"Priest: For money? You murdered someone for money?

Ray: Yes, father. Not out of anger. Not out of nothing. For money.

Priest: Who did you murder for money, Raymond?

Ray: You, father.

Priest: I'm sorry?

Ray: I said you, father. What are you, deaf?

Ciarán Hinds and Colin Farrell - In Bruges


His practise assignment had been difficult to say the least.

The agency had been impressed by his 'unofficial' work, and so they sent a recruiter to pick him up. Fleetingly, he thought that there was a distant woman inside that black car who would take him to Mycroft, but then he reminded himself that Sherlock was dead, so Mycroft had no business with him anymore.

Imagine his surprise when he got out of the car to find Mycroft Holmes himself waiting for him.

"A pleasure, John." Mycroft said with a pained smile that suggested this visit was anything but. John stared at him, flabbergasted. "Loquacious as always, I see."

"What are you doing here?"

"My job. As are you."

"You hired me?" John laughed incredulously. "Unbelievable."

"No, I'm afraid I did not hire you. I'm afraid I can only waylay you from your real appointment for a brief amount of time." He tapped his umbrella on the ground. "No, I am here because your agency wanted me to assure you that if the situation gets out of control I can contain it easily, and faster than most."

"Because of your 'minor' government position?"

"No." Mycroft responded coolly. "Because I know you, John."

"You think I'll fail?"

"No, no, I think you'll pass with flying colours. I'm concerned with what happens afterwards."

"Don't tell me you actually care what happens to me now, Mycroft. I mean, Sherlock's—he's not here anymore. What could I possibly matter to you?"

"You matter a great deal to me, John, both sentimentally and pragmatically."

John couldn't have believed him less.

"Tell me the truth."

"You meant more to Sherlock that he would ever admit. I wish to thank you for your…companionship."

"And checking in on me from time to time to get something out of me is your idea of a thank you?"

"There are worse things. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Are you…threatening me?"

"Don't be silly, John. Why would I threaten someone who is on my side? Furthermore, threats are what thugs and ineffective mobsters use for immediate coercion. I am not a thug or ineffective."

"I thought you said you wouldn't protect me."

"I believe what I queried you was if you had come to me expecting protection. I never refused it, and I never will, unless you've gotten yourself into an awful mess. But you are smart, John. I trust you to make correct decisions."

"You trust me?"

"You warned me once, John, and that was enough. You didn't have to inform me of your…activities, but you felt it prudent that I know all the same. Your visit told me everything I needed to know. I know very well what you are capable of, and what you aren't. You're a soldier, a good one by both record and action, and I know that you will do the right thing."

"You know what I told the agency, then? You know that I'm not going after innocents. No political figures, either, if I can help it."

"Yes."

"I'll leave you alone." John said solemnly. "I won't bother you. Let me do my job so you can do yours."

"Oh, on the contrary, John, I think you'll be making my field quite extinct by the time you're done."

"Sorry."

"There's nothing to apologise for. Some of them deserve it." Mycroft produced a small folded piece of paper, thick and expensive, sealed with blue wax. After that first sighting, John would always know what it held. "Take care, John." Mycroft said tersely, a polite smile on his face, before John was ushered back into the car, the note, his first note, clutched in his hand.


It was an ambassador. Clearly the agency was testing how far his morals would stretch. But…it wasn't technically a politician. That was a start.

John had done his research. The ambassador's history was full of kickbacks, embezzlement, and backroom deals that stunk of corruption. The country he represented was in fair standing, economically and socially, and was only going up; he had a successfully corrupt future ahead of him.

John aimed. A man in a crisp suit, walking out of the hotel. Roughly about 100 yards away. He adjusted the scope one click right.

He disconnected.

He fired.

One heartbeat passed.

The man's head exploded with blood and brain and skull fragment, splattering those around him, shocking them, but leaving them unharmed.

The ambassador looked around in wild confusion as he was ushered into a waiting car, alive and wholly undamaged.

He reconnected.

