Anything to Feel Alive
Title: Anything to Feel Alive
Rating: PG
Spoilers: TGG and the beginning of ASiB.
Summary: AU fic - After returning from Afghanistan, John is picked up by Moriarty. Then, on the job, John meets Sherlock. Based on an idea by Pernille
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. If you see any errors, let me know (NICELY) because this is unbeta'd.
It's wrong. All wrong.
The very same thought runs through the head of John Hamish Watson of the Fifth North Umberland Fusiliers every time he draws his gun. Well, formerly. He's not in the army anymore. A shot to the shoulder fixed that. What fixed the subsequent psychosomatic limp - if only temporarily - was exactly the reason he was thinking those thoughts right now.
In the army, John had a reputation for being the best shot in his unit. He regularly achieved sniper-like shots with his sidearm from a standing position and rarely missed. The few times he did were never mentioned more than once. For this, he gained quite a following; and not all of it good.
Once invalided from Afghanistan, not even fully healed, he received a visit from his now employer, Jim Moriarty. Curious creature; frightening, sickly sweet like poisoned chocolate with the strange tick of constantly swaying his head side to side.
"Hello, Dr. Watson." He had said. "I'd like to offer you a job."
Offer was perhaps not the word, for his worst quality by far was his ability to manipulate.
"The thing about this job is that you'll basically be a soldier again - my soldier." That both froze and warmed John. Terror through a compliment. "I've seen your records. You're quite good with carrying out orders. I don't think you'll disappoint, do you?"
"What is this job exactly?"
"Well, you see, I'm head of a large... company, let's say. Sometimes, there are people who need to be moved. You understand, don't you? What I need you to do is exactly what you've been doing for the past year. Arguably nicer weather, though." Moriarty seemed to drift for a moment. "Oh, and don't you worry. This will mostly be sniper work. No need to get your hands too dirty, right? And I'd hate to make you aggravate that injury."
And that was how it began. For three months, John would wait impatiently for a call or text or email telling him very simply when and where he was to be and the name and picture of the target. John quickly discovered that, in setting up and putting away the sniper rifle he was given for the job, his limp disappeared. Eventually, the limp only showed up around his therapist and after a bad nightmare.
The first dozen jobs were by sniper only. All were in secluded areas in the middle of the night. Once, John even took a man sleeping (not one of his prouder moments). But within hours of dispatching the target, John would receive a substantial sum through an unmarked wire to his account.
The only problem came when his limp was nearly gone. Moriarty noticed - of course he did - so he started sending John on more personal jobs. Targets that needed to be handled in closer quarters. John felt distantly that maybe he shouldn't have spent so much of his youth wishing he were James Bond because, if this was what being a spy was like, he definitely never wanted to be a spy. While the adrenaline seemed to keep him from limping, it was also putting his life in potentially far more danger than being in the army ever came close to.
One day, while sitting at home watching telly, there was a knock on John's door. He stood and let Moriarty in with just a slight bit of shock. It was the first he'd seen the man since their initial meeting. His employer seated himself before proceeding to business without waiting for any cues from John.
"You've been doing well." Moriarty commented. "So well, I think it's time to bring you to the big party."
"What do you mean by that?" John asked, sitting as well.
"There's a certain individual who requires your touch."
He pulled a photo out of the envelope John hadn't noticed he was holding. The man was striking. Tall, thin, pale, dark curls, piercing blue eyes that seemed to regard John with a mixture of annoyance and omniscience.
"And who is he?"
"Sherlock Holmes. A sort of... nemesis of mine. We'll be meeting tonight at midnight. Here's the map to the location." He handed John another piece of paper with both a street map and the blueprints.
"...This is a pool."
"Good eye!" No condescension spared. "Quite a long story behind that one. Nothing you need to concern yourself with. Be there by 23:30 with your handgun. I'll be in the north lobby."
With seemingly nothing more to say, Moriarty stood and walked out, leaving John lost and unsure.
~ ~ ~ ~
John arrived at the pool at 23:14. The outer doors were unlocked, allowing him to sneak in.
The first thing he noticed was that he was alone.
The second thing he noticed was that he definitely wasn't alone.
In fact, there were at least seven snipers in the rafters and one set of feet coming toward him from the darkness beyond a doorway.
