Lessons Learned

Untitled Part 18

     John woke after a fitful sleep. He'd just spent the past fifteen hours aboard a military, personal aircraft. They were not known for their comfort, but this one did have excellent leg room and only a few other soldiers traveling along with him. They'd made good time and landed at the Sydney airport.

A uniformed solider, a mere corporal John thought with a huff, informed him he'd have to remain out of harm's way at the mission base or a hotel. Like his detective friend, John chaffed at being told to "wait in the wings" to see what Mycroft's people could find about how Moriarty slipped the net.

Sherlock's last text finally made it through after John landed and had been allowed to turn his phone back on. He'd only left a cryptic message and some coordinates for John to follow. He'd waged a personal war inside himself at Sherlock's request not to tell Mycroft where he was. He wanted to handle Moriarty himself, no doubt. John knew how much Sherlock hated not being allowed to be part of the raid. Who knows, if he'd been there, Moriarty might not have slipped away. The pair of them, inexorably linked to one another, thought alike; they intuitively knew what the other might do. The pair of them an uncanny duo , John thought.

He'd kept the intel to himself as Sherlock had asked him to, but it wrangled hard on his nerves to keep this from Mycroft's people. Sherlock informed him he wasn't in any danger, but if he didn't act swiftly, they lose the monster yet again. John's anger hadn't dissipated since Moran's attempt to kidnap him at his mother's house. He wanted nothing more than to rip through all the posturing and protectiveness he'd had to deal with since being back and go after the man himself.

Upon landing, he texted Sherlock back asking for an update. He'd gotten no response, and that sent a chill of worry through him. He'd been given clearance and some privileges, but it took another hour to secure a vehicle. The officer in charge simply agreed to John's request and signed him over a nondescript SUV no questions asked. "Stay within a few miles of base," they'd said and let him go on his way. John wasn't a fool, he knew they were tracking his every move, but right now, he didn't care. Sherlock was in danger, and he needed to be there to back him up. Something in his gut told John the end game approached, and either Sherlock or Moriarty would meet their end this time. He told one of the officers he wanted to go a restaurant to get some dinner, and left.

The drive took over two hours. His GPS system on his phone blipped letting him know he'd arrived very near the coordinates. Sherlock had sent one final text that had simply said, "Big storm coming in. I've found his yacht. Keeping watch."

John cut the engine and left the vehicle in the very same field Sherlock had landed in earlier. John walked the quarter mile to the Marina's dock trying to glance over the available boats. Sherlock's storm had spent itself a few hours ago. The officials had been allowing boats to cast off all morning. John headed to a small office where he hoped to find out which boats might have left since yesterday.

His new credentials allowed him expediency in getting the marina's officials to cooperate. Only two craft had left that morning, both fishing boats, and neither fit the description of Moriarty's yacht. He had to locate Sherlock and find out what he'd learned. John arrival coincided with a local ferry that had just unloaded a group of 100 or so passengers disembarking onto the pier. The colorful group of locals and tourists provided excellent cover for John to move along the boardwalk unnoticed and check out the moored boats.

There it was. When John spotted it, he knew it couldn't be any other. The small, unkempt yacht tried its best to hide its true nature, but when John observed, really observed as Sherlock had taught him all those years ago, it stood out from the others. "Obvious," he heard Sherlock's deep voice say in his mind, and he grinned. The last of the ferry's passengers moved in a final clump toward him, and John prepared to use the group as cover to get closer to the boat, and find a way on board unseen. Before he could maneuver closer, he felt the unmistakable barrel of a gun press into his ribs.

"You've come, Dr. Watson, as expected," a deep voice said while the unmistakable firmness of a man's chest pressed into him from behind. John froze, his mind trying to run through every possible way he could disarm the man with the gun without losing his life when he heard the click of a bolt being drawn back. "I wouldn't," the voice said again. "I've got a silencer, and I'll do you right here if you try anything. Walk to the boat. You know the one. There's a door to the deck there. It's unlocked. Don't turn around," the man said directly in his ear. John didn't know the voice. It had an odd mix of Australian and English as though the owner had split his time equally between the two countries and had blended both accents. The man sounded older, mid-fifties, if John could be the judge of such things.

"Open it!" he said an arm appearing over his left shoulder to point to the door that led below decks. John heard a hint of gruff command in the voice now that they were away from the general public.

John did. He encountered the same black stairwell and hallway that Sherlock had crept down the day before. The man produced an electric torch and shown a beam to illuminate their progress.

"No light?" John asked amicably.

For an answer, John felt a rough push from the man and almost lost his footing on the narrow staircase. He used a hand to steady himself as he continued downward and thought about how he could get out of this. Perhaps he could push an elbow into his abductor's belly or even lower...

The gun pressed into the base of his skull erasing all such thoughts. A better class of criminal, John thought ruefully, as one of Sherlock's complaints about the lowlifes they'd chased through London ran through his mind. He'd lucked out and been captured by a man knew how to handle a prisoner, and wouldn't be easily tricked.

He stopped at the door at the end of the stairs that led into the living quarters of the yacht below. A keypad glimmered next to the handle. "Six-six-two-one-two," the man barked at him, and John understood it was the code to open the door. The system, while outdated, still functioned admirably and John punched in the numbers. He heard a whoosh as the door unlocked.

Theman behind pushed roughly at this shoulder, and John pulled the heavy dooropen. It all ended here, he thoughtgrimly. Whatever hid behind door numbertwo, John believed, would be the end of this horrible, two-year ordeal. Sherlock, Moriarty, this mystery man, andJohn Watson would resolve things tonight or die in the process. He felt sure of it.