A Revenge Not Worth Remembering
A/N: There are perhaps worse ways of revenge than killing. What if Moriarty decided to take his vengeance another way? Some losses have a more sinister implication. Dedicated to Leylou97 who partly inspired this snippet by her story Putain d'escharpe. If you're familiar with the scarlet thread of murder from A Study in Scarlet…now you can become familiar with the blue scarf that ties Sherlock and John together…
Now, onto the second story in my BINGO series. Prompt equalled "Mutually Unrequited". Note the warning!
Warnings: Angst
Ice-tipped, wind-whipped fringes of military-grade jackets. Two men, strong and confident, plodded along the desolate beach while the deepening shadows of the night stretched ever grasping fingers over the landscape, turning the golden greens and blues black. The waves of the sea beat mercilessly against the shore, gripping desperately to the sand only to be wrenched back to their watery depths. Winter was approaching.
As wisps of smoke escaped their mouths, the younger, shorter, blond soldier spoke to his comrade. "It's sure to be dangerous…have we covered for every contingency?"
"Almost, one more test remains before we can be certain of success," the sinewy elder man replied.
As they rounded a bend in the coast, a dim form lying upon the beach, coat tails slapping gently with the undulation of the waves, came into view. The tall slender form lay prostrate and still, face buried the soil.
The blond man approached cautiously. His hand ready on the trigger should it turn into a trap. He was far too experienced as both hunter and prey to take things at face value. Satisfied at last, he turned over the body that was clad in long black coat. A blue scarf still wrapped round the stranger's pale neck.
"Dead. From the state of rigor mortis I'd estimate at least 12 hours," the younger man stated without emotion.
"Cause of death?"
"Single gun shot to the head. Execution style, I'd say." The man studied the features of the pallid face for several more minutes. Dark, raven curls fluttered with the waves as they washed over the edges. Strong jaw. High cheekbones. Eyes dulled by death, reminiscent of molten steel.
"Recognize him?" the man knelt over the figure and his blond hair bent low over the form for a closer look.
"Never seen him. Let's go," his companion urged impatiently.
"Should we report him to the General?"
"Not on your life!" the other empathically replied. "Do you want to ruin our mission? We can't afford any notice by the local authorities."
The strong shoulders of the shorter man shrugged, resignedly. "You're right, Major Sebastian. Shall we continue?"
"By all means yes," he huffed.
The two men resumed their nightly vigil. Night engulfed them with its cloak of darkness. The winter wind howled in pursuit.
Later that evening, the Major settled into his quarters. "All is ready, General. The last contingency has been dealt with. He didn't recognize him. Project Memory Rehab is complete."
John turned uneasily in his bed. The dreams had returned.