, though not the same shirt, Sherlock noted. No time to shop. 

And not much time to rest, it seemed. There were light bags under his eyes and a light hunch, which spoke to him of alcohol the previous evening and an inability to sleep that lasted for hours.

He didn't know if John noticed, but planning for their strike must be becoming strenuous for Oakenshield. He wondered if John would accept it, and call the whole thing off, or if he would tell himself it was all part of the deal and pretend it was okay.

What was John to Oakenshield, anyway? The only reason Sherlock could think of for a mercenary to risk his life in exchange for nothing was to honor a debt.

Or was the simple truth that Oakenshield was using John to get to Moriarty? Because of some personal grudge?

Now that Oakenshield possessed the signed contract - which Sherlock presumed that thing John handed to him over the table was, and which he so carefully stored away - he also possessed John's name and identity as a safety net. If the mission failed, John would be the liable one, John's name was the one Moriarty could ferret out and use. If it succeeded, Oakenshield and/or Gandalf could hold it over John's head forever that he had signed a contract to assassinate a man, and it could hurt John as well.

What Sherlock needed to know was how much malice the man named Oakenshield operated with around John. And so he watched his movements carefully.

"You're almost done??" John marveled at the near-empty bowl in front of Oakenshield.

"We eat fast where I come from," was the amused reply.

Then again, John noted that he hadn't ordered much - some soup. Some fruit. Some water. He remembered that even in the hospital, when he needed to bulk up and gain strength to get better, the young Oakenshield was already a light eater.

"I really hope you're not scrimping on the meal just because I said I was paying," John joked. He was having a hefty meal of sausages: his usual at this place.

"Here." Oakenshield leaned forward and reached across the table. "You've got something..."

He swiped under John's bottom lip gently with his thumb.

Sherlock found his ass leaving his seat.

What?

He looked through the binoculars again, but Oakenshield had drawn his hand back and wiped it on a napkin.

John sat very still and wide-eyed mid-chew.

With a satisfied smile, Oakenshield turned his attention back to his own dish, seemingly unaware of John's reaction.

Sherlock's reaction, across the street, was in no way calmer.

Slowly he returned to his seat, an argument brewing in his head.

Is he gay?

Does that mean he has a thing for John?

Wait. First we have to establish if he's attracted to men.

Hardly relevant. Why are you bothered?

I could usually tell.

It didn't add up, and it was driving Sherlock crazy. Oakenshield's body language before now said nothing. His posture still mostly said "arrogant, secretive prat" even if it was a bit more relaxed around John now than it had been last night. His decidedly masculine dress sense certainly wasn't any help.

Sure he kept his eyes on John. But a trained security officer would focus his attention on his client at all times, when in public.

And if he looked like he was ogling anyone, male or female, it might have been because he was wondering if they were carrying a concealed weapon.

Still - Sherlock should be able to tell! There were a number of signs, after all. It wasn't restricted to clothing or eye movements or posture.

He might have thought that Oakenshield's smile as he leaned back lookedsweet, but maybe it was nothing to Ereborians, maybe it was as innocent as the way a parent would wipe food off a child's chin. Maybe friends in Erebor did that for each other all the time.

That must be it. Cultural differences were messing up the signal. All that Ereborian noise!

"Hi!"

"WHAT?" Sherlock yelled. He looked up at the source of the sound that had so rudely interrupted his thoughts.

A blond young man with mischievous eyes sporting a thin beard, a punk t-shirt and denim jeans, stood by the table, hands linked behind his back in a mockery of servitude.

"Are we ready to order yet, sir?" the New Zealand accent said. Sherlock could still recall the way it uttered "At your service," just a few days ago.

He was horrible with names, but he believed this one was Fili.




"What was that?" John whispered.

Oakenshield looked at him with a start, as if he had just realized what he had done.

Then his gaze was all over the place, as he scrambled for an excuse.

"Sorry... that must've seemed strange." Oakenshield's shoulders bent slightly in a deferential hunch. "It's just... you eat like my nephew. Over twenty and still getting food on his chin. Good thing you don't have a beard for sticky bits to get caught in."

John nodded. "Ah. Your nephew." He stabbed at another slice of sausage on his plate. "Of course. Yes." He returned to chewing. 

The silence between them was awkward, with John focusing intently on his food and Oakenshield staring down at his bowl looking a small measure of miserable.

It lasted until John could no longer hear his heart pounding in his ears, and he found the energy to point out, "You know, this is the first time I've heard you mention family? I didn't know you had a nephew."

"Oh, yes. Two." John waited for more, but it seemed that it was all he was going to get out of Oakenshield about family that day.

More absorbed in his food this time around, John didn't see Oakenshield steal another glance at the tinted window of the cafe in the opposite building. He was not to look at that window again for the rest of the day.

Chapter Text

"Fancy meeting you here." The blond lad had pulled up a chair and sat on it, pulling off a "good friend of the guy sitting alone by the window" vibe for the benefit of curious onlookers. "As I recall, you live way over on the other side of the city. May I ask what led you to these parts?"

"Bird-watching," Sherlock cheerfully answered. He held up his binoculars. "I hear there have been a number of foreign species finding their way to London these days... aves de rapiña and the like." He smirked. "Must be mating season."

"I wouldn't know anything about that." Fili smiled guilelessly. "Sorry I can't help. As you probably already know, we aren't in London long."

"Yes. And I presume you're in these parts as well because you're securing the grounds for your uncle?"

The smile held up bravely, even as Fili made a show of being taken aback.

"My uncle? Who -"

"Please, it's obvious, let's stop wasting each other's time."

A touch of anger entered the young man's eyes. Generally, people in the security business didn't like it when their identities were exposed, Sherlock realized. "How is it obvious?"

"Family resemblance. I won't bore you with the details." There were in fact a number of things he'd noticed since the first time he'd laid eyes on Fili (and his brother, the dark-haired imp whose name escaped Sherlock at the moment) and Oakenshield, too many to rattle off in one go. "I must confess, I fail to see why Oakenshield would choose to endanger his younger relatives, who have clearly had no formal military training, by taking them on risky missions. Does he train the two of you himself? Or does Gandalf take care of that?"

"Well it's not any of your business, is it?" Fili leaned back in his seat, shoulders visibly tense. "Quite a piece of work, aren't you, mate? I can see why the Sinnerman wants you dead. Prolly pissed him off something wicked."

"Sinnerman?" A corner of Sherlock's lips curled up at the moniker, though that was all the reaction he displayed. "I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint your company, and John by extension, but I don't believe he wants me dead. He wants me destroyed: it's not quite the same."

