In the quasi-darkness of the London streets with strange lights and shadows cast by the electric lamps, John's inebriated brain somehow caught sight of a man sitting against the wall of a sketchy pub. The man was holding a brown paper sack, presumably with some kind of alcohol bottled up inside, and humming a classical piece that John couldn't quite place. Thanks to Lestrade banning him from just about every pub in London, John was desperate for something, anything, that could ease his pain. So, although he was definitely not in the mood to talk to people, he limped over to the man, leaning heavily on his cane.

"How much?" He asked bluntly, rustling through his back pocket for his wallet. He knew he didn't have much, ever since he started drinking he'd lost his job at the clinic and hadn't gotten a new one yet, but it was worth a couple pounds just to get hammered.

The man glanced up at him, peering at his face through blue-grey eyes, one marred by a scar running down his face, "I'm not a prostitute. Move along."

John shook his head, "Not for you. For a drink of whatever's in that bag."

Squinting his eyes suspiciously, the man lifted the bottle inside the bag to take a swig, "Can't you just go inside?"

John shook his head, "Nah, got banned."

The man chuckled, "Must have done something big to get banned from this place. It's as seedy as they come."

John ignored the jibe and turned the questions on the man, "So what are you doing outside? Got kicked out?"

The man shrugged, "Got in a fight. Bastard though he could fuck with me, I showed him who's dick was bigger. Figuratively, of course."

John nodded, "So, about that drink..."

Sighing, the man patted the dirty concrete sidewalk beside him, "Sit down. You don't need to pay. I can see you need this drink just about as much as I do."

John sat down next to him and snatched the bag from his loose grip, taking a long drink, "Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

They sat there, sharing the bottle till it was empty. John couldn't identify what had been in it, but it was strong, though not strong enough to wash away his heartache. The clock above the pub chimed eleven o'clock and the man turned to him, staring oddly like he'd seen him before.

"What?" John snapped, he'd had enough of people looking at him.

"Nothing," The man said quickly, too quickly, "Just feel like I've seen you before. Maybe on the news?"

John gave a jerky nod, "Sure. Been on there before."

The man was silent, then he jumped up, tossing the empty sack into the bin situated next to them, "Wanna get something to eat?"

John shrugged, "I'm a bit peckish, yeah."

The man outstretched his hand and John took it, letting himself be pulled up by the man's strong arms. He grabbed his cane from where he had laid it on the ground and they began to walk, the man going slow so John could keep up. Beneath the streetlamps, John could make out the man's features better. He had short hair, practically buzzed, and scars running down his face and arms. One eye was glazed over white and he turned it away when he saw John staring.

"What happened?" John asked. He knew it was rude, but he was too drunk to care.

The man, John dubbed him Scarface, hissed between his teeth, "War. Shrapnel. Need I say anymore?"

"You were in the war? Which regiment?"

"19th." The man answered, "I was a sniper. You?"

John frowned, "How'd you-"

""You have a psychosomatic limp, of course you were in the army."

John was used to being analysed, he'd had to learn to get used to it living with-. Well, it bothered him that this man had sized him up so quickly.

"Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Army medic." He said, his words clipped and short.

"I have a feeling neither one of us wants to talk about the war." Scarface chuckled, "Let's just leave it at that."

John nodded and stroked his budding mustache awkwardly. He didn't really know what to say, he'd rather just stay in silence, but the current quietness was too tense for his liking.

"Where are we going?" He asked, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to take a breather. Walking with an aching leg not only hurt, it was tiring as well.

"Fish 'n chips." Scarface declared, "Best food in the British Isles."

John smirked, "You think so?"

"I know so. Come on, it's not too much further."

About three blocks later, they reached a hole-in-the-wall shop that served fish 'n chips and only fish 'n chips. They entered and sat in a hard, garishly painted red and brown booth The whole place stunk of fish, but John's stomach was growling already and food sounded amazing. A waitress, a pretty little thing dressed in a short skirt and a red crop top, came by and they ordered coffee in an attempt to try and sober up enough to not get kicked out. As the waitress walked away, John couldn't help but stare at her swaying hips. Just the thought of sex hurt, though. He hadn't, not since... Sherlock.

