Sherlock 1. Chapter 1

John glanced over his shoulder once again. He'd been doing so several times for the last few blocks as the large men tailing him were painfully obvious. They weren't trying to be subtle though. They were only trying to get to him as they pushed through the crowd of people on the streets without a care. Not a good sign...especially now that John could clearly see that they were Russians.

John Watson was not the person who Sherlock Holmes believed he was. He never had been. The companionable and kind doctor was nothing more than a mask to hide what really lay at John's center, and it certainly wasn't anything anyone else would likely expect. For several years now John had been an assassin, and as it were he was now one of the best in his profession. Years spent training and honing his skills had paid off as he was near unbeatable in close combat...when he didn't have five men nearly twice his size coming after him.

For some time now the Russian Mafia had been hunting John. There was a sizeable price on his head within their own circles, and the result was the men now coming after the assassin. The problem now, however, was that he didn't have his gun-the one that Sherlock was aware of, at any rate. The detective had nicked it off him earlier and John had never gotten it back. The assassin had a knife on him, but he was otherwise unarmed. That didn't leave him in a favorable position as the men hired to kill him drew ever closer. There was no point in trying to fight them head on. They would be armed with more firepower than John himself possessed. He would have called Sherlock, but even if the detective did answer John would then have to explain why he was being hunted by Russian hit-men in the first place. So when John came to the first alley available he ducked into and took off running. 

* * *

It was going to be a boring day. James Moriarty knew that almost as soon as he woke in one of the many flats he owned in London. The criminal hadn't been able to play with his favorite detective as of late as he'd been busy. His empire was massive, and it required nearly all of his attention. Sherlock was a welcome distraction only when there was a break in Jim's routine which gave him some time to spare, some clients he didn't really care about. Lately, however, there had been problems a little too close to home. The Russian sects he had were always more rebellious as they tried to stick to their own rules and customs. The families there were less than thrilled to have Moriarty's influence anywhere near them, and they required a bit of a careful touch. That left him to ensure that nothing went too wrong and he kept a tight hold over them. So far, everything had been running smoothly enough and _that_ was what had the criminal bored. Nothing exciting was happening, and he wasn't free to go off and _make_ something exciting happen. Like strapping people to bombs so he could watch Sherlock Holmes scurry around in an attempt to prove he was cleverer than a man he'd never met before. That had been fun.

Considering all of this, and the general lack of excitement he was expecting out of his day, Jim was honestly surprised when his phone went off. He was sitting at his desk with his feet propped up on it as he himself leaned back in his chair, laptop balanced on his legs. For a few moments Jim simply stared at his phone ringing away happily on his desk.

_Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Stayin' Alive! Stayin' Alive._

The criminal leaned forward and snatched the phone with a raised eyebrow. A quick check of the number and Jim was surprised to find that he was honestly confused as to what was going on. He didn't recognize the number, he didn't have it saved as a contact either. Someone new then? That was rare anymore. Nevertheless, Jim was sliding a thumb over the screen to answer the call. Things were starting to look promising.

"Hello?" Jim asked, answering the phone as he set his laptop back on his desk and sat up.

"I need you help," an all too familiar voice said from the other end, and a slow grin split Jim's lips.

"What could you need _my_ help with, Johnny-boy?" the criminal purred.

* * *

Calling Moriarty off all people was definitely what one would call a worst case scenario option. Lucky for John, he didn't really have all that much choice. He knew London like the back of his hand and was more than capable of losing a tail or two, but he wasn't going to risk his life when he knew the odds were not in his favor. He wasn't trying to outrun idiots after all. These men weren't police officers. They were trained killers as well, and their payment rested on whether or not they caught up with John so they could shoot him.

"I may be-" John hissed out a curse under his breath as a bullet missed him by less than a centimeter. The gunshot was audible. No silencers then. Wonderful. "-May be in a bit of a situation."

"Where's your master, Johnny?" came the reply, the criminal's Irish lilt coloring his words. "Why not call him?" John ducked into a new alley in an attempt to get out of the direct line of fire for a few moments. He didn't stop running.

"Don't think he can help with a group of Russians after me," John replied. Another gunshot seemed to emphasize his point as this one went straight past his phone, the gunshot echoing in the alley. They were getting closer.

A pause on the other line. "I don't think I'm interested."

"I'll owe you one," John snapped back,

"I don't need a doctor, Johnny." Moriarty scoffed, and John's jaw tightened.

"Then just do it so you can brag about it to Sherlock later." John tried. "Or you can listen to me die horribly over the phone, and you won't be able to ask how I know all about the Markstein killings last week."

"Sherlock took the case," Moriarty replied. "Of course you'd know about it."

"Sherlock is still working the case," John corrected. "I know who contracted a killer for the brothers, and I know who the killer is." Silence reined for a few moments as if the criminal was thinking. John was left to continue running and ducking into different alleys...Dead end. John came up short as the impassable wall seemed to mock him. When he turned around he found the Russians, some winded from the chase, were all grinning to each other as they approached John. The assassin was cornered with nothing but a concealed knife. He was fairly calm considering the fact.

"You might be interesting yet, Johnny-boy." Moriarty eventually responded. The Russian closest to John gave a jerk as his brains were blown out by a high caliber rifle. The man pitched forward and collapsed only to be soon followed by his fellows. All dead, and all of them with their heads blow wide open. John barely caught a glimpse of red laser sights before they were turned off. The assassin slumped against the wall he'd nearly been trapped by and simply looked at the bodies. Not alarmed in the slightest.

"Thanks," John finally said, remembering that he was still connected with Moriarty.

"I'll pick you up at eight," the criminal responded happily. "We have _so _much to talk about."


	2. Chapter 2

The flat was silent when John returned. For the first few moments that he was hanging up his coat and shutting the door behind him he even thought that Sherlock was out. There was the Markstein case, after all. The detective was obsessed with solving it. While the man normally had a kind of obsession with always solving the puzzle, this case seemed to be especially interesting-and infuriating-to Sherlock. Something that didn't necessarily thrill John.

Once the assassin had fully walked into the sitting room, however, he was greeted by the sight of Sherlock laying back on their sofa with his eyes closed and hands in a prayer formation as they rested on the man's lips. The detective was the picture of concentration as John had to pay close attention to the subtle rise and fall of Sherlock's chest to even be sure that the man was still alive. John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock as he continued into the flat and set about getting tea for himself. There was nothing quite like a nice cup of tea after nearly being cornered and killed as little as two hours earlier. To his credit, he made it to the point of getting the water boiling before Sherlock was addressing him.

"You've been running recently." The detective stated, calling out from the sitting room without actually getting up or even remotely moving. When John made his way to lean against the entryway of the kitchen he found the silvery-blue eyes of Sherlock locked on him. Taking in every detail possible in the span of seconds.

"Ordinary people get bored too, Sherlock." John reminded with a raised eyebrow. "I haven't gotten the chance to run with all the rain lately." Not that it ever really stopped raining, at this time of the year especially. It made fulfilling contracts easier in some areas, but far harder in others. For instance, rain washed away evidence, but made getting a clear visual of his target hard. Rain provided cover if it was coming down hard enough or with enough wind, but the slickness of mud and puddles made running and fighting tricky.

"You aren't wearing very appropriate attire for running, if I'm not mistaken." Sherlock commented, eyes alert even as his expression and posture radiated disinterest and lack of attention. The detective was right of course. The jeans, boots, and jumper he'd gone out in was less than suitable running gear. Especially if one took into consideration the wet streets. John kept his calm composure, however.

"I wasn't really planning on going for a run. Once I was out it seemed nice enough and I didn't feel like coming back to change." John answered, delivering the words smoothly and easily. His poker face was legendary, but that wasn't worth much when facing the observational skills of Sherlock Holmes himself. Whether it be from the need to focus on the Markstein case, or simply his lack of interest in John's answers, Sherlock was returning back to his silent thoughts just as the water was boiling nicely. John made his tea, took a sip, then headed for his room after grabbing his laptop.

"John?" Sherlock called just as the assassin reached the stairs. He turned on his heel to look at the detective whose eyes were once again closed. "Are you free tonight?"

_ I'll pick you up at eight. _

"I've got a date, actually." John said, reusing an age old excuse that Sherlock never questioned, and rarely lead to John going on a real date but to the death of someone else. The assassin caught a quick downturn of Sherlock's lips before it was gone just as quickly. Just smooth enough to disappear that John questioned if he'd seen anything at all.

"Cancel it," Sherlock said. John, for a brief moment as he couldn't help himself, wondered what would happen if he did try to cancel on someone like Moriarty.

"I can't, Sherlock. You'll just have to do without me for now." John responded, and Sherlock was pouting a bit now.

"What could possibly be so interesting-"

"I'll text you to make sure you're alright," John interrupted. "Just try not to get kidnapped again." The pout dissolved into a brief chuckle as John himself smirked, but the assassin was soon heading upstairs and Sherlock was soon sulking again.

Once within the safety of his own room where he could hide behind a closed door, John set to work. He kneeled on the ground next to his bed and carefully removed a floorboard. It wasn't too difficult a process, and the assassin had done it enough times to make the ordeal near silent. Once the board was shifted out of the way he was free to check over the stash hidden beneath. There were several hiding spots similar to it around the room, and this one happened to have a majority of his smaller weapons. His rifle and its case were elsewhere. Here he had a selection of sharp knives, well-made and looked after, along with a few handguns. John selected a pistol and silencer, swapped the knife he had for a different one, then was carefully replacing the board so as to make it appear like it had never been moved. He then set about getting changed.

When he was going out he could afford to lose the jumpers. They weren't his favorite, but they were preferable to the clothes he would wear out on a contract. John was a little too muscular and lean for a wounded ex-soldier/doctor. Even when he was almost constantly out with Sherlock chasing down criminals and the like. The jumpers made John look non-threatening, hid the muscles he'd gained from his profession, and all in all made him blend into the crowd of civilians easier. Who would suspect an assassin of John's caliber when they wore cuddly looking jumpers, after all? Now though, John opted for a black button up and had a jacket picked out. It would look nicer, as if he actually was going on a date for the benefit of Sherlock's observational skills, and still give him plenty of places to hide weapons. He wasn't going to meet with Moriarty unarmed. That was a death sentence in itself. While the criminal may have expressed some interest, John wasn't going to rely on that. The man admitted openly to being able to change his mind at the drop of a hat. There was also the fact that Moriarty honestly had the most chance to figure out what John _really _was. Not a doctor, but an assassin. The information that he'd offered about the Markstein case alone was likely throwing up little red flags itself. It would certainly be an interesting night...

* * *

Around half-past seven John's phone vibrated with a new text. A quick check, and the assassin was standing and pulling on his jacket. He spent a moment making sure his gun and knife were thoroughly concealed before heading downstairs again. Sherlock had at some point migrated from the sofa to the kitchen where he was working on one of his new experiments.

"I'll be back," John said, and Sherlock glanced up just long enough to give him an unreadable look before the assassin was heading out. The car waiting for him was a few blocks away, and John knew the spot well. A blind spot in the CCTV. Not very big, but large enough to be of use. It wasn't a surprise that Moriarty would be aware of it as well, and thankfully John was slipping into the black car without having to doge out of the radar himself as the car was parked in preparation for an idiotic and naive 'civilian.'

The vehicle's interior was decent enough, but John wasn't riding in it to admire the car itself. The drive was decent enough time wise, but the driver had never uttered a word to him. Not surprising considering everything. The restaurant he was dropped off at didn't look quite expensive enough for him to seem under dressed, but it would likely still offer some form of privacy greater than the average pub. Proved when men that had been waiting for John's arrival ushered the assassin inside and into a private booth where his host was already waiting. James Moriarty gave him a shark-like grin as he sat down across from the criminal. They were alone. No laser sights or guards within the private booth which cut them off from the rest of the restaurant's population. That wasn't to say there was no security of course, but it wasn't visible.

"Bit of a shock to hear from the pet rather than the master," Moriarty said,. "You're just full of surprises, aren't you Johnny?" The Irishman's dark eyes roamed over John slowly. Taking his time in drawing out the little details in, John assumed, an effort to make him uncomfortable. It would take quite a bit to make the assassin uncomfortable, however. While Moriarty was an intimidating and dark presence, John had been the cause of a fair amount of pain and suffering himself. He wasn't always paid to make his target's die slowly and cleanly...Like the Markstein brothers.

"I didn't want to die," John replied, eyes narrowing a bit as if becoming defensive. "I didn't have a choice otherwise." Easy. Smooth. All part of the mask that was like a second skin to the assassin now. If he could get out of this meeting with his profession still a secret played close to chest, then John would count this as a success. Of course, he'd also had to give horribly obvious clues to the criminal across from him just to gain enough interest to save his life. His chances weren't very high.

Moriarty hummed. "How did you get my number, anyway? I know I haven't called you before, and certainly not with _that_ particular number."

"Sherlock gave it to me," John responded without missing a beat. "In case you ever _did_ call. That way I'd know it was you right away." Lie. He'd received Moriarty's number from a client of his. Several, actually. In the past he'd been told that he needed to get in touch with the criminal as he'd likely receive challenging work in return. John was always on the lookout for contracts that tested his skill and abilities, but they were few and far between. As it were, John hadn't even known who Moriarty was at the time he'd gotten the number but he'd never actually called. When Sherlock and the criminal started going head-to-head the assassin had been secretly pleased about the fact once everything clicked.

"Hmm...'Jim from IT' really got under his skin then." the criminal mused, smirking easily as he leaned back in his chair. A server swept into their booth and asked for any drink orders they may have, or if they were ready to order as well. It was then that John became aware that he lacked a menu while Moriarty slid one to the waiter. The criminal was then ordering for the two of them. A scotch for both of them along with a dish that John barely caught as he was correcting the order to get a water instead. Moriarty's only response to the change was to send an unreadable look in his direction, though the man's dark eyes seemed to show an amused glint in them. Once the waiter had returned with Moriarty's scotch and John's water the conversation was resumed.

"Here's how tonight will work," the criminal drawled, circling the rim of his tumbler idly. "I'll ask you questions, and you'll answer."

"I think I can handle that," John replied, allowing annoyance to slip into his tone at being spoken to as if he was an idiot. Moriarty simply sent the assassin a smirk in response.

"Good. Let's start with the Russians then."


	3. Chapter 3

"What about them?" John questioned, looking to Moriarty with a raised eyebrow.

"It's not every day that someone's chased around by a Russian hit team." Moriarty responded calmly, sipping at the scotch he'd been playing with. "Especially not when that someone happens to be an otherwise ordinary ex-soldier."

"Hit team?" John asked, working surprise into his tone and expression. Feigning ignorance was a bit harder to accomplish when he was playing the game against someone just as adept at it as himself. Moriarty was intelligent and dangerous. He had a strong grasp of how the criminal underworld worked, unsurprising as the man near single-handedly ran most of it. Once John was aware of the consulting criminal's existence it hadn't taken long for him to become aware of the feelers the man had out in the world, the puppets he suspected were controlled by Moriarty. It was like Moriarty had his fingers in a little of everything. While John was also good. Well versed in the way the world worked, how to keep himself hidden in plain sight, Moriarty was quite a few steps above him. Something the assassin would and did openly admit. Hence the danger involved in even speaking with the man about something that was distinctly tied with John being an assassin. Hence the difficulty, and the effort he needed to make to ensure that his lies and bluffs were believable.

"It's not that hard to crosscheck a few names and faces, Johnny." Moriarty explained with a roll of his eyes. As if the criminal was honestly bored by John's seemingly general lack of knowledge. "Those men were all members of a Russian hit team employed by the Mob. Now, care to tell me why they'd be targeting someone like _you_?"

"Haven't got a clue," John said with a shrug. "I assumed they were trying to get to Sherlock. It's happened before." A pointed look was shot at the criminal. There were certain images involving Semtex vests and laser sights flashing through his thoughts as he did so. Moriarty laughed shortly in response as they were apparently thinking along the same lines.

"Perhaps," Moriarty hummed lowly, seemingly pleased with himself for a reason John was unaware of. A fact that made him a touch uneasy as he'd prefer to know what connections the man was making in the dark mind he possessed. Before the conversation could move further, however, their server came back with their meals. In front of both of them was an elaborate dish which looked like salmon, cooked with some form of glaze, with several small shallot potatoes surrounding it. The potatoes were small enough that John could have popped one into his mouth whole, but he opted for at least cutting one in half and eating them that way.

John didn't actually eat first. He cut a potato in half, played with it, then glanced to Moriarty who was doing more or less the same only with a piece of salmon. The criminal popped the salmon in his mouth after a moment or two. John followed suit with the half of the small potato, though his tongue darted out just long enough to taste for any drugs his sense of smell hadn't picked up. He ate with his proverbial fingers crossed. The last thing he needed after the day he'd been having was to be drugged and kidnapped.

"You haven't told Sherlock anything," the criminal stated eventually, causing John to refocus on him.

"Sorry?"

"You haven't said a word to our favorite detective about any of this-" Moriarty made a small gesture around them, "-have you?"

"…" John remained silent for a beat or two as he looked to Moriarty. The man looked perfectly at ease as he sipped his scotch and picked at the food set before him. All with an easy smirk remaining on his lips while his eyes remained dark and calculating.

"I'll take that as a yes then," Moriarty hummed happily. "Aren't you being naughty, Johnny. Keeping things from your master."

The tightening of his jaw wasn't part of his attempt to blend in as a normal civilian. "Sherlock isn't my 'master,' he's my flatmate."

"Whatever helps you cope, Johnny-boy." the criminal replied with a deceptively innocent look. "Master, flatmate, you still haven't said a word. Why is that, I wonder?"

"Yes, why wouldn't I tell Sherlock that his enemy saved my life?" John scoffed, eyes narrowed as he glared at Moriarty who seemed to find the gesture amusing.

"That's what I've been asking myself," Moriarty agreed, now leaning forward to stare right into John's face. Eyes searching for something. John looked back, unflinching as he did so. He was allowed to while still maintaining his mask as he and others could claim it was from his supposed army training. If anything good had come out of his time in Afghanistan, it was definitely his ability to say he was an ex-soldier, wounded in action, etc. It helped give him a nonthreatening air which was more than welcome. It also meant he could allow some of his real self to slip into his mask which helped make everything all that more believable.

"Moving on, then." Moriarty eventually said after the server had returned to clear their plates and leave again. "The Markstein case. What do you know?" Here it was. The main point where John needed to be a bit more careful. He'd practically given himself away by revealing that he knew anything about the case at all.

The Markstein murders had occurred within the previous week, and since then it had caused a bit of an uproar in London. The victims were Richard and Travis Markstein, brothers who ran a rather successful business that had been on the verge of expanding. The problem, however, was that the brothers were investors as well. With the money they made, they used the excess to fund some very powerful people and organizations that were less than legal. That wasn't bit wasn't public knowledge. Sherlock was close to getting to the right conclusion in that area, but John was already well aware. While the rest of London believed the brothers had been savagely and brutally murdered for no reason other than their success, the true reason was that the brothers stopped investing. One of them eventually found out that they were funding murderers, gangs, etc. They pulled back and cut funding, and said people threatened to kill them if they didn't start the funds up again. When one of the groups grew tired of waiting, John was contacted.

It had been a simple contract, really. Two bullets fired from his rifle from a flat he'd broken into, and both brothers were dead with the backs of their heads blown out across the London street. Broad daylight. He'd been reluctant to do so, but it was part of the contract. The result was being unable to clean up the mess of the bodies and for several phones to be whipped out to call '999'. Sherlock was called nearly an hour later as John finished removing the gunshot residue and slipped back into his façade as a companionable doctor. It stood to reason why John would know about the murders. He'd been their killer, after all.

"They-"

_Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Stayin' alive! Stayin' alive!_

John blinked as the overly loud ringtone interrupted him. For a moment the criminal across from him refused to so much as acknowledge the sound, but once it was clear that the caller was determined an irritated sigh slipped from Moriarty's lips. The consulting criminal answered the phone, and John was soon a witness to half of a conversation.

"What is it?...Shut up, and tell me _when_…No, don't touch anything- Give me a moment." Moriarty glanced up at John, expression having grown increasingly darker the longer he remained on the phone…which he had moved to his shoulder as he regarded John.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut our date short. I'll see you around, Johnny-boy." With that the criminal was smoothly standing and putting the phone to his ear. "If you touch _anything_ I will cut off-" Moriarty disappeared out of the private booth before the assassin could hear the rest of the criminal's threat. John relaxed back into his seat as he stared at where Moriarty had disappeared and left him. He was more than thankful to have the ordeal over and done with, but he wasn't so naïve as to believe that he wouldn't be called on by Moriarty again. He'd peaked the man's interest, and he'd already seen how that went for a person in the case of Sherlock. It would be full of pain, and fear, and paranoia…and danger, and adrenaline, and _challenges_. A bit of a smirk twitched onto the assassin's lips. He was one of the best in his profession. Challenges were few and far between, and he was dying to have a good challenge. Even if that meant playing the game with Moriarty.

**Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read the fic this far along, and a special thanks to all those who have reviewed! It definitely helps! I've been meaning to mention this in the last chapters but I kept forgetting, but this fic is intended to take a Johniarty direction. If that turns anyone off of this, I'm sorry!**

**Please leave a review and tell me what you think! **

**Have a good day,**

**Reaperess ^_^**


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock Holmes was positively enthralled by the Markstein case. He'd been receiving far too many dull cases from Lestrade and his ilk, so the detective had been honestly surprised and thrilled when this case turned out to be far more interesting than he had originally thought. The two Markstein brothers had been killed in broad daylight in the middle of a busy London street, for one. While he'd expected it to be an open and shut mugging gone wrong when he'd said two men had been shot, Sherlock had been honestly surprised to have to push his way through a crowd of bystanders watching on horrified as the two brother's bodies cooled. He'd made a bit of a quip at John about how he didn't need the doctor to identify the cause of death as brain matter and blood had been splashed and splattered across the streets from the obvious gunshot wounds to the skull. His interest had only grown the longer he had stayed at the scene.

Several things were deduced silently all while simply standing still and just observing. The broad daylight could mean many things, but Sherlock settled on either stupidity or confidence in one's abilities (which could also have meant stupidity). Further thought had Sherlock leaning towards confidence without so much idiocy as at the time there had been no other reported murders of injuries. The killer had managed to hit only his intended victims rather than the bystanders which had been crowded around them. The close proximity of the bodies suggested that they'd both died one right after the other over a short time span as the second one to die hadn't had enough time to attempt fleeing. So there was likely some actual skill involved in the deaths. Proved further when he'd been able to get a ballistics report and find that the men had been killed by a high caliber rifle. Coupled with the fact that the Markstein brothers had been moving up in the world, Sherlock was soon convinced he was on the trail of a professional. A hired killer. A fact that had him actually excited, and the case since his revelation had taken up all of his time.

Hired professionals understood the importance of cleaning up any and all evidence they could. They were normally at least halfway intelligent, dangerous, and hard to catch. As it were, Sherlock was determined to find this one. He hadn't informed John, or Lestrade for that matter, that he believed that they had a hired gun on their hands. John would likely become cross about his desire to continue working the case. The doctor would say it was too dangerous to go after someone that made a living off of killing, and that he should leave the task of finding the killer to Lestrade and the Yard. He had no intention of giving up the case now that he'd made a few breakthroughs, had become interested and enthralled. He couldn't afford to risk Lestrade taking him off it because John believed it was too 'dangerous.' So he said nothing, and he allowed John and the Yarders to believe they were looking for a run-of-the-mill murderer. By the time Lestrade figured it out for himself it would be too late and Sherlock would already be too involved to have him thrown off the case.

