More Elaborate Summary: Assassins!AU. The I.O.U Agency is good. Their missions are good. Objectives noble. That is what introverted 19-year old agent John Watson was told to believe, trained as a killer from a young age. And so, he believed it. Everyone did. That is, of course, until his best friend Sherlock Holmes turned on the agency, joining the AA, and leaving John Watson at the mercy of brutal interrogations. No one expected it. No one knew what to think. John was told to just forget about him, forget about the best friend he could ever know. And so he did. Until the next target of the AA was John Watson himself.
Author's Note: I don't know what ships will be here yet, if any. Romance is not the main focus, but affection will be abundant. Not sure about the length either. Could be anywhere from a couple chapters to a few dozen; it depends on the response I get mostly.
I hope you enjoy it!
Chapter 1: Sweet Dreams
The metal-clad fist went flying against 17-year old John Watson's face.
This time, a loud cracking noise could be heard. John groaned, but it was almost inaudible. He could not show weakness. Not now, not ever. But even so, he knew he would not be able to take much more of this. How could Sherlock do this to him? How could he?
"I will ask you one more time," said the voice of his assaulter, some agent John had never seen before who was twice his age, in his low bark of a voice, devoid of all sympathy. Oh, he was enjoying it, John knew. The sick bastard was enjoying it.
"I don't know…" John whispered, finding it hard to raise his voice above this. That was a lie, of course. He did know. "Jesus Christ, I don't know." Heavy breathing. He found it hard to breathe.
"Where is Sherlock Holmes?"
"I don't know!" John exclaimed, but the blood that was gushing from his nose was making it hard to speak. He felt himself tense, eyes closing, blocking out the little he could see through his puffy slits. And then he felt the impact again, the devastatingly hard fist on his face.
This time John's head went flying in the direction of the shining, metal-encased fist. He was at the man's complete mercy. There was nothing he could do. Why was he protecting Sherlock? Why did he suffer this torture for someone who left all of them for dead, left him for dead?
And then he felt tears on his face. Tears. John Watson, the toughest, most respected previous trainee and new recruit was crying. This hurt him more than the fist could. This was humility; this was the real pain.
"Stop it," John said, his voice barely audible.
"What did you say?" the man asked with a leer.
"I said stop it!" John said, only marginally louder.
"So, you're prepared to tell us where he is?" the assaulter asked, excitement and disappointment heavy in his voice. He didn't even try to hide it.
"I…" John said, licking his lips. What if he did say it? What if he did tell this man where Sherlock was? This pain and humiliation could end. Oh god, did he want it to end. Why wouldn't he just say it? "I…I would tell you if I knew." Sherlock was a traitor. "But…but I don't!"
John did not look at his attacker. God, he wanted this to end. Please let it end. He had not felt like this ever before— none of his punishments were this brutal.
The assaulter cracked his knuckles and let out a noise that sounded too much like the growl of a lion, causing John to pull against his restraints once again, even though it was in vain. Blood was pooling at his wrists from the chafing of his flesh against the cold metal, now turned hot from the heat emanating from his body in the flight-or-fight response.
"Do we need to get Director Moriarty involved in this?" the man asked John, his voice sounding far too close to John for comfort.
"No!" That was too loud. "No," John said, forcing a false layer of calm into his voice, forcing himself not to sound as broken as he felt. "No, because…because he's already involved. He doesn't…he doesn't need to come down here as well."
And then he heard it.
He heard it for the first time, and he knew it would be for the last.
Director Jim Moriarty.
John never saw Moriarty, but he would recognize that voice from anywhere— the voice that struck fear into anyone who had ever heard of him, heard of the Director.
"Yeah, well," Moriarty's voice said, coated with amusement, dripping with false-apathy. "Too bad, right?"
John did not want to die.
"I don't know anything," John hissed, voice rising in desperation. "I don't know anything! Do you know Sherlock Holmes?"
"Of course I do," Moriarty said, with a lightheartedness that was more disconcerting than if he had used a stereotypical threatening voice. "Because…"
And suddenly, John found himself staring up at Moriarty.
"I am Sherlock Holmes."
19-year old John Watson woke up and instantly flung himself into a sitting position, hand ducking under the pillow for his gun. His body was tense and the sheets were damp from cold sweat. He could feel himself shaking. He was shaking, damn it.
"John?" a gentle, sleep-muffled voice whispered from John's side. Mary.
Oh. Mary. It was just Mary. John felt himself slowly deflate. No attacker. No randomly transforming directors into traitors. Just Mary. His muscles began to relax, and his room finally came into focus. He could see the old stool, even through the darkness, beside the windows draped with the standard white of the I.O.U Agency. His closet was positioned at the wall opposing it— there were no torture tools lined up evenly against it on a blood stained metal cart. Nothing of that sort.
"John? Are you alright?" Mary asked again, sitting up beside him, pulling the blanket over her bare chest in a subconscious attempt at modesty.
