A/N: Second attempt at BBC Sherlock fanfiction. I have no idea where this came from. I won't say anything else about it because it's somewhat of a suspense oneshot, but hopefully it's somewhat amusing. Anyway, enjoy!
Warnings: BAMF ahead. This is unbeta'd, not Britpicked. All mistakes are my own.
Shooter
Written by Amputation
He held his breath, his body stilling of every obvious motion aside from the slow beat of his heart. He could feel it throbbing within his mediastnum, the atria and ventricles pumping the rhythm of life, forcing blood through his arteries and veins. Systole, diastole. Systole, diastole. Lubb-dub. Lubb-dub. Lubb-dub. His lungs began to burn; the carbon dioxide building as oxygen was sapped from his RBCs with each second he chose not to inhale the gaseous atmosphere. He ignored it. The burn would be worth it, so his body would suffer in order success be ensured.
His eyes were trained on the objective below, the two tall men speaking in hushed tones. His pinna itched from where the ear piece wrapped around the cartilage and he fought the urge to scratch. Thankfully the technology was silent and thus not distracting him, barring the bloody thing itself. His quadriceps femori burned from prolonged flexion, and once more the feeling was ignored. Silently he cursed the human body's feebleness. The haphazard messiness of flesh and bone and nerves was disastrous and often times obnoxiously useless.
Steely eyes narrowed, focussing into a pointed squint as twin pupils dilated. He allowed himself a breath as details bloomed in his vision. One was a target. The other was the objective. It was obvious which of the two he had to take out. Many things depended on his ability to eliminate this particular threat, and nothing was going to slow him down. He scanned each man, reading them from afar. His pupils dilated wider, gathering visual Intel. The target was better armed with four concealed weapons. Twin modified semi-auto handguns, a silenced pistol, and a deadly trench knife concealed in a boot. The objective had a standard handgun and a multitude of blades on his person, although well concealed. He'd brought knives to what could become a gun fight should the meeting escalate into something deadly.
Idiot.
Finger tightening on the trigger of his expertly modified rifle, he slowed his breathing again and looked through the scope. The visual was better—multitudes better—and he could read the lips of the two men. A cursory sweep was made, and the armaments of both men were confirmed. A hiss of air escaped silently through clenched teeth and he focussed further on the target. The men were trying to rile the other into acting first, it seemed. How boringly predictable and dull this was! Absolutely dull, didn't anyone have originality anymore? Clearly his target did not.
This was the last of many targets to be felled, the final piece to be sent shattered irreparably into splinters. He'd been hunting from the shadows like this for three long years and it was tedious at best. Constantly having to leave everything behind in a mad dash to get to his next destination grew tiresome quite quickly, it seemed. He left his life behind; left his soul in a city he longed desperately to return to. His life could wait; everything could wait. This mission was too important. He could not fail in this task, and if he did, everything he'd done would fall to pieces around him. He couldn't have that.
Like a switch had been flipped, the two men below had drawn their weapons and were firing. Extra modification against factory quality was an extremely unfair advantage, and the objective dove for cover. Watching, he gritted his teeth, swinging his rifle to follow the target while ignoring the loud report from the firing weapons. The two men were darting around the derelict seaport warehouse like rats, ducking and hiding from each other's sights—and inadvertently, his. He hissed his displeasure. This was going to be trickier than the others, especially since the target had military experience. The man's movement had given it away, no one without some semblance of formal training ducked and rolled like that.
His finger twitched on the trigger as he caught sight of the target firing towards the objective's cover. There was answering gunfire and then silence, barring the scuffle of shoes against concrete. A loud gunshot followed by the squelch of a bullet piercing flesh and a cry of pain alerted him to the sudden injury of the objective. He couldn't think about it now, although his mind flew through the plausible locations of the wound (humeri, shoulders, femori, tibia) based on the resulting sounds of bullet damaging flesh and bone. Determining the wound to be implausibly deadly, he pushed the thoughts away. The objective could be dealt with after the threat was eliminated. He bit back a growl. He didn't have a good shot from here! Bloody shipyards! Too many barriers!
The objective stumbled out (mid humerus, left side, simple comminuted fracture, approximately fifteen fragments—surgery necessary, reconstructive) into the open, staggering as the metallic tang of blood filled the air. The man began speaking aloud, offering up what seemed to be surrender to the target. Gritting his teeth, he peered through the scope as he caught motion. The target was heading towards the injured objective. His fingers twitched and he steadied his breathing, focussing on the lubb-dub of his heart beneath his sternum as the target stepped into the open, obviously gloating.
Each step the target took brought him closer to the objective, but the chaos strewn about the shipyard warehouse gave the bloody bastard cover. The rifle followed the movement, steely eyes trained through the scope. He would get only one shot, and he couldn't miss. He wouldn't get another chance. He had to make it count. The objective was trying to bargain now, but the words fell on deaf ears—oh. Oh! He blinked. He held his breath. The target raised his gun towards the fallen objective. Fingers twitched and a shot rang out, the report muffled by silencing equipment. A second passed, and like slow motion, a man crumpled into nothingness.
The objective gaped at the dead target, the man's bright eyes darting around the warehouse in search of the shooter. Unfortunately, the objective's shock had lost him precious moments of observation time. Had he shaken himself out of his stupor two seconds earlier, he would have caught the movement of the shooter as he ran. His job was done; the objective was safe—injured, but safe. Rifle secured on his back, he ran, pressing his comm. button as he moved. His ear piece buzzed, followed by a familiar voice.
'Gibraltar, report.'
'Target, one Colonel Sebastian Moran, eliminated. Objective, one Sherlock Sherrinford Holmes, secure.'
'Confirm objective's status, Gibraltar.'
'Injured, non-life-threatening. Single gunshot wound to left arm, probable comminuted fracture. Surgery will be necessary, sir.'
A long silence punctuated only by the buzzing of technology fell between both sides of the connection, before a sigh of relief was heard from the other end. His lips twitched.
'Excellent work, as always.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'Your task is complete; a lift will be ready for you at the predetermined location, 0400 hours.'
'Yes, sir.'
Another silence fell, and for a moment he thought the connection cut. A buzzing and a heavy sigh told him otherwise.
'Thank you, John.'
'Don't thank me, Mycroft. As if I was going to let your idiot brother take down Moriarty's web himself.'
An amused chuckle brought a smile to his lips.
'I'm in your debt, John. I am eternally grateful Sherlock managed to make such a loyal friend.'
'He's not out of the doghouse yet.'
'I would expect nothing less, Captain Watson. Shall I expect him to be sleeping on the couch for a month?'
The smile shifted to a smirk.
'If I'm feeling benevolent.'
The laughter of the British Government echoed through the ear piece.
'It's time to come home, John.'
'I can't wait.'
A/N: Review if you would be so kind! I like to hear your thoughts, and come on, who doesn't like them some BAMF!John? I know I do!