Three assignments later, John was in position to take his target out when the communiqué came over his wire that there was a civilian in the mix being held hostage. Some clumsy berk had alerted the target that they were there, and now a civilian was in the way. John swore.

But he shifted his stance and lifted his gun, prepared for two shots instead of one, if need be. He went in, silent on his feet and almost laughed. Sherlock sat to the target's right on an ornate sofa, arms folded over his chest. His face was twisted in an expression of utter disdain and ennui, despite the gun trained on his temple.

"Leave it to you to cock things up," John said with a wide smile as he stepped into view, weapon steady. His target's head swivelled to him sharply, Sherlock's eyes merely flicking in his direction. Smart man. The corners of his mouth quirked.

"No wonder you didn't tell me; I should have guessed," Sherlock drawled.

"I was supposed to make this quiet, but..." John shrugged. "Hostage situations always make a mess of it. You his date?"

"Shut up!" Drexxler hissed, jabbing the gun against Sherlock's temple.

"You know, that is painful."

"Yes, well I liked you until you opened that mouth of yours?"

John snorted and then shrugged at Sherlock's reproachful glance.

"And anyway. You needn't be concerned. He shoots me, you—" Drexxler screamed as a bullet tore through his right elbow.

Sherlock looked to John and raised his eyebrow. "Oh thank goodness. He was going to finish that with something terribly cliché along the lines of 'you'll be beyond the realm of pain,'" Sherlock mocked.

"So," John said, taking a few steps towards the moaning Drexxler. "How have you been?" Then shot the man in the head.

"Fine. Bored. Your life seems suddenly much more interesting." Sherlock only flinched when blood spattered lightly on his cheek and hand.

"Oops. Sorry." John handed him a handkerchief, quite impressed with the man's aplomb. "So much for shock then."

The other wiped his face and made a derisive noise. "Don't be ridiculous. It's hardly shocking, and once more, he deserved it. Besides." He parted his lips in a feral sort of grin. "Client dies on the job, I'm compensated for my trouble."

John laughed and then announced 'Bullseye' over his wife. "Well. Lovely to see you again, Sherlock. Take care of yourself and perhaps we'll meet again. He smiled, waved, and was gone before the man could say anything proper in response. No doubt he'd come up with a suitable lie for why his client was suddenly dead. Sherlock seemed quite capable in dealing with the shadier aspects of life.

He shook his head, cleaned himself up, removed gunpowder residue, and then went back to his office to fill out the paperwork. And chastise the idiot that resulted in the situation in the first place.

The dark head jerked as his partner's head exploded across the table for him.

John waited, watching through the scope.

Sherlock jumped to his feet, whirled around, flung the window open and leaned out, bellowing, "You could have fucking warned me!" then vanished from view.

John chuckled, then packed up his rifle, stowed it, and went to complete the report.

The third time, John knew someone was pulling strings. Standing over the dead body with a bloodied knife, he levied a flat stare at Sherlock. "Thought you screened your clients."

"Indeed," Sherlock said, pale eyes narrowed at the corpse. Then sighed and pulled out his mobile. "Mycroft," he snapped. "Stop feeding me clients. Immediately. Or I'll leek that picture of you as a child. Yes the one when you were seven with the sweets."

John frowned at him.

Sherlock smiled sweetly, clearly feeling the opposite. "My brother. He's scheming something."

"Right well. Coffee? I have to go fill out paper work, and it's not my favourite activity."

"Stalling."

"Yes. As...as friends?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Fine. There's a place down the street."

'Down the street' apparently meant a cab ride three streets over. Sherlock tossed the man some bills and then exited the taxi, head high. A man on the pavement outside the café waved and smiled.

"Sherlock, darling!"

"Darling?" John drawled as he hurried to catch up with the other's long stride.

"He likes terms of endearment," Sherlock explained quietly. "Don't pay attention to it." Then louder, "Henri. Allo. Ca va?"

"Ca va, ma cher. What can I do for you?"

"Two cafés, one with two sugars and one plain. And..." Sherlock snuck a quick look at John. "And a muffin. Blueberry."