"Sorry. English ain't my first language, but you probably already knew." Sarcasm. How the young did it so well. "I don't see how it's not the same. If you're destroyed, you're probably dead, right?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock spotted something coming down the road. He looked, and saw Gandalf's trademark white Ferrari slowly pulling up beside his cafe.

Too many of Oakenshield's men all in one place. This was getting sticky. He needed to make an exit.

"Young man," he sighed, "as much as I would love to stay and explain the nuances of the English language to you, and maybe give you a few lessons to help you get on your feet, I do have somewhere important that I have to be, so if you'll excuse -"

Sherlock was interrupted by the sound of a click.

All he needed to do was stare at the hard eyes of the person seated in front of him to understand the situation. There was a gun pointed at him under the table.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes," Fili said. "You see, I'm not just out patrolling. Gandalf needs to talk to you. And right now, my job is to escort you to the car. Nice and quiet."




Sherlock affected indignation as Fili led him to where the white Ferrari waited - one hand on his shoulder, and the other keeping the nozzle of a pistol trained on his spine.

He took last look at the pair having lunch at the restaurant across the street, one last assurance that nothing was amiss, before he stepped into the car.

Damn lovebirds were so busy feeling awkward, they didn't even notice the white Ferrari so close by, bright as daylight.

Fili had stayed behind. Sherlock presumed it was to continue his reconnaisance. In retrospect, he really should've expected Oakenshield would post scouts even while out on a date. 

"Mr. Holmes," Gandalf greeted. "I was hoping that since the good doctor was stepping out for lunch, that we could have a nice quiet chat over at your flat. But it seems that was not meant to be."

A quick look told Sherlock that Gandalf had just come from the office - his legitimate operations. He looked a bit haggard, stern, as if he, too, had been putting himself through the same pressure Oakenshield was currently suffering. Normally impeccably groomed, there were a few hairs on his head that were notably out of place. There was still a bit of cigarette ash on the lapel of his gray suit; smoking too much today, with no time to rid himself of all evidence of it.

"You got here quickly enough," Sherlock pointed out, "for someone coming from Baker Street."

"Well, an observant young man spotted you, then placed a call that saved me a lot of time." Gandalf continued to sound blithe. "Also, you'll be surprised how fast this baby can go outside of rush hour."

Sherlock could believe it could go very fast indeed. He could see the array of digital gauges from where he sat. It was unusual for a man in his mid-70s to feel so comfortable around the latest gadgetry... but then Gandalf was anything but usual. The iPhone peeking out of his right-hand pocket was another indication.

He couldn't tell where Gandalf was taking him, but the leisurely directions he was taking made it clear that they were just driving around. A car was indeed the most secure place to speak of sensitive matters, if the car itself was secure.

"You see, Mr. Holmes... something has been troubling me for a few days now. I require the services of a specialist such as yourself to help me confirm it."

"I would imagine the head of a private security agency would have an abundance of competent agents in his employ." Sherlock added icily, "I don't do spy work."

"You'll probably be more inclined to listen to the terms of the engagement, Mr. Holmes, if you knew that it was related to the matter of the Sinnerman."

Sherlock snorted. He could tell it was going to be a while before that name would stop being amusing.

Plus, he could already make a deduction as to who came up with it: Gandalf had a collection of CDs stacked near the player, and quite a few of them were American jazz titles.

"Now the details of the hit are of course classified, and if any need to be divulged, I am obligated to divulge them to the Client, and ONLY the Client. Therefore I would apologize in advance for my ambiguity. But I need to count on your discretion. This is something I cannot entrust to anyone Oakenshield comes into contact with."

"You've just told me Oakenshield is your problem."

Gandalf tore his eyes away from the road for a moment to look at Sherlock. "I presume you've already looked into him?"

"I've done my research," Sherlock vaguely but smugly answered.

"Oh so then you know," Gandalf patiently continued, "that the Sinnerman had once contracted the services of Oakenshield and his Company. Afterwards, he attempted to kill off the members of the Company one by one." 

"I had an idea," Sherlock pronounced. "I saw the needle marks on the arms of the charming young man who had his gun to my back earlier. Not fresh, at least a year old, and very, very precise. And if we accept that he isn't the kind of bored or confused juvenile who does drugs recreationally, we can only infer one thing." A pause to drive in the point. "Pharmaceutical interrogation. Lasted for days. It should have killed him."

"It very nearly did." Gandalf carried on speaking pleasantly, as if he was just chatting with a friend about an unfortunate event that happened to the next-door neighbors, or to the couple who lived down the street. "Fili and some others in the Company, Mr. Holmes, were captured and tortured separately, in the hope of gaining information regarding the whereabouts of Oakenshield. No one talked. Thus Oakenshield was able to evade the Sinnerman, and rescue his people one by one, losing no one in the plight."

If that was supposed to impress him... Sherlock had to admit to himself that it did, a little. Moriarty was not an easy man to stay hidden from, and certainly not to outwit.

However, Moriarty's agents were another matter. He must have employed many of them, to go on the trail of 13 men; it was still extraordinary that none of them was a match for Oakenshield on the warpath.

It was also extraordinary that none of the Ereborians broke under torture - unusual for mercenaries, who were self-serving and self-preserving as a rule. Was it just that Ereborians were really, really resilient, stealthy, and faithful to their countrymen?

"Somehow, you were able to get Moriarty off his back."

"Not easily," Gandalf admitted, smoothly letting the use of the real name instead of the nickname slide. "In truth, some...mediation was required to resolve the matter. But Oakenshield never forgot, and he certainly never forgave."

"I still fail to see how this is supposed to interest me."

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I was just getting to that. Oakenshield was the one who was insistent on taking this job, and where he goes his men follow. But his behavior during our meetings was... erratic. Cagey. He's hiding something, and I think I know what it is."

He leaned toward Sherlock and lowered his voice conspiratorially, as if anyone else could be present to overhear. Then he said: 

"I fear he will attempt to take on the Sinnerman by himself."

The car slowed to a stop at a red light. Sherlock studied Gandalf, at first, looking for signs that he was joking.

Finding none, he laughed anyway.

"I'm sorry," he sputtered. "You must be under the impression that I care." His voice gradually turned more serious. "What is it to me if he's idiotic enough to take on Moriarty by himself? I'm not running a charity for suicide risks!"

"Would you still feel that way, sir, if Oakenshield were captured and, given the right incentive, he surrendered to the Sinnerman the identity and intent of your friend?"

"John took this on himself," he said sternly. "And if he'll suffer for it, he'll suffer on his own. I won't feel sorry for him, nor will I bail him out."

