Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss

The Good Doctor
Chapter 3

A New Client

"Aw, Seb, I don't think it's fair that I always have to clean up his messes," a woman said as she impatiently shoved a clip in her gun. She pulled the top portion back to load the first bullet into the chamber and heard a satisfying click. Her partner sat on the window sill, looking out into the night sky, chewing on a wooden toothpick. He had one leg propped up and his right hand was leaning on his knee, a sniping rifle gripped in his hand. He adjusted the patch that covered his left eye. The woman turned her head towards him as she was putting away the gun in the holster attached to her right leg and caught a small glimpse of the bottom of the scar the black cloth hid.

He ignored her, but stopped chewing and pulled the toothpick out of his mouth.

"I've never even met the man," she muttered, tightening the black leather gloves on her hands. "Hah. Sending backup. As if I need it," she continued under breath. She looked at the black watch on her left wrist that was resting on on the sleeve of her skin-tight bodysuit. "Almost time, Seb," she informed the man who ignored her again and continued looking out the window at the stars. She huffed. By now, she should be used to his cold demeanor, but it was a tad annoying when you didn't have anyone to speak to, especially if you weren't the only one in the room. Partners were supposed to communicate, but Seb always wanted to do things his way. Or her boss's way. She was a good mercenary. She was loyal, but he always chose Seb over her. His loyal lapdog.

What an embarrassment, she thought.

A nervous looking man stumbled into Wendy's Bar around 2am and sat down at the bar counter right next to John. He kept shifting his eyes towards the door and was unable to stop shaking his right leg out of anxiety.

"Need a pint, mate?" the bartender asked him. The man curtly smiled and nodded.

"Thanks," he replied as the barkeep filled a glass of beer and handed it to him. The man hastily gulped down the entire content not caring when the beer started to pour from the sides and drip down his neck. He slammed the cup down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

John chuckled. "Nervous?"

The man turned and looked at the blond stranger sitting on the stool next to him on the counter top. "Yeah. Something like that," he replied.

"Oh, are you waiting for someone?"

The stranger nodded. John leaned towards him.

"Is it a woman?" he teased. The man shook his head.

"Well, then, a man?"

The nervous stranger shook his head more vigorously.

"No, no no. Just...more like...for a business transaction," he said somberly, lowering his head a bit. It was obvious he was in the process of recalling a rather unpleasant memory.

John raised his eyebrows. "What an interesting place to meet at an interesting hour," he commented.

"Yeah. I didn't choose it," the man replied. He grabbed some napkins and starting wiping the counter he had spilled beer on and then tried to mop himself up. It was no use.

"Well, I hope you have a good business transaction then, um-"

"-Nathaniel," the man said.

"-Nathaniel, then. Good luck," John said as he drank the rest of his own beer and threw down a couple of notes for his drink.

"Thanks," the man said as he watched the stranger walk out the door.

The woman stood with her right arm extended outwards and cocked her gun.

"Please! I'll do anything! Don't kill me!" a man said to the female behind him with his hands held up.

"That's what got you in trouble in the first place, traitor," she replied as she kicked his knees. His legs buckled and he winced in pain as his knees hit the ground, hard.

"Any last words?" she said as she held up her gun behind his head. He stopped begging and scoffed. It escalated into laughter.

"Tell him, tell him that he can go fu-," he began, but his body suddenly hit the floor, rendering the sentence incomplete. She shot him directly in the head. The woman looked over at the dark window and gave a thumbs up. Her partner who was on the roof of the adjacent building sat up from the laying position he was in, took off the heat sensor in front of his eye, and began disassemble and pack up his gun.

Boss'll be very pleased, he thought.

Nathaniel looked at his watch for the fifth time that night. Why wasn't The Doctor contacting him? Suddenly, his cellphone vibrated in his pocket and he jumped, startled at the foreign sensation. He pulled it out and read that he had a new email notification. He opened it.

"Warehouse 13 down the road. Backside. Wait," it read. He gulped.

"Well," he muttered, "it's now or never."