John blinked and quickly followed Sherlock to a table, sitting as Sherlock gestured.

"So. Contracted killer?" Sherlock said casually, fingering the edge of his scarf.

John arched a brow at him. "Really? You know better. Keep a hush mouth."

"Or you'll have to silence me?" Sherlock's grin was predatory.

Snorting, he leaned back in the chair and laced his fingers across his lap. "I think you want me to."

Staring at him a moment, Sherlock blinked, and then the smile became more real. "Hm."

John let the moment lie and picked up his coffee when it arrived, blowing on it a bit before taking a sip. He winced and set it down again to cool. "You mentioned your brother."

"Yes, Mycroft. Holmes, of course." Sherlock's eyes rolled and his lips tipped down.

"You don't like him." He didn't miss Sherlock's casual slip of his last name.

"Hate him," Sherlock said with that same predatory grin.

"How is he meddling?"

"He works in the government."

"Oh. Never heard of him. How is he meddling?"

"You wouldn't." Sherlock sipped delicately at his own coffee. "He's entrenched himself deeply and thoroughly. And I believe he's setting me up with these individual who have suddenly become your targets."

John frowned. "Your brother. A person with a wide range of influence apparently, is setting us up?"

Sherlock tossed his head. "Yes, big brother is playing matchmaker, it seems."

"Oh."

"Yes."

John took a bite of his muffin, thinking.

"Ask," Sherlock drawled.

"Do you happen to know why?" He leaned forwards on his elbows.

"However much I might pretend, the workings of my brother's mind are a mystery even to me some days."

"Okay, but you must have some inkling about his purposes."

"John, as much of a puzzle this is, I did not ask you out to talk about my brother."

"Fair enough. But if this is going to be a problem—"

"It's not a problem," Sherlock said wryly.

"No, but you see it is a problem, if you're going to be in the middle of my work!" John said earnestly.

Sherlock straightened. "I can take care of myself, John."

"Uh... Fine. I just mean—"

"No, no." Sherlock shook his head. "This obviously is going to be a problem. And," he said with a false smile as he stood. "We wouldn't want that."

"Wait. No. Sherlock. Now hold on!" He cursed lowly as his jacket got caught on the chair, and by the time he'd looked up again, Sherlock was gone. "You daft bastard..." John sighed and dug out his wallet to pay for the coffee when the waiter—Henri—came up to him and smiled.

"It is fine, Monsieur. It has been paid already."

John sighed again and made his way back to headquarters to make his report. And perhaps do some research into one Mycroft Holmes.

Once John had exhausted all of the usual avenues for finding a person, he decided that the government data-bases were really the only option left for finding a person who didn't seem to exist. After spending another hour digging through the databases and finding, again, next to nothing, he sat back in his chair and sighed. The only information he was left with, at the end of the day, that didn't require higher clearance than his, was that there existed a Mycroft Holmes in the government. And his clearance rating was the highest that existed. There was no contact information, no personal information, and nothing else that John could use to research him.

Even the Prime Minister had more information in the databases.

He grabbed his coat and headed home after picking up papers on a new target. Reading through the folio on the lift ride down to the main floor, John scrubbed at his eyes. Working alone on this one. The target was one Rosemary Morefeylt who was selling secrets. John hated killing the women. The only way she'd be without guard was at banquet honouring members of a society club. Great. More penguin suits.

"Oh. Of course it's you," John said flatly when the words for an apology had been present on his tongue moments ago.

Sherlock regained his balance by grabbing John's shoulder. "John."

"Please, please tell me your date isn't Rosemary Morefeylt."

Sherlock's brows went up before his face returned to a blank mask of indifference. "This one going to die on me as well?"

Cursing under his breath he grabbed Sherlock's arm and hustled him down a side hallway and into a sitting room. He put a finger to his lips before shutting the door and checking places people might be listening. "I want you to know that I wasn't trying to insult you. Last time. This is exactly what I mean. Your brother—and let me tell you how much information there isn't on him in the systems—is placing you in harm's way by putting you in these situations."

Sherlock really did look surprised this time.

"Doesn't he care about your safety at all?"

A beat of silence and then Sherlock laughed.

