John awoke, stretched and sighed, then yawned widely. He started the day on a stale bowl of cereal and some toast, and opted for a large mug of coffee. He ate his breakfast in silence, watching the second hand on the clock tick by from his spot in the kitchen and as he ate he was reminded of the receipt on the table. It was from a café down the road, but John wondered what this person, if indeed it was Sherlock, was doing with a receipt from said shop. The detective found conversation shared between "normal people" inane, though no matter how much he tried to deny it, he had a soft spot for cake, Victoria Sponge specifically. Mrs Hudson had always made sure to drop round with a slice or two when she came back. John fiddled with the thin paper and decided to research as much as he could on everything he could find on the receipt. He whiled away the hours searching for post-codes and phone numbers, even researching the name of the cashier who had served them that day, to no avail. All of the searching had made him hungry, and he decided that he would venture out once more, this time to the same place he had been researching. Maybe in between a coffee, he would find another answer.
The shop, Speedy's Café, was a shop on the corner of his road, offering a variety of things; from greasy bacon sandwiches to cake, of a substantially better quality than was to be expected from such an establishment. Sherlock had, no matter how he denied it on many an occasion pestered the landlady to bring some cake back whenever she went out. John decided that this was an occasion for cake, and so he ordered several – hoping to take some back to Mrs Hudson as a partial thanks – and he ordered a cup of tea, too. In his usual seat by the window, he could see the goings on in the street and all the passers-by, though he managed to miss the black car that stopped right outside of the café, and too, the person who stepped out of it. John slowly began working his way through his first slice of cake; half wondering if anyone would be able to finish this much. It was at this point that a certain someone sat down opposite him.
The someone in question wore silver cuff-links over a dark blue shirt, smart black shoes, had well-maintained fingernails, and the someone took a rather large piece of cake for themselves without asking, and also took some of John's tea, minus the same courtesy; pulling a spare cup towards him. It snagged slightly on the thin paper mat as he pulled it. After pouring a cup, and re-filling John's own, John began to wonder and his hands shook as he took the cup, unable to look up at whoever it was opposite him. His mouth was suddenly dry, so he took a large gulp of tea. The simple smell of cologne hung in the air, just enough to be detected, but John ignored it and kept his eyes fixed firmly on an interesting bit of fluff on the table. He didn't want to look up, because then everything would be real. He was worried that if he looked up the illusion would melt away, a wraith, a vision sent to tease him and he would lose the moment so he kept staring at dust, at the menu, at the man's fingernails. That was, until the figure cleared his throat.
Disappointment clouded his thoughts.
"Oh, it's only you." He said.
"No need to sound so disappointed, we're all friends here!" Mycroft smiled, though it looked slightly forced, and he threw down a folded up newspaper right next to John, who ignored it.
"Well what is it?" John inquired, disinterested in what Mycroft had to say, a fact which the man was all too aware of.
"This may sound like an odd question, but have you had any strange occurrences as of late?"
John's head snapped up and thoughts bombarded him, and he wondered just how much Mycroft knew, and indeed if he was mad. Mycroft seemed to sense his discomfort, and smiled again, elbows on the table as he arched his fingers in front of him. John began to wonder if Mycroft knew something he wasn't telling, if indeed, Mycroft knew of Sherlock, or the man he supposed was Sherlock, more aptly put.
"I uh. I mean. No, not really." John shrugged, and took another bite of his cake, though he wasn't as interested any longer. The man opposite followed suit, watching John all the while. After a second, he nodded with what seemed to be sympathy.
"That's good, there should be nothing to worry about, at this point anyway." he paused, and took a sip of his tea. "It's rather safe to talk here, so we shall do so if that's alright with you?" The tone of his voice suggested that he really had no choice in the matter, so John just nodded, mouth slightly agape. Mycroft took this as a cue to continue.
"So, on to the bigger picture. You've been in contact with someone, have you not?"
John nodded, eyes fixed firmly on his hands. Of course the other Holmes knew! It was silly to think otherwise.
"It's quite alright, I understand. In fact it is for that reason that I am here." He paused, took another bite of the cake, and watched John who mirrored the action, if only so he could do something with his mouth; he supposed he looked a bit daft, mouth open in shock. Eventually he managed to say something, though it came out as nothing more than a whisper, and he leaned in towards Mycroft conspiratorially.
