My Name Is No One
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Keep Your Fleet Feet Sliding
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John was bored. Bored and tired. It was hard for him with his injuries; they tired him out and left him exhausted and cursing them.
But what was killing him wasn't what sent him home it was the fact that he was 'home'. It was the fact that this place- this London spring- was not home. His home was between the spray of sand and blood. Where bullets came past right next to you and every second could mean life or death.
That was home to him, that's where he belongs.
Not this mundane, grey world where nothing happened. There was nothing to live for.
No excitement.
And so John had decided to create some.
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He brought a map of London, stuck it to his wall and picked up a pencil. He put on a blindfold, spun around in circles a couple of times then reached forward to check he was actually facing the map, he was.
God, this felt so much like 'pin the tail on the donkey' that he couldn't help but start giggling. It was just so ridiculous! A thirty-something cripple playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey with a London street map by himself. It was just too stupid.
Eventually his laughter subsided and he coughed a few times regaining his composure despite the blindfold. He then managed to lean forwards and draw a dot on the map. Quickly he tore off the blindfold off and searched the map for the dot. He growled in annoyance and began putting the blindfold back on grumpily. He needed a street so of course John manages to get the dot slap bang in the middle of Hyde Park.
He sighs, calming himself. Still plenty of time Watson, he reminds himself, you have all the time in the world now, until your worthless life ends in fact.
With the blindfold back on he spun again, repeating the process of feeling for the map before placing another mark at random.
He quickly untied the piece of cloth from around his head and looked at the map. He grinned when he saw the new spot he'd marked out.
Oh well this did promise excitement.
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The random number generator spat out two numbers; eighty-six and three.
He couldn't be happier.
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He'd been walking round Belgravia for a week and a half now and all he could say about it overall was that it was extremely fancy and had high security.
He was lucky that the third floor flat of number eighty-six Eaton Square was still up on a fancy property website. It told him about the twenty-four-seven security and porter service. But it also told him that, conveniently, it also had a balcony.
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John's reconnaissance lasted another week and a half. He walked the street every day pacing back and forth every couple of hours. He looked up at the third floor hoping to catch a glimpse of the person living there.
He'd occasionally see a flash of pale skin or dark hair as someone moved quickly away from the window. The man- the hair was short and from what he could see the jaw was too square for it to be a woman- smoked. There was the occasional cigarette stub on the window sill where he'd stubbed out his fags.
He felt as if he had a purpose now, that he had some reason for being. Even if it was just to fulfil the need to see whether he still could do it.
His leg had stopped being weak and his hand had stopped shaking now enough so that he could scale a wall and get onto the roof at night. He'd pace up and down that too measuring, checking the time occasionally so that he would know how long it would take him to complete each piece of his route.
It took him the three weeks to get the journey perfect.
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The night he'd chosen was warm- for London springtime- and John's shoulder didn't complain too much as he strolled to Eaton Square. He'd dressed in dark grey tight jeans so they'd blend in and not get caught on anything and a tight black shirt with the sleeves rolled up for exactly the same reason.
His gun was tucked into the waist band of his jeans within easy reach; it reassured him.
He scaled the wall with ease; the warm weather helping to keep his shoulder from twinging.
When he got to the top he jogged over to where he knew number eighty-six was and looked down before carefully lowering himself onto number fours balcony. That seemed to have gone okay. Unfortunately this was the hard part.
He managed to get himself over the edge of four's balcony. Now in theory all he had to do was push himself away from the building and- there we go. He pushed himself away then used his weight to swing himself down onto the balcony below letting go of the one above in the process.
It hurt as he landed but he was still grinning. His psychiatrist was wrong; he wasn't haunted by the war, he missed it. This was only some stupid distraction but it still got the adrenaline going. Not like war but enough.
He made his way over to the balcony doors and took out his lock-picks, kneeling and slowly working on the lock. It took a little longer than he thought but eventually the door clicked quietly and he stood again slowly opening the door.
He slid into the room; it was dark and silent, full of shadows. John sighed quietly, the darkness eating it up, before grinning at the room in general. He'd done it, he'd actually done it!
He was still grinning when the barrel of a pistol nestled against the nape of his neck pressing into his skin.
"What do you think you are doing?" A soft voice tinged with an Irish accent inquired from behind him.
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Hello! Brand new fic- oh yeah, that's right; another one- yay! Damn we have so much to write about. So please excuse lack of updates; we have lots of stories to balance and C's internet is faulty.
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