"I'm sorry. Am I missing something?" John said, a stab of irritation going through him.

"John, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, as I have said before. Now, as I hate repeating myself, I'll not say it again. So while your concern is undoubtedly touching, you needn't worry."

Suppressing the growl of frustration, John instead settled for tearing at his hair. "I kill people, Sherlock. Shoot them. Strangle them. Poison them. And you are getting caught up in the middle of it! I don't want you to be caught in the crossfire! Do you understand?"

The other man frowned at him, brow furrowing. "You're worried for my safety."

"Yes!" He dropped his hands, glad he finally understood.

"Because you care?"

"Yes!" Then snapped his mouth shut. "Oh."

"Oh?"

"I...do care."

"That's the only thing that makes sense."

"It is, isn't it..." The knots that started to tie up dissembled before they really had a chance to start.

Sherlock smiled. "Would you like help?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"With your target. Would you like help?"

John gaped.

"How are you planning on killing her?"

"Uh. Poison."

"Let me help you."

"Wow, that's not against any and all rules we've got."

"You don't mind breaking rules. You should have killed me that first day."

"Mm." He folded his arms and tapped a foot, thinking quickly. Then shrugged. "Sure."

"Excellent. You really are an excellent killer."

"I think that's supposed to be a compliment."

"Of course, John. No one would ever suspect you."

"Thanks," he drawled wryly.

"Perfect. Now let me get drinks for myself and my date." Sherlock was gone through the door with another wicked grin that excited something down John's spine.

He grinned and followed after, fingering the pill in his pocket that would dissolve and not taste like anything.

When Sherlock staged the fight with his client, he stormed off, pale eyes flashing at John on the way out. John slipped out the back door and met Sherlock outside. He was leaning casually against a building, smoking a cigarette. He was surprised by the thought that ran through his head: perfect.

"Well, she'll be dead by morning."

"Slow acting?" Sherlock asked, flicking his eyes in John's direction as he thumped against the wall next to Sherlock.

"Mm. It'll look like a heart-attack."

"Fascinating."

"You really like this stuff?" John asked, looking up at him.

"It's interesting."

"More interesting than your job being a rent boy?"

"High class call girl, John; honestly."

They stared at one another a moment and then snickered.

"Oh fuck."

John looked around, immediately on alert. "What?"

"My brother."

"Where?" He followed Sherlock's gaze to the black car that was slowing at the kerb across the street. "In the car."

Sighing, Sherlock straightened, flicked the cigarette away and lit a fresh one.

"Let me guess, he hates your smoking?"

He started walking across the street. "He hates it. Come along, John."

"Do I want to meet him?"

"No."

"I'm going to anyway."

"Yes."

The door opened as they approached and Sherlock slid right in, beckoning for John to follow. Scooting in next to him, John kept his expression flat, despite the fact that he was impressed by the subtle opulence of the vehicle and the suit that the man across from them wore.

"Sherlock. Captain John Watson."

"Mycroft Holmes," he said coolly with a nod, shutting the door behind him. The car started moving as soon as he did.

"Oh come. Let's be cordial," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Sherlock lounged next to him, puffing smoke into the air.

Mycroft sighed patiently and rolled the window down. "You'll never be able to run long distances if you keep that up."

"That's why I have you, haven't I?" Sherlock said.

"Nonsense. I've come to offer you a job."

"Well, that's preposterous. We both have them."

"Sherlock, don't be infantile. You hate yours, and Captain, this doesn't play to your strong suits."

"Which would be?"

Mycroft smiled again. "Not desk work half the time."

"And?"

"And, I'd like to offer you field work. Full time."

"That's nice."

"With Sherlock as your partner."

John blinked, looked quickly at Sherlock who, despite his languor, had perked up to listen. "Explain."

"Sherlock has notoriously made poor decisions in his professions. This will hold his interest and perhaps be better tailored to his inclinations."

"You're saying your brother should be a killer."

"No. You, Captain, are the killer. My brother would be a skillful ally in hiding any evidence of your involvement."

"Why," Sherlock snapped, blowing his smoke in Mycroft's direction.

