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John had been, like, 200% sure he was never going to let Sherlock make him tea ever again.
The hounds thing had been bad enough. However, since Sherlock had sort of gotten away with it, he now seemed to think that this was now an acceptable thing to do. John had to be careful about what he drank. Sherlock kept sneaking around corners, swapping out cups of tea, slipping strange chemicals into the milk- and other things John had yet to catch him doing. It was making John paranoid, and Sherlock increasingly determined to get John with something. Unfortunately, this also meant that John was running low on caffeine. He had not been able to drink any tea for the last three weeks.
“Tea?” Sherlock asked, sweetly, holding out the tray. “Sugar, one milk-” he was cut off by John’s one sarcastic raised eyebrow.
“Bleach? Poison? Dishwasher detergent?” Sherlock let out a small huff.
“Are you still on about that?” he demanded, setting the tray down, “It was a one time thing, John, now that I have my research, it’s not going to happen again.” John opened his mouth, but Sherlock blazed on with his complaint. "The hound was a one-time situation, and-"
"Sherlock! I can SEE the packaging for some kind of chemical in your pocket!" Sherlock let out a cry of exasperation. "It's totally safe! Here!" Sherlock poured some tea into a saucer, and took a sip of it. He smirked in John's direction. John groaned, muttered sorry, and drank some tea of his own. It tasted... a bit off... The last thing he saw before he blacked out, was Sherlock spitting his mouthful of tea into the flowerpot.
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"Hey, Tasha! What are you doing with that corpse?" Natasha rolled her eyes, and didn't turn around. She was, undeniably, carrying a corpse down the helicarrier hallway. The black body-bag was dragging on the floor behind her, the thump thump thump of it thunking along behind her echoed down the hallway. That didn't mean that she had to awknolage sarcastic comments about it.
"Nat!" Clint, her partner, was scurrying behind her.
"Carrying it." Natasha replied blandly, "It's our new assignment." Clint let out a bark of laughter.
"What do you have to do with it? Seduce it? Kill it?" he snickered, and picked up the end of the bag. He hoisted it up, then fell into pace with Natasha. "Seriously, though. Isn't this supposed to be in high lockdown? These are supposed to be really dangerous and all that. Didn't FitzSimmons have troubles with just their weapons? Ward said they were carrying some kind of airborn virus. Wouldn't the bodies be more dangerous?" Natasha nodded, despite the fact that Clint could only see the back of her head.
"Yes. They are. There are also only 4 of these left. The others were incinerated. SHIELD decided to auction off three of them to the highest bidders- With respectable scientific background. No offense to Tony, but we didn't want any going to the Starks." Clint smirked, imagioning his friend sulkily complaining to Pepper that he wanted the limited-edition corpse. "Our job is to smuggle this over the border, into England, where some scientist can discect it."
"...Yay..." Clint muttered, "Who's the scientist?" Natasha shrugged.
"I don't know. They just gave me the address."
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Make that 200,000,000,000% sure.
The esteemed John Hamish Watson, army doctor, surgen, killer, Holmes-Handler, and ladies man, woke up in a crate. There was a walkie-talkie on the floor beside him, a small bag with clothes in it, and another small package with food and water. If he reached out both hands, his fingertips could brush the sides of the crate. He had to hunch over to stand, but only barely. When he tried to move, he heard a CRACK! and his toe smashed into a crowbar on the ground. John gritted his mouth shut, cursing Sherlock Holmes to an inch of his life, and blinking in the half-light. There was a constant thrum of some kind of engine. Maybe a jet, or a boat?
"Sherlock?" he hissed, "Sherlock?" He pressed the button on the walkie-talkie. "I am going to murder y-"
"Ssssshhhhh John!" Sherlock's voice came from the walkie-talkie, "They'll hear you!"
"They?" Demanded John, but quieter, "Who's they?" his back was gettting sore, so John sat back down against the crate. He picked up the crowbar, and started to aimlessly fiddle with it. "And you better have a damn good explanation!" There was a weary sigh from the walkie-talkie, but John was in no mood to hear it.
"Fine. Quietly, though, if you get discovered all my plans will be ruined."
"I don't bloody care about your rudy plans-"
"You know the battle of New York, John? Where that fellow with the ridiculous hat tried to take over the world? His army, the chitauri, they were aliens John. If I could get my hands on one- Think of the expiriments, the advances in science- But this is on route, to a different scientist, and we need to take custody before it arrives-"
"Did you kidnap me to steal an alien corpse? Did you KIDNAP me to steal an ALIEN'S DEAD CORPSE?!"
