Oops! It's not a cold, it's bronchitis! I'm in house arrest basically now. No more work and no more friends. So, you can thank the sickness for the quick update! ;)

Thanks to Tipear, bookworm0902, and puretorture27 for the reviews! You guys are the best!

By the way, I haven't said this in a while but I don't own! This is for enjoyment only. Also, this is unbetaed, so please excuse the mistakes.

Chapter 8

While Jim was seriously impressed with John's knowledge of him and his past (and a little flattered, maybe, but he was never going to admit that to anybody), it wasn't good for his image to have an ex-assassin traipsing around spewing secrets that technically no one was supposed to know about. It took about five minutes after his impromptu chat with John to realize that since Johnny had decided to call him, he now had access to his number. Of course, he could have gotten it off someone else (it was relatively easy to charm people into thinking he knew their friends) but, hey, he wasn't going to complain. He was just going to have to speed through this next meeting quickly so he could get back to play with his new toy.

0o0o0o0o

hank, everett, james, john, peter, andrew, John, matthias, JOHN.

He's John, he's Dr. John Watson, the ex-army doctor who can't hold down a girlfriend and goes on crazy adventures with his flat mate Sherlock and has chats with the British government and buys the milk at Tesco's and has a crazy psychopath on his tail who knows he's not John and knows who he is and knows what he's done and knows he's an assassin… no. He's John now, to hell with what the crazy Irishman thinks he knows. He's not an assassin anymore. He's Dr. John Watson, who saves people every day and has, had, a psychosomatic limp. He doesn't kill people anymore, he doesn't stitch himself up in the dark of a shabby motel anymore, he doesn't have knives in his shoes, he doesn't have dark hair and darker eyes and stubble from not shaving for a while and he most certainly. Doesn't. Smoke. Anymore. He's Dr. John Watson. Nothing more.

He knows that. He knows who he is now. Not a brilliant killer, the best they'd seen in years, just a normal civilian. Not a genius who writes up equations on the walls of the motel he's staying in and figures out which chemicals would knock a person out fastest without killing them and then makes said chemicals on the stove using cleaning supplies and a makeshift chemistry set. He's not. He knows that. Then why, why when he was talking to Moriarty on the phone, did he feel that old adrenaline spike and felt like the nameless threat he used to be? Why did he want to go get his weapons from where he hid them and run away and go on crazy (even crazier than the one's with Sherlock) adventures again? He was getting too old, he had decided that when Mycroft Holmes had captured him, looked him straight in the eye and told him that he was a puzzle like he had never seen before, and he and his team would enjoy taking him apart piece by piece. He was done. Really done this time, not sort of done like he was when Houdini and 'Homeless Network' had shot him in the shoulder, really done. Why?

"John!" Sherlock shouted into their flat. "Lestrade just texted me. Are you coming?" And all John wants to tell him is that he's not really John, he's a runaway assassin hiding from justice, all he wants to do is help with Sherlock's experiments because, really? They're right up his alley and he'd love to make awesome deductions too because he can. But he can't, because his brother is Mycroft Bloody Holmes and that's the very person he's running from. So instead he says,

"Can't Sherlock, I have bronchitis remember?" Which is foolish really, of course he doesn't have bronchitis, he's just trying to keep off Moriarty's radar for a while, but Sherlock being Sherlock falls for it instantly.

"Laters." He calls before turning on his heel, still hunched over his phone, and is it just John's imagination or does he see a flash of hurt on Sherlock's face? Probably not. And of course there's no 'Get well' from Sherlock because he's Sherlock and John tries not to be too hurt by it anyways.

Why?

0o0o0o0o

After three solid hours of people bickering, Moriarty rolls his eyes and gets up from his chair, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.

"If you don't come to an arrangement within…" he paused to glance lazily at his watch, "…thirty minutes, I will personally have all of you killed." Everyone's staring at him with wide eyes and he smirks, "and your families." Because he can. It's amazing how quickly people agree after having their pathetic lives threatened. How quaint.

After that, everyone files quietly out of the board room, probably praying they don't ever have to do business with this scary little man ever again. Jim would like to tell them that the feeling's mutual, and that they're all sniveling idiots who should never waste his time again, but he can't, because that's just unprofessional.

It seems to take forever, but it was probably a matter of minutes when all of the pedestrian business people finally get the hell out of his board room, and he's left alone again. Sighing and rubbing his hand all over his face, he reflects that it probably wasn't the best idea ever to scare these people out of doing business with him, but he can't seem to bring himself to care. All he can focus on is the tempting weight of his cell phone resting in his Westwood pocket. He pulls it out, because why not? He's bored and there's nothing to do for the rest of the day (which may or may not have been on purpose) so why not send Johnny a text to let him know he's still there?

Why not?

Hey, I'm actually really proud of this chapter. I like it… I hope y'all do too… but hey, pretty good for having a 101 degree fever and sweating and coughing and yuck. Like you wanted to know that. Please leave a comment, I love hearing from you lovelies! (I blame my fever on the use of y'all and lovelies in this a/n, yeesh, I must be sicker than I thought -.-)