"Punctual as ever, John." Moriarty stepped out into the dim light holding a beige parka in one hand and semtex in the other.
"What's all this, then?"
"I need you to put these on. You're going to play a little part for me."
John barked out a laugh. "You think I'm wrapping myself in explosives to 'play a part'? Sorry, but even I have my limits."
Moriarty shook his head, looking like a mother with a tiresome toddler. "You don't actually think I'd put you in real semtex, do you? Well, I suppose I might. But I still need you, Johnny-boy. This is just blinking lights and plastic boxes. Now put it on like a good soldier. We haven't got much time."
Unable to find a suitable argument, John did as he was told. First the fake semtex, then the parka, then an earpiece that Moriarty would speak through.
"The semtex is kevlar, but if you don't say exactly what I tell you, the snipers will have to shoot you and that's a problem. Sherlock is expecting an explosion, not just a puppet whose strings have been cut. You'll be good, won't you? You always are." John was fairly certain he knew what it felt like to have a snake with a poisoned tongue whispering in your ear. "You brought your gun, right?" John nodded. "When I tell you, you're going to grab it and shoot our dear Mr. Holmes."
One more acknowledging nod and their briefing time was up. There was a clang of metal doors closing from the adjoining pool room.
"Show time."
~ ~ ~ ~
"I brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. That's what it's all been for, isn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance - all to distract me from this."
John had little time to marvel at the man's voice before the one in his ear instructed him to walk out and look distressed. Sherlock, who had been spinning while he addressed the room, looked over his shoulder, half terrified, half confused.
"Evening." John echoed. "This is a turn-up isn't it, Sherlock?"
The detective's eyes narrowed. "Stolen another voice, haven't you? Dull." The last word was barely muttered.
"Open the parka and show him the semtex." John obeyed and repeated the next words. "What would you like me to make him say next?"
Sherlock remained unaffected. There was giggling in John's ear.
"Gottle o' gear." He parroted three times, unable to keep his eyes from rolling.
"Stop it."
John continued to repeat the small talk, wishing Moriarty would just tell him to pull the trigger already. Then, in a moment of strange, uncontrollable fancy, he thought how nice it might be to put a bullet between the eyes that the voice in his ear belonged to; silence that odd patter forever.
"Who are you?"
"There's your buzz word, Johnny. Make it nice and dramatic, will you? But don't shoot him just yet."
In one fluid motion, John yanked his gun from his waistband, ignoring the coat and vest. Sherlock was within point blank range, stunned. John watched the familiar tick of a man who knew he was about to get shot - wetting the lips, swallowing, letting out the breath. All in an instant. Then, his attention was drawn to Sherlock's eyes. The photo Moriarty had shown him did them no justice. At that moment, John felt stripped bare, the voice in the back of his mind no longer simply a statement but screaming.
This is all wrong!
But that was when the metal doors behind him opened. Moriarty made a statement out of John's context before,
"Jim Moriarty. Hi!"
A few more sentences and Sherlock pulled his own gun. But rather than pointing it at John, his attention was on Moriarty with such focus that he may well have forgotten John entirely.
"Ooh! Now, isn't that interesting? What about our dear John here?" John hadn't noticed how close Moriarty was until the man ruffled his hair. "Wouldn't want him going up, would you?"
Sherlock smirked. "If he dies, we all die. Somehow, I don't think you bargained for that."
"You would?"
"I regularly do." Then, Sherlock turned his gaze back to John. "You alright?"
There was a short moment where John was stunned into silence. Do you not see that I'm pointing a gun at you? Then, he realised that Sherlock still thought he was just a victim.
"You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead."
Trying to still play slightly frightened, John nodded.
"Take it." Sherlock held out what looked to be a memory drive, attention fully back to Moriarty.
"Oh, that. The missile plans." A second's pause. "Boring! I could've got them anywhere."
With the drive sinking to the bottom of the pool, John decided he should play a more active role. He pounced on Moriarty.
"Run!"
Moriarty just laughed. "Oh, good! Very good." Then, he murmured. "You are so touchingly loyal." Sherlock hadn't moved. "You've certainly shown your hand there, Dr. Watson."
The red laser dot of a sniper sight appeared on Sherlock's forehead and a new voice came to John's ear. "Let him go."
"Gotcha." Moriarty sing-songed.