Sherlock was going over the facts and the evidence he _did_ have when John returned home from his date. The detective glanced up from his thoughts to look the man over for a few seconds. He'd come home, so that meant it was either the first date or the other hadn't been able to invite the doctor over…Possibly both? It wasn't that they'd disliked each other, or at least that John had disliked her, as the doctor was obviously in a decent enough mood. Sherlock might even go so far as to say the man was content as an easy kind of smile was on the other's lips while the detective's pulled into a scowl. John finding a woman to date for an extended period meant that the doctor would attempt to go on dates more often rather than aiding with the cases they took. Something that Sherlock had never thought would be an issue, but he did find John's help on cases helpful as every so often the other would have good insight, or his medical skills would be of good use. Sherlock wiped the brief scowl from his face to settle with a more neutral expression.

"You're date went well, I assume." The detective stated, and John glanced at him as he shrugged out of his coat and set it aside.

"It was alright," John said as he started towards the stairs, but Sherlock's eyes narrowed a bit at the movement. To anyone else nothing would seem out of place, but the detective prided himself on his observation skills and he knew the doctor's normal routine. Normally infallible. John going up the stairs, presumably to his bedroom, was a break in the routine Sherlock had long since filed away in his mind palace. After every date John came home from the doctor would go to the kitchen and get some tea before doing anything else. This included the times when John returned at odd hours of the night or early morning, and even if his feet were practically dragging against the ground form tiredness. Tea, then he'd carry on. This difference was glaring Sherlock right in the face as he analyzed the possible reasons behind it. In the end, the detective let the matter go as John was surely just thinking of other things…It was just tea, after all. What was so devious about not getting tea? A low chuckle slipped out as Sherlock relaxed again and went back to thinking over the Markstein case. There had to be a reason the brothers had been killed other than for their success…It just didn't make sense…

X X X

John moved the floorboard he'd went to earlier once more and set the pistol and its silencer back inside. With the weapon back in its proper place the assassin replaced the board carefully and silently before stripping so he could change into more comfortable clothes. He'd placed his knife on the edge of his bed as he changed, having not put that back. Once finished he grabbed the decently sized blade before slipping it beneath his pillow as he crawled into the bed. There would be a lot to do over the next few days. With Sherlock actively trying to solve the Markstein case he'd need to be alert for anything incriminating that could put the man on the right track, as well as try and find someone he could frame. He doubted that the conversation that resulted from Sherlock figuring out that he'd been living with an assassin for so long would be a pleasant one. Especially is Big Brother found out about it. The assassin actually grimaced at the thought of Mycroft becoming involved. The first time he'd met the elder Holmes John had thought he had finally been caught. With the black cars, clearly government. He'd assassinated some allies of Mycroft's in the past after all. Before he'd even known about the Holmes brothers of course, but nevertheless he'd caused the deaths of a few high ranking politicians. Since then he'd been a bit more careful of which political contracts he took.

There was also the newfound interest Moriarty now had in him. If Sherlock found about that as well there would be even more issues. If only because he'd likely have security on John increased and the assassin really didn't need that when he could get a call with a contract at all hours of the day…which was yet another issue added to the situation he was now in. It was rare for him to go more than a week without a contract, and his latest one had been the Markstein brothers which had happened six days ago. He was expecting someone to contact him soon.

X X X

John was in the sitting room the next day with some tea and his laptop when Sherlock came bursting into the room in full regalia. Belstaff already on and scarf in the process of being wrapped around his neck. The detective had an expression on his face that John had long since categorized as the silent way to express that 'The Game is on!' The detective whirled to look at John, coat billowing out dramatically as he did so.

"Come along, John. We've a murderer to catch." The man said, eyes positively on fire with excitement and adrenaline that John only saw when Sherlock was convinced he'd finally gotten a lead. Considering the case they were on, John was on his feet and grabbing his coat quickly and following after Sherlock onto the street. There wasn't really a need for a cab, so after a few failed attempts at catching one they ended up walking towards their destination. John instinctively knew what was in the direction they were heading. The scene of the Markstein murders. He played ignorant.

"So what have we got?" he questioned, looking to Sherlock. The taller man's stride was longer than John's, but part of the reason the detective was able to move faster was because John allowed it. He took smaller steps and still barely favored his one leg as he did so. Small things that added to his disguise in plain sight. He'd had plenty of time to perfect it.

"I believe I've found where our murderer was when he killed Richard and Travis Markstein." Sherlock answered, flashing a smug smile back at John as he did so.

"What? How? Lestrade's men searched everywhere around the scene." John said, and Sherlock chuckled.

"Really, John? You must know by now that Lestrade doesn't _observe_." The detective replied, "I worked out the trajectory the bullets must have travelled to reach their targets. Based on the information the bullets came from a higher position-Obvious as we already knew the killer used a high powered rifle-and there are only so many buildings within the area that the bullet could have come from. This one being the most appropriate option." Sherlock stopped in front of a building across the street from where the Markstein brother's had been murdered with a triumphant air. The man was brilliant. One of the most brilliant and intelligent men that John had ever met, and he'd met fairly intelligent people in his line of work. Sometimes, like now, John didn't always appreciate Sherlock's skills and intelligence.

"Alright then," John said, "How do you plan to get in, then?"

By picking the lock, it seemed. They headed up into the building, and after a few wrong choices they came to the door of the flat John had been in when pulling the trigger to kill the brothers. Sherlock stepped inside smoothly before immediately going over the room. John instantly saw what Sherlock eventually would once his methodical sweep reached the appropriate places. The subtle sign of chipped pain and wood on the window sill. The recoil of the rifle had damaged it, but John hadn't been able to fix it or try to cover it up. He'd been on a time crunch as he'd know Sherlock would be called in on murders like this. He also couldn't afford to linger in the area with a sniper rifle. If that didn't raise a red flag he didn't know what would.

As Sherlock moved on to the window sill and was soon looking over the damages John spotted something in the corner of the room and his heart rate actually accelerated as he mentally berated himself. It might as well have been amateur hour. The shells from his rifle were in the corner. Waiting to be noticed and picked up. Likely holding traces of his DNA or fingerprints despite the fact he'd worn gloves. It was hard to tell whether or not there was evidence on the things, but there of course was ways to counteract this. He just needed to be subtle. He could handle that…Right?

While Sherlock was occupied, John crept towards the shell casings. His stance changed so he could move quickly yet silently towards his target. He was soon kneeling down and snatching the shells from their place before standing smoothly and slipping back into the stance of the 'doctor.' A hand slipped into his pocket to deposit the evidence just as Sherlock looked up.

"Little mistakes. It's always the little mistakes that ruin these people. This is definitely from the rifle used in the murders…" Sherlock said with, smirking as he did so before glancing around the room again with a critical eye. "Everything else seems to have been rid of evidence however…even took the shell casings… You're a clever one aren't you," With that last softer addition, Sherlock stood to gaze out the window down where the crime scene had been. Deep in thought. John slipped his hand back out of his pocket to leave the evidence buried within. Safe from Sherlock's attention.

Thanks again for the reviews left! They really do help and motivate me, and I appreciate them immensely.

Have a good rest of your day, or night

Reaperess ^_^


	5. Chapter 5

Jim liked to keep a calm composure when dealing with matters head on that caused a certain spark of anger to form. The calmer he was, the more he should be avoided. Those that had worked for him for an extended period of time understood this. Understood the difference between calm, and composure. Sebastian Moran knew especially, but he didn't have the luxury of avoiding Jim at the moment.

"Sebby, darling, I told you to take them out _cleanly_." Jim said, voice even and collected until he slipped and hissed the last word.

"They had more security than we were expecting," Sebastian defended, and Jim's dark eyes narrowed dangerously. If the mercenary hadn't been working for him for as long as he had, and if he wasn't the best sniper that was at his disposal, then Sebastian Moran would be dead. Jim would have even killed the man himself because of the _mess_ that had been created due to the sniper.

" They were his _sons_." Jim snapped, then took a breath to calm himself. It should have been simple. The consulting criminal didn't control _all_ of the criminal underworld. Just most of it. Those that weren't under his thumb provided problems for obvious reasons. When he was pulling the strings for so many organizations of schemes he didn't want some third factor to come in and ruin the planning he'd done or steal the markets he'd created. Taking out the nuances was much preferable, and normally there were no issues. Of course Sebastian would be the one to finally miss something.

The man wasn't unintelligent. Jim knew that. The problem was that he was far too confident in his abilities at times because he was such an excellent sniper, and the result was rushing into things rather than making sure that the information given to him was right. In this case, it had ended with three of Jim's other snipers dead and Sebastian barely making it out with only a scratch or two. The sons of the drug lord he'd been after were dead, but rather than being able to make a clean getaway a fire fight had broken out. The criminal was just grateful for small mercies as the incident had occurred outside the country so he wouldn't have the Holmes brothers bearing down on him. Not quite yet, anyway. The real problem was that Sebastian had been seen and identified rather than remaining a faceless shadow. With his children dead, Jim fully expected retaliation against the mercenary as revenge and if he were honest the criminal didn't feel like going through the effort to protect Sebastian. It had been the man's own fault…but now that he was down three snipers it was far better to keep his best one out of harm's way. ..For the sake of business.

"Stay at your flat, and don't show your face to the nice CCTV cameras so the Iceman doesn't point anyone in your direction." Jim ordered. The elder Holmes was not above consorting with criminals if it meant striking a blow at Moriarty. A fact that was amusing until it actually became a bit of an annoyance.

"Got it, Boss." Sebastian said, and Jim dismissed him with a glare. Now that he was left alone in one of his many flats he leaned back in his chair where he sat at his desk. A hand moved to run through his dark hair as he thought. He really needed to find someone to replace Sebastian.

* * *

They hadn't lingered in the flat for too long as Sherlock seemed satisfied with what he'd been able to gather. He went so far as to contact Lestrade via text to inform the DI of the location before they were off again. The detective silent as he presumably worked through the small bits and pieces of evidence he'd found. Meanwhile, the shell casings from the assassin's rifle were burning a hole in John's pocket. He already had plans for them, of course. Now that he had the things he planned to wipe them down carefully and use them to plant somewhere else later. He didn't normally frame anyone for his assassinations, but considering the fact that Sherlock was on the hunt and he still had Moriarty to deal with…

Halfway back to the flat John's phone went off. It seemed like his day was getting better and better. As if he didn't have enough on his plate already, but he'd been expecting _someone_ to call with a contract sooner or later. As it were, John had to admit that he might actually need a contract to calm himself. Interesting really, as most people wouldn't find killing people calming.

"Give me a minute, Sherlock?" John questioned as he pulled out his phone, checking the number briefly to see if he recognized it. He wasn't really worried about the call being traced. Sherlock had tampered with it at one point to ensure that Mycroft couldn't listen in on any calls he made, unknowingly aiding the assassin as he did so. Thankfully John had been given enough warning at the time to remove the small implant in the phone he'd cashed in a favor for. It made pinpointing his location near impossible thanks to some software that was military grade. Experimental, highly classified, and completely and utterly alive in the black market already.

When Sherlock paused to give John an almost irritated look-he'd interrupted the detective's thoughts-the assassin waved a hand for the man to just keep going. "I'll catch up." He said before walking in the opposite direction. Once he was far enough away to be able to speak he slid his thumb over the screen of his phone to answer the call.

"What do you need?" he questioned, and compared to how he'd spoken with Sherlock there was a large difference in tone and inflection. Now there was little friendly warmth and companionship. It was cold. Business-like. He almost sounded like a different person as he spoke lowly into the receiver, and through the medium of the phone the person on the other end would probably be unable to recognize it. Even if that person were to know him well, or at least well enough to recognize his voice.

"There's a man that I need killed," the other said, a man by the sound of it but-thankfully-no one John knew like, say, Moriarty. "His name's Sebastian Moran."

**So…This is what happens when I have time and I get a bunch of reviews! Two updates in the same day! This was bugging me all day so I'm sorry for the poor quality but I really needed to get this out. **

**I'm throwing our favorite consulting criminal back into the mix again, and don't worry, still Johniarty.**

**Oh the drama.**

**Have a good day!**

**Reaperess ^_^**


	6. Chapter 6

Sebastian Moran. Apparently a mercenary and hired gun who had excellent sniping abilities. The man had been a Colonel before being dishonorably discharged as well, and that told John that the contract would certainly be a bit of a challenge. A man with a military background would know how to fight, especially if said man was also a mercenary. The contract was revenge based. John could tell just from how the man who'd given it to him spoke and what had been disclosed over the phone. Something had certainly happened to put a target on Moran's back. Something worth the high price the contractor had been willing to pay without John even saying a word about what payment he was willing to work for.

The assassin had returned to the flat once the near ten minute phone call was over. Sherlock had been busy with the case and that had left John able to take his laptop and go up to his room. He started to work immediately. He had a few checks with some of his contacts to see if they'd heard anything about Moran, but other than confirming that the man was in London there were few helpful leads. Unsurprising, as anyone who had just had a bad encounter like Moran apparently had would go to ground and try to wait until everything blew over. That just meant John would have to track the man down and work towards finding where he was hiding out. He had plenty of time anyway. The contract didn't have a specific time frame as the contractor hadn't wanted John to rush and miss an opportunity. He was patient enough to wait and allow the assassin to do carry out the contract to the best of his ability. Further proof that Moran had done something worthy of revenge.

The process was slow and unyielding for the first hour, and while John would have loved to spend all day in his room trying to find Moran he knew better. Sherlock would eventually wonder why he was staying in his room rather than spending time in the sitting room with him, or helping with the case. He'd work more at night when Sherlock thought he was sleeping. So long as he was quiet it wouldn't arouse attention to himself, and if he _was_ too loud he'd blame it on a dream from the war or something similar. It wouldn't be the first time he'd used the excuse.

When John had made his way downstairs, having cleared the memory from his laptop, he found Sherlock bent over a microscope in the kitchen. Knowing better than to disturb the detective, John settled in his chair and reached for the paper. The Markstein brothers were still front page material it seemed as a benefit was being run to aid their families (even as they took over an expanding business) finically.

"I'll be attending the event," Sherlock drawled lazily, and John looked up to find the detective peering at him from over the microscope. "I'll need you with me."

John blinked. "Why are you going there in the first place?"

"I want to find out who would have motive to kill the brothers, of course. Really, John? Do think it through. If they truly were killed for monetary reasons, the person who hired their killer will likely be at the benefit. If, by the end of the night, I have no suitable leads, then I'll know that something else was going on between the Marksteins." Sherlock explained with an eye roll.

"Sherlock…I really can't." John sighed after a moment. "I've got another date tonight…and-"

"If you're that adamant just bring your _date_ to the event. I'm sure she'll love it." Sherlock replied, interrupting John as he turned back to his microscope. John scowled in response. Wonderful. He didn't need this complicating things. John debated silently if he should risk giving some information –discretely- that would push Sherlock towards the right conclusions about the contractors. It was favorable to having to try and find a date, and putting too much of a fight would arouse suspicion…He wanted Sherlock to 'solve' the case as soon as possible so he wouldn't have to worry about the man inadvertently hunting him anymore. There was still the issue of who he'd frame for the murders of course, but he'd need to find someone actually capable of the shots. That would take some digging, and he honestly had less time than he did previously to find a suitable candidate.

"I don't think that sh-" The assassin's phone went off. Actually confused enough that he didn't need to feign it, John reached into his pocket to take it out. Seconds later, having read the text, he was up on his feet and headed upstairs to grab his coat –and knife- before rushing to the door and grabbing the keys to the flat. "Sorry, Sherlock. Sarah says the clinics booked, they need another doctor."

"John-"

"It's the _clinic_, Sherlock." John argued, cutting off the detective mid-protest. "I'm sorry, I'll try to get back as soon as I can, alright?"

A pause as John opened the door. "Have I done something, Dr. Watson?" The assassin froze in the doorway before turning around. Sherlock had gone so far as to stand and walk from his position in the kitchen to the sitting room to watch John. If the man didn't know the detective better, he'd say Sherlock actually looked a bit hurt…Oh.

"No. God no. Where did you get that idea from?" John questioned, giving Sherlock a concerned look. The taller man simply returned the look with a not-quite-neutral-enough one of his own.

"You've been running off far more than per usual." Sherlock stated in the same tone used when ready to go into one of his drawn out deductions. "You've been avoiding myself –spending and abnormally long amount of time in your room—, you've hardly been active in this case beyond out initial investigations, and you're seeking excuses to avoid accompanying me to this event for the case…I repeat, have I done something to upset you? If I have I feel the need to know what it was-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted, taking a small step towards the rambling detective as he interrupted him. "Its fine. You haven't _done_ anything. I've just had a lot going on lately, and I…really just don't want to be around more stress and blood right now." Silence stretched between the two of them, and John started to wonder if he was in the clear of if this was just a calm before the storm. Then,

"Of course…Yes. This is near the anniversary of your near fatal wound, of course. How idiotic of me not to notice." Sherlock said, and John swore for a moment there was a flicker of relief before it gave way to frustration as he added. "There's always something."

John smiled a bit despite himself. "Yeah…Look, I'm sorry, I just need a bit of time away from…a case like this." He hadn't even realized that he was coming up on that 'anniversary', as Sherlock had put it. Now that he thought though, the detective was right. It was a bit of a relief to John himself as any behavior for the next few days could be excused as nerves. As far as anyone else knew, after all, he'd been scarred physically and emotionally by the trauma of nearly dying…While he had been scarred the emotional damage was no worse than what was already wrong with him. He wasn't as damaged as some, like Sherlock, could be lead to believe. It worked to his advantage, however, to play it up.

"Understandable. The similar circumstances would make things…difficult for one in your situation." Sherlock agreed, and he shot an almost smile at the assassin. "Give my regards to Sarah?" John actually laughed at that, and a deep chuckle slipped from Sherlock as well. Both of them knew that Sarah absolutely hated the detective with a burning passion…funny that no one had realized she'd disappeared off the map once done convincing Sherlock that John actually worked at a clinic at all. It was one of his more thought-out and carefully executed covers.

"I'll be back later, yeah?" John said, and Sherlock nodded. He'd slipped back into his normal attitude again.

"Of course. I'll text you should the need arise." The detective replied before slipping back into the kitchen. Presumably to carry on with what he'd been doing before their conversation. John turned and continued on his previous path to leave. He closed the door and headed down the stairs and out on to the London streets. He was free for a few days then…which was good considering the text he'd just gotten.

It wasn't from Sarah. 'Sarah' was long gone now that her job was done. One of his contacts had gotten back to him on Moran. The man wasn't very good at sitting in once place and laying low…which was surprising considering that the former _Colonel_ was a _sniper_. Sniping took patience and precision. Lack one of the skills and a sniper normally didn't last very long, but apparently Moran was above average in the area of precision so he'd probably gotten away with it for most things. Until now, of course. Word traveled fast in the underground, and the mercenary speaking to someone, who spoke to someone else, who was overheard, who spread it, then it made its way to John and his contact. While he'd already known that Moran was in London, he hadn't known _where_. Now he had a fairly decent idea. A stretch of not-quite-run-down flats, but not the place one would necessarily think to go if they were looking for a successful mercenary. John had some work to do.

After a few blocks of walking the assassin swung a right into an alley. He knew his way around by now, and it was a quick trip out to the alley behind the flat. Narrow and dark, John had the perfect opportunity here. A pipe led down from the gutters to let the water from rain flow out, and John had long since tested the sturdiness of it. Mrs. Hudson had gotten the thing refitted to the wall to make sure it didn't fall, and that had been an excellent advantage for John. After a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, the assassin grabbed onto the pipe and hauled himself up. The supports that bolted the pipe to the wall served as footholds as John scaled it. It took him far less time now than it had the first few times he'd tried. He'd hence learned the right footholds and handholds to use and what not to. When he reached his second floor window he quickly peered inside to see if everything was clear before slowly sliding the window open. The assassin gripped the window sill and hauled himself up and over it to slip into his room.

The flat was silent, but he knew Sherlock was likely still downstairs. With that in mind, he moved quietly through his room as he quickly changed. Clothes that wouldn't make him stand out as much as a wool jumper, yet easy to maneuver in. As he already had a knife he grabbed a pistol and silencer before concealing it. The last touch was to shrug his jacket on again and move to the window after a quick check that everything was in its proper place. Once satisfied, the assassin was out the window and closing it softly behind him. Descending the pipe was quicker than the other way around, so he reached the ground and was off and headed in the direction of Moran's flat in less time than it had taken to get up the pipe.

* * *

It was late. The sun had set to leave London in darkness, and John had already texted Sherlock to tell him he'd be out later than he'd thought because the clinic was still up to its neck in patients and they'd still have to work with paperwork afterwards as they'd gotten behind. Naturally, Sherlock hadn't doubted a word as John had given the man no reason to. With that possible distraction eliminated, John had tucked his phone away and slipped forward towards the flat he knew Moran was hiding out in. All the lights were off from what he could tell from outside, but that didn't mean that the mercenary wouldn't be awake.

John picked the lock easily enough and was soon slipping into the flat. As he'd thought the entire flat was dark and silent. There were signs that it was lived in, but no signs of the person doing the living being present. The assassin moved almost silently as he scanned the rooms he went into. Looking for his target. When he reached the sitting room the barely audible click of a gun being cocked seemed to echo in the silence…from behind John.

The assassin spun around and ducked low and to the side even as a hand shot out to make contact with the wrist of the man holding the gun aimed at his head. It went off, and a brief flash of light from the discharge illuminated both their faces for a brief second. Both blondes glared at each other in that short flash, too quick to distinguish anything other than the fact they were the same sex and intent on killing each other. Moran –at least he assumed it was Moran – was taller than John, but that didn't intimidate the assassin. It lead him to twist the mercenary's wrist to a painful angle to distract the man so John could move in close and sweep Moran's legs out from under him. The larger man dropped to the ground as John maneuvered so he was holding onto the other's arm with the gun. He twisted viciously to force his fingers to release the weapon and John emptied it of the clip and tossed the gun away. His movements were clean and efficient.

Moran kicked up a leg as he rolled towards John. The leg hooked around John's right knee and he was thrown off balance by the move. The assassin hit the ground and his bad shoulder connected painfully with the floor. His only indication of pain was a grunt, but that seemed to be enough for Moran as the man was soon looking to straddle him. Fingers closed around his neck as the man sought to strangle John…and that was sad wasn't it? John wasn't an amateur, and only an amateur would be stupid enough to be killed like that. The assassin got his legs beneath him and used them to help propel his hips upwards to fling the sniper up and over his head. John took in deep breaths as soon as he was able and he rolled to his feet. Moran had done the same, and they were left to watch the other in the darkness of the flat. Each gauging the other and what they'd do or try next.

