Written in Cold Blood

Hitman!John Watson

Contains WatsonxMoran man sex.

Notes: Based on a tumblr post. Not good with tumblr. D: I can't find it again and even if I could, have no idea how to respond to it. It was just too adorable to ignore, though. Le sigh.

John Watson wasn't bored.

Bang!

In fact, he would dare to call it even fun. With Sherlock gone, he had to make his own fun. The first few months without his best friend John had gone through the seven stages and came out for the worse. For a while, he was numb, then he stopped being able to pay the bills, then, of all things, he got bored. Perhaps living with Sherlock for so long had left him with the need for excitement. When he was with Sherlock, he was constantly wishing things would be calm just for a little bit, but it wasn't until he was gone did he realize that wasn't what he wanted at all. Then one faithful day, he shot a man dead. Life really was so fragile. John couldn't even remember why. Maybe it had been one too many 'sorry for your lost', or one too many 'Moriarty was real', or more likely, one too many 'Sherlock Holmes is a lie'.

Whatever it was, John responded by shooting him in the face, twice. He remembered two distinctly, though. The first shut him up. He remembered the feeling of pulling the trigger in a display of untamed, fiery fury and watching the man fall silent forever. John could still remember that part perfectly, the tearing of skin and the splatter of blood. He hadn't screamed, but the sound of his SIG echoing through the empty all had been immensity sweet. He instinctively pulled the trigger again. The second made his face unrecognizable.

Bang!

Mycroft spat at him. Mycroft fucking Holmes dared to argue with him. He fucking dared to call it on him. John would admit, he had said some things that were too cruel for the old John. It ended in a physical fight, though in the end, John wondered if Mycroft sat back and took it because he knew he deserved it. In the end, it was probably the very fact that Mycroft had dared to say anything to him at all that made John turn around and forget his guilt of taking a life. Mycroft certainly wasn't showing any guilt. People died. That's what they did, after all.

Then he met Sebastian Moran. John had no idea who he was or why he wanted anything to do with him, but he had money and bills needed to be paid. Moran offered him the chance to kill for money which turned out to be much more rewarding than just killing. John wasn't going to leave his flat. It was the last thing that reminded him of Sherlock. His papers still sat around, his things scattered all over the place. Sometimes John would still find himself scolding Sherlock for not cleaning his things and he realized that doing so might have been the only thing keeping him from breaking down completely.

Bang!

In the end, it turned out to be fun. John could recall a lot of time with Sherlock, they played in the back of his head like morbid reminders of the fact he wasn't here. People died, that's what they did. He could thank Moriarty for that. People did die. Sherlock died, despite the fact that certain people didn't consider him a person. If Sherlock, brilliant, amazing, wonderful Sherlock deserved to die than no one else deserved to live, either. Sebastian helped him realize that.

"He's running your way, Moran. I have the safe." John wiped the blood spatter from the face with the back of his leather covered hand. Sebastian chose all the targets and John didn't question it. He didn't care anymore. He simply couldn't bring himself to. Some of these people were bad people, he knew. Some of them were innocent. His conscience should have been telling him that this was wrong, that he should be feeling guilty, but like the rest of John, it was numb and quiet. At first, he had questioned himself about their families and friends and the gaping hole he was leaving in their lives. Sherlock hadn't thought about that. He hadn't thought about how many people he would have affected. He hadn't thought about John's feelings at all. Stupid, stupid, cruel Sherlock.

"Got him. Get out fast." His partner responded. John blew the safe wide open with a single blow. He was getting good at things like this. Moran was a fantastic teacher if he did say so himself. Quiet and a little brash, but they found common ground with their military training. It was a pitiful excuse for a safe, though, hardly a safe at all. He shoved the contents into his bag, making sure that there wasn't anything suspicious along with the goods and that he had the photos Moran had specified, then zipped it up, and turned to examine the ruins he left. Two dead men, one woman, and lots of blood. The blood was his favorite part. Sherlock probably wouldn't have agreed, but John saw beauty in it. The pools of red and the splattered spots on the wall like morbid little paint patterns.

The room was small and the rest of the building had since long been emptied, making them far easier to shot dead. They were all easy to shoot dead, though. Life was such a feeble thing. John wasn't too fond of the noises they made, though. Unlike Sebastian who was rather fond of making them scream, John preferred a swift death and the nearly arousing silence that followed. Sherlock hadn't made a noise. No one else should, either.