"Are we, are we on about the same person here?"
Mycroft nodded.
"Yes of course we are. I am sure I don't need to mention names. But there is a matter of bigger importance, one that is ensuring you cannot see each other again." He paused and pushed a folder forward. It was brown, plain, and John opened it – inside was a variety of different papers, all featuring the same name.
Moran.
The man paused and then looked up at Mycroft for confirmation.
"Who is this?"
John paused, and glanced at a photograph, frowning. He wasn't a detective, could Mycroft really be expecting him to investigate this?
"And what does this have to do with me? I mean-" he stopped himself, took a breath, and for the first time looked the man opposite in the eye, leaning forward towards the other Holmes. "I mean, he's – I'm, we're- I'm, I'm not being followed am I?" The last few words came out as nothing more than a whisper, he leaned in towards the other Holmes to say it and Mycroft laughed, forever in the know, laughing at silly old John. In some respects, he had more in common with his brother than he realised.
"No, no you're not. Moran is searching for you, though. And whilst that is happening, we cannot have you out and about." John paused, looking at him skeptically about to sip tea from an empty mug. He didn't say anything, though his raised eyebrows said it all. "My dear John, I have no reason to lie to you!" he offered his palms, a gesture of surrender and then continued. "It is simply that while Moran is searching for you, Holmes cannot be seen to be alive and while Moran is searching for you, you are in danger."
John sighed, very tired all of a sudden, his memory flashing back to the pool and the explosives, that had been a less-than-enjoyable experience. A gun shot. The hound. There had been plenty of near-death experiences during his time with Sherlock Holmes, that had been a part of the appeal and he had always, despite everything, felt safe with Sherlock. But without him, he felt something he hadn't felt in a long while. Fear.
"I'm sure you've worked out that he's not dead by now, I know he's been sending you messages." Mycroft looked stern, though John was not worried. His suspicions had been confirmed, Sherlock was alive, that was all he had to know, and relief spread through him, warm and comforting.
"How is he?" He demanded, rushing the words before he had even thought. Mycroft tutted.
"I know you're desperate to see one another but he can't just see you right away. He's protecting you, he's always been protecting you." Again he adopted the condescending tone. John looked away, embarrassed, scanning the room to look for something to serve as a distraction for a while, then back to the brother with a small sigh. He did not say anything, so Mycroft took the chance to continue speaking.
"Essentially, Moran was under orders to neutralise you. He's a mercenary-for-hire but he was unable to carry out this task due to prior engagements in the Gaza strip, somewhere. Those prior engagements have been sorted out, and now he is back."
Watson looked up at this, shocked at just how forward he was, even after all this time.
"You may know or you may not, but Moriarty was not expecting to ..." Mycroft paused, waving his hand "well, you know." another pause as he finished his cup and signaled for another with a wave of the hand - the man behind the counter glared, daggers in his eyes. Mycroft continued "He had a fall-back option, if you will. Now, Moran was out of the country for quite some time and does not know that Jim Moriarty is dead, and it would be best if he did not find out. But he's searching for his, ah, employer. We had not thought it a problem but he has been sighted around London recently and well, we are all concerned." He paused, and looked at John. "Especially for your safety." Again, a pause, and a sigh. "Especially as your safety directly correlates with Sherlock's well-being."
John nodded, flicking through the folder as if he understood, though the feeling in his chest was painful, like his heart might burst.
"Where's Sherlock, is he alright, how is he?" He repeated his previous demand, growing impatient at this conversation, he wanted to know about Sherlock, not about some mercenary and found himself babbling, stuttering, falling over his own words. Playing with Sherlock's name, a name he had not spoken out loud in quite some time.
Talks with Mycroft were always too long, the other man enjoyed having the control that only came with knowledge. He knew John would do nothing if there was a chance Sherlock would come back.
"Temper, temper John." He smiled again, eyebrows raised slightly and that same irritating smile plastered across his face as he continued, ignoring all questions regarding his brother. "All Moran knows is that Sherlock was last seen with Moriarty, and that Sherlock has a friend called John Watson. So far we have not seen him in the flesh, but our sources tell us he's here." Mycroft paused, and looked away, nudging the paper he had brought with him towards John with his foot, sighing as he did. Then, he continued. "We have been able to keep him from you, but I'm afraid you will have to help us if you want to see my brother again. It's for your sake and his." he paused, and upon the arrival of another pot of tea, poured John a cup and then himself, eyeing up the remainder of cake all the while. The doctor finished quickly and poured himself more, suddenly needing its calming effects.