"If that were true, Mr. Holmes, you wouldn't be stalking Dr. Watson while he's out engaging in pleasantries with an old acquaintance, who also happens to be a known mercenary. You wouldn't take the trouble to look up this known mercenary, perhaps to see if he would ever become a liability to your friend. Better yet, you wouldn't have gotten in this car even if you were held at gunpoint. It is no secret to us in the private security business that a certain consulting detective living in Central London has an aptitude for martial arts which makes him perfectly capable of disarming a younger assailant who has not had a day of formal military training in his life."

Sherlock knew it, and he told himself this again: fame had its drawbacks. Every lowlife in London and beyond probably had a dossier on him by now. All thanks to John and his irrepressible online verbal vomit.

"He's not even my friend." Sherlock did not hide the spite in his voice. "He's my... blogger." He all but spat out the word.

Gandalf quietly chuckled.

The red light turned green, and he stepped on the accelerator. 

The Ferrari sped forward, threading like the racecar that it was through not-so-empty London roads. Sherlock might have yelled out an expletive or two while fumbling for the seatbelt, and at the same time attempting not to bash his head against any of the harder surfaces of the car's interior. The speed robbed him of all notion of balance and gravity; the seatbelt would remain permanently inaccessible to him.

Coolly, completely unconcerned as to his passenger's safety or sanity, Gandalf continued, "I need to know when Oakenshield will conduct his strike, and if possible how he plans to do it. As soon as you have confirmation, report to me. I will deal with any difficulties that may arise."

Sherlock might have said yes, all right, I'll do it, LET ME OFF THIS INSTANT, he wasn't sure.

But after it left his lips, the convertible slowed, pulled over to a gentle stop.

The door to the passenger's side opened and Sherlock stumbled out, quick to fluff himself up and regain his composure and gain a respectable distance from the Ferrari.

"If I may offer some advice, as an old man with his best years behind him," said the happy, well-dressed gentleman in the fantastic car, "it would do you well to apply your magnificent brain in order to figure it out as soon as possible, Mr. Holmes. Otherwise, you might find yourself on the losing end... and you're the kind who hates to lose, I can tell."

Figure what out, Sherlock wanted to snap, but even as he was turning, the Ferrari sped off.




One would think that John would flee the scene after that spell of embarrassment over lunch, but apparently it was nothing that couldn't be remedied. A joke or two later and the mood was sufficiently lightened.

It would seem that John still found him to be the same soldier he'd gotten along with so well back in Afghanistan. For this, Oakenshield was grateful.

After their lunch, Oakenshield offered to accompany John to wherever he needed to go. John told him that living off blog hits and being a "colleague" to a detective who hardly ever took any cases meant he had loads of free time.

And he wanted to use this particular free time for a stroll in the nearby park. Would Oakenshield like to join him? It was, after all, a nice day out: security risks aside, they should take advantage.

John then informed Oakenshield that he had always attempted to time his leaves so he could be home for sunny weather. "Then I'd go around seeing how much had changed," he explained while walking. "It's a lot every single time, but it's still the same city - the one I'm always going to love coming back to."

"You really know your way around, don't you?" Oakenshield remarked. "I was wondering when you were going to tell me that you kissed a girl right under that tree." He pointed to an isolated beech.

"Don't be ridiculous." John looked around, found an especially fetching specimen of common oak, and pointed to it. "It was under that tree."

A chuckle escaped Oakenshield. He wondered when the last time was that someone had been able to coax such a hearty sound out of him.

"I envy you that," he muttered.

"Which?"

"A place to come back to."

John looked at him, curious. "But you go home sometimes, too, right?"

It took a moment for Oakenshield to answer. He was terse, as if he just wanted to get it over with. "No. I haven't been home in a long time."

John's brows knitted. "Is it because of your work? It keeps you away?"

"Work" seemed to be a complicated subject matter. Oakenshield's gaze turned inward and he started to walk more slowly. John matched him stride for stride until he slowed to a stop, in the middle of a small bridge crossing a small pond.

Oakenshield leaned forward over the railing. Beside him, John did the same.

"John... my work... I know you don't think much of it, but I hope you don't think less of me for it."

"What?" John laughed. "Where are you getting that? Wait - are you serious right now?" The smile fell from his face. "You're about to risk your life because I asked you to, and you're worried about how I think of you??"

"I hold your opinion in high regard. I can't exaggerate that."

John didn't answer because he felt there was more coming. Oakenshield recognized this and continued: 

"My work... has led me to understand that there are things you can't pass up the opportunity to do. You get one chance, and the chance never comes again. So while we're here, I may as well tell you this.

"As a security contractor, I have access to information. I knew you were honorably discharged because you were injured in the field. I've known for some time where you've been staying. At any time, I could've gone to you, and helped you out, or maybe pulled a few strings so it would look like you were helping me out. I could've been more manipulative."

Oakenshield looked at John. He had rehearsed this monologue in his head many times, the things he was going to pour out when he finally got John all to himself - but now, at this moment, there was something in John's face, the way it felt like they were the only two people in the world and there was no immediate danger to their lives, that made him leave some parts out: the parts that might cause John's face to change expression, the parts that could ruin everything.

"But I couldn't approach you. I didn't know how to play at 'catching up.' I've done so many things I am not proud of, John, and I've been afraid all this time that it was going to show on my face or in the way I spoke. And that you were going to start avoiding me, forgetting you ever even knew me."

But you make everything better.

"So when you contacted me, I didn't hesitate. It was my one chance to reconnect with you."

And I never want to lose sight of you again.

"It was my one chance to tell you... no matter how you were going to behave toward me, or how I would seem to you, that you've saved my life in more ways than I can count. You didn't just pull me out of the trenches... you didn't just patch me up."

I can't say 'I love you' because you mean more to me than that.

"So regardless of what happens... on this job or anywhere else... I want you to know that I am glad to put my life on the line for yours. If this is the last job I ever do, I would go out without regrets...not the least because I've told you this."

There was more, so much more, but he kept the rest of it shut away. He waited to hear John's reaction.

As he watched, a flush began to creep up John's collar, finding its way to his ears.

John felt it, of course. He laughed. He brushed his face with the palm of one hand a few times, until the redness went away.

"Erm, sorry." He looked down at the pond, avoiding Oakenshield's concerned gaze. "It's just, I'm more used to people maligning my intelligence when they talk to me so honestly. Living with Sherlock Holmes does that to a person."

That name again. Oakenshield also dropped his gaze. He didn't need to remember that staying away from John meant John was inevitably going to become closer to someone else.

"I don't know what to say, Oakenshield," John revealed. "...And all this just because I asked about your home?"

Another laugh from Oakenshield. He cut this one short: it should not become a habit.