He thanked the bartender and threw a couple notes down himself to pay for his pint and slid off the stool. The patrons were extremely rowdy at that point and the barkeep was getting ready to kick everyone out due to closing time. He dodged a few random drunken limbs that flew in the air and made his way out the door.

The cold night air blasted his face and he started to shiver. He pulled his jacket tighter to himself and walked straight down the road, passing no more than two people. As he continued, the buildings became dirtier and worse for the wear. He had never been in this part of Birmingham before, so he was afraid of getting lost. This was his only chance and if he missed it, he would hate himself forever. He wouldn't be able to live with the memories.

He looked around at the seemingly abandoned buildings searching for a giant '13'. Well, he assumed there would be a giant 13. Weren't the numbers normally painted on the sides? He kept walking and almost missed it due to his ruminations. He doubled back and squinted.

"13!" he whispered excitedly. Nathaniel was getting more nervous with each step he took towards the building. He found his way to the back alley and looked around, but saw no one in sight.

"H-hello?" he called out to thin air. He stood between the building and a wall of giant crates behind him that curved to meet the corner of the building, blocking off the path. He shivered again as the wind sent another blast of chilly air. He looked at the ground and took a few steps back to lean on the giant wooden box behind him.

"Hello," a voice said above him. Nathaniel jumped and looked around, finding no one. He looked up and right above him was a hooded man clothed in black, squatting down in the moonlight.

xxxx

John watched Nathaniel bumble into the vicinity like an idiot as he perched atop a very tall stack of wooden crates. He wore his usual military-grade incognito attire: black aviator sunglasses with a gold frame, a sleeveless under armor turtleneck with a neck that extended all the way up to his face to cover his nose and mouth like a mask, comfortable and flexible black pants with straps attached to both thighs to hold a few of his guns and knives, his trusty combat boots, his black leather gloves, and of course, the black hooded cape that covered his entire head. He had removed his civilian clothes earlier and shoved them into the compact bag that was currently clung over his torso, much like how an archer carried his arrows.

Oh yes, this was definitely a revenge-for-a-close-friend-or-family's-death case, he thought as he quietly observed his potential client. John frowned. He need a more efficient way to categorize his cases. He shook his head and resumed watching the poor man shiver when Nathaniel called out, "H-hello?"

John said nothing for a moment. The man backed up and leaned against the crates when the doctor decided to make himself known.

"Hello," he said, startling the man he had observed in the bar. He liked to see his clients before deciding to hire himself out. John was an extremely picky mercenary and refused to do a job that he didn't think was up to his standards and morals. He was an excellent judge of character, if he did say so himself. Or rather think. Whatever.

"The-oh-th-doct-th-" the man stuttered. John snorted and rolled his eyes behind the dark shades.

"There were six lions in a den," he said.

The man stopped sputtering and racked his brain. What was it again? What was the passcode?

"A-and Daniel was safe," Nathaniel sputtered out, hoping that the phrase he had was the one up to date. He had paid good money to get it, so the guy who got him the information better not have ripped him off.

John nodded and jumped off the crate. Nathaniel watched in horror. It was a long fall!

"Wait-!" he began.

The hooded mercenary landed directly in front of the man who stared at him with widened eyes. His cape fluttered closed as he landed.

"So," John said, pushing himself upwards from the squatting position he had landed in, "what can The Doctor do for you?" He dusted the dirt off of the gloves on his hands, walked forward from the shadows halfway into the light, and shifted his cape so that his torso and arms were visible. He took down his hood revealing his sunglasses. His blond hair seemed to glisten as much his aviators did.

His hair looked too blond to be real, the man thought. Nathaniel glanced at the man's muscles which bulged in the moonlight. The Doctor clearly kept himself in shape.

"I-I need you to take care of someone for me," he began. He paused for a moment. "A bastard that killed my little girl," he added, his blood beginning to boil in anger.

John stood and nodded, arms crossed, silently prompting him to go on. His clients needed to vent their anger and emotions out.

