I miss writing Sherlock, so I'm starting a new multi-chapter.


"Watson, you're up. Boss has a new mission for ya," Moran said, grinning from around the corner. John nodded and stood; the bench he had been sitting on was rickety, and the place Moriarty had wanted to meet was dodgy even to his standards. The man enjoyed every decision he made and the way it scared people. He also enjoyed punishing John in brutal ways for tardiness. John began to walk down the street, taking care to not look around too much. Fear hung in the air like lanterns hung from trees during a birthday party. John nearly laughed at the comparison. Madness was all too common here. Maybe if things were different...but they weren't.

He could follow the sounds of the screams and hysterical giggling to get him to his destination. Moriarty did love his torture, and he wasn't modest or careful about it like some people John used to know. He was reckless, insane, and a genius. John didn't even want to escape anymore. When he first got pulled into doing these jobs, he worried about the morality of it, the way his loved ones would look at him if they knew. Of course, he didn't have any loved ones, so it began to not matter. But sometimes, John scared himself.

Just one more job, and he'll let me go, John repeated in his head. He'll find no more use for me soon enough, and then I can go.

"Hello, my dear Johnny boy! I missed you so!" John found himself attacked by a man in a suit. Moriarty hugged him and smiled. He never got used to that. It never failed to catch him off guard. "How was France?"

"Fairly rainy for this time of year," John replied, making sure he remembered to hug Moriarty back. The man was the snake in the jungle of London, and any wrong move could be dangerous for not just him, but the crying, bleeding, torn up woman lying on the ground at their feet. "How was it while I was gone?"

Moriarty sighed. "So dull. Tell me, Johnny, why should I put up with all of these people if they are dull like that?"

"Those people do jobs for you. They do your dirty work, just like me, and then you reap the benefits without having to lift a finger. Your mind can concentrate on other things." John tapped a finger on Moriarty's forehead playfully. It took a long time for Moriarty to let him get away with things like that. "Your mind only needs the boring people for a short time, and then they go away, far far away and you never have to see them again."

Moriarty seemed to think about this for a moment. John tried to stop holding his breath. "You're right quite a lot, Johnny."

"I like to think so," he answered, letting out a nearly imperceptible sigh of relief. But Moriarty was perceptive, and John should have known.

"You're right that I don't need the boring people, I can just make them go away." The man untangled himself from John's arms and pulled out the gun from the waistband of John's pants, shooting the nameless woman he had been torturing. The sound of the bullet leaving the gun caused John to wince, holding out his hand for his gun back.

"No, Johnny, you don't get it back yet. I know you were trying to give good advice, but there was one, little, tiny, almost insignificant flaw to it. Do you know what that flaw is? Hm?" Moriarty stoked the barrel of the gun across John's cheek. "Answer me, darling, before I teach you a similar lesson."

"When I become boring, you can kill me too, I know that." John placed his hand over his boss's. "I welcome the day when it comes. But for now, I'd rather hear what this mission is that you have for me."

Moriarty full-out laughed. "You should have been an actor! All those lovely skills gone to waste by being a killer, what a shame!" John didn't say anything back. "Fine, if you want to be a good little employee, then I'll tell you the mission." His eyes gleamed predatorily. "I chose you because you're not just a killer: you're my favorite killer."

"I'm flattered," John said numbly.

"There's a man called Sherlock Holmes. I want him destroyed."

"From a rooftop, or from close range?"

Moriarty smiled. "I don't want you to shoot him, at least, not yet. I want you to make him love you, and then I want you to break him, and then you can shoot him. Clear?"

"Yes. You did give me the steps to the process, after all," John replied sarcastically. Sometimes, it made Moriarty enjoy him more. And wasn't that just the point?

"I love it when you're feisty!" Moriarty said happily. "It's really quite sexy with your defiance."

"I'm glad you think so." His answer was a murmur, but his boss still heard.

"Now, you need to get out of here. Word on the street is that Sherly is looking for a new flatmate again. The man can't keep one, but I hope he keeps you." Moriarty gave one last scathing look to the body on the ground before skipping off. "Goodbye, Johnny! Keep me posted!"

Once John was sure Moriarty was gone, he stooped down to pick up the woman's body. He took extra care with her, because even though he knew she was dead, she didn't deserve to be treated like shite through her last moments. John needed to find out her name, add it to the list of everyone he didn't have the ability to save. It was quite a long list after only two years of working for Moriarty. There never seemed to be enough time to save anyone.

He carefully placed her in a Dumpster, her arms crossed and her dress moved to skillfully cover her. Her face was nearly unrecognizable, but John knew that where she was going, it didn't matter. "In this time of darkness, lead another to light. In this time of sorrow, lead another to happiness. In this time of death, You lead another to a new life. May my actions absolve her, but may Your actions free her. Let me carry the weight of sin, while she goes unburdened to Heaven. In Your name I pray, Amen." John took a book of matches from his pocket and struck one, lighting it and throwing it into the Dumpster, turning away from the now burning woman.

"One more funeral," he said to himself, "one more funeral and then I can go."


John had heard about the suicides in the news. The people were random, like they were chosen off the street, but the cause of death was the same. Pills kill, John rhymed, swinging his feet from the tall chair in the therapist's office. It was actually really funny: Moriarty continued to fund John's therapy even after John was too messed up to be fixed anymore. Moriarty loved it, the idea that someone could come back from what he did to the people who worked for him. And so, here John was.