"Do you know," he told John, "that I've always wanted to take you home with me? To Erebor - I know I don't talk about it. But I think you're going to like it there."

John nodded thoughtfully. "Do you have lots of sun there?" was his only question.

Oakenshield was far too amused. "Sometimes. In some places. Why not."

"All right then." John moved away from the railing, pulled himself up. "Maybe when all this is over, eh?"

There was something reassuring in that - reassuring and unexpected, because a part of Oakenshield was already resigned to the possibility that he might not return from this next strike alive. That part shrank smaller and smaller the longer he stayed with John.

Courage was just one of the many things John's very presence gave him.

"When all this is over," Oakenshield agreed. John laid a hand on his shoulder, and at John's lead, they resumed their stroll.

Chapter Text

"Listen to me. I'm a doctor. We're getting you out of here."

Gunshots. Screams. Languages blending together in his head.

Fire. 

"Listen. You're going to be okay. Just calm down."

He could hardly feel anything, could hardly see. The only sensation that registered in his confused mind was heat; he had to be in the middle of the flames. It was a wonder that he even heard that voice.

Blindly he reached out, searching. He came into contact with a fistful of cloth and he drew it towards him.

"My men. Doctor, where are my men? Is there anyone left?" He wasn't even sure if he'd said it aloud. But he needed to know, if it was the last thing he would know before he died.

"Shh, calm down." The hands on his hand made them sting even more. His own skin must have been burned clean off. "Just hang in there, all right? Hang in there.

Soon he felt himself being lifted up, onto a pallet and later onto a cot. Then he felt himself lifted up even higher - far above the pain and the flames. He wanted to struggle, to get back to the field and his men, but his body was refusing to do anything he told it to anymore. It refused to feel anything more.

He felt himself slipping into unconsciousness. There was a brief moment of panic as he realized he might never wake up if he allowed himself to fall asleep now. But that voice remained, and he held onto it like a lifeline. It was the only steady, tangible thing left and he had no choice.

"We'll fix you up. You're going to be fine. Don't give up. Don't give up on me."




It was almost time.

Eight o'clock. He was ready.

His weapons were organized. His strategy ironed out.

Last intel said the Sinnerman was in Iraq. The first order of business was to get there undetected. 

He had already contacted a pilot who could take care of discreet transportation. In a few hours, they were meeting for the midnight flight. Dori's pilot friend would have been a better choice overall, but Oakenshield couldn't risk setting off alarms within the rest of the Company.

No one else needed to know.

The Sinnerman would be in Samarra the next day, for one day only. From Iraq he would head to Cairo, where the Company was scheduled to perform its strike a week from now.

He was not even aware he had an appointment in Samarra. But Oakenshield was going to make sure he kept it.

There was a brief window of opportunity for a lone assassin while the Sinnerman was in Samarra. There would be no bodyguards, no cameras, no security to apprehend him during the getaway.

It would be swift, and it would be efficient. The job would done - Oakenshield was just going to do it alone, and a week early, that was all.

There was just one thing he needed to do before leaving.

He took out the contract that John Watson had signed.

This one was simple. With a lighter he set fire to a corner of the still-sealed, undelivered envelope. He held it over the sink so the ashes would fall where they could be neatly washed away.

Fire was never his friend. But it would serve him now.

By erasing all evidence of John Watson's involvement.

Balin and Dwalin were at his bedside when he woke, in the British army hospital in Afghanistan. They had been in Afghanistan as well, though in another unit, and were able to escape the fate of Oakenshield and his men.

They were the first to tell Oakenshield he was the only one who made it out alive.

The next few days were dark. His sleep was plagued with nightmares, his waking thoughts consumed with sadness and rage and the memory of fire. In light of recent events, Balin and Dwalin needed to fly home to Erebor, and so Oakenshield found himself alone and friendless in a strange place.

Then there was Dr. John Watson.

There were plenty of army medics going in and out of the hospital, checking up on their patients; John Watson was the only one who came for Oakenshield. The quietly cheerful young doctor visited whenever he could, always with a light-hearted story to try (and fail) to get the shattered young soldier to open up about himself, and then he always said goodbye with an encouraging pat on the soldier's arm or knee.

At first Oakenshield tolerated it. But the time came when he started missing it. He found himself regularly asking anyone who was around to hear: "Is he coming by today?"

And he would spot the knowing glances, the curious stares and the pitying looks. He didn't care about any of them, as long as he got his answer.

The dependence he had built around the young doctor's presence used to unnerve him. All his life, he had been charged with the responsibility to Not Trust Anyone, and the feelings he had to deal with while speaking with the doctor and after the doctor was gone were - to put it mildly - confusing.

But then he realized that being around the doctor meant not having to think about what had happened. Not hearing the gunshots and the screams in his head. Not feeling like he was cursed or useless, not thinking I should've died with them every second of every day.

All these things still happened, but not as much, and not as often, when Dr. Watson was around with a joke or a story or a puzzle for him to solve.

He had been there when Oakenshield had needed human touch the most. But he could at least acknowledge that Dr. Watson meant more to him than touch. He was the person who had pulled him out from the jaws of death, and then took the time and trouble to sew him back together. He was the warm smile, the comforting sound of another voice telling him that he was going to get better soon and everything was going to be okay.

This was not new to him; kindness was not a foreign thing in Erebor. But it was something he had not known he had been desperate for. Oakenshield hadn't only needed human contact - he had needed to believe in humanity again.

And there was this doctor, a good man, a savior.

As good a reason to live as any.

But Oakenshield could not tell this good man all that was going on. Could not say how much his presence meant. Could not reveal that the loss of his men meant more than the loss of lives, the failure of his command. 

And later, he could not say that the death of his father did not just mean the passing of someone so deeply important.

It meant he could never come home.

It meant that everything had been taken from him.

For doing so meant exposing the doctor to the trouble that was going to hound him from this point on. He would wish to help.Though he wouldn't follow Oakenshield into exile - Oakenshield would never allow that to happen - he would be marked as a confidante of the Ereborian rebel forces and targeted.

Oakenshield couldn't take that risk.

He was about to take his suitcase from his bedroom, when he heard the door to his flat open.

Instinctively he reached for his gun and pointed it at the door.

"I'll thank you to put that away," was his visitor's light-hearted greeting. "I'm just here for a chat." The visitor smiled at him, and turned around to shut, lock and bolt the door again.

The visitor had managed to pick the locks and undo the latches on the door in a single undetectable movement. Feeling a measure of respect, Oakenshield raised an eyebrow as he holstered his weapon. It seemed this one could give Bofur a run for his money.

"I don't have time for a chat," Oakenshield growled.