"That's what makes it a corpse. Really, and I thought you were the doctor-" John took a deep breath in, then a deep breath out. Now was not the time to freak out. He squinted down at the bottom of the crate. There was a logo emblazoned on it. A kind of eagle emblem, and the letters: S.H.I.E.L.D. John frowned. He knew those! A gamma scientist, one of his friends (Not close, the guy was a bit weird)- Bruce... Bruce... Oh, it started with B. Hadn't he gone missing to these guys? John picked back up the walkie-talkie.
"Where am I?"
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Natasha flicked a dial on the quinjet, turned on the radio, tuned out the world, and basically shut down any delusions of conversation Clint had for the multiple-hour flight. It was a beautiful day, all sunny and warm, and the cockpit was filled with sunlight. Clint yawned, not really liking the peppy music Natasha had playing. Natasha didn't seem to like it either, because she reached out and fiddled with the switches. After a moment, some kind of Russian talk show came on.
"Nat!" Clint complained, "Who really listens to this stuff?" Natasha turned, gave him a look, and her expression clearly read I do. "I'll go check on the cargo." Clint decided, and made a strategic retreat down into the cargo hold. There was a metal ladder that Clint quickly descended. His footfalls made a clunking noise, echoing evilly around the hold. Since the quinjet was rarely used, the hold looked pretty scary as well. Big towering crates, stack upon stack, dust hanging in the air, the vapour from Clint's breath hung silvery-white like some kind of baby wraith. Darkness edged around Clint's peripheral vision. The chitauri body itself was sitting right by the ladder. It looked more-or-less secure. It was still in the bag from the morgue. That was put into a secure box, locked with a combination, put in a bigger box, locked with a different combination, and a white sheet was draped over it all. Clint scanned the area for threats. It was all clear. Not like anybody could have broken into the quinjet while it was flying anyways.
"Barton!" Natasha yelled, "Get up here!" Clint paused. One of the crates was newer than the rest. It had the logo, it was definitely a SHIELD crate, but... Something was off... "That show you like is on! 'Under the Influence!' That weird one about marketing!" Clint was up the ladder in a flash.
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John took a deep breath in. He put his hands together, smoothed his forehead, and took another breath. There was a silence from the walkie-talkie, Sherlock, in all his infinate wisdom, seemingly had deduced that talking wasn't the greatest idea right now. John stood up and paced around the crate. Finally he thought he was calm enough to proceed without wanting to strangle Sherlock Holmes, or kick him until he was dead.
"Right," John started, "Let me summarize. You wanted to steal a chitauri corpse from a government agency, SWORD, or something, and do it before the damn thing reached a scientist. So you drugged me, mailed me to the agency, and now I'm on a jet, with the corpse, and at least two highly trained ninjas and you expect me to do something for you?" There was another pause.
"Yes." was Sherlock's reply. At least he had the good sense to fake some sheepishness. "I didn't realize that it would affect you this strongly. John, that person could be the next Moriarty. We need to intercept that corpse, and we need to do it fast. Think of the science John, what we could do with that corpse. Cures for all those silly things people go to you for, maybe, and-"
"Shut. Up." John interrupted, letting out a huff of air. The walkie-talkie cracked once and then fell silent again. As much as John hated to admit it, Sherlock kind of had a point. But if only he'd asked instead of just drugging him- Honestly, that man had no sense of decency. "
John?" It was an inquiry, John realized, Sherlock was asking him if he was okay. Despite himself, John smiled. "John I understand you're mad, but please give me an update on your wellbeing."
"I'm fine." John decided, against his better judgment, "Tell me what I have to do."
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Natasha was one of the most boring people in the world to go on a road trip with.
Clint had been all fine-and-dandy listening to his show, but Natasha had gotten bored with it halfway through, and gone back to that stupid Russian thingie. Honestly. What was the point of dragging him back up to listen to the show, if he wasn't going to be allowed to finish it? Clint pulled open his phone, opened a random app, and started to kill time on one of his games that didn't require Wi-Fi.
"Stop that." Natasha snapped, finally. Clint looked up in confusion. There was a Pew! Sound, and Clint's Flappy Bird hit a tunnel and died.