"She was only seven for Christ's sake. Seven!" he echoed, beginning to tear up. "Sh-she was gone. Just like that. Kidnapped from school. Three days later, the police banged on my door. Told me I needed to ID a body that had washed up from a river in the woods, they said. My wife died in childbirth so it was just me and Susie," he recalled, beginning to sob. "And I know who did it. I know it was our neighbor, Alan Crusoe."

"Evidence?" John asked.

"Air-tight alibi, but I know it in my gut. That's why I need you to track him down and get evidence. You're a mercenary right? Means you do anything as long as you get paid, right?"

John paused.

"Do you know why they call me 'The Doctor'?"

His client shook his head.

"I clean up. Clean wounds. Heal the scars. I save lives by serving rightful justice to those whom the system failed. I am The Doctor, not an immoral pillock that would sell his soul for a handful of pennies. I am your relief, your surgeon, your pathway to catharsis. I live to serve those who are desperate, broken, and have no one to turn to."

Nathaniel stood there, not saying a word. He didn't even know this man, yet he had a strange feeling, perhaps something like...respect? He exuded such a presence that made you feel protected. Yes, that was it. He was like a silent protector. Here, was a man of such morality that broke the law (ironically) to bring complete strangers justice. For a price. Everything was give and take. He had learned that early in life.

He made up his mind. He was going to do it.

"I need you to get him. Bring my little girl to justice. Make him suffer!" Nathaniel said angrily.

"Let me remind you I do not kill unless necessary, but you knew that when you decided to seek me out. I service those who find themselves lost in the grey area of life. They want justice, but cannot force themselves to get it by their own hands. I let the law take its course and I can guarantee you that this man, if guilty, will be found guilty. My services include compiling damning evidence and/or leading the police onto a scent that will condemn him. If you're looking to play god and serve a death sentence, then I am not the man you are looking for," John explained. "Only when someone is in danger will I end a life, but those instances are quite rare."

Nathaniel, a bit troubled, pulled out a picture of his wife and daughter from his pocket. He looked at it, taking a few moments to contemplate his choices.

"Susie and Elizabeth wouldn't want me to turn into a murderer..." he began, "...which is why I need you, Doctor," he finally said.

John nodded.

"Then I will accept. All information regarding payment will be dealt with afterwards. I will keep in contact and inform you when the job is complete."

xxxx

The next morning, Andrew stood at the nurses' station, filling out charts for his resident when he saw Doctor Watson walking down the corridor, yawning again.

"Doctor Watson! Good morning!" he greeted cheerfully. John, not exactly feeling very chipper that morning, politely nodded and gave him a smile.

"Need caffeine," he muttered to Andrew and kept on his way, going towards the cafeteria. He got back around 5am that morning and barely got any sleep. In a couple hours, he woke up, took a shower, and rushed to work.

John was almost at his destination when he changed his mind and decided to take a nap in one of the on-call rooms. It was a slow morning and he had weaseled his way out of clinic duty, at least for now. He dragged himself into one of the rooms and passed out on a bed.

"Sherlock, I need your help," DI Lestrade said, standing in front of the detective who sat in his chair which was situated in the middle of his flat. Sherlock's elbows were resting comfortably on the armrests and his fingertips in front of his face touching their opposites on the other hand as they made a circular 'o' shape. Anderson and Donovan were standing awkwardly behind Lestrade, marvelling at all the weird things the curly-haired man kept in his home.

"Don't touch that, Anderson," Sherlock warned as the forensic man halted in the middle of poking a weird object encased in a plastic bag on the detective's desk.

He scoffed. "Wouldn't want to anyway. You never know what kind of diseases you can contract from this filthy room you call 'home'."

Sherlock ignored him, assuming he tagged along with Lestrade to annoy him and looked up at the pepper-haired Detective Inspector.

"Not interested. Too far," he commented.

"Bracknell, Sherlock. It's a city on the edge of London, only about an hour away," he told him, unsure if the young detective even knew where the city was. The consulting detective shot him a dirty look to which Greg recoiled.

Oops.

"Did I mention the victim was killed execution style? The killer definitely knew what they were doing," Lestrade continued.

Sherlock slightly perked in interest.

"Such a freak," Donovan muttered under her breath behind her boss.