John looked over at her. Mary had been there ever since Sherlock had left. She was always there for him, ready to comfort him when he needed it most— a balm for his injuries, a protector when he was most vulnerable. Mary. He bit his lip. Could he tell her about the dream? It had plagued him for months now. The same dream, with the same outcome. If anyone knew about the dream— if anyone realized that John had not forgotten— he would be killed. But, even so, if he couldn't trust Mary, he couldn't trust anyone.
"I…I'm fine," John said, nodding, rubbing his now alert eyes tiredly with the tips of his fingers. "Just a bad dream. Nothing important."
Even through this nearly absolute darkness, John could see Mary's quizzical eyes narrowing in doubt. "Oh, yes? Just a bad dream, right? Nothing I should be worried about?"
"Uh-huh," John replied, though he felt a prickling sense of unease as he felt Mary's doubtful glare on him.
And then, her voice grew playful. "You know," she said cheekily, "I still did beat you on the Lie Detector exam. What was the score you got? 700/800?"
"Oh, shut up," John said, feeling himself smile despite the fact that his heart beat had still not slowed down, despite the fact he could see the images vividly in his mind.
"Guess who got a perfect score, and guess who's not fooled," Mary said, a little bit more harshly this time. "I know you'd like to think you're better at me with this stuff, but you're really not, you know. I know you, John."
"Yeah well, you know me a bit better than I'd like," John said, reminiscing on the nights events a few hours ago with a wry smile. Suddenly realizing the full impact of it, he frowned, but it was a more mock-frown than a serious one, with amusement evident in his voice. "Mary, you know it's risky like this. You can't just sneak into my bedroom every night. I've finally got my own one in this place. You know how nice it is to be away from those bloody idiot agents who still think it in excellent idea to put shaving cream on your face when you sleep. Or shave your eyebrows. If they knew you were in here, we'd both be in trouble. And, I'd lose the room."
"Shush!" Mary said with a laugh. "What could they possibly do to me?" she asked, sliding her hand across John's back. John sighed. The comfort was very welcome. It was only too bad that there still was this barrier between them, between the things that he could say and could not. "You know I probably could kick any of their asses in two seconds flat! Even the older agents."
"Yeah, well," John replied, "I still like this room. And if I lose it, we wouldn't be able to have so much alone time."
"Hmm…yeah, I guess so," Mary said mock-reluctantly.
She slid from her spot at the end of the bed and into John's waiting arms. He pulled her into an embrace, feeling her warmth, and inhaling her sweet scent. God, was he lucky to have such a woman with him. Someone so brilliant, so strong, so kind…
John pressed his lips against hers, and they lay like that for a while. The nightmare suddenly did not seem so very important. Oh, so what that he humiliated himself to that extent those years ago? He had gotten better. So what if his emotions took the better of his logic, when he clearly should have told the assaulter the information he needed? It would have saved them both a lot of trouble.
Sherlock Holmes was a thing of the past. He might as well have never been there, never existed. Yes, the gaping hole in his heart that grinned widely in his chest had never really stitched shut, but no one is perfect. He would heal, he knew he would. Eventually, with some more time, he knew he would heal from the betrayal.
And then they pulled apart. John and Mary sat there, watching each other with little smiles the hid the secrets no one could know about.
Mary was the one to break the faerie-tale silence.
"I should go back now," she said with a sigh. "You know how hard it is to sneak back after sunrise. The night guards are actually awake then, if you'd believe that."
"No, you're lying," John said, amusement tinting his soft tone.
"See you at training," Mary whispered, planting a kiss on his unshaven cheek. "We'll talk about that dream later, alright?"
With that, she slid off the bed, collected her various possessions from the floor, slid them on, and before John knew what was happening, she had slithered through the door, out of sight. John was, once again, alone with his thoughts.
He then gave a low sigh, and leaned back into bed. He guessed that he could not put his faith in a single human being after all, not after Sherlock.
John closed his eyes. Why had he abandoned him? Why? What was he to gain from it?
He always liked to talk about how he's a psychop—, sorry, a fully functioning sociopath, John thought bitterly. I guess he actually was.
Or, perhaps, he may have not realized how much Sherlock meant to him, John didn't know. What he did know was that Sherlock Holmes was now his number one enemy, and the man that he would eventually have to terminate. Everyone from AA, the organization against I.O.U Agency, would have to be.
No point thinking about it now, John decided. No point at all. All John would have to do was focus on his missions, and make sure the outside world would not see what the I.O.U Agency was actually doing. No, it was not a technology facility or whatever the hell their cover was (he honestly didn't even know). The people working there would just…purge (yes, purge, not murder) the people of the world who did not belong there. It had to be kept in secrecy, because the government wouldn't understand. Yes, that was it.
With that concept re-ingrained in his thinking process, John slid the covers back over him and tried to get back to sleep.
But all the while he felt this odd sensation. It was as if someone was watching him, staring at him through unfeeling eyes. But, then again, it could only be his paranoia acting up. Yes, John decided, yes, that must be it. Besides, the camera's Mary hacked into must have been turned on by now. Not wanting to allow himself to succumb to his paranoia, John turned the other way of where this feeling derived, and firmly shut his eyes.
He should have turned around.