"Oh, come on!" Clint screeched, like a banshee, "I was doing so great, then you come along!" Natasha listened to his tirade, uncomprehendingly. "Do you have any idea how crazy this is?! I had 52, Nat, 52!!"
"52 what?" she asked, curiosity creeping in despite herself, "Is that your score? Not very good, is it?" Clint stared at his partner a moment.
"All right. Budge up." Clint hauled her out of the chair, the quinjet made a scary sort of lurch, a kind of clanging noise, and then Clint sat down in the cockpit and got everything straightened up. Snapping in his seat belt, Clint gestured to the phone with his free hand. "Knock yourself out." Natasha laughed. The sunlight glinted off her hair, making the effect ripple like fire. She didn't laugh often, and Clint felt a surge of triumph at being the one to make the Black Widow happy, at least for a second.
"Fine." Clint's 'Tasha sat down in the chair, opened the app, and didn't realize the torture she had just signed herself up for.
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"Ok? Secure the corpse, John, and place it in the crate with you. John, this is crucial! You must get the corpse before you land, or you will be caught!"
John resisted the urge to turn off the walkie-talkie. He, per Sherlock's instruction, had used the crowbar to get out of the crate. Now he was wandering the cargo hold. It was a rather scary place. Where the hold itself wasn't very large, the boxes of crates were lined up in rows that gave the illusion of gigantor. Shadows leered out at him, the engine thrummed menacingly below him, and the chill air made the hair on the back of John's neck stand up.
"Alright," muttered John, "Which one is it?" he crouched down by one of the crate stacks, his back pressed to it, hoping against hope that none of the government cronies would think to guard the body. Or come downstairs. Or do anything. Or even exist. Or-
"You're stressing out again, John, do calm yourself, we haven't gotten all day." The slave-driver had spoken. Guess it was time to shut up and work, there wasn't enough time in Sherlock's schedule to panic. Damn him... "How should I know? You're the one in the jet. You haven't supplemented me with a -visual aid for that question. Think logically. I am not telekinetic, although I know a guy. Rather bothersome, Charles Xav-"
"I HAVE TO FIND THE-" John remembered to be quiet just in time, "The thing myself in the dark? With spies? Sherlock, your plan is bloody awful!" There was a lurch. John was knocked off his feet, and rolled on the floor, smashing his back into the crates. He dropped the walkie-talkie, it CLANGED! loudly, and skidded under the crate stack across the aisle from John.
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Natasha was no longer smiling.
"You got 52 on this thing Clint? Are you sure- You must be mistaken- DAMNIT" The little Pew! that meant the Flappy bird had died sounded. "Clint, this is impossible!" Clint glanced to the side, not taking his hands off the wheel, and smirked.
"What's your highscore?"
"Two! This is rigged." Natasha's hair was frazzled. Her neck was going to be sore from staring down at the screen for so long, but, on the other hand, it didn't look like she cared. Her side of the quinjet's windows had the blinds pulled down so she could see the screen better. Her expression was scowling, and Clint's phone was clutched in her hand.
Pew!
"URGH!" Clint smiled, and then felt a bit guilty. Was there any hope for him now? Sure, he had killed people, and stuff. But once you introduced Flappy bird to someone, was that, like, a guaranteed ticket to hell? Clint glanced at the GPS strapped to the console. Natasha had entered the coordinates for the address they were supposed to drop off the corpse. They had managed to cross the border alright, more or less withoutincident, but that was probably due to the fact that Clint had took/borrowed/stole an invisibility booster from Tony.
They needed to drop off the chitauri body- What? Where? How! Pew! "NO!"
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John wasted a lot of time, trying to get that stupid walkie-talkie back.
It didn't help that he was terrified of discovery any moment. It also didn't help that Sherlock kept giving smart-arse comments via. the dumb thing. John's arm wasn't long enough to reach the walkie-talkie on it's own, and so John had resorted to using the crowbar to kind of scoop under the crates.
"If somebody has discovered this walkie-talkie, or the possessor of it, tell me. I am scared and wish to surrender. I have valuable information to exchange." John rolled his eyes, fished with the crowbar a bit more, and just missed the walkie-talkie.
"Shut up, you git." muttered John. "Don't try to be clever, try to deduce what's happened, just shut it for five minutes..."