"No traces of DNA. We don't even know who the victim was. No ID. Fingerprints don't match anything. No dental records...shall I go on?" he continued.

After a moment, the consulting detective stood up and started walking out the door.

"And that, my friends, is why I am Detective Inspector Lestrade," Greg said to his employees as they followed him out. "Get me coffee, Anderson."

Anderson groaned.

xxxx

Sherlock stood in the middle of yet another abandoned warehouse. How many of those did Britain have? On the floor in front of him was a line of tape outlining the area where the body of the unknown victim was. He crouched down and observed the bullet entrance wound on the back of the man's head with his small magnifying lens Mycroft had given him many years ago. Lestrade stood next to him, notepad and pen in hand.

"Looks like a business man, doesn't he?" he commented.

Sherlock ignored him. He moved the body, rolling it ever so slightly to its side to see if there was an exit wound. "Hold him," he instructed the DI.

Greg looked down from his notepad.

"Huh? What? Sherlock! Don't...move it! You'll destroy the evidence!" he yelled in a slight panic.

"Details. Hold it or I'm going to move the entire body," the consulting detective threatened. Lestrade complied, tucking his pen and notebook back into his breast pocket.

It was evident that the bullet had exited, judging from the gaping hole in the dead center of the man's forehead. He gestured that the DI could set the body back down and moved on to observing the legs. The knees. He was kneeling when he was killed. The victim's pants had dust and filth from the ground that was concentrated around the knees and the edges of the bottom of his trousers that would only be there if they were slightly hanging down onto the floor. The only possible explanation would be kneeling.

Sherlock did a quick mental calculation and glanced at the ground in front of the body. Most likely the killer shot at an angle, which would indicate that the bullet would have exited and rammed into the floor. Ah. There.

He observed the small hole the bullet dug that had several starburst cracks in the concrete floor that were created by the force of impact that extended from the hole. Naturally, the bullet and its casing was missing.

"What do you think, Sherlock? Vigilante?" Greg asked.

The lithe man shook his head. "Highly doubt that."

"Well, maybe he changed his MO. Perhaps got a little bit overexcited and killed the man."

"No, this was done by someone else, or perhaps something else. For starters, the 'vigilante' collects evidence to condemn his victims."

"Damn," Lestrade muttered, "I was really hoping it was the vigilante. He's been kicking everyone's asses. We need to find him before he does anything else."

Sherlock's mouth quirked. "Why? He's been doing a fine job cleaning up after Scotland Yard's sloppy mess. I'd say he's actually doing you a favor."

The Detective Inspector scowled.

"Shut up and get on with it, Sherlock."

The consulting detective complied. "This was definitely a professional job done by an assassin or someone from the military who's highly trained in the knowledge of combat and killing. The victim, judging from his clothes is a wealthy man. So wealthy, in fact, that his existence has been erased. Most likely got into a bit of trouble because of it. From the lack of possessions, I'm assuming he was supposed to meet someone here. Most likely someone of questionable character. Double-crossed. Killed. Perhaps he's part of an organization of some sort. But the question is why? Why was he killed?"

John snored so loudly he jolted himself awake. He blinked several times and remembered he was at work. He hurriedly checked his watch.

"Oh no. Slept for three hours!" he scrambled out of the bed and tripped as the sheets tangled around his legs. After getting off the floor and out of the sheets, he yanked the door open and straightened out his doctor's coat. It was terribly wrinkled as he accidentally slept in it. He quickly walked towards the emergency centre.

"Robinson. Anything new?" he asked the resident.

The doctor turned around at the mention of her name.

"Oh no, Doctor Watson. Just a lot of sutures here and there. Nothing we couldn't handle. You can go back to the clinic."

"Good, good," he said, thanking God the chief was nowhere in sight and didn't know he was gone. Robinson thought he was in the clinic this entire time. "Well. I'm off to, uh, go back to the clinic. You know. Where I've been for the past three hours. Page me if you need anything."

She smiled at the attending. "Will do."

xxxx

The blond doctor leaned all the way back on his swivel chair, balancing a pencil between his upper lip and nose. He wondered why it was so slow today.