More threatening small talk that John took little interest in. If he weren't so amped up with adrenaline, he'd probably be bored. And he couldn't stop that thought. This is wrong. This is wrong.
Moriarty made his exit (John couldn't help but think it a bit comical) and suddenly, Sherlock set his gun on the floor and took John's from him, kneeling. Slim fingers were pulling the fake semtex vest off.
"Are you alright?" He was asking.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine." He collapsed against the wall and began matching deep, panicked breaths with Sherlock's, trying to seem-
Wait, until a moment ago, Sherlock had been stone-faced. Why would he be panicking and so agitated about a stranger?
"You okay?" John couldn't help but ask.
"Me? Yes. Fine." He was pacing. "That, um, thing." He cleared his throat. "That you offered to do. That was, er, good."
Falling back on his usual habits, John made a joke to relieve the tension. He was also waiting on further instructions. The voice in his ear didn't return before the sniper lasers danced across Sherlock and himself.
"Sorry, boys! I'm SO changeable." Moriarty walked back in. "It is a weakness with me, but, to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue, Sherlock. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."
Sherlock still hadn't turned to Moriarty. Instead, he gave John a look that he couldn't mistake. Even with a complete stranger, the soldier in him knew that look - are you willing to die right now? John shifted his gaze to the guns that sat side-by-side on the ground next to him.
"Probably my answer has crossed yours."
"Get your gun, Watson." The gruff voice said through the earpiece.
John wasted no time obeying that order, Sherlock following in short order. Sherlock swung around to face Moriarty, putting him with his back to John. Being behind Sherlock, though, so his aim was ambiguous.
But before anyone had the chance to fire, 80's music echoed through the hall. Two phrases in, Moriarty rolled his eyes and excused himself and pulled his mobile out of his pocket.
"Say that again!" It was times like that that John hated the man. He was unpredictable and unstable. "Say that again and know that if you're lying to me, I will skin you." He put the phone down. "Sorry, wrong day to die."
He resumed his phone conversation as he walked out, leaving John and Sherlock alone. The snipers disappeared, one last message in John's ear.
"Either leave now or you're on your own. And the boss wouldn't like that."
"So..." Sherlock said before John could decide. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
~Fin
Rating: PG
Spoilers: TGG and the beginning of ASiB.
Summary: AU fic - After returning from Afghanistan, John is picked up by Moriarty. Then, on the job, John meets Sherlock. Based on an idea by Pernille
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. If you see any errors, let me know (NICELY) because this is unbeta'd.
It's wrong. All wrong.
The very same thought runs through the head of John Hamish Watson of the Fifth North Umberland Fusiliers every time he draws his gun. Well, formerly. He's not in the army anymore. A shot to the shoulder fixed that. What fixed the subsequent psychosomatic limp - if only temporarily - was exactly the reason he was thinking those thoughts right now.
In the army, John had a reputation for being the best shot in his unit. He regularly achieved sniper-like shots with his sidearm from a standing position and rarely missed. The few times he did were never mentioned more than once. For this, he gained quite a following; and not all of it good.
Once invalided from Afghanistan, not even fully healed, he received a visit from his now employer, Jim Moriarty. Curious creature; frightening, sickly sweet like poisoned chocolate with the strange tick of constantly swaying his head side to side.
"Hello, Dr. Watson." He had said. "I'd like to offer you a job."
Offer was perhaps not the word, for his worst quality by far was his ability to manipulate.
"The thing about this job is that you'll basically be a soldier again - my soldier." That both froze and warmed John. Terror through a compliment. "I've seen your records. You're quite good with carrying out orders. I don't think you'll disappoint, do you?"
"What is this job exactly?"
"Well, you see, I'm head of a large... company, let's say. Sometimes, there are people who need to be moved. You understand, don't you? What I need you to do is exactly what you've been doing for the past year. Arguably nicer weather, though." Moriarty seemed to drift for a moment. "Oh, and don't you worry. This will mostly be sniper work. No need to get your hands too dirty, right? And I'd hate to make you aggravate that injury."
And that was how it began. For three months, John would wait impatiently for a call or text or email telling him very simply when and where he was to be and the name and picture of the target. John quickly discovered that, in setting up and putting away the sniper rifle he was given for the job, his limp disappeared. Eventually, the limp only showed up around his therapist and after a bad nightmare.