"You see, Moran is under orders to destroy you and he will do so unless we can apprehend him. And poor Sherlock is not the most careful of individuals, so he's staying with me till we have got him." Mycroft Holmes stopped and stirred a cube of sugar into his tea, poured in some cream, then finished it relatively quickly, staring at Watson over the rim of the plastic cup. He cut another slice of cake though assured John it was for Sherlock and folded it neatly in a napkin and deposited it somewhere about his person, he patted the pocket as if to assure John of its safety.
"And well, it would be greatly obliged if you could aid us in finding him. I'm rather tied up at the moment, you can imagine. It's entirely voluntary but if you want to see Sherlock then it would be advised that you help us."
At this, the man stood up and propped himself up with his umbrella, looking down at John with another fake smile. John sighed, and nodded.
"I suppose I'd better" he whispered, picked up the cake - he put the remainder in his bag and decided to take it home for Mrs Hudson after all - then as an afterthought he picked up the paper that Mycroft had left. Mycroft had been watching him but upon this action, he nodded, and began walking away. Over his shoulder the last thing John heard him say was "he misses you, you know", then he was gone out of the door. John knew all too well not to follow him, the last time he had tried he was unable to follow for more than a street. Mycroft was very good at escaping it would appear.
But John wasn't thinking about that. John was not thinking about the huge task at hand, there was only one thought in his head and that was that Sherlock Holmes missed him. Him, John Watson. The brilliant man missed someone as dull as John, someone as normal as John. His heart beat fast, leapt up to his throat, and for a split second he smiled to himself, though it faded fast as he remembered the task ahead of him. A mercenary?
John had not been in service for quite some time, and though he could recognise the tell-tale signs of an ex-soldier, he was apprehensive about this task. But, if it got him closer to Holmes, to the man he loved and loathed in equal measure, he supposed that it was better than nothing; and surely this would be easier than the task Holmes himself had set Watson. John got up from the table, careful not to squash the cake and left the small café, returning to the safety of his apartment where there was nothing but him and the clocks. The doctor shut the door behind him, after leaving the cake beside Mrs Hudson's door and sat down at the table, laying the folder out in front of him so that he could better look at the materials within. He began wondering just how Sherlock had done this before, but remembered nothing except the violin that he had insisted upon playing; apparently it had helped him to think. John was not entirely sure of the reasoning behind this, but it had been a pleasant enough sound, and strangely relaxing too, to watch Sherlock staring out of his window and playing.
A sound he greatly missed now, for it was indeed nice although John suspected Sherlock didn't play it just for that, he was sure there was some element of "John, look at how impressive I am, John". He had had a constant, childlike need for recognition and praise, no matter how much he denied it, he had enjoyed an audience and even in death John had had to watch him. Admittedly, John had been impressed; the only instrument he had picked up was a recorder, and he had not got very far with that at all. He rested his head in his hands, suddenly realising just how tired he was. The events of the past few days had been draining, both emotionally and physically and he found that he was suddenly very, incredibly tired; a sort of tiredness that not only made him sleepy, but made his entire body feel heavy and dull and hard to move. Upon deciding that he could not possibly work with this level of fatigue, he fell asleep right where he lay.
John had under-estimated just how tired he was, and when he woke he found it was now the weekend, well after midday and though he knew he had been tired, he had not expected to be that tired. He got up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, yawning widely, stretching, and running a hand through his hair as he got up and decided that it was best if he now had a shower. The steady hiss of the warm jet filled the apartment and the doctor sighed with relief as he stepped underneath it, feeling considerably less stressed about this situation than he had done a few days ago. Upon finishing, he dried himself off, and put on a pair of trousers as he walked back through to the bedroom, in search of a shirt. He paused by a mirror and stared at the scar that shredded his shoulder – a oval of about an inch across, marbled pink flesh still raw from the attack.
