A/N As the summery states, this is somewhat AU with bits of canon thrown in for fun. As a result, expect characters to be OC some of the time. Oh yeah, Johnlock (eventual) and Mystrade (established).

Rated M for violence, non-con sex, sex and swearing. Also I do not have a beta or Brit-picker. (The word Brit-picker sounds so weird… but anyway) So please forgive any errors, but also please point them out so I can correct them.

Disclosure I do not own the rights to Sherlock Holmes, John Watson or SHERLOCK from the BBC. This is all just entertainment for us shippers.

The Marksman

"Anderson is an idiot!" snapped the tall, thin consulting detective.

The pale detective continued with his assessment, "The oil stains on the victim's clothing and the grime his nails clearly shows that he was working on a vehicle prior to his death. But do you honestly think that he deliberately put on a £700 tailored suit in order to work on his car? No. He was desperate. He knew that his life was in danger, and he was looking for evidence of vehicle tampering, because he suspected that his partner's death in a car carsh was not accidental, which is wasn't. However, he lacked imagination. He did not suspect that his coffee would be tampered with. Run tox screens on his blood, and the empty cup found in his car. Arrest the barista; she was paid to poison him."

"We have to have reasonable suspicion to arrest her," demanded Detective Inspector Lestrade loudly. "We can't just go around arresting people…"

"Arrange a drugs bust. She is addicted to prescription drugs. If you wait, she will probably make a run for it, and this case will not be properly closed" said Sherlock Holmes with a wave of his hand. He threw himself into Lestrade's comfortable desk chair and swung his long, thin legs onto Lestrade's desk scattering files and notes.

The shorter, graying detective inspector rubbed his forehead and sank weakly down onto one of the extra chairs in his office.

Stalemate. The two men glowered at each other ignoring the ringing phones and the other Yarders in the outer office as they also ignored the sky outside turning to indigo with the fall of night.

A nightmare, my life is a unmitigated nightmare, thought John Watson, formerly a RAMC Captain. He limped slightly as he marched down the darkened street avoiding, by habit, the pools of light from the street lamps. His cane tapped out a ditresss signal when he climbed the step and strode through the doors of The New Scotland Yard.

As the doors closed he face the grim realization that he had, for all intents and purposes, just signed his own death warrant. As if he gave a damn about that. As if anyone would give a damn. Christ, death would be a positive relief after the hell of retirement living in his one-room bedsit, and after the events of today…well.

"I need to report a murder plot," he said to the policewoman at the information desk, his speech clipped and precise.

The PC looked up at him startled. His lips were pressed in a fine line but his forehead was furrowed with his dismay. "For some reason, someone proposed that I kill someone else. That's illegal, yeah?"

She stared at him in some confusion. Oh, God. Not another paper pushing idiot when what I need is someone willing to act. He bit his lip in frustration before he tried again.

"I'm here to report it," John said reasonably. "This is Scotland Yard? You deal with homicides, yeah? Maybe I could speak to someone in Homicide?"

The PC sent the former captain upstairs to the homicide division. He was supposed to talk with a Sergeant Donovan. In the elevator, John took a deep breath to calm himself. He ran a hand through his short blond hair. As was his habit when stressed, he stood up even straighter, to look as tall and formidable as possible.

I am doing the right thing, he reassured himself. This is not grassing. This was not betraying his friend. Ha, his so-called friend, Colonel Moran, had betrayed and used him.

Hell, the Colonel basically sold me out to that creepy Irishman. The short blond suppressed a shudder remembering how the handsome Irishman gloated over John while the Colonel glared daggers at the former captain.

"John, may I call you Johnny? I will call you Johnny," said the man wearing an expensive looking hand tailored suit. John had remained at attention during his supposed job interview, his military training was not easily forgotten even months after his forced medical discharge.