"Don't worry, I don't intend to keep you from your appointment." Sherlock turned up his nose and sniffed the air. Oakenshield could clearly see his nostrils flaring. "Hmm. Something was recently burnt here. Were you having an indoor barbecue?" He surveyed the ceiling. "Curious how many buildings in this part of town don't adhere to fire codes..."

"How did you find me?"

"Oh I've always known you were in this area," Sherlock revealed. "I just didn't know exactly where, up until this moment. But all that took was asking a few questions and getting in touch with the right elements of the streets."

"Why today," Oakenshield demanded frostily. "How fortunate that you should find me just as I'm getting ready to leave."

"Because I know that tomorrow, Moriarty will be in Samarra for a day. And I know that if you want to get to him before your company does, that's your only opportunity. You will have to fly out tonight to minimize on people finding out about your plans, and to avoid staying too long in Samarra and risk being ferreted out. Ergo, tonight was my only chance to get to you if I wanted to save on air fare."

Despite himself, Oakenshield was dumbstruck. Sherlock seized the chance to pull up a chair.

"You see, I keep track of him, too," he said, staring intently into Oakenshield's eyes. "I may not mention him to John or to anyone else who might be involved, but we do keep tabs on each other. It's our 'thing.' "

Sherlock had positioned his chair to block the exit. Oakenshield acknowledged that he had no choice but to participate in the "chat" that the consulting detective had come here for.

He also got himself a chair, but positioned it near the window, where he could quickly slip out in the event of having to shoot his trespasser between the eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Tell me something," Sherlock asked, "what makes you think you're a match for him? I'm sure you know what he's capable of. You may have been watching him since he betrayed you and your men, but that doesn't mean you have a handle on his modus operandi. He is far more slippery than you, his knowledge of tradecraft is far superior to yours."

"You know nothing," Oakenshield said in a low, dangerous voice. "You don't know who I am, you don't know what I can do."

"Oh I think I know you well enough." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "King Thorin the Second of Erebor."

Oakenshield's entire body tensed up. His arms uncrossed; he had to physically restrain himself from leaping out of the chair and strangling Sherlock with his bare hands.

"Surprised?" Sherlock smirked. "I didn't need to dig very deeply. I worked out long ago that you were from Erebor. And as for your identity... let's just say that in spite of the strict Internet regulations within your nation's borders, the people of Erebor are spread out all over the globe, and you were enough of a heartthrob as a youth for some of them to upload your early photos." The smirk turned into a sneer. "I must say you looked dashing in steel studs and black leather."

"Ceremonial wear." The explanation came out as an angry bark. 

"There are a number of other things I know about you. For example - I know you've murdered people over the years. Many people. Hundreds, I daresay. But you've never liked it. You're not a psychopath."

"And how would you know that?" Oakenshield challenged.

"That small rag doll in your suitcase." Sherlock gestured to the half-open bedroom door with a jerk of his head. There was indeed a clear view of the neatly packed but still open suitcase on the bed from where he sat. Oakenshield allowed himself a moment to regret being careless. "A handmade child's toy, all but falling apart - too old to be a gift for a niece or nephew. You don't have children of your own, and it's unlikely that you keep it as a memento from your own childhood, as it is clearly ethnic Tibetan in make, and there are enough signs that you never spent time in Tibet growing up. Still, you take it with you everywhere you go, and keep it where you can see it. As a reminder of the first child you killed."

Oakenshield felt something inside his chest twist. I've done so many things I'm not proud of, he had told John. He was not prepared to have one of those things thrown in his face.

"But that's all you have with you. A serial killer would take mementos from his victims, and might even display them proudly, but not you. You don't want to remember. You've lost count."

Oakenshield said nothing, and Sherlock resumed speaking. "Here's something else I know about you. As the crown prince of Erebor, you were expected to become Commander in Chief of your nation's army someday. You took your responsibilities as head of your militia seriously. Too seriously, a citizen of any civilized nation would say..."

"There were never many soldiers among us." He returned Sherlock's stare, finally. "We Ereborians are craftsmen, merchants, scholars, skilled with our minds and hands. The few who could fight, were not used to war, at least not of the scale we were facing. I needed to watch over my men."

"And watch over them you did." Sherlock's voice was level - an emotionless drone. "You watched as they were butchered by terrorists hired specifically to ambush your team. You, their beloved leader, had a target on your back - and your men had your back, didn't they? Like all Ereborians did."

It was a painful memory, and it showed on Oakenshield's face, in how he turned away as Sherlock spoke. There had been ten of them in those trenches. Ten of Erebor's best. But they were still no match against a strike by an entire terrorist militia, who were far more familiar with the terrain.

"That's why you want to take Moriarty on alone now, isn't it? You can't risk any more of the people who will lay down their lives for you. You've already done it enough times." Oakenshield felt that he was being laughed at. How afraid are you of losing more men? Sherlock's tone of voice said. Enough to resort to the foolishness of trying to take on one of the most evil forces in the world by yourself? How weak areyou?

"But back to the ambush - you knew who was behind it. You've always known. The threat of invasion was always upon you. Erebor was becoming too rich, too prominent, for a hermit kingdom - it had been in the sights of the powerful and influential border warlords for some time. You called upon your kingdom's flimsy ties with the Crown to provide intensive training for you and an elite force handpicked by you, because you were preparing for war.

"You see, your Highness, you wantedto go to war. You wanted battle experience, you wanted to know how it worked, because someday, you were going to need to know how to kill a man. And how to mobilize men into killing each other for your sake."

"Never for my sake," he snarled, but Sherlock's soliloquy would not be interrupted. 

"But while you were traipsing around with British soldiers, a border warlord known as Smaug the Dragon killed your father, grabbed your throne, and began purging Erebor of its royal line. His first order of business was to hire a team of terrorists to take you and your soldiers out - with Erebor's state funds, I imagine, adding insult to injury - and he would've succeeded had you not survived. Oh this is delicious, it's all so Greek tragedy, so daytime telly!" Sherlock stood and paced around, unable to contain his glee. Oakenshield, on his part, remained sitting, failing to see what was so delightful about the whole sordid narrative.

"I don't know where you get your information from, Mr. Holmes," he said. "It's unlikely an Ereborian could have told you all this."

"True. Ereborians are taught how to keep secrets from birth, and the Ereborians in your company would rather die than betray you. So I had to be creative." He affected a smug look by studying his fingernails. "I hacked into Shadowfax Securities' files! Actually not the entire network, just Gandalf's personal computer. Which was surprisingly easy, by the way."

Oakenshield sighed and rubbed his forehead. Gandalf was not thoughtless enough to leave his personal files so blatantly unprotected... except if there were things he wanted found.