The glow of a cell phone appeared in Moran's hand . Calling for help then. That meant John was on a time crunch. The assassin pulled out his pistol and fired, but the other man had been ducking out of the way once he recognized the familiar movement. The cry of pain suggested that he'd at least clipped the mercenary, however. John moved quickly as he tried to find the man in the darkness. A small scuffle and the assassin whirled as his finger pulled back the trigger. No cries of pain, but he had a feeling that he'd been close. Then the room was flooded with light and John saw spots as his eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden change. He had to shield his eyes momentarily, and in those seconds he was being rushed by Moran. The other man grabbing his gun arm and pushing it off and out of the way as John squeezed off another silenced round. When he looked again he saw Moran properly. Tall, rugged, blond. What he'd been expecting…were it not for how the other's eyes widened at the full sight of John himself.

"John _Watson_?" the mercenary said, incredulous. In a combination of dislike of having his name known and seeing a distraction, John drove a fist into the other's jaw roughly. Moran stumbled a bit and John followed up the blow with a knee to the gut and an elbow to the face. The mercenary went down, the assassin was quick to move over him with the barrel of the gun trained on the man's head. Moran looked up from his position, still wide-eyed, as John's expression remained cold and professional.

There was a difference between John when allowed to act as his assassin self. John now stood straighter, the subtle slouch he normally walked with having straightened to make him look more confident. His posture suggested a greater understanding of poise and grace than before, and even when he moved his movements were precise and well balanced. Like a predator. His eyes darkened and lost the warmth and affection others were used to seeing, and overall John was far more deadlier and serious. The shift between 'doctor' to the assassin underneath would be full of subtle but meaningful changes had someone been there to witness it when it happened, but the next best thing came bursting through the doors.

Several guns were trained on John as he looked up from Moran. The mercenary didn't dare move from his spot, and that left the assassin with the ability to look over the new factor that had been thrown in. The people holding the guns, three in all, looked ready to shoot if John even thought to pull the trigger. He watched them with the same expression, weighing the odds of being able to take them out before they could shoot him…Then the last, and most important, curve ball walked into the room…and promptly froze. Actual surprise coloring his expression before it gave way to a psychopathic grin.

"You _are_ naughty, aren't you Johnny-boy." Moriarty purred.

**Longest chapter yet! Yay! I really love the reviews I've been getting, thank you so much **** So, the drama just stepped up a bit, didn't it?**

**Have a good day, and leave a review!**

**Reaperess ^_^**


	7. Chapter 7

Being found out was never an ideal situation for an assassin. Especially one like John who had plenty of enemies as his careful construction of a separate civilian life kept overly interested parties (like the Russians) off his back. Having _James Moriarty_ know the truth of his profession was even less of an ideal situation. Proven as dark eyes raked over his stance, his clothes, the pistol aimed at Moran's head all while a feral grin split the consulting criminals lips. Assessing John with a new perspective as the mask he wore was stripped bare to reveal was what really underneath.

"It seems you're full of surprises," Moriarty said as he walked forward idly with his hands shoved in his pockets. "The Russians then?"

"Not on the best of terms with the Mob," John drawled, not bothering to hide anything. There really wasn't a point when he was practically caught red-handed. "Thanks for the help, by the way."

"Hmm…I couldn't let Sherlock's pet die when he was starting to be _interesting_." The criminal paused his approach when he was standing next to the three guns he had in the room. "I'm glad I decided to be so charitable…You're far more interesting than I'd thought, Johnny."

John had one of the four guns in room…five if counting the one he'd tossed away after empting it of its clip. Of the fully functional ones though, three were trained on him and the fourth was steadily aiming at Moran. That, of course, could be readily changed so that Moriarty was its target. Doing so would be suicide, however, as he honestly doubted that the three guards aiming at him would tolerate the assassin threatening their boss with his pistol.

"Yeah, well that was kind of the point." John replied, and Moriarty's grin grew a bit wider at the words. "Moran works for you, then?"

"I'm sure you remember him," Moriarty said."He was the laser sight _right_ between Sherlock's eyes when we _all _met." John's lips twitched ever so slightly downwards. The Pool then. That whole night hadn't been one of John's shining moments. He'd been jumped right outside of their flat and drugged for one. That had been embarrassing, but in his defense he hadn't really been expecting anything like that to happen for once. Being strapped to a vest wired to bombs hadn't been much of an improvement either, and now he knew the reason that he hadn't been able to snap the criminal's neck when he had the chance…beside the obvious 'Sherlock would have questioned his motives.'

"Speaking of our favorite detective, I do assume he's clueless?" Moriarty added, raising an eyebrow at John.

"Of course he is." John said, and through their conversation none of the guns trained on their targets had wavered. Even as they spoke as if it were just the two of them having a nice chat.

"You never did tell me about the Markstein brothers." Moriarty reminded, voice taking on a singsong quality.

"I'm sure you can guess why," the assassin said, raising an eyebrow at the man.

"Of course I can, but it'd be so much more _fun_ if you said it." Moriarty pressed, smirking.

John pursed his lips. "I'm the one that killed them. Wasn't too bad of a contract, really."

"A contract killer, then." Moriarty beamed, eyes lighting up with the revelation. "Oh Johnny, you're not even some boring mercenary, you're an _assassin_." Out of the corner of his eye John could see Moran's expression twist into a scowl. Obviously displeased with that bit. The man looked ready to either say something or act, but a cold glare from John ceased those movements though the mercenary was returning the look. Moriarty laughed darkly at the two of them.

"As much as I'd love to see you two wring each other's necks, I really do need Sebby in good condition." the criminal hummed. "If you'd be kind enough to lower you're weapon, Johnny, we can continue this chat somewhere a bit _nicer_." Even as it sounded like a friendly request, John was very well aware that it was anything but. The only 'friendly' aspect was the promise to actually talk…Which wasn't necessarily a surprise considering their last attempt at conversation had been interrupted and there were new things for Moriarty to learn and pick at. While John would have preferred to put a bullet in the mercenary's head, he slowly stepped away and lowered his gun. Much to Moriarty's delight as he waved at one of his guards to go and collect Moran. The sniper was hauled to his feet and taken out of the flat, another wave and the other two guards were following. John raised an eyebrow.

"Any requests or recommendations on the change of scenery?" Moriarty questioned with an innocent hum, and the assassin chuckled despite himself.

"Not really, no." he answered with a bit of a smirk, outwardly more at ease than he really was. "Looks like it's your turn to surprise me."

"Ooh…Sounds like a challenge, Johnny-boy." Moriarty replied, smirking. "Best be going then, don't want to waste anymore time now, do we?" With that the criminal was turning on his heel, obviously expecting the assassin to follow after him. John tucked his pistol away after a brief debate over whether or not it would be a good idea to shoot the man or not, then followed. Catching up with Moriarty easily, and he didn't miss the pleased smirk that twitched onto the other's lips.

**So yeah…This was horrible to write, and I'm sorry for poor quality XP Everyone that reads this may thank one of my close friends for kicking me into gear to work through the threat of Writer's Block.**

**Have a good day,**

**Reaperess ^_^**


	8. Chapter 8

They ended up in a restaurant similar in class and quality to the first Moriarty had taken them, but different in other aspects. This one seeming to have more of a flair for more Indian cuisine…which John wasn't complaining about. As before, Moriarty had a private booth for the two of them which he received with little trouble or fuss. The criminal throwing an almost smug smirk at the assassin as they were seated, their sever going off with their drink orders. John didn't correct the other this time when he asked for two scotches.

"How have you been since our last chat, Johnny?" Moriarty asked, tone pleasant and warm. John knew the other well enough not to take that at face value.

"Well I haven't had anyone try to kill me yet," John replied, and he didn't even try to retain the persona of the 'doctor.' While there were certain aspects of his personality that were in the mask he wore for the benefit of the civilian population, the vast majority of that was nothing but an act. The sense of morality that Sherlock often grew irritated with? Obviously that was a bit toned down considering John didn't loathe his profession. An assassin that hated what they did for a living didn't last very long, and weren't nearly as effective as someone that took some pride into their work. John would be lying if he didn't get a bit of an adrenaline rush from ending another's life. Being the one to cut short their existence with a simple pull of a trigger or slash of a knife. It was the addiction to danger that he'd been unable to hide even when wearing the mask of the 'doctor.' The one that made his hand shake and tremble when there wasn't enough _excitement_. If only Mycroft Holmes, or even Sherlock, had noticed and made the connection that it was only his trigger hand.

"Darling Sebastian doesn't count?" Moriarty questioned, and John smirked a bit in response.

"Considering that I was just a few seconds short of blowing his brains out, I'd say that I was fine." He said.

"Oh, you're confident aren't you." Moriarty chuckled, leaning forward a bit to regard him. "Just how long have you been taking these contracts?"

"See, if we're going to go through this round of question and answers, let's be fair." John said, eyes flashing a bit. Playfully predatory.

Moriarty laughed openly. "Are you suggesting we take _turns_? Question for question, answer for answer. The thing _ordinary _people do in grade school?" John only hummed innocently in response, eliciting a sigh from the other even as his dark eyes conveyed a bit of interest at the idea. If not a guarded interest.

"Alright, Johnny-boy. We'll see how your little game goes." Moriarty agreed, and the server returned. Leaving John to watch the criminal with an easy smirk while Moriarty watched him, ordering for the two of them without even looking at their server…Nameless to John as he really hadn't been paying that much attention to them.

"Seventeen, eighteen years," John stated once they had regained their privacy. Moriarty's eyebrows rose a fraction as if he hadn't been expecting the information. The man mouthed 'eighteen,' and John nodded in confirmation. He was met with a low whistle.

"Not an amateur then," Moriarty said. "And not a soldier turned killer either." The fact that the criminal seemed a bit awed at the aspect that 'little John Watson' could have actually been more exciting than first believed. That he wasn't a good man that had simply decided he'd liked war a bit more than he should have, but a man that had gone into the profession he now excelled at when he was around eighteen and pushed it further.

"Just how far does your network stretch?" the assassin asked, knowing vaguely that it went all around the world and back again, but wanting a bit more of a clear-cut answer.

"Waste of a question," Moriarty replied, tutting disapprovingly. "I have people _everywhere_. Most of the people I have under my thumb don't even _know_ it. They like to think it's the other way around." Advantage of being a consulting criminal, John supposed. Help others get what they needed done all while steadily gaining control over everything behind the curtain while the 'front runners' still believed they had any power left.

"What was your first contract?" the criminal asked, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

"Taking out a few witnesses for a drug lord," John answered with a shrug. "It'd be boring now, but it was my first contract so it was alright at the time…What about you? What was your first 'job.'"

"My first effort as a consulting criminal wasn't really all that 'official' so to speak. Carl Powers was the first, and it grew from there." Moriarty answered, then moved on with little elaboration. "Why are the Russians _so_ interested in you, Johnny-boy?"

"I took a contract where I had to kill a few of the more important Mob bosses off, and they haven't forgotten about it yet." John said, sipping his scotch before giving it an appreciative glance as the pleasant burn slithered down his throat. "They're a bit obsessed…What happened with Carl Powers? Why kill him?"

"Ah! Ah! Ah! That's two questions, isn't it?" Moriarty grinned. "Now I'll get to ask two…Carl Powers was quite the brat. He may have been a good swimmer, but everything else? Not so much. So of course he'd pick on the _freak_ Irish boy that was far more intelligent that the _rest_ of the idiots in the school.

"You see, Johnny , this little Irish boy decided that he didn't like Carl. Not one _bit_. So, he talked with a few of the _other _students around the school that Carl liked to bully, and he asked them to contribute one thing. Some things from a few chemistry students, someone to swipe the locker room keys, someone to get into Carl's locker, someone to take the shoes afterward. No one felt responsible because they were just being _told_ what to do, and the little Irish boy was never linked with any of it when Carl had a fit in the pool.

"You see, Johnny, I've _never_ gotten my hands dirty." Moriarty finished, and the sever was returning with their meals. It gave the assassin some time to collect his thoughts as it were. Sherlock had known _how_ Carl Powers had died, but hadn't been overly concerned with anything afterwards. There wasn't really a point when all he'd needed to know was how he'd died and then they'd been moving on to another puzzle and another person with a bomb strapped to them. Knowing the whole story threw a little bit of perspective into it all.

They ate in silence. Not bothering with anything but eating as it was late, and John was honestly hungry. By the time they'd both finished, John had finished the scotch and moved to water. He wasn't one to drink when he was on a contract…and he was just going to think of this as one considering that Sebastian Moran was still alive and kicking. He'd need to fix that eventually.

"So, Johnny, I think I'll save my questions for a rainy day." Moriarty grinned at him, checking his phone before slipping it into a pocket of the Westwood he was wearing. This time a darker blue color with a complimenting tie. "We have some business to discuss."

**Here you are! Bit better than the last one I suppose, but still not great :-/ **

**Have a good day,**

**Reaperess ^_^**


	9. Chapter 9

"Sherlock?" John called as he walked into the flat. The detective appeared in the sitting room from the kitchen. The man dressed in his housecoat and sweats. The assassin smiled slightly at the sight. He'd slipped back into his expected persona on the walk back to the flat. Not bothering to hail a cab as the air hadn't been too chilly, and he'd needed the time to think.

"Just seeing if you were here," John clarified at the look he was given by Sherlock. "Since you had that event to go to."

"Ah. Yes. Waste of time. The brother's appear to have had a hobby for funding criminals." Sherlock said with a dismissive wave. John had enough sense to blink in surprise. He wasn't suppose to know the information already, after all.

"Sorry, what?" John questioned, walking towards Sherlock and further into the flat. "Criminals?

Sherlock hummed in confirmation. "Yes. I don't believe they were actually aware of where their funding was going, and once they finally figured it out? They did what any sensible, law-abiding citizens would do and cut off funding and threatened to out the criminals."

"So these criminals killed the Marksteins." John concluded with a small nod, and he just barely noticed the slight tightening of the jaw, but dismissed it.

"Yes. Case solved. How was the date?" The detective was moving back into the kitchen as he spoke, and John followed behind a bit slower.

"Good." He answered slowly. "I…actually think I might be sticking with this one for awhile." If Sherlock was displeased with the idea of John having so much interest in another, then the man didn't show it.

"Very well," Sherlock said, looking over one of his experiments. John lingered for a few moments, sensing that something wasn't quite right but not sure what that thing was. Not wanting to appear overly suspicious however, John said his goodnights and headed upstairs. Going through his silent routine of hiding his pistol and slipping his knife beneath his pillow before changing. He slipped into his bed, but he didn't sleep right away…He had a bit too much on his mind.

* * *

_This is how it will work, Johnny. I seem to be short on help because a certain sniper needs to take a bit of a forced holiday. You, however, are plenty skilled enough to do his job for him until then…and let's be honest. We both know you're not going to be doing this _just_ for the money. _

_ Have you ever thought that I don't want to help you? You did strap me to a bomb. I have enough trouble as it is._

* * *

Sherlock had decided that he didn't necessarily _like_ lying to John, but it was a necessity none the less. He had solved the part of the case which involved why the Markstein brother's had been killed, who had hired their killer, and had even turned said people of to Lestrade…or had at least given the man the means to do so. He did not, however, know who the actual killer was. Not yet. For him, the case hadn't quite reached its end. He still had no intentions of informing John that he was hunting a professional killer. Likely a contract killer considering the whole situation, but he wasn't entirely certain yet...If it was a contract killer they would be even more difficult to catch. After all, there would be little tying them to their contractors besides a few texts or phone calls. While it would be worth looking into to just to be thorough, he somehow doubted the killer he was dealing with was so unintelligent as to leave such an obvious trail.

The detective looked up from the experiment he hadn't actually been all too concerned with in favor of glancing at the stairs John had disappeared up. The man certainly had every right to be acting a bit odd lately considering the time that the case had sprung up. The fact he'd forgotten about John's war injuries at all…Stupid. Even for Sherlock who claimed to be a sociopath. It was such a key part to the other's functionality after all. It just furthered his belief that he couldn't tell his flatmate what he was doing. Not yet. Not unless he truly needed his help on the matter of the killer he was now hunting. Until then, he'd allow John the time and space. That was reasonable enough, wasn't it? What a 'friend' would do? Sherlock was smirking a bit at the thought. It was still odd to be able to think of someone as a friend, but it was getting far from tiring. That much was certain.

* * *

_Oh but Johnny, you're still here aren't you? You haven't killed me yet, even though I know who you _really_ are now. There have been plenty of opportunities after all. If you'd have killed me when my guards walked out? You'd have been able to take out all of them afterwards. So why didn't you?_

* * *

John slept on and off. It had been a long time since he'd had a restless night. If anything, he blamed it on the adrenaline still left over from his outing. It certainly hadn't been expected. The outcome having been far from what he'd ever assumed could have happened, and leaving him unsure as to what he should do next. Sherlock had 'solved' the Markstein case, but that didn't seem like Sherlock. To not have gotten to the conclusion that a professional had killed the brothers? Something else was definitely going on, and after getting a (limited) night's sleep it was easier to see that now. He'd need to find someone to take the fall for him. Preferably someone that could actually be convicted and serve as a convincing double for himself. They'd need to be an excellent sniper, for example.

The idea of framing Sebastian Moran wasn't displeasing. The problem? He'd have to get around Moriarty first. The man had made it painfully obvious that Moran was quite the asset to him. Despite the flaws and reckless behavior, even John could admit the mercenary had skill when it came to sniping. The real issue that John was now needing to worry about, on top of everything else, was that Moran was as much an idiot as he was a good sniper. With a vengeful crime lord out for blood, Moran had no choice but to stay underground until the heat passed. Now that John had been found out, he was apparently the next best thing to the mercenary. Considering he was actually capable of being discrete and stealthy among other things, he would hope so. If only it wasn't Moriarty that needed his services.

The assassin eventually got up and made his way to take a shower. Needing the hot water and steam. His body was just a touch sore from his scuffle with Moran, but a smirk twitched to life when he remembered that the other would be in far more pain than him. This was minor at best, and that was all because he'd been the one beating the mercenary. Forcing the other on the defensive for most of their short fight. By the time John was out of the shower, feeling better and more alert, he changed and headed downstairs to find Sherlock sprawled on the sofa. Eyes closed and breathing even. For a moment John figured the man was simply thinking, but it soon became apparent that the detective had actually fallen asleep. Probably while thinking, but after over a week of not allowing himself to sleep it was no surprise that Sherlock's body would have finally protested and forced the other to sleep. A further testament that the man was far more human than others seemed to like to believe. Sherlock himself included in that long list. Using this time to his advantage, however, John prepared some tea and a small breakfast before leaving a note for Sherlock. The day before had been his 'day off,' and now he'd be expected at the clinic for his normal schedule.

When John had left however, he wasn't heading to his normal haunt when on his hours where he was to be at the clinic as far as everyone else knew. No, he was pulling out his phone and glancing at the contact. Thumb hovering over the call button a bit hesitantly before he was hitting the call button.

"What do you need?" he asked once the other line was answered.

* * *

_Its because you _know_ what I can offer, isn't it? I'm far more dangerous than any of the people you've taken your contracts from before, and I can challenge you. Push you. That addiction to danger is driving you, is what keeps you here. I can _see_ that hunger…and you'll call, Johnny-boy. It doesn't matter what's happened before all of this, because all that matters is that you'll be calling and looking for more fun than you've had in _years_._

***Shifts nervously* Hiiiiiiii…..I know I haven't updated for a few days, but that would be because Thor: The Dark World came out and … um … My feels couldn't really handle anymore after seeing that… *Hint, I love Loki for those who have seen it* *Hint, hint, see it if you haven't already…we'll cry together***

**Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this new chapter, I'm pretty sure what I want for the plot at this point, so it's just all up to being able to get that out and into the right words.**

**Have a good day,**

**Reaperess ^_^**


	10. Chapter 10

John was probably enjoying himself a bit too more than the average person should have when slashing a knife across someone's throat and causing a burst of arterial spray to splash across his face. The bright crimson liquid going right along with the grin that split the assassin's lips as adrenaline coursed through his body. He was rarely messy. His kills clean, precise, and executed with a distant professionalism. The Markstein's had been one such example, but he wasn't being contracted for clean kills. This was supposed to be messy. Brutal and gory. Full of emotion and feeling as it was all for a greater reason. Moriarty had his own 'cases' to work on, and his latest one was helping to frame someone's ex-lover or something along those lines. He hadn't really needed to know the exact details behind the contract, just what the contract itself would involve.

And it had involved lots, and lots of violence. John continued on his way as he moved to the next few people. He blocked a clumsy punch, hooked his arm around the other's outstretched one to trap it to his side, before flipping his already blood soaked knife and ramming it into the man's chest. The assassin yanked the blade out again when the spark of life left the nameless man's eyes, more blood getting on his clothes (newly bought just for the purpose of being able to dispose of them afterwards) only to fling the blade down the hall where it imbedded itself into the spine of the last target attempting to run away. John moved and retrieved the weapon and slipped it into a plastic baggy before walking off. Moving to the door of the flat where he'd just killed all the people inside, before slipping off the shoes that were about a size and a half too big and had been tracking bloody footprints everywhere. The purpose being that they would be a match with those of the man being framed. John then carefully took a path around the bodies and blood adorning the once white carpet to retrieve his bag with his own shoes. He placed the one's he'd been wearing into a lager plastic trash bag and stuffed them away before sliding his shoes on and slipping outside. It was dark, and no one was out so he didn't have to worry about being spotted with blood splattered across his face right away. He wasn't necessarily surprised when a black car was waiting outside for him with a very amused criminal consultant leaning against the side of it.

"Hmm…Having fun are we, Johnny?" Moriarty questioned, purposefully looking the other up and down. He looked every bit the murderer that he was suppose to be framing someone else as, but that was probably because he already was. Whether he was bloodied or not.

"It's better than sitting around watching crap telly, I guess." John drawled, shifting his duffle bag a bit. It was clean. He'd made sure of it because he did need to bring that back to the flat unlike the rest of everything currently on his person.

"I would hope so," Moriarty replied, sounding almost offended. "I'm _much _more fun than those afternoon sitcoms!" John chuckled a bit despite himself.

"You've got their dramatics down," he quipped. The criminal, rather than be any form of annoyed at the comment, laughed. The sound madly gleeful. The assassin supposed that it was probably because most people didn't speak to Moriarty in quite the same way he did. They were too scared of the repercussions that might come with it, and while John had a healthy dose of professional respect and caution as the man was like a ticking time-bomb, he didn't shy away from coming right back at him with his own quips and sarcastic comebacks.

"Come along then, Johnny-boy." Moriarty said, pushing off the vehicle and opening the door for John with a bit of a mock bow. The assassin slipped into the car, Moriarty soon joining him once slipping into the other side. The driver was then pulling away, and John was left with little idea of where they were going. The ease with which this worked now was a bit odd considering their past, but Moriarty had made it clear in the beginning that this would have nothing to do with past relations. John hadn't known what to expect of Moriarty, Moriarty hadn't known what John was, and since then they'd gotten their fair share of information on each other. Mainly related to their chosen professions, personal stories were left out of the picture for obvious reasons.

"This is you're fifth contract in just as many days," the criminal was eventually saying as the car rode smoothly through the darkened London streets. "Has business been that slow, or are you just that eager to see me?"

"Both," John replied with an ever challenging, predatory smirk. One that almost always had Moriarty laughing shortly and darkly in return. Probably because most people, even James Moriarty, had grown used to the idea that such an expression would never slip onto the face of one 'ordinary' John Watson.

