John was sitting on one of the many benches in a near deserted park in the blustery, frozen winter air that swirled and attacked his stationary form.
He took a deep breath and closing his eyes; letting the cold wash over him, cleansing his skin and his mind… it probably worked so effectively because it was so piss cold he could barely remember where he lived let alone notice the two men watching him from within the depths of the alleyway across the road.
"So that's Watson huh?" Moran commented without turning to look at the detective that stood had emerged from the depths of the alley to stand next to him, staring calmly at the worn ex-army doctor. "He looks different when he's not in my crosshairs."
For once Sherlock felt the least calm in a conversation, and he despised Moran for it, he turned around abruptly, seizing Moran by the lapels of his non-descript coat and slamming him against the alleyway's wall.
"You know I'm going to have to kill him now. I've seen you." Moran said, still sedate even under the detective's power "I always knew you'd made it but after Prague I knew for sure… and now I have to kill him."
Sherlock released him and took a step back, it was obvious that Moran was not a threat at the moment, besides Sherlock didn't have a weapon and, quite frankly, he didn't have the strength to kill him with his bare hands, "I know what you feel obligated to do it but just know that I will do everything in my power to stop you. And I will win."
Moran stared at Sherlock, apathetically countering the detective's intensity, as though he hadn't heard the rumble of Sherlock's deep baritone. "It's a shame really." He sighed, making his way back to the mouth of the alley where Watson could still be seen sitting in the cold.
"What?" Sherlock asked, having not moved except to turn towards Moran, his eyes drilling into the back of the assassin's head.
"We're alike, the doctor and I." Moran said, allowing a hint of a smirk to cross his expressionless face.
"He is nothing like you" Sherlock couldn't help but growl, refusing to see the similarities.
Moran chuckled bitterly, "Oh really?" he asked "Tell me, where do you think he would be if our situations were reversed? In fact I reckon if I was in his place the ruthless bastard would have already killed me, he wouldn't have mucked around with Moriarty, if he were in your place I mean. Well, he might have, only long enough to kill him."
He pulled the gun, tucked in his waistband, out and held it loosely by his side, not paying it much head. Sherlock's eyes, however, zeroed in on the weapon, calculating all the ways he could possibly get his hands on it.
"We're both army, both picked up by mad genius's, found out we cared about them too much to ever be healthy and now we've both lost them" Moran snorted "at least his is still breathing." He aimed the gun at John's head, and Sherlock knew he had no chance of missing.
John stood up, practically begging to be shot by presenting a larger target.
"You don't have to kill him." Sherlock said as casually as his haste allowed him to. "Jim is gone. You can make your own choices." He crept closer to the sniper's turned back, knowing Moran's answer already.
Moran almost hesitated as John began to walk away before resetting his face and stance, not noticing the detective's proximity. "No. This is all I have left; my loyalty and my gun. I owe it to that mental idiot to carry out his last request."
He cocked the gun but not before Sherlock threw himself at the man, knocking him to the ground as John walked slowly out of range.
They wrestled for the gun but even Sherlock could see the man's heart was clearly not in it. He had no desire, nor order, to kill Sherlock, only a persistent nagging in his head that told him the doctor needed to die. Holmes would be in more pain if it were Watson who died anyway. After all Holmes didn't deserve to die, he deserved to feel like Watson did, like Moran did.
Sherlock finally managed to pin the man, John long gone, and held the gun to his head. Moran looked up at him with deadened eyes that begged for the bullet and all Sherlock could see was John, John if he had gone down a darker path, John if he weren't as strong as Sherlock knew he was.
"You don't deserve him" was all the sniper said, no longer making an effort to escape.
"I know" Sherlock agreed, cocking the gun "but I'm working on it."
He pulled the trigger.
Sherlock had to hand it to the man; he never thought Moran would be his hardest kill. He knew he would not escape this one unscarred.
But now he was free.
Free to return home.
And free to find a certain restaurant with a certain John in it.