Sherlock had only once seen John's scar, when the man had walked into his room, as he so often did, when John was in the middle of changing; he had taken one look and had, unfazed, demanded the story of how John acquired said scar. Of course Sherlock knew how John had gotten the scar, but he wanted to hear it straight from the horse's mouth. John had tried to distract him by asking him what he had gone in there for originally, but it had not worked, and John had spent a painful afternoon recalling the details of the particular assault that had earned him the scar, and Sherlock had not stopped even when John had gone white and his voice quivered. That day there had been no hug, and that day he had really despised Sherlock and that night he had a nightmare, and Sherlock was again, not open for comforting him. It was abstinent times like those that John really despised the man Sherlock Holmes, times when he seemed inhuman, an automaton: emotionless, and for obvious reasons, friendless.
No, not friendless. John was his friend, John was the only man who really understood Sherlock Holmes, really the only man who could stand him half the time. He pushed that particular memory out of his head as he buttoned up and returned to the kitchen where the files still lay, and John flicked on the kettle as he looked through the files in search of the photograph. There was none. He could have sworn he had a photograph before, but he couldn't see one, he pushed this thought away. The doctor decided to deal with this information at a later date, however, and instead decided to run through the facts he had at hand, and the facts were these: Sebastian Moran was a mercenary for hire who had at times worked for various criminals, gangs, and engaged in many an unsavoury activity. His exact age was unknown but he was thought to be in his mid-twenties. Adding to this the fact that he was dishonourably discharged from the military no more than six months into his career, for crimes unknown, and John was sure that he was not a man to be reckoned with. Indeed he began to doubt that he himself could reckon with such a man. Moran's most recent exploits involved orchestrating a car-bomb attack somewhere in Dubai, assassinating an important political figure in Sweden, and more recently a stint at the Gaza strip somewhere, liaising with a mysterious woman.
None of this information resulted in John feeling any safer. It seemed that this Moran had dubious morals and an expertise in all things that resulted in a rather painful death. None of this was particularly good news and all John's thoughts that had previously been spent on Sherlock were being reinvested in painful fantasies of the various ways Moran could probably murder him in cold blood. Yes, John had experienced military training but it had been years since his training, and what's more with his limp he was unsure that he would be any match against such a force. He scowled at this thought and gulped his tea, though it was now lukewarm and fairly unpleasant.
He racked his brains for someone who could give him access to files on this man, if indeed there were any. Of course, Mycroft was entirely useless in this matter, and had given him all he knew, or so he supposed. Besides, he was tied up with Sherlock; Molly did not have access to police-records, and neither did Mrs Hudson, he was quite sure. Police records were a matter for policemen. There was Anderson, but he had never liked Sherlock and he was sure that this disdain spread to Watson by osmosis, and this left him one option.
John had not spoken to Lestrade in months, the last time he had was when he had been practically forced out of his apartment for a stint down at the local pub, in which Lestrade checked up on him; how was he coping?; how were the family?; found any jobs yet? And John had answered his questions, and drunk a pint, and then gone home.
John did not suppose that Lestrade would even be that much help in this matter, and wondered just where he had put his number. In the ensuing search he found a newspaper article with a picture of he and Sherlock in it, just after he had recovered The Reichenbach Falls painting and John looked at it, and sat back down, reading through the article again. It filled him with a small amount of sadness. That was after all, the case that would result in the inevitable defeat of Mr Sherlock Holmes. It was underneath this paper that he found Lestrade's number, and he seized it with a cry, then decided to ring Lestrade after another cup of tea. Tea helped him think, just as Sherlock had his violin, John had his tea.
There he sat on the sofa and rang the number, begging Lestrade to pick up.
"Yes I'll have it black with two suga- aaah shit!" a voice on the other end picked up, and John couldn't help but smile.
"Yes, hello, who is it?" Lestrade paused, and there was a sigh, evidently from him.
"Hello Lestrade" John said. There was a pause on the other end of the phone.
"Oh yes, hello there John. Blimey I wasn't-How are you?"
John paused, considering how to answer the question and ask for help without sounding suspicious, which given the circumstances, he may well have.
"I'm fine thank you, and you?"
"I'm okay, stressed as usual, you know nothing new." the man sounded slightly concerned and it shone through in the tone his voice had taken.
"Shame to hear that Lestrade." John said, leaning back on his couch. "Listen I hate to be a bother but I'm going through Sherlock's old cases and I need a bit of help."