"Good to know," was all Moriarty said in response. John had been busy with these contracts from the criminal. They'd established early on that John was, in no way shape or form, the man's personal assassin. That once Moran was able to pick up again that John would leave the contracts to the mercenary from then on. The rule, as of late, had been that John would contact the criminal and see if there was any work that needed done (which Moriarty had assured him that there was _always_ work that needed done) and John would do what was needed. The last four contracts, and now this one, had been successful on John's part as well as Moriarty's. It might have even been scary that they worked so well together. John liked the challenge, and if he were deeply honest, being able to work closely with the one giving him the contract in the first place gave him a bit of an advantage as he could ask the questions he needed and make necessary arrangements when needed unlike when the contractors remained faceless voices . Only concerned with the task being completed and being done with John once the assassin's payment was transferred.

When the vehicle stopped John was looking out the window of the vehicle with a touch of confusion. Moriarty was out before him and making it in time to open his door for him as John shouldered his duffle bag and looked to the criminal. The raised eyebrow very clearly asking 'What's going on?'

"_This_, is one of my flats." Moriarty explained, gesturing to the rather nice looking flat they'd stopped before. "Not my primary flat of course, but it's still better than the hole you and Sherlock live in." The criminal shuddered in an over exaggerated display of revulsion before smirking and leading the way up to the door, then into the hall after it was unlocked. What John noticed right away, as he somewhat cautiously entered, was the fact that it was far larger than his and Sherlock's living area. The sitting room itself large and spacious with a nice kitchen set up off to the side with counters and stools. It all looked very modern, yet comfortable. Livable. The criminal threw his arms out and spun a little as if showing off.

"Welcome to my humble abode…Couldn't let you go back to Sherlock covered in gore, now could I? Bathrooms down the hall—" Moriarty pointed to said hall, "—and on the left. Help yourself." With that Moriarty was turning on his heel and walking off. Disappearing into another room off the sitting room and closing the door behind him. The assassin was left to slowly slink off to the bathroom as the man did have a point. He couldn't really go to 221b if he was covered in evidence. He'd planned to figured something out, but this was an offer to alleviate the planning phase.

Five minutes later, having thoroughly washed off all the blood with a knife handy just in case Moriarty decided to try something, he was stepping out to find clothes waiting for him that he hadn't noticed before. Sweats and a tee-shirt that he pulled on despite himself. He picked up the bag which now contained a pair of clothes to change into that he apparently wouldn't need. He walked back out into the main room to see, to his surprise, Moriarty in sleep wear. Nicer looking pajamas than sweats and a shirt, as it were. The criminal looked up when John entered and set the bag down , and he smirked at the assassin.

"Better?" the man questioned with an innocent hum.

"What are you doing?" John replied with his own question.

"Isn't it obvious? You've been telling Sherlock you've been dating the same person for the better part of a week now. This late at night? You'd stay at their flat rather than trying to go home." Moriarty explained with a lazy wave of his hand. "This was the nearest flat and you needed a shower anyway."

"So, what? I'm just going to stay here?" John questioned, making sure he was actually following along. The consulting criminal raised an eyebrow, lips quirking into an amused smirk.

"That's the idea, yes." he hummed. "Afraid there isn't a guest bedroom Johnny-boy, so you'll have to make do with the sofa." With that, the criminal was up and sauntering off again. Leaving John to watch after him in confusion, unsure what he should do.

* * *

After spending a few hours in his study working on the last details of the frame-job John had been so kind as to help with, Jim was emerging from the room to check on the assassin. What he found, to the criminal's actual surprise and delight, was John slumped on one of the sofa's. Obviously having failed in his attempts to fight sleep as there was no doubt that the man hadn't actually _tried_ to sleep in the position he was currently in. Half sitting up and half sprawled out, looking fairly uncomfortable and likely in for a stiff back when he woke up. Jim grinned broadly and softly padded towards the sleeping assassin.

A few careful moves and Jim had the assassin laid out on the sofa in a more prone position on his back. A far more comfortable position to sleep in comparison to how he'd actually drifted off. Once that was settled, Jim fetched a blanket off the back of a chair and draped it over John. The end result being a rather comfortable looking and deeply sleeping assassin curled up on his sofa. Jim couldn't help but find the entire situation both amusing and intriguing as he lingered and watched the gentle rise and fall of John's chest as the man breathed. It would be too easy to kill the man. So vulnerable, so unaware. One quick drag of a knife across the throat, through the heart, or even the use of a bullet would have the deed over and done with before John could even wake in time to stop him. How tempting a thought it was too…and Jim couldn't keep the grin from splitting his lips. This power he'd been unwittingly gifted by John due to his inability to keep his body from shutting down on him was near maddeningly addictive. Making him feel giddy as he hummed softly, dark gaze raking over the other's form openly and taking in every detail.

The news that John had been an assassin, a professional in every sense of the word, had been surprising to Jim. He hadn't expected it. Not in the slightest, and that was both somewhat pleasing as it was keeping him on his toes but also annoying. Annoying as he had missed something so crucial and potentially dangerous about a man that he'd been in close contact with on several occasions. Had kidnapped, had _thought_ he'd learned everything about, and more importantly…was involved with Sherlock Holmes. Jim knew that if he of all people had missed John's true profession as an assassin, then Sherlock was just as if not more clueless than the criminal had been. The amount of faith the detective had in one John Watson was borderline foolish – obviously it was considering that John had turned out to be far more interesting a person than first impressions and appearances indicated. Sherlock was near obsessed with the idea that this one man could be so good and morally sound, yet still have time for him and live with him. Jim wouldn't deny that John might actually care about the friendship he had with Sherlock. Whether it was based on an entirely fake personality of not, John was still one of the few people that appreciated the man's genius. When the game was finally up and John's true nature was revealed, however, that was another game altogether. One that Jim wanted very sorely to be a part of, as he could only _imagine_ what the Iceman would do once he realized that a master assassin had been staying right under his nose and with his precious baby brother. Or even how the detective himself would react. As always, the consulting criminal was holding all the cards as far as this went. The knowledge of John now an asset as he could do _so much with it_…

But for the moment, as Jim watched the sleeping assassin – arguably one of the most deadly men in the world if his past contracts and current evidence was anything to go by – the criminal knew that his greatest asset would be to keep John close. To ensure that he didn't stray too far away from his influence as it would be so much more vital for his ever expanding empire if he could control someone like the man. To have the assassin on call whenever he wanted, rather than the other way around. John Watson was quickly becoming increasingly important. Something that Jim desired to have and use. The ultimate ace in the hole as it were. A wild card that could strike at both Holmes brothers as well as empower himself…but he'd need to be careful with how he played the cards already on the table. It wasn't worth the risk of losing John. Not when he was suddenly very valuable to the consulting criminal. A tool to use.

With this in mind, Jim happily sauntered to his bedroom with a bit of a spring in his step. Humming a soft tune to himself so as not to wake John up. Let sleeping assassins lie and all that. The criminal slipped inside and locked the door behind him. John may have collapsed into sleep from exhaustion, but Jim would not be so careless as to leave himself vulnerable. The assassin's loyalties were still up in the air. A wild card until swayed. Jim was very much intent on being the one who did the swaying.

**Hello! I've finally introduced some more dynamic between Jim and John, and I intend to keep that going. If only you all knew what you were getting into because trust me, things are going to be getting pretty interesting as far as John keeping his little secret goes *evil laughter***

**Have a good day,**

**Reaperess ^_^**


	11. Chapter 11

**_Speaking in Russian_**

* * *

When John woke he noticed right away that something was different. Off. As an assassin he'd long since trained his mind and body to wake and notice differences, to become alert as soon as possible. When there were times when he wasn't sure if he would be waking up with a knife in his gut if he didn't react fast enough it was crucial to be able to wake up swiftly. Find what was out of place. So of course, it was surprising when it took him around five seconds to remember that he wasn't at the Baker Street flat at all, but rather laid out on the sofa of one James Moriarty. That was more than enough to get John to sit up, fully alert as he blinked the sleep from his eyes and tried to focus on his surroundings. First, not only had he somehow ended up sprawled across the sofa without even remembering falling asleep, but he'd also been covered with a rather warm blanket. One that, until he had sat up, had been tightly wrapped around himself and held close in favor of said warmth. Once he moved past these revelations he moved on to the fact that he was even still _alive_. After all, he had fallen asleep. Left himself vulnerable to attack as his body had succumbed to the need to finally rest. He hadn't been idle in his 'civilian' life after all. He still had appearances to upkeep. The only relief he actually had in terms of said part of his days was that Sherlock was busy. Incredibly busy despite the fact that he'd solved the Markstein case –or claimed to have solved it – and currently had no other cases. That simply convinced John further that the man was trying to identify the two Markstein brother's killer. For once, John wanted his intuition to be wrong. Just this once, he wanted it to be wrong as he couldn't have Sherlock finding out who his flatmate really was. John doubted it would go over well. Even for someone who claimed to be a high-functioning sociopath.

At the moment though, John was more focused on his current situation rather than on the one with Sherlock. Having been asleep in what could probably be called hostile territory were he feeling the need to be dramatic. From where he was sitting on the sofa, John had a clear view of the kitchen. The only thing separating the space from the living room being the counters bordering it. Coming from the kitchen was the smell and sound of food cooking, and the most prominent being the unmistakable sizzle of bacon in a pan. When living with a man who rarely ate unless reminded or coaxed into it, bacon was not a staple in the flat. Leaving John both curious and aware of the fact that he was hungry, though the latter was ignored in favor of the fact that it wasn't just anyone cooking what the assassin assumed to be breakfast. James Moriarty looked very much concentrated on his task, but John could here low humming as the criminal worked. John had to blink a few times to ensure that he wasn't seeing things.

When one thought of Moriarty, after all, they didn't think of the domestic side. They didn't think of anyone who would need to eat or sleep, or do anything else so mundane. Even John, who was practically the same only with roles a bit reversed – an alleged doctor and good man who killed people rather than a criminal who killed people and apparently had a minor life beyond that – had never thought to think beyond 'consulting criminal mastermind.' It was very easy to see a monster, or in John's case at least the master criminal the man was, rather than a human. A man who had needs like everyone else. That would bleed red if shot or stabbed. It was a rather sudden and almost unwelcome revelation, really. While John knew better than most the truth behind what was portrayed on the outside, it was far easier to think of Moriarty as anything other than human. It made things simpler. The assassin silently berated himself though, as thinking of things as only black and white was an easy way to get killed. Gray had its place in the world as well.

After a moment, Moriarty having either not seen that he was awake or simply not caring that he was, John stood from the sofa. The blanket falling from him the rest of the way from his body. The assassin moved to the counter separating the spaces and silently slid onto one of the stools there. Getting a clear view of the kitchen space as well as of Moriarty. All that was really missing from the scene was an apron, and the thought of the man in an apron had John's lips quirking into a brief smirk. That would have certainly had the likes of Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes fumbling over themselves as they tried to deduce what nefarious plot could be involved with the criminal wearing an apron, because if John had been surprised by the seemingly obvious fact that Moriarty was human the two Holmes brothers wouldn't be able to comprehend it. Their minds just didn't work like that.

"Good morning, Johnny-boy!" Moriarty greeted eventually as he finished with the bacon and moved on to another pan. This one large and appearing as if it contained what would soon turn into an omelet. There were two. The criminal flashed John a bright, almost _peppy_,smile that had John blinking in surprise. Of course Moriarty would be a morning person…or there was simply something going on that John wasn't aware of. The fact that both were equally possible was a bit unsettling.

"Morning," John returned, watching the other cook and move about the kitchen as if he'd done it all his life. He probably had.

"Did you sleep alright?" Moriarty asked, flashing the assassin a sardonic grin which said that the two of them both knew that John had been extremely vulnerable to anything the criminal may have saw fit to do…but hadn't done.

A brief scowl flickered onto his face before it was wiped off once more. "Yeah," he answered shortly, which had Moriarty laughing.

"Wonderful. Now, since you're already here, I wanted to talk about a contract you might be interested in." Moriarty said, sobering and diving right into business as he worked on the omelets. They appeared about done.

"Alright." John said with a nod. It really was amazing that one revelation about the fact that John was a contract killer had lead to a fairly quick working relationship between them. John would not say friendship as it was purely the work that had thrown them together in the first place, not by any means of wanting to be closer. However, Moriarty had never once taken John to any of his other flats after a contract. Never offered a shower, a place to stay. While John did agree that the so-called logic behind this sudden invitation was sound, the assassin had planned to get a motel room somewhere. Now the man was even making breakfast, and John was a touch thrown off by it all as it was borderline friendly (as friendly as an assassin and consulting criminal could be) interaction rather than professional.

"It's nothing _too_ difficult, really. Even Sebby can do it, so I'm afraid that you probably won't find it much fun… But I'll be paying extra to make up for it." Moriarty said, plating the omelets and sliding bacon onto each plate. "It's a simple assassination. Needs a sniper's touch, and had Sebby not decided to draw so much attention to himself he'd be doing this himself. Due to circumstances, you get to take over and grab his pay instead." John couldn't say that he was upset with the idea of cheating the mercenary out of a payroll. No matter how dull the contract might be.

"What are the details, then? Where do I need to be?" John questioned, looking the plates over. The food looked and smelled good. Much better than jam and toast.

"Hmm…You'll get everything later, Johnny. So _eager_ today, aren't we?" Moriarty mused, setting down forks for both of them as Moriarty took a stool on the opposite side of the counter and sat right in front of John. "Eat." The criminal made no move for his own food. Didn't even try for the fork he'd just set down, simply watched John with hands folded beneath his chin. An expectant look on his face. John realized he was suppose to take the first bite. So far, in their limited interactions where food of any kind was involved, John hadn't eaten until Moriarty had. Now the other was deliberately turning the tables. So here was the question. Was the food drugged?

That would make sense, wouldn't it? John had already decided that the man was either a morning person or was leaving John out of something amusing, and what could be more amusing than drugging the assassin's food? A quick decision, and despite the fact that he really was taking quite the risk, John plucked the fork off the counter and cut away a portion of the omelet before popping the bite into his mouth. The criminal's eyebrows actually rose in what looked to be shock, though nothing else conveyed that as Moriarty simply smirked and watched. Watched for long enough that on the inside John was wondering if he would be dropping at any moment because the food really _had_ been drugged. Finally though, Moriarty was picking up his own fork and digging into his own omelet.

"That could have been dangerous, Johnny-boy." The criminal commented.

"Yeah," John agreed, giving the other an almost lazy look though his eyes remained sharp. Moriarty chuckled.

"You just keep getting more and more interesting." Moriarty stated, and John shrugged in response.

"I'm not really all that interesting," he said. "It just seems like it because you didn't see this John first." The other man glanced up at him, dark eyes flashing for a brief moment with something John wasn't quite sure how to place, before he looked back to his breakfast.

"Perhaps," was all Moriarty said, and the rest of the breakfast was silent.

* * *

The contract was going to be easy. Moriarty hadn't been lying when he'd said that John wouldn't think it was interesting because it was child's play for the assassin. A textbook assassination. He'd already chosen the best position for sniping and had set up his rifle and was waiting patiently. It was dark out. The only light coming from the streetlamps below. The assassin was used to this darkness however, so he wasn't bothered by it as he watched the streets for his target.

He'd stopped by the flat earlier to make an appearance for Sherlock. The detective had been fidgeting the entire time, as if waiting for John to leave again. Probably so the man could get back to experimenting and conducting the investigation he believed John was ignorant of. It was alright though, he supposed. If Sherlock was trying to keep things from him then it would be easier to go out more as the detective would view it as more time to work, rather than time John avoided him. Which was good, because something told John that Moriarty would be picking him up from contracts more often and having the assassin stay at his flats. John wasn't entirely sure what to think of that quite yet.

The assassin's attention went back to the street as his target came into view. Smirking to himself, John checked his scope and easily caught the other in his crosshairs. His finger flexed against the trigger, and right as he squeezed off a shot he was kicked viciously in the ribs. The assassin curled up to defend himself instinctively as the bullet hit its mark and the target collapsed to the ground dead. Another kick was delivered to John's ribs and the assassin grunted in pain. With some effort he managed to roll out of the way of the next blow and get to his feet. Drawing his knife smoothly as he stood and looked for his attacker. He was not thrilled to find Sebastian Moran glaring back at him. Considering the man was supposedly keeping a low profile due to the slipups that had gotten John into this mess in the first place, the assassin was fairly certain that meant Moran was here for him personally.

Eyes narrowing, John flipped the knife around and lunged forward. Feinting high before driving the blade low as he sought out the soft midsection where most of the more important and unprotected organs were located. He was intercepted just in time, and a leg twisted around his own to offset his base and allow Moran to knock him to the ground. John retaliated quickly, twisting his body so he could do a scissor kick of sorts. Trapping the mercenary's legs in between John's own and bring the other to the ground too. The fighting resumed from there. John making the first move as Moran laid stunned on the ground for a few seconds. The knife came down, seeking the spine this time but the mercenary was rolling away. Having enough sense to do so instinctively. John's knife burrowed itself into the wooden flooring as he missed his mark and he found it was deeply buried within the floor. It would take time to yank it out. Time he didn't have as Moran regained his bearings and was once again on the offensive.

As Moran lunged for John, taking the assassin to the ground with brute force, the sound of others coming up the stairs and towards the flat could be heard. John hissed out a curse as he smashed an elbow into the other's face and rolled them so he was on top. Without a knife John had to rely on his body as a weapon, so he pinned the other beneath his weight and made for a jab to the throat which left Moran coughing and sputtering. The doors to the flat were thrown open and John was yanked back off of Moran roughly before he could even attempt to finish the man off. The assassin, ever quick to fight back, pushed himself into the owner of the hands holding him and threw his head back into a jaw before throwing them over his shoulder. The man that hit the ground grunted in pain and surprise, but John was soon being grabbed by another before he could think too much about his minor victory. Three men had invaded the flat he was in ,and John was fighting violently against them. Very much aware that he was suddenly in a position where the odds were not stacked in his favor. Weaponless as he was, his knife having been lost, it became a numbers game. John would knock one or two back, but the others would prevent him from killing either. When the larger of the newcomers tossed John back into a wall roughly it was over. John's head cracked against the wall and he saw stars as he slid to the ground in a daze. One of the men approached him, and John was just vaguely aware of the needle being slipped into his arm before the assassin could be given the opportunity to regain his bearings and start up the fight once more.

"_What do we do with him?_" one of the men asked, and John was a bit more alert as he recognized the Russian. When being chased by a predominantly Russian group, it was rather important to be able to understand the language. John had learned several years ago, but even with this knowledge that the people that had wanted him dead for so long had finally caught up with him John couldn't fight the effects of the drug he'd just been given. His body going limp and eyes growing glassy and glazed over.

_"__Just kill him. We have who we need_." Another replied, and John eventually realized that the Russians were speaking about Moran. It took him longer than it really should have to figure that much out…but he blamed the drugs for that.

_"__No, Boss doesn't want us to kill him."_the third said.

"_Fine,__" _the second replied, then the same man switched to English as John was lifted up and tossed over a shoulder. The assassin limp and unresisting. "You will receive your payment soon, Moran."

"Looking forward to it," John heard the mercenary say. Glancing up, through his dim vision he managed to see the mercenary staring right back at him with a smug grin stretched across his lips as the assassin was carried off. John had slumped further against the back of the Russian carrying him by the time they hit the stairs, and he succumbed to the cool darkness brought on by the drugs before they were halfway down.

**So…Sorry that took so long. Sorry that's its bad, but I did my best :-P **

**I am sorry about late updates guys, but I've been so out of it and I've just been struggling with getting the motivation to just right. **

**Have a good day,**

**Reaperess ^_^**


	12. Chapter 12

**Yeah, so I may actually have a bit of a warning just in case ^_^ The end has some blood and mentions of beating, but it doesn't last long. Just thought I'd let everyone know before hand.**

Jim wasn't prone to worry. He took everything that happened, every unexpected dilemma and detail, in stride. Rarely letting on that anything effected his cool composure, and if it did he was more prone to anger and frustration but never _worry_. Hence his immense frustration when the hours continued to drag by with no word from John despite the fact Jim had sent out a few texts and calls to try and contact him. The contract should have taken the man no time at all considering his level of skill. Jim _should_ have been contacted by now to be told the assassination had been accomplished. It had crossed his mind for a few moments that the assassin had finally decided to cut off their arrangement, but that didn't seem very logical. Which might have been odd were it anyone else by John Watson, as the average person put in John's position would have long since attempted to flee or setup the criminal. John hadn't done so yet, and save for this one contract the assassin had been the one calling for work rather than Jim calling with requests. With that theory ruled out, Jim's other ones dwindled along with the time until he was finally breaking down and calling for a driver.

Accompanied by a few of his more loyal men as guards, Jim had his driver take him out to the location where the assassination was to take place. It was dark still, early morning now, and the body had yet to be found as the streets were deserted and John wouldn't have been so idiotic as to leave off a silencer. A quick check over the body as his guards stood around him, blocking any key lines of sight in case any hostile threats lingered. They'd be the first line of defense as their brains would be splattered across the streets – not unlike the man laying dead at the criminal's feet—before Jim's would be. It was rather obvious what the cause of death was. A near perfect headshot, and from a high-caliber rifle. John. The assassin had carried out the assassination after all, but that still left another question. Where _was_ the man?

Normally, Jim wouldn't care if his employees disappeared off the face of the Earth because he could still _find_ them and have them killed. No, John was a bit too important at the moment to just be allowed to disappear. Too critical to his ever shifting and evolving game with the Holmes brothers, as well as to Jim's own personal agenda outside of said game. His world didn't revolve solely around Sherlock after all, he had other things going on in the big bad world. Things he'd prefer to have John take care of given the man's skill. Considering that this disappearance seemed off, Jim was even more interested. Something was definitely going on. Something that Jim _hadn't_ ordered, which meant he wasn't in control of the situation for once. He hated it when he wasn't in control, didn't hold all the cards. Leaving him fairly annoyed as he checked the body further. Looking at the angle of the body, the position of the kill shot, and then looked around them. It wasn't hard to figure out which building John had set up in, so with a signal to his men they were moving on. Leaving the body untouched and in the exact way they'd found it. No need to ruin John's work, after all.

Moving into the building, Jim walked in a formation that had two men before him and two men behind him. Again, always something between himself and a bullet or knife. He wasn't going to make it _too_ easy for someone to kill him. The criminal skipped over the first floor completely in favor of the second and third floor. It was more likely considering John had been using a sniper rifle. The third floor the most likely, and turning out to be the correct choice. The flat there quite obviously having been where John had been.

The first thing that drew Jim's attention in the room, after a quick check to ensure the room was clear and free of threats, was the rifle still set up by the window. A dark eyebrow rose as he moved forward and looked the rifle over. A brief bout of confusion actually coming over him because Jim had learned very quickly over the past days he'd come to know John and his profession, that the assassin loved his rifle like a child, and the man was thorough. The rifle, apparently, had been carefully selected and then later customized over a span of years. Tweaked until it was deemed perfect by John, and the man had used it on plenty of contracts for several years. Sentimental. The man wouldn't leave it behind. Not to mention it was sloppy work. Leaving _any_ murder weapon lying around was sloppy – unless the intent was to frame—as it left incriminating evidence in most cases. John was far too professional, far too _intelligent_ to make such a rookie mistake. The next clue that something was entirely _wrong_ was the knife. Embedded deep within the wood flooring, and looking very much as if it had been intended for something a bit softer and more vulnerable than the floor. There would be no need for the knife to make an appearance, as he recognized it as John's as well, unless he had felt threatened and drew it for protection. So the man had been attacked, which made sense considering the faint signs of a scuffle having occurred. No blood though. He supposed that was a good sign considering. Meant that John hadn't been killed there at least. No evidence of death meant the assassin was still alive. Further inspection had Jim finding a syringe that seemed to have rolled unnoticed into a corner…Interesting.