"John. I’ve ruled out capture, so you've gone and dropped the walkie-talkie under a crate, haven't you, and now you're trying to fish it out? Well the crowbar isn't long enough. Go back to your crate, there are more suitable things in your bag. Unless, of course, you've nearly got it. In that case, stay strong. You've got this. Unless, of course, you haven't in which case you are doomed for arrest, then likely prison, and- Ooh! Kettle boiled." After that, mercifully, Mr. Sherlock 'I can deduce anything' Holmes, shut up.
"Got it." John panted, pulling out the walkie-talkie and nearly collapsing in relief. "You stubborn git, what if somebody had heard you? Actually, don't answer, I know you've got some kind of smart reply. What if I sent you a picture? Could you deduce the crates then?" There was a sort of thoughtful pause from Sherlock's end.
"Yes." was the final reply, "I could. Your phone is in the crate, in that package with the clothes. You should get some water as well, the mission would be compromised if you were to get dehydrated." John scuttled back the way he'd come. He felt sort of nervous, like somebody's eyes were boring into his back. All his movements seemed twice as loud as normal, and there was probably somebody down here with him.
Ruthless.
Determined.
Terrifying.
Undistracted.
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"HA!" Natasha yelled, "I GOT 6 THAT TIME!"
"Natasha!" Clint hissed, turning the GPS towards her, "It says here we have to drop the stupid corpse off in the middle of London! How in hell are we going to go unnoticed?! We can't just drop a sheet over it, Nothing suspicious here! and skip off, we have a giant jet with us!" Natasha looked up from the game.
"Actually, that was pretty much my plan. Park the jet, drop a sheet over the corpse, and take it to the drop-off. Aliens just invaded our planet. Two people carrying a box with a sheet over it won't exactly be out of place." Natasha looked back down at the phone, frustration etched over her features.
"What's your highscore?" Clint suddenly felt tension in the air. He tried to change the topic.
"Do you want to drive?" He thought he'd gotten away with it. They swapped, Clint took his phone back, and Natasha was back ready with the steering wheel.
"Great. Anyways, so did I tell you this thing? I was at the helicarrier base, talking to that moron in forensics-"
"Who?" Natasha asked, with a smirk, "There are lots of morons in forensics." Clint laughed. He pulled the blinds back from around the passenger seat. It was more cloudy now. Still safe to drive, but less dark.
"I meant that guy... Uh... Anderson?" Clint nodded. "That's it, Anderson."
"Right! That's the guy who was put on forced leave. Something about dead people, that stupid beard- Turns out he was right. Still an idiot." Natasha smiled, listening with more-or-less tolerance to the rest of Clint's story. At the end of it, there was a few minutes that were spent in companionable silence, when-
"What is your Flappy bird highscore?" Natasha asked. Clint hesitated. Natasha watched him out of one eye, sort of passive-aggressively.
"Fifty-two, right?" Clint took a deep breath, then took the plunge.
"Two hundred and ninety seven."
"WHAT?!"
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John was starting to get used to the trainwreck that was his life.
"Alrightie, Sherlock," he said into the recently recovered walkie-talkie, "One of these?" At the same moment, John pulled out his phone and sent Sherlock an email with pictures of the crates around him attached. "I don't see anything, but, you know, you're you..." he sat down and yawed. He’d taken, he didn’t even know how much photos.
“That’s it, John!” Came Sherlock’s unusually excited voice, “With the sheet. The white one. It’s near the ladder.” Oh, wonderful, right next to the ladder into the cockpit. With the ninjas.
“Now what?” he asked, “I just grab it? Won’t they notice it’s gone?” There was an amused huff from the phone, which John hated, because it made him feel like an idiot.
"You won't take the whole thing," Sherlock explained in a patronizing tone, "Only the corpse. The things in your bag will equal the weight of the chitauri. That way you can make an undetected switch." John scowled, forgetting that Sherlock couldn't see him through that damned walkie-talkie.
"The food to? It wasn't for, I dunno, eating?"
"Obviously not." John sighed, and crept towards the packaged corpse. It was a delicate operation, one that would require much stealth... Precision, concentration, focus, a sure hand-
"C'mon, 'Tasha, go and check the crates or something!" laughed a voice from the cockpit. John froze immediately, hearing footfalls. "You're beginning to scare me, go on, check the cargo. Not everybody can sulk as cute as you can- Shoo, you're making me feel guilty." Between two random agents, that would be offensive and creepy. John could tell that these two people must know each other very well, and be on quite good terms, judging on the laughter that the man got in response.