"What sort of help?" the man definitely sounded suspicious now, or maybe just tired.
"Well I have a case here and it's quite concerning, and Mycroft asked me to pick it up as a favour to him and well, I need information." The doctor was shocked at just how quickly he could work his way through a lie, though this was not necessarily something bad, after all there were tiny little half-truths in there.
"Hmm, and what might this case be?"
"Well it concerns an associate of someone, and that someone was considered quite dangerous." John paused. "Well, it's essentially a murder case. A-a shooting to be precise."
There was a large gulp from the other side of the phone as Lestrade obviously began drinking whatever it was that he had ordered as they had been starting, and then a large sigh as he began speaking.
"Listen John, I've been demoted. That débâcle with Sherlock put me down a few pegs, it's not my divi-"
John interrupted him "yes, yes I understand but can you possibly give me a hand? Mycroft wants it done low-key." John emphasised the name of the Holmes's brother, hoping that he might persuade Lestrade, he knew he was hedging his bets now.
There was another sigh.
"Well, John, I'll see what I can do. What information have you got?"
"Name. That's it, there isn't much to work with on the page here, you know."
"You really are beginning to sound like Sherlock, John. You should watch that, you don't want to end up like him." John bit his tongue and decided it was for the best that he didn't inquire just what Lestrade meant at this point. "Anyway, what's the name?"
"Sebastian Moran." John paused, breath tangled in his throat, for a reply.
"Ah, okay, well I'll see what I can do and get back to you."
Lestrade hung up first, and John decided it better to let him get on with things rather than pester him, and returned to the table and the folders, and began once again sorting through the information. This time around, he looked for specific haunts or places that Moran was likely to visit. Upon initiating this more methodical way of thinking, John had discovered that there was a pub in London that Moran liked to visit, but the thought that there was so much information readily available, yet no picture, was a mystery to John. And then it clicked. Moriarty. Mycroft had, though not directly, "interrogated" him, and undoubtedly the truth had come out that way, once of course, Mycroft had discussed Sherlock with him. He wondered just how much information Moriarty had gleaned from Mycroft in this way, facts in exchange for facts, and he felt a surge of anger for the other Holmes brother who had so brazenly sold out his own kin. But, it was for Sherlock's sake he worked now, so it was a case of swings and roundabouts.
John busied himself with searching for other known haunts. There was another place, in Soho, one that John had no intention of visiting by himself, and it would seem that Moran had a taste for pain, a specific sort of pain. Eyebrows raised, he cleared his throat and perused the other information. According to the file, he liked libraries; he frequented a swimming baths in the outer regions of London; and he was a member of a quiz group. These hardly seemed the sorts of things a trained mercenary would engage in, lest he was attempting to blend in with his natural environment. This thought worried John even more. Could he have already bumped into Moran in the street, could he have seen him and just not realised? If that was the case then Moran did, indeed, have the upper hand. John tried not to consider this as be began tidying up the papers, having gleaned all the information that he possibly could from them. He pulled them up and then deposited them on top of one of Sherlock's case files, not really caring for which, after all they were years old and the disputes had probably since been settled. John then stopped himself, and sat back down. He had a list of locations, and he had the means to find this Moran, he supposed, but he still had no idea what he looked like and that meant Moran could pose significant threat, especially if his suspicions were confirmed and the man indeed, knew what Watson looked like.
These thoughts now cluttered his mind. No longer did they so easily drift to Sherlock, though he wished that he could so easily think of the other man. The doctor decided to dress-down, and go to one of the pubs that Moran frequented, hoping to maybe do some investigating of his own. A preposterous thought, in all likelihood, but one he would entertain. Locking up after himself, he stepped out and Mrs Hudson, hearing the sound, came out to see what was going on.
"John, you're leaving!"
"Stating the obvious there I'm afraid, Mrs Hudson" John smiled at her, though she tittered and hit him on the arm as he walked by. He did not notice the shake in her touch.
"One of these days we'll have to sit down and watch some telly again Mrs Hudson" John said as he walked out, the landlady watched him leave with a worried look on her face. Behind her, a man emerged from her room, hands in pockets, whistling a tune as he did so, very casually. John didn't notice this either, and he left.