Jim moved to retrieve it and glanced at what was left of its contents. The semi-translucent liquid was likely a sedative, but he'd have to get it tested by his own people to see if he really felt like going through the effort. The criminal's eyes narrowed as he sent off a message to have a cleanup crew take care of the flat since John obviously wouldn't be able to do so himself, then refocused on the syringe in his hand. Twisting it about and watching was little liquid remained move in the glass. His assassin had been kidnapped—well, John wasn't his _yet_ but he fully planned on that changing. Other than himself and John, no one else would have known about the contract. Jim's client wouldn't have done this, the man wasn't smart enough to do so, and that meant it had to be some kind of outside force which—

Jim's jaw tightened along with his grip on the syringe to the point where he nearly cracked it. Of course. Why hadn't he thought of that _earlier_?

"Sebastian." the criminal hissed, thumb flicking over the screen of his phone with more force than was necessary as he pulled up one of his contacts.

* * *

John groaned when he woke. Head pounding as he slowly blinked his eyes open. Vision blurry for a few moments as he tried to focus. He hated being drugged. Not simply because the experience itself wasn't pleasant, but also because it left him unable to function to the best of his ability even after he finally woke from his drug induced sleep. It took several long moments before John was aware that he was tied to a chair…How generic. It took him a bit longer to realize he was in waking up in the middle of a conversation.

"_- wants him alive."_ One said.

_"__We wouldn't have to __**kill**__ him. Just keep him from getting any ideas before we make it back to Moscow."_ Another responded.

_"__He's not getting away this time.__"_ The first argued, seemingly confident.

_"__The last people who went after him died,__"_ the other deadpanned. There was several moments of silence at that, and John remembered how this had all been made possible in the first place. He'd had Moriarty kill the Russian hit team after him.

_"__Fine…Don't make it __**too**__ bad. Boss'll kill us if we take the fun out of it for him.__" _the first was finally saying, relenting and giving in. That didn't seem to be a decision in John's favor. His vision cleared the rest of the way, however, and he was finally able to see the two speaking clearly. One the larger, heavily built (muscle, not fat) Russian that had to have been the one that had carried him after being drugged. He had a dark beard and hair, and the other was lankier. Not necessarily thin, but he looked far smaller in comparison to the larger of the two and had shaggy blond hair.

_"__He's awake,__" _the blond said, and he recognized the voice of the first one that had spoken.

"_I'll handle this, go help Erik_." the dark-haired Russian said, and with a bit of reluctance the mention was leaving. Leaving him alone with the man that was probably a good foot taller than him were he standing up rather than left tied to the chair he was in. The assassin watched the other carefully as he slowly adjusted as the drugs worked out of his system. His senses becoming increasingly alert as he was given an unreadable look.

"_I'm glad I was the one that finally got hold of you,__" _the Russian spat, eyes narrowing. _"__You've killed my brothers_." John blinked at that…Bit not good.

_"__Sorry to hear that,_" John replied, his accent convincing enough to fool most into thinking he was a native speaker. Considering the circumstances however, John wasn't sure that he liked the smile he received.

_"__You will be__." _It was literally the most generic line in the book –which went along perfectly with being tied to a chair in what appeared to be a rundown motel room—but even knowing that, John found the beginnings of dread actually forming in the pit of his stomach.

John was ready for the first blow when it came. A rather large fist driving right into his jaw and splitting the assassin's bottom lip right off the bat. The metallic tang of blood was quick to flood his mouth and he spit some of it out before looking back to the Russian. Expressionless and calm as he waited for the next blow. He wasn't disappointed as the next one had his head snapping viciously to the side with little time to prepare as a fist collided with his stomach. Blood spit out again as the air was knocked from his lungs and he was gasping for air before sitting back. Knowing he'd be in for a long beating at this rate. Pure, simple, and brutal. Proven as he received another gut-wrenching jab to the stomach.

**I didn't think the scene was too graphic, but better safe than sorry because I don't think most things are graphic at times *shrugs* So there you go, finally updated and things don't appear to be looking good for John at the moment :-/**

**Thanks to everyone who takes the time to read this, and especially to the people who review and follow/favorite! Please leave some reviews because it really helps motivate me.**

**Have a good day**

**Reaperess ^_^**


	13. Chapter 13

**Um, language and blood if you're bothered by that kind of thing. Again, I don't think it's that bad but better safe than sorry ^_^**

The call came early in the morning from Lestrade. A new case. He was understaffed as they wrapped up the Markstein case, and he needed a second opinion. Sherlock had already had a refusal on the tip of his tongue when the DI started giving him a bit of information. Just enough to actually peak his interest, as the murder sounded as if it had been committed in a fashion similar to how the Markstein brothers had been killed. Considering his frustratingly minimal amount of evidence in his own investigation into the professional he believed to have killed the brothers, the allure of possibly gaining more was too great of a chance to pass up. Leading, inevitably, to Sherlock making his way to the scene after Lestrade had happily supplied him with an address.

The scene did indeed remind Sherlock of the Markstein case. The kill itself extremely similar in style and fashion to how the two brother's had died after all. A clean shot to the head with the same caliber rifle, and this time there were no witnesses. Likely because the other had been meant to be made so publicized. If there had been any lingering doubt before about the nature of the Markstein's killer, then it was certainly gone now. There was definitely a contract killer working in London. It was very possible that they had even been around for some time, but Sherlock had only now took notice of them due to the previous case he'd worked. Drawing in the detective's attention fully. Despite himself, the detective was more than a bit thrilled to be working on catching this criminal. After all, this was a professional he was dealing with. Someone much more exciting and intelligent than even the serial killers he often looked forward to catching.

While Lestrade and his team saw to the body and sorting out the likelihood of finding _someone_ who had heard a shot –even after the detective had explicitly stated that a silencer would have been used, Sherlock was calculating the trajectory that the bullet had traveled before impacting with the target's skull. It occurred to him, as he figured out the exact location where this killer would have been, that John seemed to have been avoiding him. While Sherlock knew he wasn't necessarily an expert on human behavior in the finer forms and beyond the textbook, he did think that over a week's time of space would be enough to move on from the trauma witnessed in Afghanistan…Shouldn't it have been? The doctor really should have been answering his texts earlier that morning about the case, and how he'd like the man to accompany him if it was convenient. The general lack of answer from John might have even been startling were his mind not already racing with the bits of information he'd received from Lestrade in an attempt to peak his interest in this new case. So instead, it had left Sherlock to chalk his ignored texts up to John dating once more and the fact that he'd stayed the night with her. In a few short hours he'd likely receive a text saying that normal people need sleep, and the doctor would be back in the flat and at the detective's disposal. Until then, Sherlock had a flat to go investigate. Having figured out the location that the sniper—his professional killer—had been in. A window of a third floor flat.

Sherlock easily slipped away from the bustle of the crime scene and into one of the buildings in the general vicinity, up a few flights of stairs, then into the room he knew to be where the shot had been taken. A slow sweep around the room had him taking in several things at once, but none of them were generally helpful considering he'd been looking for evidence. Recently swept floors, room carefully picked over, nothing otherwise out of the ordinary that jumped out to the detective…The room had been cleared of evidence. It was not unlike the previous location where the same person had set up –so he believed— except now there wasn't the slight chip in the window sill from the recoil of a rifle. More time to prepare and setup, then. Planned for a longer period of time that they'd been afforded for the Markstein brother's. This time the killer had been careful, but the level of skill shown with both assassinations, especially the one in broad daylight, suggested they were far more intelligent and skill than to leave such trace. Which lead to the before mentioned conclusion of this kill being planned. The Markstein's must have been a last minute contract, yet beside for faint traces born from lack of time to properly remove evidence the killer had still slipped away. Interesting. With the added factor of this assassination taking place at night rather than in the day with the targets in the middle of a rather large crowd there really was far more time to clean up, and it seemed that the other had done a thorough job of it. Were Sherlock not set on believing this to be the work of a contract killer working alone, he'd almost say it had been done by a cleaner crew.

"What're you doing up here?" the familiar voice of Detective-Inspector Lestrade questioned, and Sherlock looked up from the window sill he'd been looking out of.

"Collecting data, of course." Sherlock replied, giving the DI an innocent look all while his eyes said 'what you should have already figured out.'

Lestrade wasn't amused. "This where the shot came from, then?"

"I believe so, yes, but you're team won't find anything here, Inspector. I suggest you pack up and return to NSY now." Sherlock said.

"Sherlock," the DI said, tone suggesting an oncoming lecture before the man just sighed. "You know, I've known you for years now. I'm not an idiot like you seem to think. I _know_ this is a professional, why else d'you think I'd call you in on a case like this?"

"Not understaffed then?" Sherlock questioned, amused.

"Not the point, Sherlock. I've been keeping these kills quiet for years because I don't need some kind of public outcry. The Markstein case was the first time this guy's been pushing the boundaries."

"If you were aware there was a contract killer of this caliber, why would you not notify myself? I could have helped much sooner?"

"Probably because you were still dealing with withdrawal when I was dealing with this," Lestrade replied. "I've been looking for this guy for awhile now."

"But the Markstein case—"

"Don't pretend like you wouldn't have showed up anyway. Two murders in broad daylight with no witnesses? You'd never have been able to stay away." Lestrade mused. "I've been trying to keep you off this, yeah, but I knew as soon as you started getting distant you knew about this killer."

Sherlock fought the urge to huff in annoyance. "So I'll be called on future cases?"

"No point in keeping you away now, I suppose." Lestrade agreed with the shrug.

Sherlock gave the DI a sharp nod in response. "Very well, then since you'll have no further need of my services I'd best be off." With that curt dismissal, the detective moved to sweep past Lestrade and down the stairs. Coat billowing out behind him dramatically as he did so, but the other's voice stopped him before he'd made it down six steps.

"Where's John?"

"Hmm, new girlfriend." Sherlock replied. "I'd assume he's hit it off rather well with her."

* * *

John spat out the blood collecting in his mouth and managed to catch the large Russian, who he now knew was Arthur Bagrov, in the face. The mix of blood and saliva spraying across the bearded chin, and Bagrov responded another shot to the face. The beatings had been off and on over the hours he'd been in the hands of the men. The only reason he knew was because of the small window in the motel room that had light peaking through it now. Otherwise he'd have long since lost track of time as he dozed off in the periods he wasn't being used as a way to vent frustration, only to be woken up by Bagrov when he was bored. His lips had, since the beginnings of this, been split on two separate occasions, there was a laceration over his right eye that had leaked blood down the side of his face and over the bruising there. It wouldn't surprise him if he had bruised, maybe even few a fractured, ribs. Bagrov favored brass knuckles, it seemed.

_"__Hey!__" _a voice snarled, and the blonde from earlier was putting himself between John and Bagrov. "_Boss'll kill us if you keep going!__"_

_ "__He's still breathing, its fine_." Bagrov argued, and John remained silent for once.

"_We'll be moving to the next location soon, just leave him until then.__" _The blonde argued, and grudgingly Bagrov backed off.

* * *

"What the fuck are you doing! Get the hell off me!" Sebastian yelled as he was drug into a nondescript black car by several men who refused to answer the mercenaries questions. Jim watched the process on one of several monitors and tracked the car's progress towards the criminal's current location. He wouldn't be doing any of the messy work, but he intended to be the one asking the questions. If Sebastian _really_ thought he could get away with crossing his boss, then the man had quite the rude awakening in store. As it were, it wasn't until halfway to the flat Jim used for these operations that Sebastian grew quiet. Jim hadn't wanted to use sedative. Not when that would draw out the process and waste time when they could begin as soon as the mercenary arrived. He'd also been waiting for the exact moment that the man understood the gravity of the situation he now found himself in.

When Sebastian was properly restrained in the basement of the flat, a man in black with a rather emotionless demeanor waiting off to the side for instructions, Jim hit the button for the intercom. Watching all the camera angles he had pulled up on his monitors as he spoke.

"Hello, Sebby!" the Irishman purred, voice laced with over acted cheer.

"Boss, what's—" The man in the room with Sebastian cut the mercenary off with a sharp, stinging slap that had his head snapping to the side. Jim grinned.

"You know the rules. You don't talk unless I _say_ you can." Jim said, "Now. You've been rather naughty, haven't you?"

"Boss, I haven't done—" Another strike. They were starting off easy.

"Yes you have." Jim sang, as if the other hadn't spoken. "_Where _is my assassin, Sebby?" Sebastian's jaw tightened. Jim could see it on the screen and the criminal's grin grew far darker. _Gotcha_.

**Hello! Thanks so much for the reviews. I really do appreciate them so much, and I've updated! Yay!**

**Have a good day**

**Reaperess ^_^**


	14. Chapter 14

John was very aware of his surroundings as the three men moved around him. Packing up small overnight bags and moving equipment outside to what the assassin assumed was their vehicle. He didn't know for certain because all he remembered was being drugged and waking up in the motel. The in between time was lost on him. All that really mattered was that he was still in London, and that he didn't have his weapons anymore. He'd also been paying careful attention to his capturers. The blonde was Dimity Vazov, and he seemed to be the unofficial leader of this group. Bagrov was the bulk and brawn, but John was fairly certain he'd been fighting Vazov in the flat where he'd been taken as well. The one who posed the least physical threat was Erik Fanin, but that didn't necessarily make him less dangerous. Fanin was the technical man. The one dealing with the planning, and also the one who had drugged John earlier.

Currently, Fanin was working on undoing John's restraints. His wrists were still zip-tied together, but he'd have more mobility once his arms were freed of the back of the chair. Bagrov was glaring at him, and Vazov was generally ignoring the process. Seemingly more interested in checking over the room to ensure they hadn't missed anything. When his arms were released John moved quickly before anyone else would have a time to react. His head was thrown back into Fanin's, and he heard the man stumble back and fall with a curse. Naturally, Bagrov was quick to surge forward and try to grab and restrain John, but the assassin moved quicker. Running on adrenaline that dulled the pain from his injuries, he tucked a shoulder and drove his whole body into the larger man's gut. It succeeded only in knocking the air from the man and upsetting his balance. John was quick to use his own legs to knock Bagrov to the ground. Through this, the assassin still had his hands behind his back and as he quickly moved from the downed Bagrov as the last of the trio of Russians was seeking to capitalize on this fact. Vazov surged forward as he realized what was happening and grabbed one of John's arms and viciously yanked the assassin off balance. John just managed to ensure they would both be crashing to the ground as Bagrov got back to his feet with a curse. The largest man in the room, Bagrov easily grabbed onto John's restrained wrists and yanked him back onto his knees and off of Vazov.

"_Erik__"_ Vazov snarled, but Fanin was already scrambling forward with a sedative that he administered roughly. Shoving the needle into the side of John's neck, and after a few more moments of struggling John went limp.

* * *

The assassin didn't wake at whatever destination his capturers had planned this time. Rather, he woke in the back of a car. Bagrov driving, Vazov in the passenger seat, and Fanin beside him holding a black case he was sure held more of the sedatives in case he were to wake and become violent. Keeping this in mind, John was quick to feign that he was still in a drugged sleep. Trying to fight in a moving vehicle was dangerous, but at this point John wasn't above risking his own life. He knew that he might not get very many opportunities in the future to avoid being taken into Russia, and he'd need to take the ones he was presented with. At the same time, that meant he couldn't waste this chance and do something stupid. Fanin was a threat because of the sedatives he was likely carrying, so he'd need to be taken out first. Followed by Bargov, because if John could manage to get the driver incapacitated, Vazov would likely do everything in his power to ensure they didn't crash. Risky. Better than lying around waiting to be dosed with another sedative.

Before John could make his move, the vehicle swerved as Bagrov took a sharp turn. Tossing its occupants to the side as the car threatened to spin out, but the dark-haired Russian just managed to prevent it.

_"What the hell are you doing!"_ Vazov snarled.

_"__We've got tails,__"_ Bagrov countered, and they started swerving again. John risked cracking his eyes open and recognized evasive maneuvers. They weren't subtle tails then.

_"__Shit, drive faster.__" _the blonde ordered, earning himself a sharp look from Bagrov._"__Erik, you took his phone didn't you!__" _

_ "__Course I did!__" _Fanin said from John's right.

_"__Then who the hell is after us?__"_

_"__Dramatic bastards. Black cars an' everything.__" _Bagrov spat, and it was accented with another turn, and John worried because this was London. High-speed chases in London traffic was practically suicide…unless they weren't in London anymore. Then John was focusing further. People were coming after them? Black cars? Only two people he knew would send black cars after them to possibly be trying to get to John for one reason or another. Mycroft Holmes or James Moriarty. The fact that John already had a preferred choice to who might be gaining on his Russian capturers probably wasn't a good sign, because it sure as hell wasn't Mycroft he was hoping for. Not when that would mean the elder Holmes would know that Dr. John Watson was really an assassin.

John, taking advantage of the distraction, surged up and grabbed Fanin. The man had just enough time to look surprised before the assassin was snapping his neck. He didn't even flinch at the sound of bones snapping, and with little time wasted he was grabbing for the case slipping in the now dead Russian's hands. It opened and he managed to snag a syringe before the rest clattered to the floor of the car. Vazov had already been turning at the sound of a snapping neck and the flashes of movement, and John was already slamming the needle into Bagrov's shoulder and depressing the plunger. The dark-haired Russian shouted in surprise as the pain, and the car swerved again. This time dangerously and out of control. John could see better now, and they weren't in London. Rather they were driving somewhere in the country sides, and behind their swerving vehicle were two black ones. Nondescript. Certainly something most people wouldn't be happy to see, but John wasn't most people.

As the assassin had suspected, Vazov was quick to grab the wheel with a curse as Bagrov slumped in his seat. Not quite out, but certainly not aware enough to drive. John had enough sense the yank a seatbelt into place. Right in time, as the inevitable occurred as the Russian in the passenger seat overcorrected when they hit a ditch at the same time Bagrov's foot pressed down on the accelerator. They spun out, and John braced himself when the vehicle flipped.

* * *

For a few moments John blacked out. Senses going dark, and when they came back he was upside down and his head hurt. Fanin's limp body hung in his seat beside John, and the assassin slowly became more aware. Ears ringing and head pounding. With a low groan he was willing himself to move. His body aching and hurting, but he knew he couldn't stay where he was.

A few fumbling tries at his seat belt release had him slumping down onto the roof of the car and he ignored the sting as glass shards dug into his back. He maneuvered himself and kicked the door on his side open. Crawling out of the batter vehicle with a hiss of pain. Wet blood was dampening the back of his head. Not a good sign, but he was still alive yet. John rolled over onto his back and found he wasn't the only one getting out. Vazov seemed to have managed to make it out as well, and the black cars following after them were coming to a screeching halt. A few people jumped out with guns at the ready, and without even a moment's hesitation the blonde Russian was gunned down. The assassin let out a soft sigh of relief before trying to sit up. He needed to find out if these people were friends of foe. When a wave of vertigo threatened his consciousness however, John knew he wouldn't be doing much of anything for a few moments. Luckily he didn't have to, because his answer got out of a third car that pulled up.

Escorted by two guards, James Moriarty in a black Westwood approached John. Looking very much like he was barely restraining himself from killing something. The consulting criminal glanced at the downed assassin, and John realized that the dark eyes darting over his form were checking his injuries.

"Was it _really_ so hard to just wait for me to get you?" Moriarty mused.

"Maybe if you'd found me faster I wouldn't have needed to wreck a car," John shot back tiredly.

"Maybe if you'd paid attention to your surroundings you wouldn't have needed a rescue at all." Moriarty countered, "You're becoming a regular damsel in distress."

John laughed shortly. "Yeah, but whose the one that left the pet of its leash?"

"Sebastian's been dealt with," Moriarty stated. "I think you'll quite like the results."

"Sir—"

"_You son-of-a-bitch_." the slightly slurred voice of Bagrov snarled, cutting off the guard that had been trying to warn of the Russian who'd crawled painfully out of the car. John's attention snapped to the dark-haired Russian quickly, ignoring the rush of vertigo and pain it caused. Everything seemed to slow down for him.

Bagrov drew a gun. He was barely keeping himself upright enough to aim because of the sedatives and the crash, but it was clear he was aiming for Moriarty. The criminal's guards were pulling guns themselves and aiming. Everyone fired at once. A round of bullets slamming into Bagrov even as the Russian's own headed towards it own target despite the shakiness of the man's aim. John barely realized what he'd done until he was hissing in pain as a bullet entered his back and he was standing, somehow, in front of Moriarty. The criminal's eyes having gone almost comically wide as John felt his legs give out beneath him. Blood already dripping from the wound as he collapsed at Moriarty's feet and the criminal was almost instantly kneeling beside him.

John had just taken a bullet for the man without even thinking about it, after all.

***hides in corner***

***shifts nervously***

**Have a good day**

**Reaperess ^_^**


	15. Chapter 15

Few things really surprised Jim anymore. Seemingly harmless doctors turning out to be deadly assassins? He could admit that had been a bit bigger of a surprise that even he might have expected when first realizing John wasn't quite the man he portrayed himself as. This was different. This was messy, and confusing, and utterly wrong. He felt like he wanted to scream in frustration and anger yet at the same time wanted to do nothing but stare in shock. Frozen. It wasn't like him true, and normally he'd have berated himself for such a blatantly obvious lack of self-control, but this was _different_. This was John Watson.

John Watson lying at his feet and bleeding onto the ground. The red, sticky blood staining the ground and making the earth damp. The man had taken a bullet intended to kill him. Without prompting or obligation. In fact, John really should have just sat still and laughed at his cooling corpse once it was all over with. That was expected. Assassin or no, the man had made it very clear that he was still the friend of Sherlock Holmes. The death of his friend's greatest enemy would have saved them both quite a bit of trouble. John Watson was _not_ suppose to take a bullet for him.

"Oh Johnny, you're not going to be ordinary and _die_ now are you?" Jim hissed as he moved his hands over the assassin's body. Searching for an exit wound he knew didn't exist because all the blood currently getting onto his Westwood was not his. When he confirmed it he was quick to find the entrance wound and get pressure on it. Startlingly unaffected by the blood everywhere, Jim watched John's vitals as his guards eliminated the last threat and called for assistance.

"That'd be boring," John replied, voice soft. Jim growled under his breath. The man was bleeding out. The bullet had likely hit several of John's more important bits and pieces in his midsection, and that called for a hospital. A hospital that would lead to Mycroft Holmes. That would lead to Sherlock Holmes. That would lead to several revelations about their 'good doctor' that he was sure John would not appreciate. He'd need to work quickly then because he was not going to let John die. The idiot of an assassin had just saved his own life, and he did hate being in someone's debt.

* * *

"Holmes! In here!"