With his leather gloves, he dipped a finger into the hole he left in one of the older looking gentlemen. They were Sherlock's gloves, slightly too large for his hands and cold, but he loved them none the less. They weren't his favorite. Not the same pair he had always wore, of course. Sherlock had died with those, but they were his gloves none the less. He rubbed a bit of the thick red fluid between his fingers, basking in the mild stickiness that it left behind. Then, with two fingers, he wrote on the wooden table.

Sherlock Holmes would be disappointed.

To be perfectly honest, John wasn't sure if Sherlock would be disgusted with his new found hobby. Sometimes he wondered if Sherlock really was on the edge of being a serial killer. Sometimes he wondered if he was the only reason Sherlock didn't kill people to amuse himself when he was bored. If only Sherlock was still here to prevent John from doing the same. There was one thing he could be sure of, though. Sherlock would be disappointed in the fact that he was making it so obvious. He was using his same SIG P226 that he always had. He didn't try to make it look like an accident. He didn't hide it. It was so easy. Sherlock would have refused the case because it was so boring, but John was still free. He wondered if he would still be free if Sherlock was alive. Would the man cover up for him? Or would he turn him in? Or perhaps, he'd even helped him.

Lestrade hadn't spoken a word to him since Sherlock had gone. John was sure he was afraid and he should be. This was his fault. This was all of their faults. Out of everything Sherlock did for them, the least they could do was believe him over some two bit criminal. They did exactly what Moriarty wanted. They were the reason Sherlock jumped. Why he thought he had no other choice but to jump and John, John would make sure they knew how bad they had fucked up.

Mycroft knew, of course. The might bloody government knew everything. Every so often, he would get a call demanding he stop, demanding that Sherlock wouldn't have wanted this, and that action would be taken against him if it continued. They usually ended the same way. 'Then do it. You killed your brother so easily, then you can kill me, too. It's the only way I'll stop'. One day Mycroft would stop him, and John would welcome it with open arms. He wasn't afraid of dying now. He wasn't afraid of anything now. He knew the taste of his own gun from the many times he'd contemplated taking his own life.

There wasn't anything stopping him. If Mycroft didn't get him first, then it was only a matter of time before John pulled the trigger himself. Every so often, he would be overcome with the desire to end it. He wasn't sure why he didn't. He'd be much happier. He might even see Sherlock again. He supposed he just wasn't ready to go. That he had yet to wreck havoc on those that caused Sherlock to jump. He wanted to see them fall before he did.

This was fun, despite his crumbling mental state, or rather because of his crumbling mental state. He could see why Sherlock didn't like to be bored. He could also see why he loved adrenalin so much. It was so sweet on the tip of his tongue. He walked the street with ease. They were so stupid. He could see that now. No one gave him another glance, no one questioned his innocence, and they never would. John had something a lot of criminals lacked. He was calm, collective, and uncaring. He wasn't killing people out of spite, or rage, not anymore. That was what got them caught, after all. Whether you were a good guy or a bad guy, caring simply got in the way.

He returned to Moran's flat. He wasn't sure what the man had done before this, he didn't seem to be someone that would buy a flat like this, but John didn't ask. He simply stood in the quiet little elevator and took it all the way to the top floor. The mirrored sides gave him a view of himself from all angles. There were a few smudges of blood on his face, on the corner of his mouth and his jaw, but not enough to have been seen in the dark. His hair was mused, a quick shake set it right, and his black coat, just light enough to keep him warm, didn't show blood. He could feel the wet spot on his collar, though, and upon touching it, left a streak of blood over his neck. Sebastian wouldn't mind.

The man was already waiting for him in the oversized flat. He didn't have any other workers; he didn't have any friends, or family. John wasn't even sure anyone else lived in the entire building. It was only Sebastian in the mundane cream and leather colored room. Simplistic, this seemed like Moran, but in a feminine sort of way that wasn't like the sniper at all. Someone had lived here with him before; there were traces of him or her all over the place.