"John Watson?" Ella called. She insisted he call her Ella, and he didn't understand why.

"Yes, I'm coming." John hopped off the chair, taking his cane with him. On the weeks without jobs, his limp would come back, and right now, there was nothing he could do about it. There was no danger in seducing and killing a man, not even the danger of getting caught. John was too good to get caught, or that had been his experience.

"So, how's your blog coming?" she asked once they were both seated again, pen poised to make a list of judgments.

John didn't answer her, choosing to not notice her similarities to the woman he'd aided (cremated) that morning.

"You haven't been doing it, have you?" Her voice scolded him, and John glared at her.

"No one on the entire planet wishes to know about the life of a sad, old war veteran with a leg that isn't supposed to limp who reminisces about the good days when he was mowing people down with a sniper rifle." He dismissed the question entirely. John was so sick of this line of inquiry after six weeks. He needed a new therapist, or he could ask Moriarty to get him a new one. Maybe, he might even say yes.

"Are you afraid of opening up?"

"Nobody wants to hear about the life I once had, nor the life I currently have." Killing people for the adrenaline rush and because I'm terrified, he silently added. John looked over to see what Ella made of that and scoffed. "'Trust issues'? I do not have trust issues!"

"And yet, you're reading my notes," Ella pointed out. "A blog would really help you explore your feelings and move on with your life."

"There is no moving on from my life." John grabbed his cane and heaved himself up. "I need a new damn therapist with some sense of originality." He hated it that she was right. But he also hated that there was nothing to save him now.


He knew it was stupid to stomp out of places in a huff, especially since the limp was back and any sort of stomping looked pretty fucking pathetic, but occasionally he could pull a Moriarty and say screw them. The park was right next to the therapist's office, so he decided to take some sort of a walk before he went back to his bedsit and waited for coordinates on Holmes' location. Why not? At least it was sunny out, right?

There were a lot of citizens of London jogging, running, flirting, and just plain living in the park today. Easily one person from every walk of life passed John by as he sat on another bench instead of walking. The fabrics of their lives were so fragile, John knew that better than anyone, but it didn't matter to them. They couldn't see, and it wasn't John's place to show them. Plus, he'd had enough of the pessimistic influences in his own life.

John focused so hard on the figures passing by, he scarcely noticed the voice calling his name. "John! John Watson!" He looked up, and there, huffing and puffing, was Mike Stamford.

"Mike, how are you?"

"I'm fine, thanks for asking. I thought you were in Afghanistan getting shot at. What happened?" His good humor kind of irritated John, but he didn't want to give it away. Politeness and acting got him through some worse situations than this.

"I got shot," John replied tersely, gesturing at his leg with his cane, even though he had actually been shot in the shoulder. Mike's face fell, and John couldn't say he wasn't happy.

"So, what's it like being back?"

"Well, an army pension doesn't buy much in this town but I manage. It would be alright with me to get an actual flatshare instead of the dump I'm in now, but it's fine. The sun is nice after all the rain," John said, although, he didn't know whether it rained in London while he was in France or not.

"It's funny that you need a flatmate."

"How is it funny? Who could possibly want to be my flatmate?" John could have laughed at that. Honestly, he had way worse chances of getting a flatmate than whoever Sherlock Holmes was. And he still needed a plan for that infiltration, damn it. He was an absolute mess, and anyone who said differently was a liar. He worked with liars.

"You know, he said the same exact thing to me when the subject came up. I have a feeling you'd hit it off."

John shrugged. "Why not?"


For some reason, the person Mike wanted him to meet had simply no interest in looking up from his microscope.

"Can I borrow your phone?" he asked, holding out a long-fingered hand.

"Sorry, I left mine at home." Mike smiled, and John didn't understand why.

"Here, use mine." He handed his phone to the man, who merely glanced at it before typing out a text message and sending it. The man handed the phone back, well, he actually just held it out and waited for John to take it from him.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John stared at him. "Excuse me?" He looked over at Mike, but he just kept smiling slightly.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" And the man removed his gaze from his microscope, beginning to scrape it over John like he was the magnified specimen. He stared more than John had ever stared, eyes piercing and constantly changing colors. John couldn't look away, and he only knew one other person that happened with. Moriarty.

"Afghanistan," John answered quietly. "How did you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw." A small grin spread across his face. All of the sudden, John noticed his face. He had sharp cheekbones and dark, dark curly hair and John wanted to fall into his tall frame. But the man had laughter dripping from his lips, mirth enveloping him. The laughing men were normally the madmen. And he generally fell in with madmen.

"I play the violin at all hours. I may not talk for days, it's perfectly normal. I come home covered in blood or river water or body parts sometimes. I also perform experiments at my leisure."

"Why are you telling me all this?" John asked.

"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, don't you agree? I have the advantage, as well."

"How do you have the advantage?"

"I know you're an invalided, honorably discharged war veteran with an alcoholic sibling, a psychosomatic limp, and an adrenaline addiction. You're an army doctor, which in and of itself is a lovely contradiction, however, you haven't been a doctor in a long time, two years perhaps. You haven't been searching for a flatmate for very long, maybe since this morning, and you burned something in a Dumpster earlier. There, you see?"

"What?"

"I know far more about you than you know about me."

"Some reciprocation would be appreciated," John shot back, not angry at all, more intrigued. Damn, he was tumbling into the same traps.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." He winked on his way out the door and John froze in his tracks as he realized something.

He couldn't kill Sherlock. This was one job he didn't think he could do.


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