Sherlock turned on his heel and raced after the sound of Lestrade's voice. They'd gotten a lead. They'd _finally_ gotten a lead on their killer. It had been a kill, rushed and hurried with a witness. Everyone made a mistake at some point, and this time the mistake was rather debilitating. Sebastian Moran. Former colonel and an excellent sniper. The man fit with the picture Sherlock had been painting of his killer perfectly, and the man had left behind evidence to prove it on his disastrous last contract. Shells with his fingerprints and DNA. Shells that matched the dozens of cases left unsolved over the years along with the one's absent from the Markstein case. He and Lestrade were now chasing after the man in an attempt to apprehend him.

A gunshot spurred Sherlock on further as he picked up the pace and took the stairs leading up to the second floor of the abandoned building they were in two at a time. Long legs working to his advantage as he found Moran and Lestrade. The DI was breathing hard and a bit of blood colored his silver hair. Minor laceration. The man would be fine. The sniper, however, was pressing a hand to his shoulder and trying to stop the bleeding from the bullet wound he'd just been gifted.

"Complications, Inspector?" Sherlock questioned with a raised eyebrow, and Lestrade sent him an unamused look.

"Great bit of help you were," the DI shot back.

"I found him for you," Sherlock replied, moving forward to have a closer look at Moran. The former Colonel looked furious. He supposed being caught after so long would be cause for anger and frustration.

"Right then," Sherlock said, turning a bit to look back to Lestrade while still keeping the sniper in his sights. "Best get him to a hospital."

"You're gonna die, Holmes."

"Actually, I think he'll live long enough to wait for a prison doctor." Sherlock said.

"My Boss'll kill you."

"And who is your 'boss'?" Sherlock questioned, spinning around again to look at Moran. His coat twirling about his lithe frame as he did so. The sniper only sent him a grin, and before either detective could demand that he elaborate Sherlock's one was going off. The detective rolled his eyes as he dipped a hand into his pocket and dug the ringing device out. He answered without looking at the number as he assumed it was simply another person calling about a case, but the possibility of it being his friend was a bit too great to actually ignore the call. He was not expecting the voice that came through the speakers.

"_Hiiiiii!" _Moriarty sang, Irish lilt unmistakable and Sherlock actually froze. Rhythm of his pacing faltering.

"Jim," Sherlock replied, shooting a look to Lestrade who's expression hardened at the name.

"_How are you, my dear? Busy? I'd say so." _Moriarty mused, and the criminal followed up by tutting disapprovingly.

"What've you done now, Jim." Sherlock said, motioning for Lestrade to get Moran taken care of. The DI was reluctant, but in the end was grabbing hold of Sebastian Moran and hauling him out of the room and down the stairs. "I haven't seen many of your little games lately."

The laughter on the other end of the line was enough cause for concern. "_Oh my dear Sherlock, you've no idea…How's your pet? You've been keeping him off his leash haven't you? Don't you know how dangerous it is to leave those things unattended, you never know where they'll wander off to…Or who'll pick them up."_

Sherlock felt himself grow cold. He hadn't seen John in roughly twenty-four hours. It wasn't possible…but scenes from the Pool Incident were quick to flash through his mind. John had been taken by the insane criminal almost immediately after he'd left the flat, so it wasn't impossible after all. What was the advantage of having the British Government for a brother if the man couldn't keep track of one doctor?

"Where is he, Moriarty?" Sherlock demanded. "You're game isn't with him."

"_I beg to differ, my dear. You really have to keep a closer eye on your pets."_ The line went dead, and Sherlock was almost immediately phoning his brother as he raced out after Lestrade. The DI was waiting for him, but Mycroft picked up before they could speak.

_"You never call, brother mine. Has Mrs. Hudson finally left London?"_

"Moriarty's kidnapped John," Sherlock replied, and Lestrade's eyes widened. The DI moved to one of the officer's he'd called as backup and spoke with them lowly. A few moments and Lestrade was all but hauling Sherlock into a squad car as Moran was taken off in a separate one.

"_You really do have to be responsible about these-"_

"Mycroft!" Sherlock warned, not amused.

"_I'm having John Watson's last known whereabouts tracked, but I don't exactly have much to work with Sherlock."_

"Maybe if you'd have been paying attention you would have noticed sooner," Sherlock spat.

"_Careful, brother. I could say the same to you."_

_ "It seems that one John Watson had been checked into a hospital…Dropped off and placed in an intensive care under an alias. It does appear like he's sustained numerous injuries."_

"Where?"Sherlock demanded.

_"I'm sending Gregory the details now."_

Lestrade, as it were, was working on correcting their current course even as Sherlock looked over at him. He pulled a rather dangerous turn before heading in the correct direction. Hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. Knuckles threatening to go white from the effort.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, but the line had been disconnected already. The consulting detective pocketed it and tried not to burst out of his skin. The calm mask fractured even as he tried to piece it together again and hide his worry, his guilt, and his self-loathing.

When the two detectives pulled up to the hospital they abandoned the squad car and were quick to head inside. Sherlock demanded the receptionists tell him where John was, but they seemed reluctant. A few words from Lestrade and a flash of his ID and warrant card had them far more yielding. John Watson had never been checked into the hospital, but a few quick looks and they'd had a patient brought in without much information. Sherlock and Lestrade were adamant on knowing where the patient was. When they were informed that they were already undergoing surgery the breath was about knocked from Sherlock's body. Lestrade, keeping the best composure of the two, grabbed Sherlock and hauled him to the operation room.

St. Bart's, where John had been taken, was a teaching institute and had viewing decks for operations and surgeries. It wasn't hard for Lestrade to ensure that both men could get into the one overlooking John. It was unmistakable once they had entered. Sherlock knew almost immediately that the man laying on the operating table with surgeons working around him was John H. Watson. Looking very small as blood seemed to cover _everything_. Violence had never bothered Sherlock. Blood, gore, none of it ever affected him. This was different. This was his friend. His best friend. The one that complained about his experiments and heads in the spot they put milk. The one that nagged him constantly about his health. This was not a faceless victim who Sherlock's only concern with was finding their killer and putting them away. This was _different._ This was John Watson.

* * *

John didn't remember much. He knew that he'd jumped in front of a bullet for a psychopath. Obviously he hadn't been thinking about it because logic would state that he should have just let the man die…but John had never been one to follow the logical route. A life had been at stake and he'd acted. He supposed those morals he portrayed in his civilian life weren't all an act after all. Granted, he'd used them to save a man that would likely kill hundreds more people before the year was out but that was rather beside the point wasn't it?

After being shot was when everything got fuzzy and hard to focus on. He knew the bullet had nicked some important organs and he'd been bleeding out. Moriarty had started putting pressure on the wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but all John remembered from that moment was thinking about how the man's pristine Westwood was getting ruined and how much trouble it would be to replace it. He'd probably blacked out for a time after because he was next remembering being in a car. Moriarty still with him, and the man was on the phone. John decided that the worried glances down at him had just been his imagination. The man was a criminal mastermind, he wouldn't do something so mundane and 'boring' as worry about John. Next there were lights, and surgeons, and a mask being placed over his face as he was instructed to just breathe deep. Then this. Waking up in what looked like a hospital room.

Being an assassin instilled certain fears into one's mind. Waking up in a hospital, not entirely sure how he'd gotten there, and seeing what looked to be officers guarding the door was certainly not the way John would have preferred to wake up. He panicked for a moment or two as he assumed his secrets had finally been found out, but when he calmed an realized that he wasn't cuffed to the bed he knew the officers were suppose to be meant for his protection. Not to keep him contained. That gave John a bit of peace and allowed him to focus on other things. Like how Sherlock Holmes was now walking through the door and into his room looking like he'd seen someone die.

"Sherlock?" John questioned slowly, and the detective's attention snapped onto the assassin instantly. Moments and the taller man was at his bedside.

"John…Are you alright? What did he do to you?" Sherlock demanded, and John blinked in confusion. Mind not quite fired up enough to follow the man's rapid speech.

"What?"

"Moriarty? Do you remember what he did to you?" Sherlock repeated. John blinked at him with a blank expression and the detective sagged.

"No...Do you remember anything?" Sherlock questioned, but kept speaking without giving John a chance to answer. "Moriarty kidnapped you and apparently had you beaten and tortured to get to me…I'm so sorry, but I didn't even realize until the man called to _gloat_ about it. Likely because you'd been given a near fatal wound." The detective grimaced.

"I…What?"

"I'm sorry, John. Lestrade and my brother are already trying to figure out how he managed to snatch you." Sherlock assured, and slowly John started to piece things together. He was in a hospital. That much had been obvious of course, but he'd been admitted under rather suspicious circumstances with wounds that were obviously from beatings. Then there was the bullet wound. Logically, someone who was suppose to be an otherwise boring army doctor shouldn't have been sporting those kinds of wounds without reason. Except he now had one, didn't he? Each of his wounds could now be explained and brushed off as part of his 'kidnapping'. He had an excuse for them, and they no longer were suspicious as he was now given the role of the victim. It was obvious who was to thank for that. Who had been the one to think ahead and protect the assassin's carefully maintained cover. He certainly hadn't been in the position to do so himself after all, and that left Moriarty as the only one who would have had the ability and opportunity. The criminal had framed himself to keep John's secrets safe, and his civilian life intact so he could go to a hospital. John wasn't entirely sure what to think about that.

**Hey! I love the reviews I've been getting so thank you guys so much!**

**Have a good day**

**Reaperess ^_^**


	16. Chapter 16

John was discharged from the hospital two days later. By that time he'd learned quite a bit from Sherlock about what had occurred while he was with the Russians. Greg Lestrade had been hunting him for some time, for one. While it didn't necessarily surprise John that the DI had caught on to his patterns and style, it was a bit interesting to know that he'd never involved Sherlock in his case. Especially considering the genuine magnitude of it because John had been killing targets for some time. That brought him about to the other piece of news though. Sherlock had explained that he'd been hunting a professional killer since the Markstein case, and that while John was gone he and Lestrade had found and apprehended said killer. One Sebastian Moran. Naturally, John had played his part as the concerned friend and thoroughly argued with the detective about how he couldn't go after killers without him all while the assassin silently tried to sort out what was really going on. Obviously Moran wasn't really the killer. John knew that, but he wasn't in a rush to explain that. The last time he'd even seen the man had been when he'd been drugged and kidnapped by the trio of Russians. In such a short time it seemed doubtful that Sherlock would have been able to find Sebastian, and even were he able to there was still the matter of little tono evidence actually being available to point towards the mercenary. Sherlock, however, had made it quite clear that he'd found plenty. Shells from a rifle that matched all of the other cases where was one was used (John's, but the detectives didn't know that), and DNA. Again, John was soon realizing that there was one person in the position capable of carrying out this frame job—which was exactly what this was, really. That person being Moriarty. It seemed that they'd have quite a lot to talk about if John could manage to get into contact with the man.

So far, Sherlock had ironically been rather strict with John's bed rest. Utterly annoying about it all, actually. The gunshot wound was admittedly in a rather inconvenient area of his body. The bullet had been just shy of going straight through several major organs due to the angle of the shot, but it had still nicked a few. The surgery that had needed to be done to remove the bullet as well as fix the damage had been rather extensive, and apparently Sherlock had pestered Mycroft into ensuring that the best surgeons available were working on John during the extensive process. The result being several stitches that needed cleaning and looking after. Because they were on his back John actually needed someone else to clean them for him, and Sherlock had only put up the fight expected of him when prompted to be the one to do so. If only because he couldn't be seen showing _too_ many emotions, after all. Both knew that Sherlock would have done the cleaning no matter what though, so between the detective's constant checks on the assassin's stitches and forcing him to actually follow the rule of bed rest John couldn't actually get to his phone to even attempt contacting anyone else for another week or so after being discharged. By that point he was ready to get out of the flat. To go _somewhere. _It wasn't as if he could take any contracts given his current condition. He wouldn't be much good at all. Even after he healed he'd have to work himself back up to his top physical condition, and John refused to accept the possibility that the wound could force him into retirement.

It finally came to the point where John was able to receive his chance to spend some time outside the flat, however. John was settled up in his room with his laptop as he searched through some of the feeds his contacts were sending his way. Most of them detailing who was showing interest in the assassin, whether it be positive or negative interest. Hearing Sherlock coming up the stairs towards his room had the assassin clearing out his system memory and quickly pulling up his blog in one window and a news site in another. As per usual, the detective didn't bother with knocking as he took the route of simply walking straight into John's room with only his footsteps for warning.

"I assume that –"

"Sherlock, if you ask about my stitches I will shoot you." John said, not looking up from his laptop. A smirk twitched onto his lips a few seconds later as he was unable to keep a straight face.

"That's both unnecessary and unlikely." Sherlock responded coolly, but when John glanced up he caught the end of an amused look before it smoothed out into the usual mask.

"I don't know about that…" John teased lightly. "I'm fine though, Sherlock. Really."

"Noted. We can move on to other matters then." The detective responded with a nod as he shifted his arms behind his back. John looked up fully at the other's words before slowly closing the laptop. Curious as to what the other as talking about.

"Don't keep us waiting, then?" John prompted.

"It's obvious that the prolonged containment within the flat is going to drive you stir crazy. Typical psychological response, really." Sherlock stated, perfectly at ease as he watched John. "For this reason I've come to the conclusion that now would be an excellent time to visit your sister."

"Visit Harry?" John questioned, eyebrows raising in surprise. He hadn't quite expected that from Sherlock if he were honest. The man was certainly ever changing and interesting. It was probably the reason that John had become friends with the man in the first place regardless of John's own profession as an assassin.

"Yes. You've spoken of how you don't see her often, and that she had hence started to get sober. I think it's best to spend some time of your recovery out of the flat so your wounds may still be properly looked after, but also to rest and lower your rather ludicrous stress levels." Sherlock explained.

"I'll…get in touch with her then." John said, smiling a bit. "Thank you."

"Of course, John." Sherlock replied, brushing off the thanks quickly. "A week or so should suffice, but if more time away is needed I suppose that will be acceptable considering your current state." With that, the detective edged towards the door before finally turning on his heel and walking out with a whirl of his housecoat. He didn't have a case anymore, so it was only natural.

Rather than be pleased with this arrangement however, John was sitting and thinking of how he was suppose to fix this. He didn't really have a sister for one. Or rather, he'd used to but she'd died a very long time ago. Car crash. Drunk driver. Dreadful business. As far as the world knew however, the woman currently _posing_ as Harriet Watson was the real thing and the medical records had long since been altered. He hadn't had contact with the woman in years as she was a contact of his that he trusted above most of his other ones, hence her role of his 'sister'. He wouldn't stay with her though. She had her own things to run. She was more for emergency situations. He could tell her that he was supposedly staying with her and that he'd need her to confirm that with anyone that might try to contact her to ask after him. Other than that John was on his own and would need to find somewhere to stay.

Later that day John had packed a suitcase and was preparing to head off. Having already made arrangements with his 'sister' to keep anyone else off his trail. The taxi driver that pulled up to the flat was more than willing to help John with his luggage. It took John several moments, likely because of the difference in dress and because he simply wasn't expecting it, but eventually as the last bag was stored away John got a glimpse of the driver and blinked.

"_What are you doing?"_ John asked in a hiss, eyes narrowing.

"Hop in, Johnny-boy." Moriarty replied with a grin as he slipped back into the driver's seat. Dressed as a cabbie and doing a rather thorough job of disguising himself. Despite himself John climbed in the back. Moriarty pulling away from Baker Street and into the London traffic with ease.

"Recognize the cab?" Moriarty questioned in a hum after a few minutes. John glanced around, wondering.

"Is…This is the cab Jefferson Hope used." John said. "Right?"

"Yes. Yes it is. Couldn't just let a prop like this go to waste, now could I?" Moriarty replied, and John caught the criminal's grin in the rearview mirror.

"Where are we going, exactly?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Moriarty questioned with a tsk or disappointment. "One of my flats, of course."

"Why?" The assassin had wanted to speak with the man, but this hadn't been quite what he'd had in mind nor had he intended to see him when the assassin was as vulnerable as he was. Though it was fairly obvious that neither really meant the other much harm at this point. John vulnerable because of the bullet he'd taken for Moriarty's sake while the other had ensured his own safety in more ways than one in return.

"I know Sherlock's sending you out to recover. The luggage and all that is a rather large giveaway, really. This in mind, I've decided that you'll be staying with me!" Moriarty explained happily. Almost giddily. Like an over excited child even.

"I—"

"You're staying with me, Johnny." Moriarty repeated. The assassin didn't say anything else for the rest of the ride.

* * *

The flat that Moriarty took him to was different from the other one he'd been in. John wasn't overly alarmed because of that because the man had several flats. This was appearing to be just as nice if not more so than the last one he'd stayed in. Moriarty hadn't needed to take any luggage when they arrived as the criminal had some of his people do it for him. John didn't get a choice in helping or not as Moriarty, the assassin was soon realizing, was worse that Sherlock about the idea of bed rest. Odd as that sounded. As soon as they were in the flat John was being sat down on a couch and told to stay. Leaving a still rather confused assassin to sit in place as he waited for some kind of clarity as to what was going on.

"Shirt off, Johnny." Moriarty eventually sang as he sauntered back into the room with a med kit. "Just going to check your stitches, no need for that look." John slowly peeled his jumper and shirt off in response as the criminal slid onto the couch with him. He positioned John so his back was to the criminal and he felt cool fingers poke at the stitched area curiously. After the other was through with investigating the wound John felt disinfectant gel being applied and then a bandage being applied. The thing wrapping around his midsection which involved getting a bit closer to Moriarty that the assassin would have normally liked. By the time the other was done and packing up the med kit again John was glad to get his shirt back. It still felt off to be in a vulnerable position around anyone.

"Looks to be doing well," Moriarty murmured, seemingly pleased by the fact.

"I'd hope so," John replied as he turned so he could look at the criminal. He'd changed out of the cabbie attire, but only into a pair of nice jeans and a white button up with a collar. Casual clothing for a man that wore Westwood suits, it seemed.

"Someone's missing their contracts," Moriarty taunted lightly.

"Well it is what I do for a living," John retorted.

"It's also how you curb that little addiction you have," Moriarty said, eyebrow raised. He was right of course. John liked the thrill of a contact, of killing, even of being in the same space as James Moriarty. The adrenaline that pumped through his veins because of the danger had always been his addiction. To him it was more powerful than the rush of a high or the buzz from getting drunk.

"All the more reason for me to want it to heal," John stated, but was moving on now that he had the chance to talk with the man. "You framed Moran."

"Told you I'd handled the situation, didn't I?"

"You _framed_ your sniper."

"Yes, I had thought we'd established that by now."

"Why? Because he helped those Russians get to me?"

"Why else, Johnny?" Moriarty questioned, giving John a look. "He defied me and tried to move against me by attacking you."

"Yeah, I understand that." John replied, brow furrowing despite himself as he just tried to understand.

"Obviously I can't very well allow the man to think he can do whatever he likes, and you needed a cover anyway. Little Sherlock was getting closer to you."

"Speaking of, you covered for me…You told Sherlock you'd kidnapped me."

A beat. "Yes."

"You could have easily just let him figure out what I was,"

"You could have let your Russian friend shoot me." Moriarty's response was low. Eyes dark and focused as he took in John. As if trying to figure something out, but not really getting anywhere no matter how hard he tried. The assassin could relate to the feeling.

"Well that'd just be boring, wouldn't it?" John questioned, holding the other's gaze. After a moment Moriarty's lips quirked into one of his smirks.

"Yes, it would be."

**Hi! So finally, after sixteen chapters, the Johniarty feels are taking place. I probably should have warned people before, but I am a firm believer (for my own writing) in the gradual introduction to any kind of romance or relationship, especially given these two and the circumstances surrounding them. So thank you for being patient **

**Also, to those who have reviewed and/or given constructive criticism in the past I really appreciate it. Other writers out there will definitely understand how much it helps if even one person says something about what they're writing. So again, big thanks to you guys for even taking the time to read this fic.**

**Have a good day**

**Reaperess ^_^**


	17. Chapter 17

**I suppose there might be some Doctor Who spoilers for the Last of the Time Lords episode if you haven't seen it, but I tried to keep it as vague as possible while still having the story.**

**Also, fluff…Yeah…I'm more of the blood/gore writer, so we'll see if I can pull of 'fluff'**

It took time to get used to having another person in the flat. Having John stay for one night due to a late night contract and rather obvious coating of blood and gore clinging to the assassin's clothes? That had been a bit different. That had been one night, and John had left the next morning after eating. Now, however, the man was spending all of his time in Jim's flat. There was little other choice for the recovering assassin, and Jim himself hadn't lived with anyone else like this in a very, _very_ long time. Even considering the rather short (in the grand scheme of things) time that the doctor would actually be staying, it was something that Jim had needed to adapt to. This had been all his idea after all. John was becoming an asset that he'd prefer not to lose. Especially after giving up Sebastian. Mainly, though he kept this close to chest, because he wanted to know _why_ this man would ever jump in front of a bullet for Jim's own sake.

It all seemed rather ridiculous to him, really. Still did, even after these days spent with the man. It obviously wasn't because of some misguided sense of trust. No, that wasn't it at all because part of the reason it took days to get settled into a more relaxed routine around each other was because the assassin _didn't_ trust him. Never had probably. Jim didn't blame the man as John was intelligent. More so than the Holmes brothers would likely ever give him credit for. As an assassin, especially a contract-killer like John who didn't have any sort of backup were things to go south, John knew as well as Jim that trust could get themselves killed. Trust the wrong person, and suddenly there's a bullet being fired into the back of his head. Jim had fully recognized the trust issues early on, but that had rather made living with the man more difficult. As well as trying to figure him out. After all, why would someone who jumped a bit when Jim came up behind them silently (then attempted to hide the fact) take a bullet for Jim? Even thought it was likely simply an instinctual action due to the split second reaction, it had still been a reaction to stand in the path of something that would have likely killed Jim himself. Of course, there was then the criminal's own reaction. Giving up his best sniper, taking the blame for John's injuries, and sending him off to a hospital. To avoid thinking too much on it, he simply told himself it was because he needed a new sniper and John would do a much better job than Sebastian likely ever would. That was all it would ever be.

While the first few days had been more than a bit rocky, by the time they were halfway through the week things were calming down a bit. Tensions draining a bit more. Jim had been slowly growing accustomed with having another person in the flat with him at all times of the day. With leaving to take care of small things himself and returning to find that John was, of course, still in the flat. It had grown easier to work around John as well. The man hardly moved from his spot on the couch where he alternated from sitting to being carefully sprawled out so as to not put too much stress on his wound and incision from the surgery. The assassin himself was slowly warming up to this arrangement as well. There was no doubt in Jim's mind that the other still didn't trust him in the slightest, but he'd relaxed enough to not make it so obvious. Their dynamic had grown far more casual while within the flat than Jim would have ever believed he'd be possible of. Partly, it was likely because his flats were where he took off the 'battle armor' that was his Westwoods and actually attempted to relax for a while. Partly, it was because John was the only person that had gotten this close to him. Human contact beyond the simple giving of orders to his own people was at a minimum. Few people worked directly with him as his whole empire ran on the fear of an invisible master who's reach was indeterminable. That wasn't how he and Sebastian had worked, but it was still professional. With John, he'd saved the man's life right in the beginning, took the man out to dinners so they could talk, actually worked to find him when the assassin had been kidnapped, sent him to a hospital personally, and then invited the man into one of his flats for the remainder of his recovery. Some things just didn't add up in Jim's mind, but he did know that he and John were closer than he'd allowed other people. Jim wasn't entirely sure what to think about that.