"John!" hissed Sherlock, "Hide you idiot!"
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Natasha dropped down the ladder gracefully, like a cat. She landed on her feet, barely a thump, but not as well as Clint could have done it. Not a jealous comment, but a fact. Clint was the jumper. Vaguely wondering why she cared about this, Natasha ran her finger down the sheet covering the Chitauri.
"Clint!" she called, "Is this it? By the ladder?" She had to shout pretty loudly to get her voice heard above the engine thrum. There was a beat of pause, Clint trying to interpret her voice.
“Is there a sheet over it?” was the screamed response.
“Yes!” she called back.
“That’s it!” Clint loudly affirmed. Natasha ran a finger down the sheet, frowning. It seemed a bit different from when they'd loaded it. The sheet had a strange buldge on it, like something was tugging on it from the back. It must've not been like this when Clint had checked on it, because Hawkeye was not an undeserved title.
Clint. She tapped, in morse code, Intruder in the hold.
Somebody is down here with us.
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'Conceal,' John thought wildly, 'Don't feel- Don't let them know!' he had barely managed to jump behind the thing. If that lady came down, even moved one foot to the side, then he would be in so much trouble. What was Sherlock saying about arrest? How many years? Did he even say? Did he even care? Shadows danced along the hold, the posion of the sun changing in relativilty to them. If John moved a bit to the right, his own shadow would be hidden in the shadow of the crate. If he didn't, then his shadow would be seen. But he risked being heard... And he was fairly sure that the person knew that someone was down here already...
"John, what's going on?" demanded Sherlock 'I'm-So-Fucking-Stealthy-But-Not-When-John's-On-A-Plane-With-Ninjas-In-A-Foreign-Country' Holmes. In a flash, there was a hand death-locked on John's shoulder, the other hand attempting to haul him out into the light. Well. Like that was going to happen. John whipped the sheet off the crate with one hand, and twisted out of the ninjas grip. He dashed between the legs of his attacker (Admittedly, justified attacker) and fled like hell was at his heels.
"John!" demanded Sherlock, "John, have you been discovered?" John was so furious that he couldn't even articulate a response. Priority lists had to be made, and telling Sherlock that he was going to die (painfully!) wasn't one of the more important things at the moment. The priority was getting away, protecting his identity, and loosing the person trying to chase him down and probably kill him because screw being arrested these guys are driving around in a darkened cargo plane with some kind of freaky bird insignia emblazoned onto the crates they probably got their toilet paper on the black market. He must look like such an idiot.
A sheet over his head.
Running for his life.
Illegally.
Ah, the things we do for our friends...
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Natasha wasn't sure what this guy was doing, but she was just rolling with the program.
He'd flung the sheet from the corpse's box over his head, which was actually a fairly good idea for identity protection, but it made him look like some sort of derranged robber's ghost. Oh, yes, she assumed it was a he. Between the smoke and mirrorwork that the shadows were throwing out there, she made out a fairly stocky body type more commonly found in men. The communication device that had alerted her to his position had spoken with a male voice. All the noise bouncing around the hold garbled that fairly well, but it was either a AI or a male informant.
Perhaps a handler? No, handlers usually have more common sense to yell out in the middle of a covert op. Not an AI, because the voice sounded confused. Must not be a partner in crime on the plane either, or his voice would be heard from inside the plane in addition to from the communication device. So that left an outside source, probably the brains behind what was probably a individual assult on the Chitauri.
"CLINT!" she gasped, feet flying, running between rows of towering crates, stacked like cities. "HAWKEYE, I'M REQUESTING BACKUP!" The man twisted down another crate, into an intersection. Natasha spun in a 360, realizing that the man had led her into a junction, and then dissapeared. Standing completely still, trying to listen for footprints or feel for vibrations, she hised into her comms device again. "Clint, what's the holdup?"
"Oh, I don't know," was the sarcastic reply, "I'm just chilling, playing Flappy Bird, flying the plane, you know." Natasha ground her teeth. Right. Picking a aisle at random (the longer she waited, the more distance he gained) Natasha sprinted as fast as she could force herself to go.
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"I hate you," hissed John, arms pumping, not to run faster, just to push the sheet out of his face and pull it up so he wouldn't trip, "I hate you so much, and at the same time, I'm depending on you to get me out of here!"
"Right," was Sherlock's reply, a bit subdued, "You need to get to the back of the jet, secure a parachute, and jump out."