"Now, Seb here said you worked under him in the army. Ohhhh!" said Mr. Moriarty in a rising voice and clapping his hands together. The fancy businessman spun around to fix the Colonel with a narrow eyed glare that didn't match his grin. (Well, not the Colonel any more, not since Colonel's dishonorable discharge, thought John, pursing his lips.). "Ohhhh, I hope that doesn't mean you used Johnny-boy here for fun and games, Sebby. You know that I only want fresh, clean boys for game time"

'What the fuck?' thought John. His face still a mask of indifference. I'm supposed to be here for a job interview, for a job as a personal assistant and bodyguard. I'm not about to hire out as some fuck-toy for a weirdo businessman.

Sebastian Moran grinned evilly, "Far as I know, John fits your requirements, boss. O' course, I thought you wanted him because he's a crack shot, but luckily, he's fresh meat." The tall man rubbed his thumb along the scar that ran down his face, suppressing a grimace. It wouldn't do to show disapproval. Moriarty did not tolerate criticism well; Moran had to be careful.

"Jealous, Seb?" asked the Irishman, smirking, and slicking back his hair.

John wanted out. Christ, unemployment was better than this madhouse.

"Right. I think maybe there's been a misunderstanding," said John. Two pairs of icy eyes swiveled to stare at him like he was a rare and somewhat repulsive zoo specimen. He furrowed his brow and cleared his throat. The weight of his browning felt comforting in his waistband. "I'll just be leaving…"

"Oh no, don't' go Johnny. I can't let you go now. If I did; I'd have to kill you," the Irishman laughed at his little joke. On second thought, it probably wasn't a joke. John Watson felt the sweat forming on his forehead.

"You are so cute, Johnny," said Irishman. "I think I like you. I have a kink for soldiers, don't I Seb? Now don't look so glum, Sebby. We can share him. We'll have so much fun." The man clapped his hands again and giggled.

Cute? John was obviously several years older and, not to mention. straight. John was not cute. The businessman was clearly insane. John tried to estimate his odds for a successful escape. How fast could he grab his gun? If it was anyone else but the Colonel standing guard…Shite, Moran had read John's tells and already pulled out his gun. The former COlonel pointed his Sig Sauer at John. The former captain rewarded him with his best fake smile.

"Oh this is going to be such fun," gushed the madman, watching the two soldiers square off. "But business before pleasure. Now here's the dealy-o, Johnny. I am going to hire you to eliminate this annoying little government official. I will reward you handsomely, and you and I might just take a little trip to the coast, something to look forward to, hmmm?" The younger businessman closed in and ran his fingertips along John's clenched jawbone. Then he grabbed John's short-cropped hair and pulled him down into a fierce kiss. John tensed to pull away but froze as he heard the Colonel snap back the slide on his handgun.

"Smart boy, Johnny," murmured the madman. He thrust his tongue into John's mouth exploring without permission. He suddenly bit down on John's lower lip, drawing blood and an involuntary grunt of pain. "Oh so eager, I like that!" exclaimed the Irishman. He sucked on John's injured lip making it hurt even more. FInally, he drew back.

"Seb said you were the smartest soldier boy he had in his unit,' said the handsome man. "So smart and just so precious. I'm just so pleased with you!" the madman's voice went from low to high pitch like a rollercoaster. It made John dizzy.

"And you were the best shot in his unit too, Johnny. Well except for Seb himself," sneered the madman, "Or so he says. Well gottta go. Sebby will explain your assignment, Johnny-boy. Then you hurry on back so we can carry on where we left off. And Johnny-boy," The crazy bastard slapped the former soldier across his cheek, snapping his head back. "Don't. Disappoint. Me." He punctuated each word with a stinging clout.

"Bye," sang the obviously insane Irishman, as he sauntered out of his lavish underground office.

"You got the job," growled the Colonel unnecessarily. "Congratulations. He likes you. You'll go far, if you live."

John marched purposefully toward the doors labeled HOMICIDE. He held the door open for a PC guiding a man in cuffs, and then the former soldier stepped into the nearly empty office space. Desks and dividers filled the room. Forms and papers littered most of the desktops. A phone rang, only to be pickup up by voicemail.