John dropped the bag on the glass table top and left the rest to Sebastian. Money wasn't important. As long as he had enough to pay the rent and feed himself, Moran could have the rest. However, even Moran didn't know what to do with it. It made John suspicious, but he continued his long streak of 'whatever'. The only thing he could really be arse to care about lately were the hits. As far as he knew, most of the people they killed were called in from a mysterious phone Moran didn't use for anything else. Occasionally it would ring while John was about and he would have short negotiations. Sometimes he'd hear a simple little 'we don't do that anymore'. Or too many 'wrong number' for it to be the truth.

John plucked a pair of beers from the fridge, noting it was just as empty as the fridge in his own flat. Not completely, but what was in there wasn't edible. While John's fridge consisted of a few things that Sherlock had left when he died, Sebastian's consisted of two wine bottles always pressed at the back at the fridge, one with a white tie tied around the neck, and a white to-go box from a high class restaurant and a neatly folded napkin from the same sitting on top of it. Always the same box, Sebastian never touched it, and when John couldn't bear to think about Sherlock anymore, he idly wondered if Sebastian was in the same boat as himself. It seemed more and more likely. They were so alike in so many ways. It was probably why John opted to spend his time doing this rather than mourning. It was only natural he wanted to find someone that understood what he was going through. While they never spoke about themselves, neither man had much to say, it was so painfully obvious. They were nothing more than a pair of wounded men. Well, wounded pets.

"Dinner?" The shorter blonde man suggested, setting one of the bottles on the table beside the things he was sorting. It was mostly cash, a few documents neither of them knew what to do with, and the photos Sebastian had told him to be sure to grab. Sebastian had tons of blackmail, though it simply sat in the floor safe with no real use.

"Yeah." They were a pair of very simple men. To be honest, under normal circumstances, this didn't seem to be something either of them would normally be doing. John was doing this because of Sherlock. He didn't know why Sebastian was doing this, but it wasn't for himself. He knew it wasn't for himself, because every so often, Sebastian would respond to someone that wasn't there. He'd put out his cigarette and murmur a small comment under his breath. Twice John had entered the flat to find him having a conversation in the empty living room. Either he was simply crazy or he was right in thinking they were the same.

"Rent." Sebastian handed him a stack of bills and John counted through to make sure it was a proper amount. Mrs. Hudson knew he'd been fired from the clinic (after punching a patient in the nose) but she had no idea what he was doing now. She quietly asked about him every so often, though she refused to enter the flat anymore, and John gave her the smallest of answers. She was a kind woman, but John couldn't stand her anymore. It was best that she kept to herself. He paid her the exact amount and nothing more and kept quiet. He never gave her any reason to come up to the flat, he never got packages or guest, and he told her to keep everyone out of the flat. No police, no family, no Mycroft, and she did. Mrs. Hudson probably had some kind of idea that he'd finally lost his mind and she was doing the smart thing and keeping out of his way.

"What do you do with the rest of this?"

"Save it."

"For what?" John questioned. It made the man stop for a moment to think. He didn't know, then. Old habits die hard. John knew that too well.

"Hoard it." He corrected. John snorted.

"What do you want to eat?"

"Don't care." There were only two places Sebastian wouldn't go, making five between them. Of course, with Sebastian's smoker's tongue and John's lack of appetite, it rarely mattered where they went. He was feeling good today, though. The feeling came and went, but it wasn't surprising that it followed a successful hit. Often times, he felt incredible after a kill. It was almost as good as being on a case with Sherlock, not the same, but almost as good. In the end, John decided that he simply loved the thrill. He could blame Sherlock for that, too. He decided on a familiar restaurant from the drawer in the kitchen and ordered in more booze and food.

John took to reading the paper and Sebastian flipped through the telly. Eventually, the older man couldn't stand it any longer and dug his box of cigarettes out from the side table. He placed a cigarette between his cracked lips and with a few flicks of his thumb, lit it. John didn't mind the smoke and in the large living room, it was hardly noticeable even when the man was sitting just across the couch from him. Some people would dare to call the sight domestic, perhaps even label them as a couple, but John knew better. They were a pair of pets waiting for someone to return that never would.

"The 'Sherlock Holmes would be disappointed' killers have struck again." A quick peek assured him that it was the kill from last week. Not surprising, really. Sebastian was very good at hiding bodies. To be honest, he was sure Sebastian could hide bodies where they'd never be found if he really wanted to. He watched the screen, knowing well that Lestrade would be close behind. He was right. Flustered looking and obviously upset. John didn't blame him. He was useless without Sherlock. Sherlock should have known that. He should have known that if he had just waited, they would have realized that he wasn't a fake. Sometimes John wondered if there was another reason he jumped. Not for the first time, John wished he knew what the man had been thinking.

"Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade had this to say; 'These do not seem to be serial murders," Fantastic. He managed out that much all on his own, too! "These are very specific hits. These murders hold no evidence that they were connected to Sherlock Holmes in any way. These people have never even met Mr. Holmes. The only connection between them is that they were robbed after their deaths. If anyone, anyone at all, knows anything about these, please contact the department."

John had no doubt that Lestrade was suspicious of him, if his awkward attempt to get him to confess was any sign. That would never happen. John wasn't admitting to anything and even more so, he wasn't admitting anything to DI Lestrade. He didn't deserve to catch him. He didn't deserve to be DI. He didn't deserve to live, but John would let him. Maybe because Mycroft wouldn't stand for that, but more likely because John wanted to make the man suffer all on his own. Lestrade felt guilty and he would have to wallow in that guilt for the rest of his life. Sebastian grunted.

"Never been on telly before. Guess we're finally getting out of hand."

"Now would be the time to play a game." John scoffed bitterly, going back to his paper.

"I fucking hate games." Sebastian responded sharply.

"Good. Then we won't get caught." They weren't 'brilliant' and they didn't want recognition. John didn't know what he wanted and Sebastian didn't seem to want anything. No, that wasn't right. John was doing this because it was fun. If Sherlock had taught him anything, it was that caring truly was a weakness. Sebastian was doing this because he knew nothing else.

"I'm not going to get caught." The older man insisted. "I'd shoot myself before I spent a moment in cuffs."

"Take them all with you, Moran." John murmured in response. "You only need one bullet to kill yourself."

"Like you wouldn't do the same."

"I wouldn't. If I'm going to get caught, I have a lot of things to say to a lot of people." If he got arrested, he knew Mycroft would be along right away to take the situation into his own hands. It wouldn't get that far. Lestrade had no evidence on him and by the time he did, Mycroft will have grown the balls to actually 'take action' again him. Preferably in the form of a gun. If he was going to go down, he would be sure everyone knew what he was thinking. He wasn't going to go peacefully like Sherlock. He was going to verbally break everyone who had never doubted his best friend and would bask in their saccharine guilt with every single one of his last breaths.

"Another beer?"

"Mm." If there was anything about Sebastian he liked, it was his calmness. John missed Sherlock and his loud experiments and his inability to sit still, but he wasn't looking for someone to replace Sherlock. Sitting in silence was the next best thing. Sebastian even managed to make him feel better when he didn't even realize it. Not that John would say that out loud. Sometimes the only thing he needed was to know that he wasn't alone. In the short time they'd known each other, Sebastian had not one mentioned Sherlock, or even suggested the man in any kind of way. John was sick and tired of hearing about Sherlock and what other people thought about him. Other people didn't know him.

When the beer ran out and their meal was through, they shared a bit of whiskey. Sebastian had quiet the collection of liquors and would take any excuse to drink them. John didn't mind. Between the two of them, they managed to prevent one another from drinking themselves to death. Alcohol was a good thing, though, and more often than not, it ended in some much needed sex. Tonight was one of those nights. A few more drinks and Sebastian was unhappy with the distance between them. Sebastian rarely instigated it, but he was always a little friskier after he got to pull the trigger. John hadn't seen the mess he made, and Sebastian always made a mess, but he had to assume it was a good one. Their glasses were forgotten, crashing against the cold wooden floor and shattering across the ground without a care.

It was simple. John wanted to get off and Sebastian seemed to be under some sort of Pavlovian effect. There was no love and the attraction was purely physical. Sebastian was tall enough, despite being so broad, for his mind to allow him to allow him to think of Sherlock. Of course, as soon as it did, he was reminded that he was angry with Sherlock. Enraged in fact. Lips met, though it never was gentle anways. Sebastian didn't do gentle. It was clumsy, as it usually was, as the taller male dominated and John viciously fought back, bashing teeth and tongue and eventually blood. Whose it was was anyone's guess.