"Over midtown London?" demanded John, "Mycroft's good, but nobody can be that good. I mean, a cover up of that size..."
"Who said anything about Mycroft?" demanded Sherlock in a miffy voice, that was entirely unjustified, given John's current situation, "By the time you jump out, you will be almost directly over 221B." John whipped around the corner, and started to awkwardly fast-tiptoe toward the back of the jet.
"No way," John frowned, "The's a very small chance of anything working out that well."
"John, would I lie to you?"
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"Security cameras up, but entirely useless." Clint reported, cheerfully, flicking a switch on the console. "It's to dark and shady to really see anything, and our hear sensing cameras only work on the exterior of the plane. But, hey, progress! I don't think that we should land the plane either, beacuse then the theif has the opportunity to sneak out the plane. Do you have a lead? What's your location?"
"Nope," Natasha's annoyed voice crackled on the intercomms, "No lead. This guy is good, I suspect that he might be a Hydra agent, or an exHydra, or possibly army of some sort. It also seems likely that he's male, and has at least one accomplice, although I believe that he is the only one on the plane." Clint drew in a breath, and let it go in a slow long drawn out whistle.
"Hydra? Nat, you know that we haven't seen those gits since Red Skull. You really think...?" He let his voice trail off, glaring in exasperation at the tinny view the security camera in the hold had to offer.
"I believe that we should be prepared." was Natasha's cryptic and useless answer.
"Wonderful." Clint remarked, "And since I know that it's useless to try to get you to clarity yourself, can I offer a suggestion?" He squinted out at the camera, keeping another beady eye on the London night around them. Stars were starting to peek out from the blakets of the darkness. Natsha gave an exasperated sigh, which Clint took as a yes. "Well, anyways, I think that you should stop pursuing this guy, and get back to guard the course. Yeah, I know, not as exciting. But think- Really- where can he run to? He must have snuck aboard on the crates, so he can't exactly get out, can he?"
"Affirmative, Clint. That makes a fair amount of sense. Doubling back now."
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And, as it was that Natasha headed back to the front of the plane to guard the chitauri, John parachuted out the back of the plane without it.
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Thing were kind of quiet at 221B for the next couple of days.
Sherlock was probably bored out of his mind, but after the first 20 minutes, he seemed to realize that John wasn't going to do anything about it. John was still boiling mad, but not as much as he was anymore. He kind of understood where Sherlock was comming from, but he just didn't understand why Sherlock hadn't just asked him, instead of going to the extremity of kidnapping him.
"Lestrade's got a case," muttered Sherlock, swooping around the flat, trying his scarf, pulling on his coat, gulping down the last drags of his tea, "See you later." John smiled to himself, thinking that it was actually kind of nice of Sherlock not to expect him to come. For a change. Although John kind of DID want to go. The door slammed, and Sherlock was gone.
Sigh.
Part of John was glad that the whole thing was over with. Mary was visiting her cousins, but she would be back tomorrow. It would be great to see her again. The incident (and resulting failure) had kind of sort of temporarily taught Sherlock a lesson, although it would be astonishing if it stuck. Nobody seemed to have come after John, so he hadn't been identified. Good job sheet. And the other part of him...
Well, the other part of him really wanted to get his hands on that corpse. Whoever that scientist was, the one who got the Chitauri, he should count his lucky stars.
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Natasha raked her hands through her hair and yawned.
What did she write on her mission report? Did she say that they apprehended the robber? Did she say that he escaped? The corpse was safe, so did that cancel it out? What if the man had somehow gotten the alien virus FitzSimmon discovered?
"Clint!" she called, pushing their hotel door open. Clint was spread eagle on the bed, dingy white sheets under a mint-but-not-quite-mint comfroter. Peeling grey wallpaper was disguised by bad watercolour paintings hanging over them. They were staying at a hotel in London, a couple hours before somebody from SHIELD came to retrieve them.
"Yup?" he asked, swinging to his feet. The bed hinges squeaked as he moved, and his feet made not a noise when they hit the mousy carpet. "What's up?" Natasha sat down on the carpet, and yawned for the second time.
"What did you write in your mission report? What do we do? I'm not sure how to classify-" Clint sat down on the chair and waved a piece of paper. Natasha got to her feet and padded over to him. Snatching the paper, she sat down with her feet on the armrest of the chair, her head against her chest. His report was only two sentances long.