* * *

"What could you have _possible _done to tear your stitches?" Jim questioned as he wiped at the mentioned area carefully. Trying to stop the bleeding that had started up. This was another part of their arrangement of course. John couldn't reach his own wound to give it the proper treatment it needed to prevent infections, which left that task to Jim himself. This had taken quite a while for both of them to get used to, but they now had it down to an art form. It was also when Jim was able to see more skin that he'd been permitted in the past. That he doubted must people had been permitted to see due to the rather obvious scars that littered the skin. The most prominent of which being on the left shoulder, and from the way it looked Jim actually wondered how John was still able to use his left arm at all.

"I'm watching Doctor Who," John responded, sounding very much convinced that it was a suitable excuse. Jim, on the other hand, gave the assassin an incredulous look.

"_Doctor Who_?" he questioned, checking the bleeding as he did so. "What does this have to do with a show?" He carefully set the bloodied cloth to the side to get a new one as he began cleaning the area. A med kit was beside him and waiting to be used to restitch the wound once more. There wasn't a need to go to all this effort to keep the other alive if he was simply going to allow his wounds to get infected.

"I laughed," John replied crossly, leaving Jim to chuckle despite himself.

"Oh Johnny, it's a wonder you've lived this long." Jim hummed, taking up a needle and suture before expertly threading the needle. John didn't even flinch when the needle slipped through the skin as Jim started stitching the other up.

"Have you even watched Doctor Who?" John questioned, and it actually caught Jim a bit off guard. Him? Watch Doctor Who? It was about the most absurd thought that someone could have about the consulting criminal.

"Of course I have," Jim drawled.

"Then you'd know what I was talking about!" John said, and Jim didn't have to look to hear a bit of a smirk in the other's tone.

"Yes, and I've never laughed so hard to the point where I could tear _stitches_." Jim replied.

John huffed. "It's not like I was actually _trying _to tear them."

"Might as well have been," Jim murmured as he finished off his work and tied a knot. "Really, Johnny, you didn't have to tear _all of them."_

"Wanted to give you something to do," John quipped in return as he turned in his place to regard the criminal. Jim himself was wearing a simple white button up with a collar and black jeans. It was the most casual he ever was. The criminal's hands were currently bloodied from tending to John, and despite himself a brief flash of when the assassin had been shot ran through his mind. Same blood, different reasons, different places.

"It's not all that bad," John added, tone light though he seemed to have read Jim's thoughts. Another thing that made the man an oddity.

"It's a good thing I don't have blood on anything," Jim commented, dark eyes flicking around as if in search of any hiding blood stains. "You'd pay for it." He added in a hum with a smirk.

John only rolled his eyes a bit before grabbing his shirt and pulling it on. Jim blinked while the man did so. As if just noticing that the other hadn't done so already. In the past, John would take his shirt off and fidget until he was cleared to yank it back on at the first opportunity. That hadn't been the case this time, and it had actually taken Jim this long to notice. He didn't like that. It meant he could be slipping around John, but it obviously meant that the other man was as well. He'd left himself bared to Jim for a long few minutes, after all. Then again, Jim might have even believed he was reading too much into everything. Making the same mistakes dear Sherlock always did when he wanted everything to have a cookie cutter, textbook purpose, and was always so easy to fool when that weakness was exploited. It wouldn't do for Jim to slip into that same way of thinking. Wanting everything to have a second motive that came out of a textbook, and wanting everything to be clever.

He supposed that was how John had managed to hide himself from Sherlock for so long. The man didn't really appreciate that someone like John, whom he'd finally grown to trust and fit the bill of the textbook 'good man' perfectly, could be anything less than what he appeared. That Sherlock's little Doctor John Watson was nothing of the sort, and that he had the potential to be incredibly intelligent and cruel given the chance. That John killed for a living. That John _enjoyed_ the kill. Jim had been around the man enough in the aftermath of a contract to know that much. He'd been there to witness the slow wind down off the adrenaline, that high John got from killing another person. In knowing that he wouldn't be caught yet again. John Watson relished the death he caused, and the controlled chaos he had the ability to create given the right circumstances and motives. It really wasn't a wonder as to why Jim wanted to keep the man around. Especially with Sebastian gone. He had a bit of an opening in his organization now.

* * *

John was growing far more comfortable that he'd like to admit. The first signs of this became obvious when the sixth day he'd spent recovering in the criminal's flat rolled around. It was when he finally noticed that in his head _Moriarty_ had become _Jim_. He'd had to stop for a moment, suddenly ignoring everything else around him, as he tried to search and work through when he'd made this change. When the man had grown to be on a first name basis. The problem being that John couldn't pinpoint the exact moment. It had been a natural shift from one thing to the other. Unforced. Not even realizing it until he was already referring to one James Moriarty as _Jim_.

It wasn't long after that that John began to think of Sherlock. The man was his best friend. A sad but true reality as he was very aware that he'd gotten too close to the detective. As an assassin it was dangerous to form ties and connections for more than one reason. It was why he worked so hard to maintain separate identities in the criminal underground and in civilian life. More important now as he was both protecting and hiding from Sherlock. Of all people to finally befriend, of course it had to be a brilliant detective. If anything, however, John was more worried about Mycroft finding out. Sherlock he could deal with. The British Government? The man's overprotective streak for his brother would likely lead to John being thrown in a very dark hole somewhere where he'd be forgotten about. Given this, one might that an intelligent and sane person capable of cool, rational thought would leave London without a trace. That was rather the problem, he supposed.

The danger and thrill of London never ceased to amaze him. When he wasn't on a contract he was racing about through the streets after criminals with Sherlock. Getting shot at and shooting others with little to no repercussions as it was all 'self-defense' and 'for the greater good'. Then, at night or otherwise, John could go out and work. Carrying out contracts and getting the shot of adrenaline from those thrills. Now he was caught between two very different kinds of danger. Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty. Sherlock was the brand that, while the threat of capture was always evident, was also the safest. There wasn't a risk, if John felt like comparing them to drugs, a risk of an overdose. Of _too_ much. With Jim, however…The criminal pulled the strings. In everything he did he was almost always the one dangling down his puppets and allowing them to do what he wanted blindly while Jim always knew what was going on. John wasn't naïve. He knew that the other was likely looking for the assassin to work for him now that Sebastian was gone and out of the picture. Jim was a danger all in himself without adding anything to it, and he was the one where it would be so easy to go over the edge. To get too much, too quickly, and then be unable to crawl back out again. Considering his ties to Sherlock, Jim could easily use his knowledge to his advantage and out the assassin. Or send the man on a contact that ended in the elder Holmes finding out exactly who John really was, and then that he was now taking contracts from Jim. It was a bit of a vicious cycle. Everything surrounding Jim had the possibility of utterly destroying the careful structure that John had built and maintained in his life…and he'd be damned if he left now.

Taking a bullet intended for another person was a bit of an eye-opener. John hadn't thought, only reacted. His first instinct being to ensure that Jim survived, even when the chances were high that the bullet could hit something important and kill John himself. That was a different kind of danger altogether. That was eerily similar to the attachment he had to Sherlock. Beyond the working dynamic he and Jim had previously created. Closer to friendship, if it could be called that. Even with everything else aside, they were still consulting criminal and contract-killer. There certainly wasn't much of a name for whatever it was that they were. John only knew it had the definite potential to be disastrous. Yet, even so, it was impossible to avoid anything now. He'd already been drug into everything, gone far too deep to pull out easily now. John wasn't so sure if he even wanted to anymore. The work he'd been getting from Jim was challenging. More of a challenge than he'd received in years. There just weren't very many good contracts out there. Well paying ones, yes. The assassin wasn't in it only for the money though, and Jim offered the thrills. The challenges. The opportunity to actually push and test the skills he'd learned over the many years he'd spent in this profession. Moral principles and issues were not a problem when it came to continuing whatever this dynamic was with Jim. He killed people for a living; Jim was the one having those people killed. There wasn't a lot of room for the morals to be factored into this decision. No, it had simply been his commitment to Sherlock and his genuine lack of wanting to be ousted and backstabbed that he'd been cautious in his dealings with the criminal. Now he was staying with the man and having idle conversations whenever Jim saw fit to either change his bandages or sit down and talk. It was certainly strange.

More so when, almost a week into his time spent in Jim's flat, he was sprawled carefully across one of the sofa's watching Doctor Who when Jim was suddenly by him. The assassin had glanced up only to scramble to move when Jim made to sit. Given that he couldn't go too fast because of his wound, it was a near miss of John having his legs sat on. He sent a questioning glance to the criminal who merely smirked back at him in response.

"Problem, Johnny?" he hummed, dark eyes glittering.

"Not at all," John replied easily, though confused by this. Eventually he was pulled back to the screen. It was a rerun. He'd seen most of the seasons, but he didn't mind rewatching and this episode especially. Even if it was a bit sad. It was _The Last of the Time Lords_ and it was about halfway through. Nearing the end, John was more than a bit transfixed as he watched the Master's and the Doctor's interactions. He always was, really. Especially in this episode since he'd seen the other seasons.

"Bit ironic, isn't it?" Jim questioned, looking to the other. "Go through all that pain on the Doctor's part, all the guilt and we both know what happens only a season later. Back from the dead, insane, and more powerful than ever."

John hummed as he looked back to the criminal. "So you really _do_ watch Doctor Who." He teased.

"Would I lie to you?" Jim asked, innocent as could be.

"Yes," the assassin replied, not buying into it.

"Good to know your Russian friends didn't do anything to your intelligence," Jim stated with a small nod, and John had to sit there and wonder a bit about the fact that it sounded much like he'd been paid a compliment in the criminal's own way.

"Wish they'd get new 'friends'," John said, attention fully off of the television screen now that the show had ended. He heard the telltale theme of the show going off behind him, but he didn't pay it any mind. Focusing instead on Jim.

"Another assassin will come around and get their attention," Jim drawled lazily. "If that one survives long enough another one will come along. It's how things work. You have the need to feel the adrenaline with each kill, the Mafia will look for the next enemy, and dear Sherly looks for the next case."

While what Jim said had some merit to it, John was still getting stuck on only one part of it. "Sherly? What is your infatuation with nicknames?"

"Bother you, Johnny?" Jim singsonged with a bit of a smirk.

"Not in the slightest, Jim." John replied, and it was only when he saw the briefest flash of confusion break through the other's mask for a split second that the assassin realized what he'd said aloud. While Moriarty had become Jim in his head, he hadn't said it. This was the first time and for all intents and purposes despite the working relationship they'd been thrown into because of Sebastian's mess what felt like ages ago they really shouldn't have ever gotten to a first-name basis with each other -though Jim had never actually used John's given name rather than his pet names. They honestly probably shouldn't have gotten to the point where they were comfortable enough to be around each other with little to no weapons while they bantered about Doctor Who. Yet here they both were.

Jim recovered quickly and was soon acting as if nothing had happened, "I was going to tell you that you'll be watching the flat for awhile," he hummed. "I doubt you'd try anything stupid while I'm gone for business, but just in case don't try to leave."

John's brow furrowed a bit in confusion. "Sorry? You're actually going to just leave me here?" He questioned as the criminal stood.

"That _is_ what I said, Johnny-boy." Jim replied, sounding a touch annoyed at having to clarify further.

"How long do you think you'll be gone, then?" John asked.

"A few weeks," the criminal said. "By the time I'm back you'll be able to scamper on back to Sherlock."

"Okay," John said, drawing out the word a bit.

"Problem?" Jim asked, tone dropping dangerously. There was one of the things that had the potential to be both terrifying, given the right circumstances, and/or thrilling. Jim's mood swings. He'd heard several phone calls where the man could bounce between happy murderous and back again in the same breath.

"No," John answered, and Jim turned to fix him with an unreadable look for several long moments.

"The bullet wound will be healed enough that you move –or laugh—without worrying about hurting yourself. I'm sure you'll be _dying _ to leave." Jim said.

John shrugged. "Yeah, sit around the flat and think about how I can't go on contracts…Can't wait."

"Hmm…" With that Jim was disappearing into one of two rooms John had never been in. The criminal's bedroom, rather than the study this time.

* * *

It wasn't until the next morning, when he woke up to find a note within reach, that he learned when Jim was leaving. Apparently while John had been asleep. There were plenty of things stocked in the kitchen to eat, so that wouldn't be an issue. The first week was boring. It was odd not having the constant presence of the criminal within the flat. It felt a bit empty and strange. Silent. His wound had been getting far better. The stitches were unneeded as the skin had finally sealed up. By the second week he was moving around a bit easier, and in the middle of the second week along in Jim's flat there was a knock on the door.

The assassin's eyes narrowed as he watched the door. Listening and waiting. Eventually a person walked in. A rather ordinary looking man in sweats and a tee-shirt that was hauling a mat in behind him. John was left to stare.

"Boss says I'm suppose to spar with you until the he comes back," the man eventually said once the mat, which he recognized as the kind put down for the purpose of sparring, was laid out. Padded enough to avoid too much damage, yet sturdy enough to provide stable footing. At the mention of sparring John visibly perked up. His interest now peaked.

It took him until the next week, having sparred whenever the man (whose name John didn't know as he'd never asked) could come for a short hour…Or however long the still recovering assassin could last before needing to stop, before he realized why Jim had done this. John needed to be able to work himself back up to his peak physical condition after being injured, and with his sparring partner he was slowly working up to it once more. He was getting stronger it felt as each day passed. His fighting better, and his movements smoother and more rhythmic as they had been. While the assassin wasn't fully healed yet, he was still putting his sparring partner on his back more often than not now. While John might not be able to take contracts for a few months so Sherlock or anyone else didn't become too suspicious of the kills after 'catching' the last assassin, he would still be in the proper physical state before then. Which left John with a question. Why would Jim want him able to work as he had before getting shot? Did the criminal have contracts in mind already, or was it something else? He had mentioned how bored he'd be…At this rate, John was just accepting that he'd never understand the man. Best to stop trying and just hang on for the ride, it seemed.

**So…Now that I'm healthy again and exams are over I've **_**finally**_** updated. I feel horrible for making everyone wait so long, especially after I left an author's note saying how much the people who read this mean to me –and everyone who left wonderful reviews afterwards—so I can honestly say I'm sorry for disappearing. I've updated in time for the holidays though, and I've been trying to increase my word output…We'll see how long that lasts.**

**As always,**

**Have a good day**

**Reaperess ^_^**


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock started calling when John hit the third week of spending time in Jim's flat. The aforementioned consulting criminal having made no contact since leaving, and having yet to actually return. Which the assassin didn't necessarily mind, but he still wasn't entirely certain why he'd been left alone in the flat at all much less allowed a sparring partner.

_"You said one week. Have there been complications?"_

"No, Sherlock. Its fine, I just haven't seen Harry in a long time and I'm still healing. It hasn't exactly been…easy." Careful voice inflection. Aim for a bit of sympathy in the heart he _knew_ was there. Sherlock was simultaneously the hardest and easiest person to lie to. The man was intelligent beyond belief and could read a person's tells in the smallest twitch of a muscle, but he also had more of a heart than what most people thought and he trusted John. More than he should in some senses, but the assassin would never allow actual harm to come to him. A fact that Jim would need to learn if he did want to keep him on as an assassin now that Sebastian was gone. John would not help him pursue Sherlock in their game. Even if that ended in having his secrets revealed as a form of retaliation or consequence.

"_Of course. Understandable. But you _did_ give me the approximate of a week. I need your opinion on a case." _And so the conversations went. Almost the same each time with only a bit of variation with the order of topics presented. In his own way, it was Sherlock expressing that he was a bit worried about his friend and flatmate. If only the man knew where he actually was.

* * *

John had by far improved. The sparring –with help from the general lack of anything else to do—had encouraged the assassin to work on his recovery outside of the sessions. He didn't go through the routines he used to do, but he did exercises that would help build him back up. Starting out early was a bit painful, even with his wound having healed quite a bit, but it was far more beneficial than waiting. It left less time spent where he was off his game and weaker than normal, so the pain was worth it. Especially as he circled his sparring partner from the last three weeks. The man –he'd still never learned his name—circled as well. He wasn't a bad fighter himself, which John was sure why he'd been chosen, but he certainly wasn't an assassin or expert of any kind. It was enough to give John an opponent he wouldn't lay flat instantly…when he was still working on regaining his skills.

The assassin was wearing a form fitting tee-shirt and sweats to allow for easier movement as he moved smoothly around the mat with bare feet. Blue eyes were nearly void of all emotion or inflection, but his lips were curved in a bit of a smirk. Giving away absolutely nothing as he moved, and he struck first. John darted forward with a palm sent for the other's solar plexus. There was only a small protest of pain in his side. A large improvement from when they'd first began, and as always his opponent was quick to block the strike only to be caught as the assassin hooked a leg behind the others. Effectively locking him in place lest he want to fall, but ever the one to try and fight back the man tried to throw an elbow into John's face. It was about the only room he had, but John bent back while maintaining his balance to avoid the clumsy counter before he was righting himself and pressing his palm against his opponent's chest and pushing. It wasn't the most eloquent form of offense, but it was certainly effective for what John was looking for. The man, base already compromised by the leg hooked around his own, flailed a bit as he rocked backwards and fell to the ground. The mat soft, but not soft enough to keep the breath from being knocked out of the other with a rather satisfying grunt of discomfort. His movements had grown smoother, and he worked with greater fluidity and precision than he had when they'd first started. It wasn't perfect, and it wasn't back to John's previous standards and ability, but it was progress. Proof was lying flat on the mat as he tried to regain his breath.

With his attention having been rather focused on the round of sparring, John was surprised to hear slow clapping. While the assassin didn't allow the surprise to show, it didn't change the fact that he had been caught off guard in the first place. John was met with the sight of Jim giving him an almost sardonic smirk were it not for the dark eyes that held a bit of something else he couldn't quite place. The criminal was back to his flawless Westwood suits once more, and he practically radiated the kind of control and power that must come natural to him.

"I see you've taken full advantage of my little courtesy," Jim mused, eyes flicking over the assassin as if assessing him.

"It's better than doing nothing," John said.

"Quite," the criminal hummed. "Much improvement?" The assassin went to answer when he had an arm wrapping around his neck. He heard Jim laugh at his current predicament. Or maybe it was more the scowl that John pulled at letting his guard down once more. The problem was easily fixed when John latched onto the other's arm to get a good grip and shifted a heel back to cross his leg in front his opponent's. He remained calm as he used his strength and his attacker's weight against them by ducking a bit and tossing them over his hip while yanking down on the arm around his neck. The hold was broken and another grunt of pain sounded as a spine connected with the mat.

"Of course there has been," Jim continued happily, flashing a smirk.

"Should be good for a contract if it wouldn't stand out," John replied, stepping around the downed man to step off the mat.

"Glad to hear it, Johnny." the other practically sang. "Get showered and dressed. I have a job for you." John had to think over the words for a moment.

"Sorry?"

"Go get your shower," Jim repeated. "Can't take you anywhere like _that_, Johnny-boy."

John sighed at the general lack of answers he was getting, but he really should have been used to that by now. The assassin brushed past Jim to get to the hall where the shower was located. The criminal's dark eyes were practically burning holes into him as he moved by, and it left John with chills running down his spine. A fact that he was rather unhappy with as he disappeared into the bathroom. There was already a box in the bathroom that was resting on the sink. He eyed it curiously before shutting the door and stripping to climb into the shower.

He was rather glad to have the opportunity as he was sweating a bit from the exertion of putting his wound through his activities. While his showers were never particularly drawn out, it still gave John a bit of time to think and clear his head. Jim was back, and he'd come with a job. One he wasn't specifying on. Somehow he doubted that it would necessarily involve too many bodies due to his constraints on leaving them. Considering that the other hadn't mentioned this before he assumed that meant that this had come up suddenly, or at least Jim hadn't thought of it before he left.

Five minutes, and the assassin was out of the shower and toweling himself dry as he looked the box over. His name was on it, so obviously he was meant to have it. When John took the lid off of the otherwise seemingly nondescript white box he nearly groaned, but was a touch too shocked to allow the sound to escape. The criminal couldn't be serious…

* * *

Jim had been too caught up in his work to remember that he'd long since arranged to make an appearance at a function. He wasn't actually going as himself –as Moriarty—as that would be ridiculous. It would ruin the effect of being a faceless and nameless entity all together. Of course _some_ people had the honor of working closely with him, but for the most part most never saw him face to face. Those who did often weren't aware that they were even speaking to Jim himself. It gave him a greater opportunity to get a feel for future assets and expansions to his already thriving empire without needing to deal with middlemen. No matter how competent they might be, the criminal preferred his own judgment.

"This is ridiculous," he heard John mutter, and the criminal looked up to see the assassin was walking down the hall towards him. Jim smirked a bit at the scowl and look of discomfort on the other's face, but his dark gaze was soon moving down John's body to take in his new attire. Far better than the awful jumpers he normally wore when he wasn't on contracts. The criminal had to pull his attention off of the rather appealing sight of John in the near perfectly tailored three-piece Westwood. The suit made of a dark charcoal colored material with a white shirt beneath the vest and jacket. Considering the fact that John looked like he wanted to crawl out of his skin Jim was rather glad that he'd opted to allow for some form of comfort in the form of bypassing on a tie. John certainly looked good in the suit without one, at any rate. The criminal was quick to catch that train of thought and end it before it went any further.

"Much better," Jim hummed, still smirking easily. John didn't appear to be overly amused. The criminal found it rather adorable.

"What is this 'job'?" he questioned, eyes narrowed.

"You're my plus-one!" Jim announced, "It was going to be Sebby, but now that he's in _prison_…"

"Plus-one?"

"Come _on,_ Johnny." he sighed. "I need a bodyguard, so you're coming along with me as a plus-one to a little _party_ I have to get to." Jim was finding the assassin's confusion and frustration amusing as ever.

"If I have to wear this I want to kill someone," John said, and Jim couldn't keep in a laugh. If only little Sherlock could see who his beloved doctor actually was.

"And ruin it? Westwood, Johnny, never ruin a Westwood." Jim chided.

"Don't really care."

"Maybe you'll get lucky and something _exciting _will happen. Otherwise, try to avoid killing anyone. Fun as _that_ would be."

"What is this, anyway?" John questioned, rolling his soldiers and obviously trying to get comfortable. "The 'party'?"

"Bit of a get together between a few of my assets, and a few that aren't _mine_ yet. I get out more than you might think." He hummed in answer. "I'll explain on the way, Johnny. We don't want to be _late_." The assassin's lips pursed, but he nodded to show he was about as ready as he'd ever be. Grinning, Jim moved forward and swept out of the flat with John trailing not far behind. Waiting for them was a rather nice black car with a driver waiting for them. Jim darted forward smoothly and beat the driver to opening the door as he gave John a sardonic grin and a mock bow of sorts. The assassin only rolled his eyes, but the smirk was impossible not to notice as it twitched onto the other's lips briefly. John slipped into the car, Jim following inside as the driver took the wheel.

"By the way," he added as they pulled out onto the roads, glancing to John with his dark eyes unreadable as he passed the other a case. "Might need that."