Sebastian tore at his shirt, yanking it over his head with ease. Rough hand palmed over his scar and gripped at his shoulder blade with enough force to dislocate it. Which had happened once and made the man no more careful than before. John ripped open his shirt, tearing the buttons free easily and exposing the far more scarred chest. Some of them were war scars, some of them weren't. He found the indentation of his collar and followed the cut along his chest with his tongue.

Hands fisted his blonde hair as he undid the metal bits to his jeans. John fished the firm flesh out, pulling the waistband of his pants down to expose the erection. Sebastian didn't make a sound, but his breath came in heavy pants and his abs flexed with every intake. The smaller male wrapped his mouth around the engorged head, drawing his tongue along the vein. The sniper tightened his hold, thrusting into the wet cavern of John's mouth with no reserve. John gripped his side, fingers digging into the small of the man's back, but he held no reluctance as his throat was repeatedly invaded.

Sebastian groaned mildly and John flinched mildly as he felt the thick seed flood his mouth. He pulled away, dribbling the excess into his palm. He could tell the army man was watching him with predator like eyes.

"On your knees." Sebastian tugged off his jeans and his pants without delay and positioned himself over the coffee table. A few specks of the broken glass dug into his knees, but he didn't seem to care. John plunged a wet finger roughly into the already previously abused hole. He undid his jeans with his free hand and quickly located a condom in the drawer of the side table. He rolled it on, slicked himself up, and impatiently took the heavier set man.

John's fingers dug into his abs and the pale dip between his shoulder and neck, giving the smaller man plenty of control. Sebastian drove his scarred hips back to meet the already violent thrust. It wasn't the first time he would sport a pair of bruises on his hips. Sebastian's breath fogged against the glass top, and John groaned a throaty noise. The heat that encased him was incredible.

"Jmm," Sebastian clenched around him, frothing against the edge of the table desperately. John drew his nails down the man's back, instigating Moran's orgasm as well as his own. Quick and rough was all that was required. John wasn't sure he'd be able to enjoy sex any other way, now. Silence passed between them, the room filing with the sound of both men catching their breath. John moved away, knocking the broken glass off his legs. He was too drunk to feel the little pieces digging into his jeans and causing little speckles of blood to leak through. He cleaned himself off while Sebastian did the same, and redressed.

"Noon." The sniper reminded him as he began to leave. John nodded his understanding. He took a cab back home. He never asked to stay the night and Sebastian never offered. It was a mutual understanding. After all, it was only sex. John felt nothing for the other man and the feelings were returned. It was more than that, though. The only place John could sleep was in the flat and sometimes, not even there. Occasionally, he would just have to wait until he simply lost consciousness.

Sherlock did this to him. Sherlock made his life like this. Sometimes John wished he would have never met the man. That he had moved away to some cheaper more secluded area where he could waste his life away doing anything and never knowing any better. Of course, he didn't really want that. The thought was just a way to spite Sherlock, or rather himself considering the circumstances.

It wasn't too hard to hail a cab being barely past midnight. He quietly sat in the back, the passing lights momentarily lighting up the backseat every so often. The cabbie glanced back at him every so often and John was quickly becoming irritated again.

"You're Watson, eh?" He finally asked.

"No. Wrong person." John answered in a bit of a slur.

"Course ya are. Sherlock Holmes' buddy." The stupid man continued. He could walk from here.

"Stop the cab." He demanded and the cab stopped. John approached the front seat, motioning the man to open the door. He did and perhaps he was expecting a fight. John had met a lot of people that attempted to fight with him using Sherlock. It never ended well.

"Thank you. Very much, in fact." A single shot blew through the underside of his jaw and decorated the ceiling with the remaining bits of his skull. John's favorite tool; the silencer. He tucked his gun away, pulled the vehicle into neutral. He slammed the door shut and with a trotted off towards home. John really hated people talking about Sherlock.

As usual, his flat was quiet and empty. After a few moments, however, John could hear the sound of a violin purring from Sherlock's room. It was only in his mind, though. The blonde man sighed to himself, doing his best to ignore it. It was a little bit difficult, considering it was louder than usual. John knew his mind was playing tricks on him, it did often, but it wasn't any less hurtful. He made himself a bit of tea to sober himself up a little, went through his mail and a few messages from Mycroft before dragging himself off to bed.

John was asleep after a few moments of staring into the dark.

He could still hear the violins.