'We successfully achieved the goal. No problems.' Natasha rolled her eyes and laughed. Clint rubbed the top of her head and smiled. His hands felt nice, rubbing through her hair, tugging at the roots. Like a massage, but better, safer, more... Clint. His arms entraped her, and she leaned into the embrace.
"I'm not going to let you get away with a two sentance, inaccurate, mission report you know."
"Taaasssshhaaa!!"
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A couple weeks later, things were back to normal between Sherlock and John. John felt like he should still be mad, but it was kind of hard when he remembered that nobody, certainly not Mycroft, hadn't ever told him that things like that wern't encouraged in society. Not to mention that Sherlock had gotten the milk. Twice. And had even started to tentively start thanking John when John did something more-or-less nice.
So.
Today, Molly had called John, saying that there was a new body at the lab, and would you mind telling Sherlock, thanks, how are you? And so the two were headed out to go and check on that. John bustled out into the crowded street, at Sherlock's heels. Rain was pouring down like the second Noah's flood was trying to make a surprise appearence. Little rivers of water formed down the sides of the streets, on the sidewalks; little waterfalls dribbled down John's umbrella as he awkwardly closed it to get in the cab.
"Where to, lads?" the cabbie asked, brightly, pulling out into the street. "Quite a day to be out and about, huh? My wife, she didn't even go to work. Then again, she runs a little buisness based on good weather. Boating, would you believe it? Where do they boat? Well, actually-"
"To answer your first question," Sherlock cut in, his expression dissaproving of boating, "We are headed-" John tuned him out, tuned everything out, just sort of stared out the window, watching rain droplets trickling their way down the window. He couldn't get the memory of the impromptou retrieval mission out of his mind. What was that body? The, what, chitauri? It was jump-starting new questions in his brain. Questions about monsters... Magic... Other worlds, other countries, different planets... Funny hats... Nebulas... The stars. How much stars do we see, really? Compared to how much there really are? Not like Sherlock would know. It was an interesting feeling. The kind that made John feel very small.
"We're here fellows!" the cabbie chirped, with the kind of ethusiam that wasn't catching, just the kind of enthusiasm that made John want to slap the guy, "Everybody out!" John and Sherlock made the quick dash inside, shutting the doors and shaking rain off into the foyer around them. Molly stuck her head in a couple minutes later, beaming.
"H-hi!" she said a bit nervously, "Follow me please!" John smiled at her, and Sherlock nodded crisply. Molly turned back around, and led them furthar into the morgue. White floors, white walls, Molly's white lab coat- Everything was white around here, wasn't it? Molly led them into an adjourning room, and Sherlock looked around disinterestedly. The body Molly wanted them (but, let's face it, John was probably only there out of courtesy) to examine was on a trolly with a white sheet over it. Interestingly enough, Molly handed them both gloves and masks to put on.
"What's this for then?" John asked, taking the gloves and sliding them on, "We've never needed them before." Molly didn't answer, and put her own mask and gloves on.
"Ready?" she asked excitedly, grabbing hold of the sheet, "All good?" Sherlock made an impatient sort of 'Hurmph!' noise, and Molly pulled the sheet off.
John gasped.
Molly beamed.
Sherlock seemed to be struck into a kind of shock.
Molly. Molly Hooper. Little Molly, the Molly who wore cat jumpers, watched Glee, and phoned her Grandparents every weekend to talk to them, Molly of the awkward flirting, Molly of the silly crushes, Molly of the Morgue; Molly who was the cutest damn lady in London, had managed to get her hands on the chitauri. Sitting there, on the trolley, achieved by perfectly legal means, was the object of desire that John had been mailed in a crate to steal.
"Molly!" gasped Sherlock, and whirled around, and hugged her. Although she looked a little flustered, Molly beamed back at him.
"I thought of you, you know, like a kind of Christmas present? I don't know, but they were hard to get. Then they made me wait a bit, to make sure there was no diseases or anything. I had to go through this goverment agency, a bunch of background checks, they wanted to make sure I wasn't a mad scientist or anything. It's called a Chitauri. A footsoldier of that man who inavded New York."
"Molly Hooper!" Sherlock exclaimed, and John started laughing, and Molly giggled a bit, and then Sherlock smiled and everybody was cackling in front of the dead body, and John thought that the world was a bit smaller, and a bit better, then it had been in a a long time.