He was tall, easily taller than John, and lean. He wore large shades, though that did not serve much other than to hide a scar that tore through the left side of his face, the bottom of which could be seen poking out underneath. He also wore black skinny jeans and a plain white shirt, a crucifix hanging from his neck and a chain, no, a pocket watch, from his jeans. The man had messy blonde hair, too blonde to be natural, slicked back with gel and he was currently chewing on gum, a wry smile curving his thin mouth. Then, he crossed his arms and lowered his shades as he walked past Mrs Hudson, even going so far as to give her a double-guns and a wink as he walked by. She did not seem to be very happy with this, not in the slightest but she did not say anything, just stared at him.
"See ya later, old bird!" he said as he walked up the stairs, towards John's flat, picking through his pockets to find the spare key that the landlady had given him. At the top of the stairs he stood and watched Mrs Hudson.
"It's quite alright, missus, I can handle this myself. Just a little detective work!" he smiled, turned on the balls of his feet, and walked towards the door, opening it with little fuss. The curious man entered the apartment, whistling a tune as he did so. From the sounds of it, it was "Pop goes the weasel".
John, many streets away now, occupied his thoughts with other things, not thinking about the -by now- rather colourful ways in which he could be killed by a mercenary out for blood, nor the ways in which he missed Sherlock, concentrating only upon the task at hand. The pub he was headed for in question was just adjacent to Leicester Square, and was not one that John had been to before, in fact he had not frequented many pubs in wake of the fall, he no longer socialised much at all. He found it all too painful, people either pitied him or went deliberately out of their way to protect him; both, in his opinion, infuriating habits. The fact that Lestrade had not yet got back in contact with him was a distant concern, he just wanted to get everything over and done with so that he might see the man he adored once more. Patience may have been a virtue, but not one he could afford.
The pub itself was typical fare; it stunk like sweat and alcohol, and, even more unpleasantly, in some bits, like vomit. A karaoke machine stood in the corner and people picked songs so that they could sing along, adding, obnoxious pop music to the already overbearing sounds and even more obnoxiously bad singers. John sat in the corner for a while, perched on a barstool, trying to recall just what Sherlock had picked out in him upon their first meeting; the hair, the posture, the limp. That, frustratingly, was all he could remember. He paused, and sipped at the beer he had picked out, suddenly not interested much in detective work or his alcohol, but it gave him a chance to survey the room. All manner of people sat in the pub, from young men in fashionable attire to middle-aged businessmen in sharp suits. Still, he stayed, drinking several pints while he watched the crowds. After a few sweeps of the room, John turned to the bartender.
"Uh, hello?"
The bartender looked up from the taps, and acknowledged his presence with a gruff "yeah?"
"I was just wondering, about regular customers who come here. You see, I'm looking for someone."
John paused, and sighed, and the bartender raised an eyebrow.
"What's it to yeh?"
John stared, oblivious, for a few seconds, until the barkeep rubbed his thumb and forefinger together - then John realised what he meant, and dug about in his pockets for a twenty. He sincerely hoped Mycroft would reimburse him.
"Whassa name of this customer then?"
"Moran."
The barkeep paused, thinking for a few minutes whilst John watched on.
"Nah, never 'eard of 'im!"
John sighed, and finished off his pint.
"Well, thank you anyway."
A few hours had passed, it was now well after ten, and John was no closer to his target. His mouth tasted sticky, and he realised he was slightly drunk. Something he had not been in quite some time – Sherlock had dissuaded any form of drinking when he was around, he found the habit repulsive and in hindsight John could almost see why, it was not the most enjoyable experience. The thought only made John miss Sherlock even more, the man who had in the end, been looking out for him all along.
Then, and only then, did he catch the tube home. At this time – as it was quite late by now- it wasn't that full, and the empty halls of the station were eerily quiet, something that had always spooked John out quite a lot. John's vision blurred and as he walked on he began to regret that last drink he had bought and perhaps the last three drinks he had bought had maybe been a bad idea. Going out and getting slightly drunk had done nothing to change the situation, he didn't have any information, and it was senseless; it had done nothing to change the ache that now spread through his body. John missed Sherlock. The only remnants he held of the man he held dear being memories and memories did not suit him well. All he wanted back was Sherlock, his Sherlock. A simple request, surely. But no, Mycroft had to barter with John, holding the man up as a prize. They were psychopaths, the lot of them. He realised just how much he hated the Holmes family as a whole, with their abstinent and irritating ways of being passive aggressive towards one another, and how it had now spread on to John himself. The doctor's emotions threatened to hold their grip on him, as anger bubbled through. Still, he managed to stumble home, the cold air sobering him up a little, so he was no longer too drunk, but still drunken enough that he found it hard to walk.