John's phone buzzed as he packed away his equipment.

You chose wisely. The car is waiting one klick south. Welcome aboard.

The ambassador had not been the true target. The real target was his assistant, the true culprit of the crimes, all done in his name. John had had suspicions from the beginning, and he could tell forgery when he saw it.

John had been right.

The agency had tested him.


It had been their willingness to sacrifice an innocent man that bothered him the most afterwards. How badly did he need the money of an agency that saw in black and white, an agency that cared nothing for the worth of greyscale?

Then he had met Mary, his recruiter.

She'd been politely detached at first. They all had; cool, distant professionalism was like a second nature to them. After passing his first assignment, she had been in the car, waiting for him. After he reiterated his qualm list, she welcomed him. She smiled, she was patient with him, she was kind and good. John though that it had been an act to lull him into an unsuspecting security, like slipping into a warm bath until you didn't notice the temperature rising, but he quickly realised that was who Mary was. There were no lies in her eyes. It made her well-suited for her job, made her the perfect recruiter.

In the rush of adrenaline, he had blurted out, asking her if she'd like to go out sometime. She had laughed. He liked her laugh. She had accepted. He liked that too, although it had been on strictly platonic terms. They'd gone straight from the agency after he'd gotten a new set of clothes, to the Drop-Off, which they were to visit together in the next three years more than any other customers the owner could remember.

Their friendship was an easy one, a natural one, and it came to them quickly. Mary was easy-going, smart, friendly and calm, and it felt like he had known her his whole life instead of a handful of hours. John had credited that night at the Drop-Off, high on adrenaline and caffeine, as the night that broke him out of the depressed fog he had been living in after Sherlock's fall. Mary had offered her hand to him and he had taken it, using her to lift him out of the sad state his life had been in. He would always remember that night, always remember her smile and laugh and voice just as it was when it was new to him. He would always be indebted to her for what she had done for him.

He wanted to remember her, as she was then, instead of how she was now, sitting in front of him looking utterly miserable.

He still trusted her, despite what she had told him. He still cared for her, despite what had happened to him in the Kremlin. None of that had been her fault. She wasn't responsible. It had been the agency, all the agency's doing, and she was going behind their backs to tell him. She was on his side. Innocent.

"Didn't you ask yourself why they let you go in Novgorod? Why they used tranquilisers?"

"I had other things on my mind."

"We told them who you were."

"I always wondered why you were in that car after my first assignment." He looked at her. "Did they send you on purpose? Try to bait me in with a pretty woman that was as kind and patient as I needed?" He smirked. "It worked. Better than they know."

Mary looked to be on the verge of tears.

"I'm sorry, John."

"You don't need to be."

Mary smiled sadly.

"Doesn't mean I'm not."


He had let her stay in his room, sleep in his bed. It was safer that way. She was safer that way, better off with him than without. The agency would know that she told him things he shouldn't have heard. They'd be looking for her.

John had popped down to the lobby for a moment to ask for the room service menu. A moment. Only a moment. But that was all they needed.

When he got back, the door wasn't shut all the way. He entered, a heaviness sinking inside him, confirming what he didn't want confirmed.

The menu fell from his hand as he raced to his bedroom, sending the door banging open as he stared into the empty room.

The rumpled sheets had fallen off the bed, kicked off as she had struggled. The pillow was still warm, still smelled of her, the scent light and unencumbered.

He collapsed on the bed, his knees giving out.

Mary was gone.

Gone, and it was all his fault.

All his fault.

John felt his head pound. The heaviness in his stomach twisted painfully. His throat tightened.

On his bed lay a note, folded, but unsealed.

The church. Midnight. You have a job to finish.


Hello! Just like to say before someone points it out:

The majority of this chapter is a flashback to John's first hit (I think there was some confusion there)

(In military terms)

A "klick" means a distance of 1000 meters.

A "click" determines how far you move the site adjustments of the rifle according to the distance of the target per 100 yards. "One click" will change the point of impact one inch for a target 100 yards away.