Chapter Title: Forgive Me
A/N: Thanks for taking the time to read this fic! If you enjoy, please follow so you catch each update as they come out because, really, have you seen how fast these stories come out? Favorite and tell your friends or share on Tumblr/Twitter. Review with any comments, criticisms, and/or suggestions of where this fic should go… THANKS! :D
Beta: N/A (If interested, PM me…Must also be able to Brit-pick!)
Words: 2,862
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC, nor any of its characters…duh. Do I seem like the geniuses that are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, or Mark Gatiss? I didn't think so… Though, I would have John/Sherlock shagging by now if I did own them ;D
A/N: Just a note- This chapter will have less of bamf!John, but you will see more of him as the story progresses.
And the game begins… -JM
John sighed at the text. He didn't want to play this idiotic game with the most notorious criminal mastermind in history, but what choice did he have? Jim threatened his family and he would do absolutely anything to keep them safe.
John bit the inside of his cheek as possible ideas for what Moriarty had in store for him came flashing through his mind. What on Earth could Moriarty have in mind for John's first 'task'?
He made his way down the steps –slowly, trying to prolong the horrible day he was about to have. He reached the door and put his hand on the knob, taking a deep breath before he stepped out into the fresh air. He began to search the street for Jim; he had to be somewhere close.
Instead, he was greeted by a sleek black car, windows tinted.
"Not now, Mycroft," John groaned, rolling his eyes.
The side door opened and a sardonic grin matched with soulless eyes were staring back at him, "Not Mycroft this time, Johnny boy."
John clenched his fists and yanked the car door open. He slid into the backseat of the car and pulled the door shut. "You better hope Sherlock hasn't seen me getting into the car or the deal is off."
"He is preoccupied at the moment, John," Sebastian Moran looked at John in the rearview mirror, "he's in his…mind palace, was it? We have someone watching the flat regularly, giving updates on your whereabouts and also watching your flat-mate. We wouldn't want him to get suspicious and spoil our good fun."
John nodded, feeling anxious about Seb using the word 'fun' to describe their activities. That was never a good sign. "Good. I don't want him to know anything about this, Sebastian, or anything about my past, got it?"
Sebastian nodded and put the car in drive, pulling away from the curb.
Moriarty turned around in the passenger seat to face John, "Johnny boy, I'm so glad you decided to play my little game. I know we are going to have a lot of fun."
John scoffed in response. He turned to look out the window and watched London fly by. "So what exactly are you going to make me do today?"
Moriarty grinned, "An extermination job. Nothing too difficult for our old boy, Johnny! Right, Seb?" Jim turned to Seb and they exchanged a devious smile.
Seb looked back at the road, "Right."
John felt an uneasy feeling settle in the pit of his stomach, "And just who is my target?"
Moriarty turned back to the ex-army doctor, "Let's just say they'll trust you enough to allow you to enter their home. All you have to do is put a bullet in their brain and then you'll be out of there. No cops, no problem. Just one little kill and your first job is complete."
"And just how many jobs do you have in store for me before I can retire from this 'partnership'?" John watched Moriarty's features harden.
"Like Seb said, Johnny, we wouldn't want our fun to end too soon." He turned back to the front and stared ahead.
John closed his eyes and felt his fear rising into his throat. He swallowed to try and force the lump back down his throat, but it stayed put. He tried to speak, but it came out raspy, "How long will I be doing this with you?"
"Depends," Moriarty replied quickly.
"On what?"
"How long you last."
"We're here." Sebastian pulled over to the curb and glanced back at John. "Off you go to kill our little pest."
John felt his pockets, "I don't have a-"
Moriarty stuffed a large gun into his lap and Seb handed his a small pistol. "Choose your weapon of choice. Either you can kill her from that rooftop over there, or you can make it personal by engaging in a conversation with her. If the latter, I'd preferably use the small gun. It's easier to hide," Moriarty suggested.
"Her…?" John swallowed thickly. He tried to remember all the women he had met in his years after the war, but he couldn't think with Seb and Jim staring at him. Moriarty had said that his target would trust him, so that must mean he knew the woman. Old crush? Old lover? No, too boring and obvious for him.
"Yes, her," Seb grinned, "Now, off you pop." He grabbed the larger gun back and motioned for John to exit the car.
