A/N: I'm sooo sorry for the lack of writing from me in the past months, but I joined aSoIaF rp, so most of my writer's powers go for this now days. Forgive me, I have started a few fics (Jaime/Brienne and Ned/Catelyn drabbles, and Jon/Ygritte modern AU) and they will get published eventually… some day.

Anyway, this parted Sherlock hitman!fic is something what was created in one of the most fucked up parts of my brain after season two finale. If you are not fond of (rather subtle) slash, violence and adult themes in general, better don't come near to this. Also, let's accept complete AU-ness of this thing. Next chapters (if I will ever finish them) are going to be rated M.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything or anyone in this fanfiction.

Rating of the chapter: T.

Ships: John/Moran, implied John/Sherlock and Moran/Moriarty.

In the darkness I will meet my creators, / And they will all agree that I'm a suffocator / Daughter – Smother

SUFFOCATOR. CHAPTER ONE

John often thought about moving out from Baker Street, but he couldn't. Living here after everything that happened was hard, but leaving this place… it was impossible. He couldn't even force himself to make some changes in the flat, and moving out to let someone completely strange to come here? Just no.

It's been three months.

...

September

Sometimes he was going to bars – he's never been a "fan" of alcohol, but recently he liked to be surrounded by a crowd of people where he could be anonymous – no falsely polite smiles and sympathetic looks. Just him, some noises and a cheap scotch in a dirty glass.

Tonight he was feeling particularly terrible; the whole day was a series of adversities. He went to a pub in the city centre and ordered the cheapest brandy.

"It tastes awful," said someone sitting close to John.

"What is basically how I feel," he murmured in an answer.

"So there is the two of us. Brandy for me as well."

Watson turned his head and looked on the quite tall man in his thirties. He was very pale, his fine hair was dark blonde, also he's got high forehead, watery blue-grey eyes and narrow lips. He was smoking a long cigar, according to its smell – a Russian one (43 types of tobacco) and wearing a black leather jacket. Kind of very typical clothes as for September, but on this blond they looked… somewhat unique.

"Do you think it's a good idea? I mean, drink this?" asked the man as a barman put their glasses on a counter. John just shrugged his shoulders and drank it at once. Fact, that brandy was awful. It's not like a true one should taste, but whatever.

"Disgusting," commented his companion, making a face. "But in my current state nothing what doesn't kill me, makes me stronger."

"I have drunk worse things. When I was in the army, for example. That's been quite something," John said, trying to hold on a normal conservation. He hadn't had such ones lately.

"And they call it a coffee!" the man agreed and raised his eyebrows after a second. "You are a military man?"

"I was."

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Déjà vu hit suddenly, and painfully. Once, it has started from this – in a lab upstairs the morgue, with a telephone… For a second he couldn't catch his breath.

"Afghanistan," John finally whispered, looking down on his leg.

"Me Iraq."

And in that strange way, the connection was made. They didn't talk much, but it was over nine when John decided to come back to Baker Street.

"I'm John Watson," he introduced himself saying the goodbye, shaking man's hand at the end.

"Moran. Sebastian Moran," the military man replied and lighted another cigar. Smoke was everywhere.

...

October

Sometimes John happened to "bump" into Lestrade or, to be more specific, the inspector was not-so-secretly checking on him. It made the doctor wonder if Greg was feeling partly… responsible for what happened. Or guilty. From time to time, the detective called him to ask for a professional opinion, and every time Watson had on his tongue words of refusal, but in the end, he has always come, just like the always have. John missed times when he could look on Lestrade and his team without grudge, but nothing was the same anymore.

Today John took a look on a deceased young man, probably poisoned as he stated later. He was about to leave when Greg offered a coffee. Watson agreed, not really knowing why. Probably because of courtesy.

"I'm pretty sure it was the wife," Lestrade said, and John again in the last months noticed that inspector's suspicions during the cases first leaded to wives, if the victim had one. No wonder why. "She had a proper motive, high insurance, and she possibly wants to disappear soon enough. And it is known for a long time that women are the best poisoners." They crossed the street. "What do you think?"

John stopped, with a plastic cup filled with hot coffee in his hand. He looked on detective, kind of surprised by this subtle arrogance. "I'm not a detective, and you know this. I'm a military doctor who is barely authorized to give even medical opinions in those aspects of cases." When Greg didn't say anything in a reply, he felt tired. "I'm not him," he said quietly, and after a moment continued, with anger growing in his chest. "You don't have to call me to the cases which don't really need my help just to check how I am."