Probably because the bigger hospitals get the trauma cases first, he thought. Their hospital was relatively small, but John chose to work here precisely because of that fact. The less people he knew, the more he could protect his identity.

There was a knock at his door. A woman opened it and peered in.

"Um. Hello. I was told to come in here?" she said.

John didn't notice her.

"Um...h-hello?" she repeated.

John glanced at the door and immediately sat up, dropping the pencil.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Come in," he told her, clearing his throat and shuffling papers around. He moved yesterday's newspaper to the side which was open to the article he had been reading the previous evening and had brought to work that morning.

The woman came inside and sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the blond doctor. He couldn't help but notice how terribly attractive she was. Beautiful.

"S-so," he began, placing his arms on the desk and intertwining his fingers, "what is, um, what are you in assistance of?"

He watched the blonde woman set her purse on the chair next to her and took the small gloves off of her petite hands, placing them in her bag.

No wedding ring, no tan line.

"Well, doctor, it's kind of embarrassing, but I'm a bit of a hypochondriac and look up symptoms on the internet all the time. I was looking things up yesterday and fear I may have insomnia because I haven't been able to sleep very well for a few months," she frowned. She reached up to fuss with her bun which held all her wavy blonde hair.

John stared. It was like cornsilk. Golden. Beautiful.

"O-okay, well, um, first I need to ask a few preliminary questions. How is your sleep schedule?" he asked.

The woman pursed her lips. "Hm...due to my job I need to stay up all night, practically. I am almost nocturnal," she joked. "And then I have to get up early, but this just recently started taking its toll, I suppose."

"What is your occupation?" John asked.

"Oh, I am a journalist!" she answered. "I write for The Times."

John nodded. "So that would explain the irregular sleeping schedule. Do you have a history of depression, alcohol abuse, or any kind of disease?" he asked her. "I just need a comprehensive background."

She shook her head. "No, but I've visited other doctors and they have all told me just to stop going to sleep late. But it's not that simple. This just recently started happening and no matter how early I try to sleep, it won't go away. I'm a bit desperate."

John nodded. "I am going to start you on eszopiclone which are essentially sleeping pills that will help you fall asleep. Try it out for a couple weeks and come back. I want to be updated," he said as he whipped out his prescription pad, grabbed a pen from his breast pocket, and started writing. He realized he didn't know who his patient was. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"Mary, Mary Morstan," she answered, smiling at the charmingly handsome doctor.

He wrote her name and signed the prescription at the bottom. He then ripped it off the pad, handed it to her, and gave her directions to the pharmacist.

"Thank you, Doctor-Watson, was it?" she said pointedly looking at his coat. John looked down at the ID tag that was clipped onto his pocket which contained various pens and highlighters and was glad he was sitting down because the wrinkles were all located on the back.

"Yes and you are very welcome Ms. Morstan," he replied.

"Mary."

"Mary," he echoed.

She gave him one last warm smile before gathering her things and closing the door, fussing with her bun again.

He leaned back on his chair, smiling goofily to himself for a moment until he realized something. Wait, Mary Morstan? He had heard that name somewhere before...

He sat up, shifting through his papers until he found what he was looking for. He spotted it and grabbed the newspaper he was reading yesterday and looked at the article debating the ethics of John's 'vigilante' work in this double life.

There, underneath the article was a hyphen and the name Mary Morstan.

A/N:

Hello hello!
This chapter is early, huh? About a day or two. I usually update on Friday or Saturday.
AND I've been working on Parallel all week too. Just snippets here and there.
Probably because I've been procrastinating an assignment for my class. LOl
I wrote all of this chapter today. Took a few hours, give or take. I tried making it a bit longer, if you've noticed.
I don't know why I wrote all of this when I probably should have finished Parallel first. Haha

If you guys don't know, I actually upload these right after I finish writing them. I don't plan my stories out either, like on a master list. It's all in my head and I just write using streaming of consciousness. haha

Well, I'm excited where the story's going! I hope you are too :P

Thank you for reading!