John got out of the car slowly, hating himself for going along with this so easily. He should just let Moriarty and Seb kill him, but what good would that do? With him gone, there was nobody to protect his family and Sherlock. They'd be as good as dead with John out of the picture.
Moriarty rolled down the window, "A car will be waiting for you in an alley two blocks from here. Get in and get out without getting caught, yeah? We'd hate for the-"
"-fun to be over so soon, yeah, I got it," John finished Jim's sentence, venom layering his tone.
Moriarty smiled, "Just like old times, huh?" With that, he rolled the window up and left John alone on the street.
John looked up at the building and tried to place it. He knew it was familiar somehow, but with so many thoughts clouding his mind, he couldn't seem to remember when or where he'd seen it before. Old girlfriends and crushes were out, seeing as it was too dull for Moriarty's tastes. Or maybe that's what Jim wanted, for John to think it wasn't a girlfriend…Or was that another part of Jim's plan, to make John overthink everything about the task?
John massaged his temples. He was getting a headache from all these questions without answers. Moriarty knew how to get to him, it was just too easy, he guessed.
John tried forgetting all about who could be on the other side of the door, not knowing that their end was fast-approaching. He tried to pretend that this was just another criminal and that Sherlock would want them dead, but no matter how much he told himself that, he knew Sherlock would think of it as wrong. Anybody would –well anybody but the criminal classes. It got harder and harder to take each step closer to the door, but after what seemed like minutes, but what could've only been seconds, he was at the front door, knocking. He shoved the gun into the back of his waistband and waited.
The door opened and immediately John forgot about trying to pretend he didn't know her…because he did know her. He knew her well.
"Oh, John, I'm sorry, but I'm not working today," she smiled, looking behind him, "is Sherlock with you?"
John swallowed to ease his dry throat, "Um, no…actually…just me today."
She seemed disappointed for a moment, but opened her door for him to come in anyway, "Oh, well I just put the kettle on. It'll be a few before tea is ready. You're welcome to come in and join me for tea, then."
John stepped in her flat and was met with an overwhelming scent of vanilla and jasmine. He followed her to the kitchen and sat in one of her kitchen chairs.
He watched as she busied herself in preparing the tea for the two of them. He couldn't do this. He absolutely could not do this.
"Would you like any biscuits? Cookies, maybe? I just baked a batch; you should try them." She grabbed an oven mitt and protected her hand with it. She opened her oven and produced a tray of twelve chocolate chip cookies, their surfaces perfectly golden brown. She offered the tray and John peeled one off of the burning hot cookie-sheet, not giving a damn if it burned his fingers. He was so numb by the fact that he was going to have to kill her, that he didn't feel it blistering his fingers.
He nibbled on the cookie, watching as she switched off the flame to the kettle and prepared the tea, mixing in a spot of milk.
She returned to the table with a plate of cookies and two cups of steaming hot tea. "Here you are, John. It's a bit hot, so be careful!"
John reached for the cup and took a huge gulp, ignoring the searing pain. He wished and prayed that this was all a dream and he would wake up from this nightmare, but as the tea burned his gums, he knew he was awake…and stuck in this mess. He really should've just used the larger gun and shot her through her window; it would've been much easier. He wouldn't have had to bother with her dying with the memory of who killed her. But, now, as he sat watching her sip her tea, he knew that either way, it was going to be a horrible death, knowing who had killed her or not.
"Um…I don't know how to say this…" John paused, watching her place her teacup on the table.
"Yes, John?"
"Uh…I –I'm sorry…" She began to ask why, but stopped when she saw the gun in his hands.
"J-John, what are y-you doing?" She stuttered, standing up from the chair, her hip hitting and shaking the table, causing the cup to rattle on the saucer. Her wide eyes were staring at the gun, her mouth open in shock.
John felt tears sting at his eyes, "I'm so sorry…I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't have to…I hope you can forgive me…" Tears began to stream down his face, some dripping off his chin and onto the floor.
"J-John, don't! Please! Whoever is making you do this, we can get Sherlock to stop them!" She suggested, frantically making up solutions.
"I'm sorry, but Sherlock can't help me. It's his life on the line, along with many others. You have to understand that there is no way out of this," John clicked the gun off safety and placed his finger securely on the trigger.