Scarface noticed the direction of his gaze and smiled, but remained quiet until the waitress came back with their coffee.

"Thanks." They both muttered, stirring their mugs with the plastic spoons provided. They sat and drank in silence until John asked, "So, what's got you drinking tonight?"

Scarface almost spit out his coffee, "None of your business, that's what."

John shrugged, "That's fine. Just a question."

The man waited a beat, then said softly, "Well, if you must know, I lost someone a couple weeks ago. Someone very important to me."

John gazed into his good eye, feeling a strange connection forming, "Really? Me too. Someone very important."

Scarface nodded and chuckled cynically, "What a coincidence. It's a shitty life, isn't it?"

John laughed, a horrible, grating sound, "Yeah, a shitty life. Can't even go back home, too quiet."

A strange look came into Scarface's good eye, "Doesn't have to be."

John leaned forward, his face inches from the man's, "Are you trying to get me to take you home?"

Scarface smirked, a luring look on his face, "Maybe. Would you be adverse to that?"

John could feel the alcohol flowing through his veins, throwing all scruples out the window and begging him to say no, he would not be adverse to that at all. With all his inhibitions about sex gone, he leaned closer and placed a sloppy kiss on the battle-scarred sniper's lips.

They entered 221 B Baker Street without touching each other, but as soon as John locked the door behind them, they were kissing and groping and tearing at each other's clothes.

John reached up and grabbed the nape of Scarface's neck, pulling the taller man down for a kiss filled with dominance and the need for control. Everything in the doctor's world had been out of whack and it was time he got some semblance of power back. However, the man wasn't having it. He pushed John back against the bullet riddled wall and rucked up his flannel shirt, running his hands along pale skin and finding the bullet hole scar on John's left shoulder.

"So you were shot, just in your shoulder." Scarface commented, inching his thigh closer to John's crotch. John nodded and groaned as Scarface made contact. Then, realizing that he was currently on the losing end, he pushed Scarface backwards towards the bedroom. The man went willingly, shedding his clothes along the way. When John stepped through the low doorway, Scarface was laying totally naked on the unmade bed. His pale, scar-ridden skin gleamed in the moonlight flooding through the window above the four-poster bed and his cock already halfway erect.

John couldn't help but grin, all his memories of Sherlock doing that exact same thing flooding away, replaced with this strange, handsome man. He approached the bed, slowly taking off his red and green checkered flannel to reveal his muscular stomach and pecs.

Scarface licked his lips and gestured for John to step closer. With deft hands, the man undid his fly and slid his trousers down to his ankles. John stepped out of them, now as naked as the day he was born.

"You're not wearing any pants." Scarface commented, a lusty look on his face and his one good eye running up and down John's body.

John smirked and straddled him, his still flaccid cock laying long and lean on Scarface's stomach. The man shifted and said impatiently, "Well, get on with it."

John reached into the side table for the lube he had always kept there just in case. He ripped open the package with his teeth and squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers. He scooted back off of Scarface and lifted his thighs up, hooking them over his shoulders to support them. He circled Scarface's entrance with two slicked fingers before pushing one in, crooking the digit and searching for that sweet spot that he knew would make the man feel so good. After a bit of maneuvering, he found it. Scarface arched his back and whined between clenched teeth. John grinned and pressed down, enjoying the strangled noise the man made.

He added another finger, circling around and around until he was sure Scarface was prepped enough. Then he slicked up his now fully hard dick and positioned it against his hole. He teased the tip in, causing Scarface to groan and mumble something.

"What was that?" The doctor said.

"Please."

John smiled, "Of course." and thrust in, bottoming out in one push.

Scarface arched his back even higher and shouted something unintelligible. John waited a bit before he began moving, giving the man time to adjust. He may have been desperate, but he prided himself on being a good partner. However, it wasn't long until the man began to beg for him to go harder, faster, deeper. John complied, slamming into him until they both reached their climax.

They stayed in that position for a few minutes, regaining their breath, before collapsing on one another. John laid his head on Scarface's smooth chest and said sleepily, "What's your name? I forgot to ask."

The man smiled and replied, "Sebastian. Sebastian Moran."