He wouldn't put it past Gandalf to recruit someone like Sherlock for this task. He must have had some inkling of what Oakenshield was planning. They had worked together for a long time, after all, and though they weren't always friends, they knew each other well.

"And in case you were wondering," Sherlock told him, "Gandalf did not ask me to stop you. He did, however, ask me to spy on you, to tell him what I could learn about your plans. I told him I would, but I broke my word. Spy work, you see, dirty business, not for me. Why go behind your back, after all, when it's much more fun to watch your face as I tear open your secrets and scatter them at your feet?

"Anyway, where was I. Oh yes - on the day your father died, notably and vaguely of 'unnatural causes' - and you were still keeping from bleeding to death in a British army hospital in Afghanistan - you were pronounced a deserter and a traitor to your kingdom. Unwilling to break ties with the new leadership of Erebor, the British government decided to treat you as such... though it allowed you the courtesy to heal reasonably before turning you over to Ereborian forces. From whom you escaped."

That was another painful memory. It was the first time for him to experience being a fugitive in the truest sense of the word. Still weak from his wounds, he had had to exhaust his wits to find a way alone out of Afghanistan, and from there go into hiding. From his own countrymen.

"Many of your advisers turned their backs on you, and the few that remained advised you to lay low. And so you lay low, grinding your teeth and nursing your wounds... while the Dragon sat on your birthright and your homeland and barred you from coming back, on pain of death."

Still on his feet, Sherlock maneuvered himself to stand between Oakenshield's chair and the window. "So... you escaped the fate of a traitor by remaining in exile. Now why would the heir of Erebor, born to finery and privilege, choose the far from glamorous existence of a high-stakes mercenary? Here's my guess." 

Sherlock planted his hands on the backrest, leaned down over Oakenshield and said in a low, almost sultry tone, "You're saving up. And the biggest money is to be made in war. You go where there's a need for weapons and highly specialized skills, and you fill that need - you and the people who follow you. Any job, anywhere, from anyone - you'll take it, for the right price."

"No mission comes at too great a cost," Oakenshield all but whispered. "We need weapons, we need supplies, and we need power. The burden of reclaiming our home has come to me, and I do not refuse it." 

"Yes, yes, you're the Messiah of Erebor, all await your second coming, lah di dah." Sherlock resumed pacing, waving his hands in the air theatrically. "Enough with the boring stuff. This! This is where it gets interesting. John Watson is living on blog hits and an army pension - and sometimes a commission, but I rarely take cases. He doesn't have rich relations, or an interest in world politics or espionage or anything remotely exciting to anyone. He has no money, no connections, not even a sense of loyalty to you.

"What he does have is a criminal mastermind who considers him a pawn in a great game - someone who wouldn't hesitate to play with his life, just to get to me." His brows knitted. "A pauper just trying to save his own neck has absolutely nothing you might want. So why risk so much for his sake?"

Oakenshield had been waiting for an opening, for Sherlock Holmes to talk himself into a corner. He'd met his share of people who liked to talk in his travels, and he knew that the best way to deal with them was to give them the rope they could hang themselves with.

It was time to pull on Sherlock's rope.

"If you think I only ever operate for the money, you are sadly mistaken. And if you think John is doing all this just to save himself..." Oakenshield sneered, "you are a bigger fool than everyone else says."

Sherlock drew himself up. He was offended, but more curious. He let Oakenshield continue.

"If he were the only one in danger, and the danger was too great to defend himself from, he would get away. He would run, rather than put anyone else he cares about in jeopardy. He would go somewhere he would be miserable, somewhere far from home and the city that he loves, but he would contain the risk." Oakenshield grunted. "No. He can't do that now. Not when someone he cares about is in the firing line. He can't leave that person's side."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

Oakenshield smiled. It felt good to have the upper hand in the conversation, if only for a moment. He got to his feet, held his chin high.

"All the same, I wonder, Mr. Holmes... if we both walked away from John, in separate directions, whose name would he call out first?"

"Mine, of course," Sherlock answered, sounding bored. "Though if he had any sense in him, he'd go his own way. Neither of us can give him the kind of quiet, peaceful,boring existence he wants, your Highness, and you know it as well as I do." 

Oakenshield almost couldn't believe the callousness. But then this was Sherlock Holmes. He would be lucky if he even really understood what Oakenshield was saying.

"If I had my kingdom back," Oakenshield quietly declared, "I could change all that."

To his surprise, Sherlock Holmes smiled. "Shall we see about that?"

Oakenshield stared at him, strongly suspecting that the upper hand was just stolen out from under him again.

"Shall we see if - after you have accomplished this mission, acquired all the assets you needed and regained your throne - he, too, will follow you without question?" Sherlock made a show of calculating something mentally. "Yes... I think it's worth a wager."

Oakenshield didn't like how that sounded.

"What are you saying?" he demanded.

"Oh, your Majesty." Holding himself very upright, very still, very devious. "I think you know very well what I'm saying."

Chapter Text

There were times when the consulting detective disappeared for days, without leaving a note or a text. The doctor had learned to roll with the punches.

Still, he couldn't help but worry. Moriarty was still out there, even if Sherlock had assured him that Moriarty was done with him for the time being and was dealing with other concerns. John would still have wanted to be around.

Just in case an extra pistol hand was needed.

It also troubled John that Oakenshield had not gotten in touch with him in two weeks. Two weeks ago, John had been informed by text by an unnamed member of the Company that the strike was happening "soon," but he was not given any details. He'd tried emailing Oakenshield with the hope of finding out more, but there was no reply.

So now he was worried for two different people... which was just perfect. Yes, he needed the extra stress in his life. Sitting quietly alone at home was the least stressful thing in the world and his days needed a bit of spicing up, yep.

He made sure that anxiety would not claim him. He valiantly went on with his life while waiting. He responded to queries for Sherlock Holmes at his blog, volunteered his services as a doctor in different charity clinics near home, which ensured that he could still return to 221B daily and stay on top of any developments.

But on day fourteen of no contact, he took out his phone and composed a single text: WHERE ARE YOU. He was about to send it to two different people.

Then the front door swung open.

Familiar footsteps crossed the threshold, and the door shut with a bang.

That wasn't a good sign. Neither was the urgent pace at which the footsteps climbed the stairs.

John was half-expecting to see Sherlock Holmes covered with blood and holding a sharp object in his hands again, fresh off a particularly gruesome investigation, when he turned around. That was what the urgent pace usually meant.

All he saw was Sherlock standing there, immaculate in his Belstaff coat.

Looking very, very annoyed.