Despite that, he managed to get home well enough, and Mrs Hudson was waiting for him, sat on the doorstep, wrapped in a nightgown, pink fluffy slippers on her feet, a fact he found strange. Not so much her choice of pyjamas – he had seen those before – but the fact she was out, on the step, at such an hour.
"What's wrong?" He said, as he walked up the stair, despite the dizzying feeling in his head and his bad leg he felt he managed it quite well, quite well indeed. She paused, and then with his aide, got herself up.
"I've done a bad thing John" she whispered, suddenly pulling him close into a tight hug that he couldn't pull free from, be that for her own strength or the fact he was, in a word, pissed. Still, her words worried him more than just a little bit.
"There was someone and he wanted to see your room so I let him see, I just gave him the key. I think he's dangerous. He looked dangerous." she whispered urgently, leaning in towards John so that the aforementioned stranger might not hear it. She seemed close to tears, so he patted her reassuringly and then pulled back and smiled, motioning for her to step inside.
"Never you mind, it's not a problem. Not your fault at all, so long as you're not hurt in any way, that's all that matters." He whispered. "Now go inside. I'll deal with this okay?" he pushed the door open and poked around for something moderately heavy that he could manage with his cane, and found a poker in the umbrella stand outside Mrs Hudson's door.
He did not feel quite as brave as his demeanor suggested. The thought that he was drunk, and therefore slightly incapacitated, did not occur to him. John carefully walked up the stairs, shooing the elderly lady into her room as he propped his own door open with his foot. Inside smelled like cigarette smoke, and seen as he did not smoke, and the only other man who might pursue such interests was being held somewhere, he had no idea who this could be. Then, he remembered Mycroft's wish, and Moran, and the pieces began fitting together; he cursed himself for drinking so much when he should have been more alert.
He pushed the door and walked in to the room slowly, poker held out in front of him defensively, as if such a thing could help if a trained marksman had decided to give him a shot. Inside sat a man, a rather handsome man if not for the scar, eating Chinese from a small container on the table, cigarette in his other hand. Upon entering, John looked at him and lowered the poker, more confused than anything.
"Hey!" he shouted, at a loss of anything else to say.
The man at the table jumped up, wiping his hands on his black jeans and strode forward, offering up a hand to John, who took it and shook weakly, all the more confused.
"Hello there, sorry about the mess I got hungry waitin'!" the man smiled, talking rather loudly and rather energetically, motioning that John should sit down. "'Ere, you want some?" He passed the container over, inside were the remains of a chicken chow mein, John shook his head and looked up the man leaned in towards John, the smile all too malicious for John's comfort. In the kitchen, the kettle boiled and the man stood up, walked through, and returned with two cups; one, he offered to John, who in his slightly inhibited state, took it without so much as a second thought, while the other man sipped at his own cup, staring intensely across at the doctor.
"You're John Watson!" the man stated, a little too excitedly, he bounced on the ball of his foot, pacing up and down the room though always kept the table between him and John.
"Yes, yes that's me" he said, taking a sip from his cup as he sunk down into the chair. It tasted weird, slightly bitter. The man on the other side of the table nodded.
"Oh, but where are my manners? I'm Sebastian, Sebastian Moran. My friends call me Sebby." He paused, and licked his lips, grinning and all the while showing a few too many teeth, in something of a threatening manner. A shark's grin. John paused, then cautiously wet his own lips and said.
"Right, okay, and what do I owe the pleasure of this visit then, Sebby?" He spoke calmly, enunciating his words slowly as if that could possibly defuse the situation, a flash of anger appeared upon the other man's face.
"My friends call me Sebby, Mr Watson. You ain't my friend I'm afraid." he stopped, pulled off his shades so that he could better stare at John then threw them across the table and continued, pulling on the cigarette between his slender fingers. "No doubt you've heard of me, because I've heard'a you." he stirred a spoon around in his cup all the while, presumably stirring in sugar, staring at John. His smile vanished.