The first dozen jobs were by sniper only. All were in secluded areas in the middle of the night. Once, John even took a man sleeping (not one of his prouder moments). But within hours of dispatching the target, John would receive a substantial sum through an unmarked wire to his account.
The only problem came when his limp was nearly gone. Moriarty noticed - of course he did - so he started sending John on more personal jobs. Targets that needed to be handled in closer quarters. John felt distantly that maybe he shouldn't have spent so much of his youth wishing he were James Bond because, if this was what being a spy was like, he definitely never wanted to be a spy. While the adrenaline seemed to keep him from limping, it was also putting his life in potentially far more danger than being in the army ever came close to.
One day, while sitting at home watching telly, there was a knock on John's door. He stood and let Moriarty in with just a slight bit of shock. It was the first he'd seen the man since their initial meeting. His employer seated himself before proceeding to business without waiting for any cues from John.
"You've been doing well." Moriarty commented. "So well, I think it's time to bring you to the big party."
"What do you mean by that?" John asked, sitting as well.
"There's a certain individual who requires your touch."
He pulled a photo out of the envelope John hadn't noticed he was holding. The man was striking. Tall, thin, pale, dark curls, piercing blue eyes that seemed to regard John with a mixture of annoyance and omniscience.
"And who is he?"
"Sherlock Holmes. A sort of... nemesis of mine. We'll be meeting tonight at midnight. Here's the map to the location." He handed John another piece of paper with both a street map and the blueprints.
"...This is a pool."
"Good eye!" No condescension spared. "Quite a long story behind that one. Nothing you need to concern yourself with. Be there by 23:30 with your handgun. I'll be in the north lobby."
With seemingly nothing more to say, Moriarty stood and walked out, leaving John lost and unsure.
~ ~ ~ ~
John arrived at the pool at 23:14. The outer doors were unlocked, allowing him to sneak in.
The first thing he noticed was that he was alone.
The second thing he noticed was that he definitely wasn't alone.
In fact, there were at least seven snipers in the rafters and one set of feet coming toward him from the darkness beyond a doorway.
"Punctual as ever, John." Moriarty stepped out into the dim light holding a beige parka in one hand and semtex in the other.
"What's all this, then?"
"I need you to put these on. You're going to play a little part for me."
John barked out a laugh. "You think I'm wrapping myself in explosives to 'play a part'? Sorry, but even I have my limits."
Moriarty shook his head, looking like a mother with a tiresome toddler. "You don't actually think I'd put you in real semtex, do you? Well, I suppose I might. But I still need you, Johnny-boy. This is just blinking lights and plastic boxes. Now put it on like a good soldier. We haven't got much time."
Unable to find a suitable argument, John did as he was told. First the fake semtex, then the parka, then an earpiece that Moriarty would speak through.
"The semtex is kevlar, but if you don't say exactly what I tell you, the snipers will have to shoot you and that's a problem. Sherlock is expecting an explosion, not just a puppet whose strings have been cut. You'll be good, won't you? You always are." John was fairly certain he knew what it felt like to have a snake with a poisoned tongue whispering in your ear. "You brought your gun, right?" John nodded. "When I tell you, you're going to grab it and shoot our dear Mr. Holmes."
One more acknowledging nod and their briefing time was up. There was a clang of metal doors closing from the adjoining pool room.
"Show time."
~ ~ ~ ~
"I brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. That's what it's all been for, isn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance - all to distract me from this."
John had little time to marvel at the man's voice before the one in his ear instructed him to walk out and look distressed. Sherlock, who had been spinning while he addressed the room, looked over his shoulder, half terrified, half confused.
"Evening." John echoed. "This is a turn-up isn't it, Sherlock?"
The detective's eyes narrowed. "Stolen another voice, haven't you? Dull." The last word was barely muttered.
"Open the parka and show him the semtex." John obeyed and repeated the next words. "What would you like me to make him say next?"
Sherlock remained unaffected. There was giggling in John's ear.
"Gottle o' gear." He parroted three times, unable to keep his eyes from rolling.
"Stop it."
John continued to repeat the small talk, wishing Moriarty would just tell him to pull the trigger already. Then, in a moment of strange, uncontrollable fancy, he thought how nice it might be to put a bullet between the eyes that the voice in his ear belonged to; silence that odd patter forever.