"Word of advice, John:never trust royals," he said through gritted teeth. "When you raise a child to think his word is divine law, he'll apply it to every possible situation and thoughtlessly ruin the best-laid plans."

"It's good to see you, too, Sherlock," John answered, blinking. "So you've been mucking about with royals all this time?"

"Just one particularly stubborn, stupid royal." Sherlock strode to the couch and threw himself onto it, coat and all. He addressed the ceiling: "That is why the nobility have underlings, John, make a note. Unlike them, their underlings aresmart, reasonable, non-self-destructive peoplewho can at least promise that their hard-headedness won't make you want to knock them unconscious."

"What are we talking about?" John pocketed his phone again, message unsent. "Which royal, what?"

"Now everything's a mess," Sherlock growled. "Everything!" He covered his face with his hands, partly stifling an angry groan.

Sherlock was a bundle of nerves. He would perhaps demand his nicotine patches soon. John knew that never happened without a reason, so he himself sat tense, waiting to hear more.

But it was a while before Sherlock spoke again. It felt to John as if he had been taking his time formulating the words.

"John, you said something once... you said Oakenshield and I were good at not giving a damn."

"Yes...?" John did not quite like the sudden mention of Oakenshield. It felt like a portent.

Just then John's mobile told him he had a text.

As John checked the message, Sherlock brought his hands up, touched the tips of his long fingers together to make a steeple over his chest.

Precisely three seconds after he looked at his phone, John said, "I have to go."

Five seconds after that, he had grabbed his jacket and was out the door.

The text contained an address.

And the words Hurry. He's dying.

He knew the city well and had no trouble finding the address. It was an old warehouse, far from the main road. Good for meeting up for a clandestine operation, he realized, and he was quite sure Oakenshield and his men were not the first to use it as such.

The number was blocked. It occurred to him only when he got to the warehouse that it could also have been from Mycroft, or Moriarty - or even Sherlock himself.

John just knew.

He didn't even have to get close enough to bang on the door. As he approached, the front door swung open for him. Though he couldn't see anything from the entrance, he walked straight in.

As his eyes adjusted to the poor light, he made out twelve silhouettes. Some were standing and some were sitting, but they were all silhouettes that John recognized.

These men had all spent several hours making significant amounts of noise in 221B Baker Street a few weeks ago.

But they made no noise now. They were grimly still and silent. Ghosts at a funeral, waiting for a soul to ferry home.

Twelve silhouettes.

One was missing.

"Oakenshield," he breathed. It was a question.

The one called Balin stood and approached him. He came into the light, and John saw that his perpetual smile had waned.

"In there." Balin gestured to a closed door, which John would not have spotted otherwise. "You should prepare yourself."

"He's been seen by two other doctors," the one said Dwalin informed John. There was a hard edge in his voice, more angry than resigned. "They say if he doesn't wake up now, he never will."

"But we thought," the one named Ori piped in meekly, "since you've already saved his life once..."

A miracle worker - was that how the Company saw him? And how Oakenshield had introduced him to them? John was far from comfortable with that presumption.

"Was he hurt at the strike?" John asked anyone who could answer.

Balin, never one to lack for courage, told him "Yes."

John's eyes shut tight as guilt cut through.

He'd sent Oakenshield to death's door.

"Tell me at least," John forced himself to say, "is Moriarty..."

"Dead." It was the weird-haired one, Nori, who spoke. "We disposed of the body ourselves."

So it was done.

Despite himself, and despite all that he didnot yet know, John felt something inside his chest unknotting and dissolving. He had to let out a loud sigh.

It might have been his imagination, but he felt it was a welcome gesture. A few other members of the Company relaxed a bit.

"Why did you move him? You could've left him wherever he was wounded. I could've come over." John said this though he knew that scrapping together the cash for a trip out to just anywhere was going to be difficult; had it occurred halfway around the world, he would still have exhausted all his options to try and get there in time. He would have talked to his sister, or to Mycroft Holmes, if it came to that...

"He refused any treatment until we gave our word we would fly him back to London." Balin's tone was gentle and patient, for which John was grateful. In this confusing time, it made things easier to process. "And you know, Doctor Watson... we always keep our word, especially to him."

John could sense that was true. Though his first impression of them had been of a disorganized troop of noisy oddballs, that impression had since been all but completely washed off. This time he could only see them as soldiers, people who lived and died by a code of honor, solemnly gathered for the sake of their commander. 

John heard someone choke back a sob. That was when he noticed the dark-haired youth sitting in the shadows, who had curled deeper into himself, suffering from some sort of pain. John believed his name was Kili.

The ones nearest to the youngster were the blond youth named Fili, and the elderly codebreaker... Dori was the name, if John's memory served. They both crowded around the young man.

"Shouldn't have happened," Kili muttered miserably. "If he'd just listened..."

"To what?" John softly asked. The sharp look Fili gave him made him think he shouldn't have asked that.

The effort was nonetheless rewarded. "Our strike was... reorganized," Bofur explained, coonskin cap casting a shadow over his eyes. "It called for a sacrifice. One life for the Sinnerman's. Not Oakenshield's."

"If he'd onlylistened." Kili's yell echoed throughout the warehouse. John felt it was as if he'd meant for it to be heard even from behind the closed door.

"Quiet," Dwalin barked at the dark-haired youngster. "Get him out of here," he instructed Fili and Dori. "He needs some air."

Fili pressed his forehead to the youngster's. Dwalin's anger might not have been able to get the boy to calm down, but what Fili did seemed to work. Gradually, before John's eyes, Kili stopped shaking, and his breathing leveled off to normal.

The life they spoke about must have been his, John realized. As young as he was, he had been prepared to give it. But Oakenshield had robbed him of the chance.

He was not prepared to have Oakenshield take his place. None of them was.

(And John had to ask himself what kind of a strike that was - requiring one of the assassins to become disposable, to put his own life on the line only to ensure its success. It was either a remarkably stupid plan, or a wonderfully brilliant one. Perhaps it was the latter, seeing as the entire Company had been willing to see it through. If it had worked... perhaps it had even been the only way.)

When Kili was calm enough, Fili and Dori led him out of the warehouse. He leaned his entire weight almost on Fili's shoulder.

Kili was limping. He had been injured. A splint over one leg, perhaps, it was difficult to tell in the darkness of the warehouse. John wondered who else in the Company had been injured, and how badly. He wished he had even a touch of Sherlock's powers of observation at that moment.

"What happened at the strike?" John asked lamely.

"I don't see why we should tell you more, Doctor," Dwalin said, focusing his glare on John. "The way I see it, you're not our Client anymore. It's doubtful that you ever were."