"Excuse me?" John called out into the eerie, echoing space. "I'm supposed to find a Sergeant Donovan," said John politely. He automatically looked for potential threats and located cover and lines of retreat. He smiled grimly at this unshakable habit.

"Yeah? And you are?" asked a thirty-something black detective, who came out from behind a divider. She had curly black hair and an attitude. Her chin thrust out belligerently, as she spoke down to John. She took in his bruised lip and cheek; then she sneered at a fellow officer.

John reigned in his temper, barely. His right fist clenched unnoticed. "You are Sergeant Donovan?" he asked.

When she nodded, yes, John continued. "My name is Watson, John Watson, and I want to report a plot. I was propositioned today…"

"Well you've got the wrong department, Watson," she said flippantly. "This is homicide. If you're having a quarrel with your boyfriend you'll want…"

"I bloody well know what department I want, Sergeant," snapped the former Captain, standing with his feet apart in readiness for battle, "And your inappropriate response and flippant attitude are, at the very least, unprofessional. Frankly, you're a disgrace if this is how you would treat an actual assault victim.'

A ferrt-like man joined the Sergeant. "This is Scotland Yard and you have no business yelling at officers of the law. It's obvious from your face that you had a spat…"

"What's obvious is that you are both idiots!" John shouted.

The shouting carried to Lestrade's office. Sherlock slammed his feet to the floor and flew to the entry, pinning himself and Lestrade in the doorway. Finally, someone with enough brains to recognize the idiots on the force, thought Sherlock.

"God help Britain, if she depends on you lot for protection," the ex-soldier finished and then pivoted to leave.

"Hold on!" shouted Detective Inspector Lestrade, shoving past the nosy consulting detective. "Donovan, what's going on here?"

Donovan shrugged, looking sullen.

"You there, stop," shouted Lestrade. "Stop right there, Mister…Mister…"

"Watson," whispered Donovan helpfully.

"Mister Watson, where do you think you're going?" asked Lestrade.

Captain Watson turned. He eyed Lestrade and the tall, pale civilian looming behind him. He eyed the doorplate, then looked back at the Lestrade.

"I am going back to my flat, to put my affairs in order, Detective Inspector," answered John standing rigidly at attention. "And when you see me again, please remind your colleagues that I did not die from natural causes. Good Night!" The short blond turned back towards the exit.

"What will you have died from?" asked a deep, baritone voice.

"A head wound, caused by a single round fired from an L115A3 at extreme range," said John without turning.

"It would be difficult for anyone to mistake that for natural causes," said Sherlock Holmes.

"Not for this lot. They are idiots," returned John Watson. He stopped suddenly. The tall man, wearing a dark, tailored suit, gripped his arm tightly.

The younger man tapped his finger against his lips, assessing the shorter ex-soldier.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" asked Sherlock.

John shifted in place. "Sorry?"

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" asked the man with thick, dark wavy hair.

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you…?" asked the irritated soldier. First he was dealing with idiots. Second he was going to be executed by his former superior officer. And, third, why the fuck was he admiring another man's dark, wavy hair let alone his lips?

"He said he was propositioned," said Sergeant Donovan. "I was going to suggest that he try Sex Crimes or…"

"Oh no, not propositioned, but he was assaulted earlier today," began Sherlock.

"No. No," the soldier emphatically shook his head. "I never said that I was assaulted," said John, pursing his lips and lowering his brows further.

"Nonetheless, you were assaulted. Yet that is not the issue that brought you to Scotland Yard tonight. There is more," said Sherlock incisively. He began dragging the blond towards Lestrade's office.

"Who, who the hell are you?" demanded John. "Do you work for the police?"

"I am a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job," said Sherlock. He pushed John Watson backwards into a chair inside Lestrade's office. He went to shut the door but then looked out. "Well, will you be joining us, Lestrade? Whatever Mr. Watson has to say, I feel certain it will not be dull."

TBC

Reviews welcomed