"And would you be willing to talk to me if it wasn't about the work?"

John thought about the answer, just for a second though. "Probably not." He knew he was being cruel right now, and to some point – unfair. But he didn't care.

The inspector nodded his head, like he had expected such words. "Maybe we won't be able to come back what was before," he started, struggling," but I do appreciate your help, and our friendship, if I may call it like this…"

"I don't think you can, no longer. Don't call to me, Lestrade." He didn't establish if it was about work matters, or personal. John trusted the tone in his voice made it pretty clear. He was about to leave when he heard Greg saying something to him.

"I know… Moriarty was real."

If the circumstances would have been different, Watson maybe could appreciate this obvious statement which was hard to say aloud. Now, he couldn't feel more… disappointed. "Well, good for you." He left, no turning back this time.

...

November

This month John found himself in that pub again. Today was one of these a very few "not-bad days"; it didn't mean it was great – but it was okay. Walking in, he saw a familiar jacket… Can it be?

"Moran? You here, again?"

The military man turned to him and gave something what could be a smile of somebody who doesn't do it often.

"Watson. I like to drink here. Even if brandy sucks."

John ordered a beer and their talk started to be about the army. His new friend appeared to be a colonel with a high knowledge in weapons, especially rifles. Sebastian's voice was low and rough; around them, there was smoke – what actually didn't bother the doctor anymore.

"Why did you come back to London? I mean, the war… and then…"

"In some moment war becomes the world, right?" Moran coughed. "Yes, I know, I've been through this. But army doesn't end on Afghanistan or Iraq. I was needed here."

"What more," he added after a while of silence, asking for the next drink, "some time ago my friend died."

Watson reminded quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry."

Colonel nodded his head and drank from the glass. "He was more than a friend to me… he was my mentor and teacher, he made me the person that I am today… And there were great plans which I shared and wanted to help him to reach… But the main problem was he himself, who decided that he did what he wanted to, and now he can let go." Moran shook some ashes that fell from the cigar on his sleeve. "Sorry, I'm whining, it's not in my nature."

John gasped for a breath. "No, that… I see. You know, I lost a friend as well, not that long ago. Until now… till now I don't really know what happened. It doesn't make any sense, and I don't believe…" His hand slipped of the counter. "I believed in him until the very end, and I still believe, no matter for what everybody's saying."

His companion made a face and shook head. "It hurts way more than it should."

"Yeah."

They were silent for some time. Finally, Sebastian said, "I live not so far away, and probably I have something better in my basement than this."

John was about to refuse. Something told him do. In some ways, it felt so, so wrong. But he changed his mind, drank the beer and shrugged his shoulders, "Why not?"

After a twenty-minutes walk, they reached to the house. It was aside, some uphill, and it looked more like a small villa. Seeing his raised eyebrows, Moran laughed, what sounded kind of rushed, and explained, "Inheritance after parents. For a short time I lived here with my friend, but even now I prefer to be outside." He led John inside and turned on the lights. Interior was neat and modern, very simple though

"Make yourself in the living room, I will bring something great."

The southern wall in the living room was window on the whole length of the wall, showing London. Breathtaking view, even if it was just crowded and build up part of the city.

"Your parents had to be rich," said Watson, taking a glass of wine from colonel and sitting in a leather armchair, still kind of smelling new.

"When they bought this house, it wasn't even an expensive decision," Moran took a place in the armchair next to his, admiring the view. The doctor wondered if he should call Mrs. Hudson to tell her that he will be rather late today. Christ, I'm not a child, he thought, annoyed of himself.

"Will you mind if I play some music?"

John didn't, and he found himself listening to sounds of instruments. He certainly recognized a violin. It wasn't funny how everything was leading to one thing, one person, all over again for the past few months.

Wine was strong, a dry one. Together, they finished off the bottle. "Oh, it's been amazing," said John to Moran. "Best I have ever drunk."

Colonel turned his head to him, apparently awaked from state of dreaming. "You said something? Sorry, I got carried away by my thoughts." He leaned out, to hear the words again. Watson was feeling quite drunk already and he bent over as well.

Sebastian's mouth brushed his cheek before they found lips. It tasted a bit sour, of grapes and cigars. He didn't move back, surprised. It was his first that kind of kiss, and all John could think of when Moran's fingers started to unbutton his shirt, was,

It should have been Sherlock.