"What do you mean?" John frowned. "I signed the contract, didn't I?"

Dwalin refused to answer the question. Some of the other members of the Company looked at each other. Eventually, one of them, the one named Gloin, spoke:

"We never received the contract you signed, Doctor Watson. A new contract was drafted for the Sinnerman strike, and someone else signed for it, so we could proceed according to schedule."

"Someone else? Who?"

Gloin looked away apologetically. Bofur was the only one who met his inquisitive stare, and his only answer was a sorry smile and a shake of the head.

John had signed the contract. He had handed it to Oakenshield himself.

What did Oakenshield do with it?

Was he the one who signed the new contract in John's stead? Was that even possible?

The longer he stood out here, the more he felt it was getting too late to get his answers from the man himself.

Dread began to fill up the space that the death of Moriarty had left.

"Not here," John decided. "He shouldn't be here. He'd want to be home... right? Is it still possible to take him there? Before..."

Balin took a deep breath, released it slowly as he stepped forward and laid a hand on John's shoulder.

"Leave him this, laddie," he said gently. "This is as close to home as he can get."

John closed the door behind him softly.

His eyes were riveted on the body on the bed.

The color had been drained from the person's face. He was barely breathing. John couldn't see the wounds, but the locations of the bandages already alarmed him: they were vital points. If any of those points were hit, it could have killed a person instantly - but even if they were missed by even a few millimeters, the amount of blood lost would have killed the person anyway.

Oakenshield was probably only still alive because those who got to him, were able to stem the bleeding almost immediately.

A medical chart was left by the bed, along with a crate full of medical supplies. The chart was very detailed, and it told John everything he needed to know.

He was no miracle worker. Apart from managing the anaesthetics, there was little else he could do at this point.

John stepped forward and pressed his fingers lightly against the artery behind the person's ear. Barely a pulse.

There was a chair by the bed. For some reason he decided not to take it. For some reason, it was easier and more comfortable to kneel by the bed, to take the closest hand and trap it in both his own.

It wasn't a new thing to him to be at a dying man's bedside. He'd seen many soldiers die, men younger than Oakenshield, men who'd confessed to him more of their dreams, their desires, their desperation. Men who'd even pleaded for him to save their lives.

He didn't know why looking at this man now, so silent and vulnerable and weak, made him feel like crying.

"I won't lie to you, soldier," he whispered. "This looks pretty bad."

No reaction from the bed. Well, John said to himself, it wasn't funny anyway.

"But the last time I saw you like this, you pulled through." He gripped the unresponsive hand even more tightly. "So pull through again this time, okay?"

He imagined that the hand he was holding had twitched, but it only hurt to know it was all in his head. The hand was motionless, as was the rest of the man on the bed. If John held the hand long enough, he knew, he would be around to feel it turn cold and stiff.

"For me," John continued, "because you don't get to die in my city. You don't. You wake up to another cold and grey day here. That's an order."

"That's an order", "Doctor's orders" - he had gotten away with saying things like these in the army. They'd brought a smile to the young Oakenshield's face.

What he would give to see that smile again.

"You see, I thought we had an arrangement. You were going to take me with you when you go home."

His voice cracked on the last word.

John was starting to feel the pressure behind his eyes, the tightening in his chest. The anxiety of the previous days bore down on him. This, after all, was the end result of his waiting. In his nightmares, one of the members of the Company - and once, Gandalf himself - came to his flat just to tell him either Oakenshield or Sherlock was dead. This was as close as reality could get him to the worst case scenario.

And this.

Was the worst time for his phone to tell him he got a text.

He took out his mobile. It was a single line:

Come back. Urgent. –SH 

"No," he pleaded to someone who wasn't in the room. "No, no, no Sherlock don't do this. Not now."

With great difficulty he ignored the text.

And his phone beeped again.

Need your help. -SH

"You son of a -"

But John stopped himself. He had no right to be angry.

Sherlock wasn't doing this on purpose. He didn't know it was Oakenshield whom John had rushed off to see.

...Or did he? How much did Sherlock know? How much did he care?

And what if he really did need help? What if Sherlock was in trouble right now?

Experience told John that Sherlock's definition of "needing help" ranged from being out of ice lollies when he was craving them, to being trapped in a situation involving poison pills and a murderous taxi driver with an organic time bomb in his brain.

The thing was, Sherlock sometimes texted when he needed something small done, and the small thing that John did - such as lending a pen, or sending a text to a serial killer - would set off a chain of events that would erupt into a full-blown life-or-death situation. John would want to be there. He would want to be there more than anything.

It hurt John almost physically to turn off his phone.

He did it anyway.




Sherlock put down his mobile, his face impassive. He had not moved from his position on the couch, and it wasn't likely that he was going to anytime soon.

It was going to be pointless to try and send more texts, or even to try to call. If there was no answer after his second text, it meant that John had already turned off his phone.

He hadn't even thought about what to tell John if he had come back. To begin with, the probability was very low that he was going to do it. Oakenshield had the upper hand - if it was in any way fair to use the term. 

The last time Sherlock saw the man, he was bleeding out of every orifice, natural or man-made. In fact, Sherlock had advised the rest of the Company to leave him for dead. There was no way he could survive the result of his own foolishness.

Only himself to blame, Sherlock recalled; Oakenshield had gone against the plan, and might well have jeopardized the strike if he had been even slightly stupider.

But if he died, that was it. All bets were off. Sherlock thought he had made it clear - to Oakenshield, at least - that he was helping them in order to prove a point.

Just because there was no room for miracles, didn't mean that task was over and done with.

So, though his plans were led awry, he had to try calling John back. He only had a small window of time left to do it. He could not be blamed for anything, least of all by John.

He had to give it a shot.




"John."

He felt some movement in the hand he was holding. That was how John knew he was still dreaming.

"John."

The whisper was loud enough to force John's eyes open.

And when they did, they met with eyes of faintly burning blue.

"...Oakenshield?"

No answer, but none was needed. It was enough that the eyes of the man on the bed met his gaze and tracked his every move.

John leapt to his feet. He felt relieved laughter being pulled out of him in waves. He let go of the hand finally, noting joyfully before he did that it wasn't cold, and it wasn't stiff.

He heard footsteps outside the room - the other members of the Company hurrying over. They must have thought Oakenshield had died and John was making ridiculous noises to express his anguish.

"My name is Thorin," Oakenshield said in a gravelly voice. It looked like it took effort just to push the words out of his lips.

John didn't quite catch that. He put his face up close so he could hear.

"Thorin of Erebor," Oakenshield said to him, pulling more strength out of nowhere to manage a reassuring smile. "Very much at your service."

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.