"Who are you?"
"There's your buzz word, Johnny. Make it nice and dramatic, will you? But don't shoot him just yet."
In one fluid motion, John yanked his gun from his waistband, ignoring the coat and vest. Sherlock was within point blank range, stunned. John watched the familiar tick of a man who knew he was about to get shot - wetting the lips, swallowing, letting out the breath. All in an instant. Then, his attention was drawn to Sherlock's eyes. The photo Moriarty had shown him did them no justice. At that moment, John felt stripped bare, the voice in the back of his mind no longer simply a statement but screaming.
This is all wrong!
But that was when the metal doors behind him opened. Moriarty made a statement out of John's context before,
"Jim Moriarty. Hi!"
A few more sentences and Sherlock pulled his own gun. But rather than pointing it at John, his attention was on Moriarty with such focus that he may well have forgotten John entirely.
"Ooh! Now, isn't that interesting? What about our dear John here?" John hadn't noticed how close Moriarty was until the man ruffled his hair. "Wouldn't want him going up, would you?"
Sherlock smirked. "If he dies, we all die. Somehow, I don't think you bargained for that."
"You would?"
"I regularly do." Then, Sherlock turned his gaze back to John. "You alright?"
There was a short moment where John was stunned into silence. Do you not see that I'm pointing a gun at you? Then, he realised that Sherlock still thought he was just a victim.
"You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead."
Trying to still play slightly frightened, John nodded.
"Take it." Sherlock held out what looked to be a memory drive, attention fully back to Moriarty.
"Oh, that. The missile plans." A second's pause. "Boring! I could've got them anywhere."
With the drive sinking to the bottom of the pool, John decided he should play a more active role. He pounced on Moriarty.
"Run!"
Moriarty just laughed. "Oh, good! Very good." Then, he murmured. "You are so touchingly loyal." Sherlock hadn't moved. "You've certainly shown your hand there, Dr. Watson."
The red laser dot of a sniper sight appeared on Sherlock's forehead and a new voice came to John's ear. "Let him go."
"Gotcha." Moriarty sing-songed.
More threatening small talk that John took little interest in. If he weren't so amped up with adrenaline, he'd probably be bored. And he couldn't stop that thought. This is wrong. This is wrong.
Moriarty made his exit (John couldn't help but think it a bit comical) and suddenly, Sherlock set his gun on the floor and took John's from him, kneeling. Slim fingers were pulling the fake semtex vest off.
"Are you alright?" He was asking.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine." He collapsed against the wall and began matching deep, panicked breaths with Sherlock's, trying to seem-
Wait, until a moment ago, Sherlock had been stone-faced. Why would he be panicking and so agitated about a stranger?
"You okay?" John couldn't help but ask.
"Me? Yes. Fine." He was pacing. "That, um, thing." He cleared his throat. "That you offered to do. That was, er, good."
Falling back on his usual habits, John made a joke to relieve the tension. He was also waiting on further instructions. The voice in his ear didn't return before the sniper lasers danced across Sherlock and himself.
"Sorry, boys! I'm SO changeable." Moriarty walked back in. "It is a weakness with me, but, to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue, Sherlock. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."
Sherlock still hadn't turned to Moriarty. Instead, he gave John a look that he couldn't mistake. Even with a complete stranger, the soldier in him knew that look - are you willing to die right now? John shifted his gaze to the guns that sat side-by-side on the ground next to him.
"Probably my answer has crossed yours."
"Get your gun, Watson." The gruff voice said through the earpiece.
John wasted no time obeying that order, Sherlock following in short order. Sherlock swung around to face Moriarty, putting him with his back to John. Being behind Sherlock, though, so his aim was ambiguous.
But before anyone had the chance to fire, 80's music echoed through the hall. Two phrases in, Moriarty rolled his eyes and excused himself and pulled his mobile out of his pocket.
"Say that again!" It was times like that that John hated the man. He was unpredictable and unstable. "Say that again and know that if you're lying to me, I will skin you." He put the phone down. "Sorry, wrong day to die."
He resumed his phone conversation as he walked out, leaving John and Sherlock alone. The snipers disappeared, one last message in John's ear.
"Either leave now or you're on your own. And the boss wouldn't like that."
"So..." Sherlock said before John could decide. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
~Fin