John's brows threatened to disappear into his hairline as he opened the case and looked over the contents. His lips quirked a bit as his expression showed rather obvious appreciation for what he'd found. "Thought I wasn't supposed to kill anyone?"

"Oh you're not, but I'm _so_ changeable." Jim replied, grin a mix of nearly giddy joy and murderous thoughts. The assassin sent him a smirk and low chuckled in response, and not long after Jim started explaining what they'd be doing. How it would work. Finding, as the ride dragged on, that he was growing increasingly pleased with the fact that he didn't have to re-explain concepts several times over as he had to with Sebastian. The man hadn't been unintelligent, but he was so reckless at times that Jim had no choice but to near beat the information into the other's thick skull through repetition. John, on the other hand, was intelligent and he listened. His questions, few and far between, were based more on the logistics of what he'd be doing and looking out for. This was the first time they'd be working this closely, after all. John had already revealed that he'd never played 'bodyguard' to anyone. Never even served as a sniper during a meeting or negotiation. Jim still had full confidence in the other's ability for this, however. Besides, it would be interesting having him close for this.

* * *

"Try to relax, Johnny." Jim murmured in a low hum as he smirked at John. The man looked like he would far prefer to crawl into a dark hole after leaving his skin. This function of assets and future assets –as Jim saw it as—was formal. The rich criminals and their organizations among others dressed well, noses up, and the venue was a rather expensive mansion of sorts. The assassin had probably never been somewhere like this unless he was in black and set up with a rifle ready to take a shot at one of the guests.

"Easy for you," John replied, but the other had made the effort of allowing the tension to melt out of his shoulders. He looked much better when relaxed. Jim's lips pursed a bit at that thought.

"Go mingle, see what you can find out." He suggested, and John gave him a bit of an incredulous look. "You'll keep an eye on me." He continued as if reading the other's thoughts. John snorted softly, but moved off to join one of the many small congregations of people laughing and talking amongst themselves. As uncomfortable as John had been, it was rather interesting to watch the other slip into the group and easily conform into it. Fitting in almost instantly as he blended in, and soon he was laughing and speaking with the ease of a natural. Jim chuckled to himself as he turned away from the sight and scanned the rest of the room. A familiar face catching his eyes and causing a dark brow to rise.

Jim was soon gliding to the other side of the decently crowded ballroom where this whole thing was taking place to come up behind his target. A dark smirk already curling his lips as he clasped his hands behind his back. "My, this _is_ a surprise." Jim sang. "I thought you were hiding in America."

"Jim, wonderful to see you again." Irene replied, turning to face the criminal. "You look good."

"So do you, considering you _are_ dead." Jim mused.

"What can I say; it's hard to stay away for too long. I'll be going back once this is over." she said, and Jim chuckled.

"Let's hope so, wouldn't want our Virgin distracted, now would we." He said innocently.

She hid her emotions fairly well, but then again he expected nothing less from The Women. "Where's Sebastian? He's always attached at the hip."

"Had a bit of a problem. I do think he's in prison by now." Jim answered happily.

"He's _what_?" Irene questioned, surprise actually coloring her voice as she smiled slowly.

"You head perfectly well, my dear." Jim said, "Sherlock caught up to him last month."

"But he doesn't know he had anything to do with you," she assumed, and Jim's answering smirk seemed to be enough of a confirmation. "You've found a replacement, then?"

"Something like that," Jim mused, daring her to find them in the crowd. Irene smirked herself as she started looking over the various faces around the room. It took her several minutes given the sheer amount of people, but when she found him it was obvious. The painted red lips parting a bit as her jaw went slack and her eyes widened in genuine surprise as the sight of John Watson, mingling in his Westwood suit. If there was any question as to why he was there in her mind, it was soon answered as the assassin's eyes easily found Jim for a brief moment. Always aware of the other's position. John's eyes flicked to Irene, and while Jim was certain the man was more than a bit surprised he rolled with it to keep his composure and character before returning to the conversation he was participating in.

"John Watson?" Irene breathed.

"Interesting, isn't it?" Jim hummed in response.

"Sherlock can't _know_ this," she said, tearing her gaze from the sight of John to look back at Jim. "It's impossible."

"Oh trust me, my dear, I'm very aware of how impossible it seems." Jim mused. "The Soldier is The Assassin."

"I had no idea," she said, and Jim was aware that she actually sounded a touch impressed by the fact. Not unlike how he himself had felt once he'd learned what John really was. "And you managed to get him to work for you?"

"Now, now, Ms. Adler." Jim chided, dark eyes flashing. "You only get so much. Can't have the fun ruined too soon."

"Hmm…I'd be careful, James." she warned, but she was smiling coyly. "You might be in a bit of danger with this one."

"Threat?" he questioned, tone dropping enough to make the woman pale a bit. He found the result satisfying.

"No," she recovered smoothly. "A warning. I know my way around my _business_. You're in danger with John Watson." Jim gave her an unreadable look, one brow raised and his near ever present smirk on his lips. They talked for a few more moments before they parted ways. He was intensely amused by the fact that he didn't see her again. The Women appeared to have decided that returning to America a bit early was best, and that left Jim to wonder at what threat he had in the form of John Watson.

**Hello! I've updated! What on earth could Jim have given John? What will happen at this little get together? (Hint: I know ;-) ) But I want to hear what you guys are thinking too.**

**Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays however you're celebrating. I hope to update again before the New Year, but just in case I hope everyone has a Happy New Year **

**Reviews are amazing, and thanks to those who have left them and stuck with me through my leave of absence.**

**Have a good day**

**Reaperess ^_^**


	19. Chapter 19

**Warning: Language and violence in this, my friends. Just to make sure.**

John hadn't expected to see Irene Adler here of all places. Actually, maybe that wasn't such a surprise given her activities. No, he was surprised because he'd been told that she was dead and gone after being executed by some sort of terrorist cell…Or at least that was what he thought had happened. If he thought it over though, then he could recall the fact that Sherlock hadn't seemed too broken up about her death. At the time he'd simply assumed it was because he was hiding his emotions as per usual, but maybe that wasn't the case. The detective had just disappeared for a span of time with no explanations posed and no cases to take him anywhere out of the country…So maybe…

It was an effort to keep from rolling his eyes and cracking a smile at Sherlock's antics. Of course he'd go after the woman. His attention was soon back to the conversation he'd joined. To be honest, he would rather be gouging his eyes out than talking with these people. They'd never guess that, of course. John had spent years becoming the one of the best assassins in the world, and he was far more capable of adapting and blending into a situation than most gave him credit for…Except for Jim. The criminal had a rather unique perspective so far as that went however, so John wasn't entirely sure if he should be counted. At any rate, his smiling and laughing was all a very convincing show. The suit was still uncomfortable, and he still wanted to kill something. His left hand had already picked up the barely noticeable tremor that came with going too long without killing anything.

A hand passed him a champagne flute at some point during the conversation, but when John turned to see who had given it to him the person had already disappeared into the crowd. Eyes narrowing minutely, the assassin searched for Jim quickly. It wasn't hard to find the other. Jim was mingling just as he was. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself as the man all but controlled the conversation of the people he was speaking with. A fact they didn't seem to mind as he looked to be in the middle of a rather energetic story of some sort or another. Shaking a head, John brought the glass flute up…and paused as something caught his eye. He might not have the observation skills of a Holmes, but he was always cautious when given something that he didn't know the source of. His paranoia was obviously paying off because he'd caught the powder on the rim of the glass. Bit not good for him, but he'd caught it in time to ensure that he wasn't drugged by whatever had been placed in the drink. He needed to find who had given it to him in the first place…Actually; he needed to pay attention to who was around Jim.

The criminal had explained that he wasn't coming as 'Moriarty' but rather as a representative. So far as anyone else knew, Jim was only a close partner of the faceless consultant criminal. John obviously his 'bodyguard'. Anyone who was stupid enough to try and threaten Jim to get to his 'boss' would want to ensure that said 'bodyguard' wasn't able to do his job. It was basics, really. John had done this same trick plenty of times when a contract required it to actually be accomplished. It just meant that he'd likely get to kill someone after all. The fact that he was honestly relieved by the fact that he'd get to kill some idiots who actually thought threatening an entity like Moriarty was possible made him feel relieved might have been a sign of his mental state. John didn't really care however. He had a job to do, and apparently he had people to kill. It almost made wearing the suit bearable. _Almost_.

With a smile, John excused himself from the conversation and walked around the ballroom for a moment. He passed behind some décor that allowed him a perfect spot to smoothly dump about half the champagne out, and when he re-emerged on the other side he had already brought the glass up as if he'd just taken a drink. The assassin's gaze was sharp as he scanned in an almost causal manner for anyone who might have been watching him and waiting for him to finally drink the champagne. He didn't see anyone that stood out at first. That left him in a rather interesting predicament, as it were. John knew that _someone_ had been trying to drug him. That much was obvious, and now that he'd took the initiative to act as if he'd taken the bait he'd need to do his best to fake his way through the stages of being drugged. Considering he didn't even know what they'd used he'd just have to hope for the best on that front. It wasn't his preferred plan, but it was about all he had at the moment. That and keeping an eye on Jim now. Which he'd been doing, but now he had to ensure that he knew exactly when Jim was going to be assumedly approached and taken off. Probably to one of the rooms within the mansion that weren't being used as the guests were all crowded in the ballroom. Leaving him far too many rooms to search for his tastes given Jim wouldn't have the longest time span to stay safe in a situation like _that_. He could almost imagine the sarcastic, biting comments coming out of the criminal's mouth all while being accented by the Irish lilt he possessed. This was turning out to be a wonderful evening, and they were only around an hour and a half in.

As John started up the search for a new conversation to slip into he was stopped but a man that seemed to be one of the guests. The assassin gave him a smile, but after a few short greetings and preliminary niceties, it was quite obvious that he wasn't going to get out of talking to this man. Something in the back of his mind counted that as a bit odd, but while he didn't quite ignore his suspicions he pushed them to the side for the time being. The conversation was the same, more or less, that he'd been having before with the larger group. The difference this time being that he had a greater part to play now. Throughout his time spent talking with this man –Richard, apparently—he'd kept an eye on Jim. The criminal was still talking between groups. Every so often the man would glance around for him, then meet his gaze before turning away again.

It was during one of these times when Richard interrupted him, having apparently caught his wondering gaze, and brought his attention back to him. He looked concerned, but John could tell quite easily that it wasn't any kind of genuine concern. It seemed 'Richard' had grown tired of the mask he had been trying to wear just as the rest of them did.

"You alright, mate?" he asked, resting a hand on John's shoulder before he took the champagne flute from him and set it out of harm's way. Considering the fact that he was supposed to have been drugged, the assassin found this opportunity as good as any.

"I'm f-fine…" he stuttered out, allowing for a shaky sway of his body.

"Nah…You've had a bit too much to drink." Richard said, and now there was an arm wrapped around his waist. The man steered John, who had leaned most of his weight on the other, out of the ballroom and into a corridor outside. The assassin just managed to catch a glimpse of a rather unimpressed Jim watching the proceedings from afar. Looked like the distance had the criminal thinking John would actually be unintelligent enough to be drugged so easily. If the criminal were closer, then John had no doubted it would be obvious that he wasn't _actually_ suffering from any sort of drugging. He really wasn't _that_ good of an actor, after all.

'Richard' guided him roughly down the corridor now that they were out of sight of the rest of the crowds. It was far darker here than it had been in the well lit ballroom, but John took the time to adjust his vision to it. He was taken into a room off the corridor that seemed to have been rearranged for the purposes of the small group already waiting inside. There was a chair settled back in the corner, which was where John was sat down, and one in the center of the room where they'd cleared some space. That was probably for Jim. Until then, the assassin slumped in his seat and allowed his head to loll around a bit.

"Some bodyguard," he heard 'Richard' snort from the other side of the room.

"Just need him out of the way to kill 'Jim'," another said. "Let his boss know we're tired of him ignoring our business." That was about all John would ever need to spur him into action. There were four men in the room, and he assumed there were more that were probably getting Jim as he sat there. He could handle this. The assassin risked a glance to see who was paying attention to him. It didn't seem like anyone was, and the closest person was standing in front of him with back turned. Partially blocking his view of the room.

The assassin surged upwards and wrapped an arm around the man's neck tightly while his other arm went to his waist. A startled choke came from the man as his eyes widened, but even as the other three in the room turned in alarm John was already wrenching. His expression remained cold and unfeeling, gaze ruthlessly calculating, as the snap of a neck seemed to echo in the room. A moment of calm as the body fell to the ground, then everything erupted in chaos and panic.

As the three in the room panicked and scrambled and clawed for any weapons they might have on their person, John was already smoothly pulling out his own. Handgun. A _beautiful_ handgun. A Desert Eagle with a built in silencer that was the color of polished silver. There were a few artfully engraved designs in the side of the gun that were almost a bit too flashy for his tastes, but he couldn't condemn the quality of the gun nonetheless. It shot beautifully too. Three quick bullets and as he smoothly pulled the trigger, and he'd managed to get a fatal shot to each. One to the head –the first, one through the neck—the second, and poor 'Richard' had been caught in the chest. He was the one that was going to last the longest, but would inevitably die given time. The room was filled now only with the soft gurgles of the second, and Richard's pained whimpers. Blood splattered the wall behind the three he'd just put down, and while it wasn't his cleanest kills there had only been the soft pops that came from his silenced gun. He'd have to thank Jim when the criminal finally arrived.

Thankfully he wasn't kept waiting. The assassin had taken to leaning against the wall by the door as he admired the gun some more. When the door opened and Jim was lead in just as roughly as John had been – though the criminal was smirking – the hireling that was following behind had only a second or two to realize that his fellow accomplices were dead before John blew his brains out. Much to Jim's chagrin as he leapt back out of the way of the splatter of gore. John could almost roll his eyes as the criminal all but obsessively checked his suit for any blood or brain matter.

"Johnny…" Jim practically whined as he looked at the state of the assassin. The first kills hadn't left him with any blood splattered on his own Westwood, but this one had been far closer and he'd not been nearly as lucky to avoid a spray. He hadn't even noticed until Jim had been so kind to point it out with his complaints. He glanced down at himself, but it seemed like he'd managed to only catch the suit jacket. Which, if he thought about it, was incredibly lucky after all because his shirt beneath his vest and jacket was a crisp _white_. At least the jacket could come off. Which it did. Shrugging out of it and folding it carefully to keep the blood on the outside and folded inwards so as not to transfer it, or show it off. He was then tucking away the gun again.

"And you thought I'd actually let them drug me," John mused with a raised brow. The criminal gave him a rather unamused look in response, but after several moments the dark eyes flashed as a smirk came to life.

"Well played," the criminal allowed, "but you really didn't have to ruin the _suit_._"_

"Least you're alive," John replied, but Jim waved that away.

"We haven't left yet, have we?" Jim reminded. John's lips pursed. The man was right, of course. They still needed to leave, and John wasn't sure if there were more than the five he'd killed so far. He could still hear the white noise of all the jumbled voices coming from the ballroom, but that was muffled enough that he'd be able to hear anyone approach if he listened close enough. No one. That didn't really mean anything though.

"Well…Let's fix that." the assassin murmured, but he was talking more to himself than Jim now. A fact the criminal seemed to pick up on as John brushed past him and started going over the bodies quickly. He wasn't interested in guns. Jim had already taken care of that to give him the beautiful handgun currently resting in its holster. The gun was amazing, but its holster actually had its own advantages. It wasn't so bulky as to make it impossible to conceal, and it was also easy to move about with it. Place where he needed when he needed. Jim had pulled out all the stops in giving the gun to him. John admitted that he'd needed one as his weapons were all hidden within the flat, and he couldn't very well go get them without suspicion. The criminal could have just given him a gun to make do with until he could get to his own weaponry rather than getting _that_. John certainly was _not_ complaining to have such a gun in his possession, but it seemed like overkill to him.

"Idiots," John breathed as he stood, lips twitching into a bit of a frown as he didn't find what he wanted on the bodies.

"Care to share?" Jim asked lazily as he examined his nails.

"I wanted a knife, but none of them have –"

"Johnny." Jim interrupted, and the other's tone of voice was more than enough to have the assassin's brows furrowing as he turned. They promptly widened as he blinked in surprise at what seemed to have magically appeared in Jim's hand.

"Believe it or not, Johnny, I _can_ handle myself." Jim said with a raised brow as he allowed the knife in his hands dangle from in between two fingers. "I just _chose_ to let others to keep my hands from getting dirty." John moved forward after a moment spent taking in those words. He accepted the knife when it was held out to him and he looked it over for a moment. There were initials in the knife. Considering how they weren't Jim's, he assumed that the criminal had pick-pocketed the man who's head was now blow onto the wall. Judging from the smugness shining in the other's dark eyes, John was sure he was right.

"Right…Let's go." John said, tucking the knife away safely out of sight. The criminal only gave him a 'lead on' gesture and John fought the urge to roll his eyes. He slipped out of the room and checked the corridor before Jim followed behind. John was sure to shut the door before they headed down the corridor. It seemed to circle all the way around the ball room. Of course branching off at spaces and intervals, but if they kept going they'd reach the front entrance and make it out easily.

Nothing can ever just be simple when Jim is involved. That was what John was seriously starting to think when two men rounded the final corner ahead of them and paused mid-conversation. One pulled a gun while the other grabbed for what appeared to be a cell-phone. The assassin went for quickness and over looked the gun in favor of flinging the knife at the one with the phone. It was not a perfect throw. The distance between them was too great, and John didn't have his own knives which were made with aerodynamics for throwing them in mind. He hit the man, however, and the phone was dropped as he cursed and leapt back in alarm. The knife had solidly impacted in his upper thigh. Jim had already taken cover with no gun of his own to return fire, and that was rather intelligent considering the man with the gun at the corner was firing…and he didn't have a silencer.

* * *

"Sir!"

"Donovan?"

"We've got a shoot out up at the Fairchild Mansion,"

"What?!" Greg Lestrade sputtered, grabbing his coat and all but herding his Sergeant to get out the door and to one of the squad cars with him. He wasn't the only one. Several officers were rushing to do the same.

"What in the hell is going on?" the DI demanded. It wasn't a secret that many people that paid visits to the gatherings held at the mansion from time to time were not exactly the most savory of people, but they _were_ rich. Rich in the way that required body guards and keeping the police out of their affairs so as to avoid questions of _how_ they got so rich in the first place. If something was happening up there, then it was big.

"Reports of shots have been coming in. Apparently it's just getting worse." Sally told him as they, along with plenty of back up, headed off towards the mansion.

* * *

"This is _insane_!" John hissed as he unconsciously shielded Jim as the two of them all but ran for the doors. John wasn't even bothering to hide his gun. It was sheer and utter madness in seconds. Apparently putting that many paranoid, rich people in the same place with armed escorts and guards was a _very_ bad idea when someone decided to _shoot_. The unsilenced gunfire had caused a panic in the ballroom. The happy conversations turned accusing quickly. Fingers were pointed as almost none of the people in there were actually any kind of friends. Then someone snapped under pressure. More gunfire. Chaos.

"That was rather the _point_." Jim grinned back, and the assassin shot the other a sharp look in return. John was on edge now too. He worked in the shadows. His entire profession almost always involved stealth. The Markstein contract in broad daylight had still required stealth. This was practically a war zone, and he very much wanted to just get out and away as quickly as possible. Thankfully they'd already been close to the doors, and while John had needed to shoot several people to get out the front doors they were soon outside as the violence continued inside. The car that had dropped them off was waiting already, furthering the growing feeling that Jim had planned this all. It wasn't until they were safe inside the vehicle and smoothly leaving that John bothered to try and get answers.

"What was that about?" he questioned, but his pupils had long since dilated from the sheer rush of adrenaline he'd gotten from that. It wasn't going to be dying down anytime soon. The assassin was half surprised to find Jim's dark eyes had grown darker because the same appeared to have gone for him so far as adrenaline.

"I _wanted_ that to happen." Jim laughed, flashing a dark and almost maniacal grin. "Think about it, Johnny. In our little sphere of the population, people _know_ my name. Once all of them are sitting in a cell, they'll want someone to go after the people they pointed a finger at when everything started deteriorating…The people they'll think, in their little minds, was out to kill them all along and vice versa…and they'll want the _perfect_ crime done."

"That leaves _me_ to pick and chose who I want to use and who I can get rid of," Jim continued on, "How to strengthen my web. All because no one can play the game _better than me." _

"You're insane," John snapped in response. "If _one_ shot had gone off earlier we might not have made it out at all!" His unease with the situation to begin with due to his general nature as a silent killer providing the spark, but his adrenaline rush –unlike anything else he'd felt before and only growing with the tension hanging in the vehicle—was what was leading him to ignite and snap. Jim seemed just as unstable. The criminal maintained a well enough mask, but John already knew his mood swings were deadly. That wasn't really stopping him at the moment from pushing his luck.

"Ooh…Johnny were you _scared_?" Jim mocked. "Afraid you were going to get _shot again_?"

"We _both_ could have _died_." John growled.

"Do you really think _death _matters to me? Mine or _anyone_ else's?" the criminal countered, eyes flashing dangerously.

"Wish I'd have known that before I jumped in front of a _fucking_ bullet for you," John watched as Jim's eyes narrowed in response to the venomous comment. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the driver had a white knuckle grip on the steering wheel and kept glancing back at them in the mirror as if he was terrified. It occurred to John then that he was in a screaming match with Moriarty. Consulting criminal. Psychopath. Something was to be said that neither of them were backing down from this either.

By the time they reached Jim's flat, the criminal was stalking up the door with John following close behind. Tensions high. Adrenaline fuels tempers getting no better as they both seemed to be feeding off of the danger each other radiated. The challenge. They made it to the sitting room before Jim snapped and lunged at John. The assassin managing to just keep himself from falling backwards to the ground as he tried to maintain a stable footing. He tried to strike back on reflex and he caught Jim right in the side, but the man's size and stature was deceptive and his hold would not be broken even as his eyes were practically black fires. Before John was able to retaliate further Jim was twisting a hand in the assassin's short hair and yanking his head back so allow himself to have the high ground. The criminal was then crushing his mouth to John's. Surprised, John didn't react favorably at first. He tried to push the other away, knock his base away. To do _something_. That didn't last long in the conventional way, because soon John was pressing back into Jim.

This was not a nice, gentle kiss. It wasn't sweet. It wasn't loving. It could hardly be called a kiss at all, really. It was all teeth and hissed curses and _pain_. Both of them were far too high on adrenaline, danger, and pent up emotion and anger concerning each other to be anything but violent. Controlling. Jim had the upper hand at the moment, but John had no intention of taking that lying down. It wasn't really in either of their natures to back down, and both of them were fighting for dominance and control even as –somehow—they made it to Jim's bedroom. The door slamming shut behind them.

**Hi! I'm keeping up my promise of it not being a BAM they're in love fic in case anyone was still wondering. What I just wrote, in my mind at least, is not realistically going to be all sunshine and bubbles in the morning, but just in case anyone got that idea thought I'd throw that out.**

**So, couple important things. I don't feel like writing a smut chapter right now. I might write this scene as a separate one-shot once this is over, but in case anyone is worried before I get to the next chapter: its consensual. One of them would have killed the other already if it wasn't. **

**Have a good day**

**Reaperess ^_^**


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