She began to sob uncontrollably, hyperventilating as she watched him place his finger on the trigger, "John, this isn't you. You can stop it, whoever is forcing you to do this, they aren't in charge of you. They can't make you do something you don't want to do; you're in charge of your life, not anyone else. Not Moriarty."
John tensed, "You know…"
She nodded, "I know you, John. You wouldn't do this…" She began to feel hopeful that she was getting through to him, "John, I can help you. I can call Lestrade and we can get protection for you and your family."
"He'll find a way."
"No, he won't. Lestrade will make sure you will all be safe," she looked into his eyes, pleading with him, "Don't do this, John. Don't give in to him…you're better than that."
John wiped his tears with the hand that wasn't pointing the gun at her and ducked his head. He felt the adrenaline start coursing through his veins and the thrill of the kill rise over his nerves, "No, no I'm really not. I'm a soldier. I was born to kill and serve. Who I serve is my business, criminal or not." He pulled the trigger with less hesitancy than before and watched her drop to the ground, clutching her chest.
She looked up at him with fearful eyes, wide and fading, "J-John," she gasped, "I f-forgive y-you…" She started to shake and her eyes became distant.
John looked down and felt the adrenaline subside, remorse filling its gap, "I'm sorry." He took one last shot, a bullet through the brain as Moriarty demanded.
Her head snapped back and blood painted the walls. Her hands that were clenching her chest went limp, and her breathing stopped. Blood began to pour out of the wounds fast, causing John to gag.
He had been a doctor, not a killer! Sure, he had killed for Moriarty before, but that was when Sherlock was dead. When he had nothing to live for. He had all that pent up anger and he went with the wrong crowd. He had become a criminal while Sherlock was 'dead', but now, as he watched the young girl bleed out on her kitchen floor, he knew that was what he'd always been.
A criminal.
…
John climbed out of the window and dropped onto the cement. He jogged through the back-alleys, searching for his getaway car.
He soon found it and climbed in, hearing wailing police sirens in the distance.
"So, Johnny boy, was that fun or what?" Moriarty grinned back at him, this time he was the one driving.
"Get me home, now," John growled.
"Like that?" Moriarty gestured to John's clothes.
John looked down and nearly vomited.
Blood. Blood was everywhere.
He should've known he'd be covered in it, but he was too engrossed in the horror of what he had just done.
"How about we clean you up first, huh, Johnny boy?" Moriarty turned the key and the car roared to life. "We've got to get you home in time for the case."
"What case?" John croaked out, his ragged breathing close to hyperventilation.
"Your targets, of course! You didn't think you'd just kill the girl and be done with it, did you? Oh, no, Johnny. You don't get it, that's not the game. The game is just starting!"
John started to tremble slightly, "You said before that the game depends on how long I last…what did you mean by that?"
Moriarty looked at him in the mirror, "Oh, Johnny, I thought you'd catch on by now! I said I'd burn the heart out of your little friend, and I did. Now it's your turn. I want to see how much death it takes for you to finally break. Either that, or…"
"Or my death," John finished the sentence quietly.
"Exactly," Moriarty confirmed, "Now, tell me. Did your hand tremble at all?"
John thought back to it and felt even worse than before.
It didn't.
…
Sherlock was pacing the flat by the time John returned home. "John, where the Hell have you been? I've been texting you for three hours now!"
John looked at the clock. Three hours? He didn't think it had been that long. He swallowed, "I guess I just lost track of the time…"
Sherlock was at his side in an instant, "John, are you alright?"
John moved away from him and sat in his chair, "Yes."
Sherlock arched an eyebrow, "You smell like disinfectant…"
John froze, "Yeah, well you've seen Sarah. She's a nutty neat-freak."
Sherlock seemed satisfied with the answer, "So I take the date didn't end well?"
John sighed, "You could say that."
Sherlock felt pleasure overcome him at the thought of Sarah never taking his John from him again. His John? Where did that come from…?
A text pinged in on Sherlock's cell and he bounced over to it, happy about finally getting a new case and that John was free from that woman. His smile dropped as he read the text.
"John…" He shoved the phone in front of John's face.
John didn't want to read it; he knew what it said. "What?"
Sherlock's tone showed no emotion –the usual when he was affected by death of a 'friend' or colleague.
"Molly's been murdered."
I'm sorry, so sorry. I had to! I took a poll and Molly lost :( Please don't hate me…
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