"I tire of you parsing our name out in whoring, Sherlock. It's hardly dignified. And hardly worthwhile. This, at least, you'll be aiding your country. And you'll keep yourself out of self-inflicted trouble."

Sherlock dropped his eyes, leaning back. "And if I say no?"

"You won't?"

"Why is that?"

"Because the good Captain will say 'yes,' and you're terribly intrigued. Wondering if you're good enough for the task. And you fancy the Captain, do you not?"

The comment drew John's attention away from weighing pros and cons in his head. Sherlock said nothing.

"It's perfectly reasonable. He is smart, capable, and—"

"Shut up, Mycroft." Sherlock looked at John. "If you took this position, I would come along with you. I would presume to say that it would involve the two of us spending a lot of time together. Would you object."

John smiled. "I'd like you to come along. I imagine I could silence you any time I want then?"

Sherlock's eyes widened a bit, but he grinned quickly. "Yes. Yes, I should think so."

John looked at Mycroft who wore a minuscule frown indicating he'd missed the meaning. "Who would I be reporting to?"

"Me."

"You."

"Yes." Mycroft shifted his grip on the umbrella across his lap. "Problem?"

"No. No middlemen?"

"Weakens security. Don't worry. I'll communicate where we're to meet. Or you could always send Sherlock. He knows how to find me. And I can always find you, if need be."

"Brilliant," John muttered to himself. "Fine. Should I put in my resignation a—"

"Already taken care of." Mycroft reached to the seat next to him and picked up two folders, handing one to John, Sherlock grabbing the other. "Your first assignment, gentlemen. Fortunately, there are no shortages to men who think that they can infiltrate the government, threaten, murder, steal, rape, and generally do bad things."

John read through the file, curling his lip at some of the things the new target had done, the photos of torture. "So I suppose we're starting immediately?"

"If you please."

"And we'll have free reign to do this however we like?"

"Quite. So long as it doesn't require me to cover for you. I shan't like doing that."

"We catch your meaning, Mycroft," Sherlock said with a snort. "Fine. We'll do your dirty work."

"Excellent. I took the liberty of finding you a place for when work is slow. I've moved your things, Captain Watson, and yours, Sherlock."

Sherlock sat forward, puffed like a wet cat. "What! You—"

"I assure you, you'll like it better than that posh place you used for entertaining." His lip curled on the last word, making it into something distasteful." He smiled as the car stopped. "We're here."

Sherlock curled a lip.

Sighing, John pushed the door open and got out before bending to look back into the vehicle. "We'll talk about it before we sign any agreements."

"Of course. Very prudent. Don't worry about the rent, Captain Watson. You'll be reimbursed appropriately," Mycroft said, handing him another folder. "All of the paperwork and terms are here. Take all the time you need."

"By which he means tomorrow morning," Sherlock grumbled, getting out under John's arm. "Really, Mycroft. What a dump. Come on, John."

John kept Mycroft's gaze a moment longer before shutting the door and following Sherlock to the building and inside.

"Hallo! Hallo, boys! I'm Mrs. Hudson. I'll be your landlady," a small woman said brightly, hurrying towards them. "You're just up the stairs. Come on then!"

He had to chuckle under his breath. This was ridiculous. Sherlock looked back at him, leading the way up the stairs after Mrs. Hudson, and gave him a small smile. John was going to sign that contract. And if he was, and Mycroft was right about how much Sherlock wanted to be around him, then Sherlock would too. His grin widened, mirrored by Sherlock's widening eyes and then spread grin.

Trudging up the stairs with their bags, John grumbled nonsense in Sherlock's direction for lack of anything more intelligent to say.

"Wait!" Sherlock said under his breath, grabbing his arm. "Wait. Someone's here."

Looking for the first time, John noticed all the signs too. He thrust one of their bags in Sherlock's direction and pulled out his gun. He grumbled more nonsense to keep the noise and let the person inside think that he'd gotten the drop on them. John pushed open the door and flung the bag inside before rolling in himself. He came up on his knees behind the arm chair, weapon ready. Then sighed. "Mycroft."

Sherlock blustered in, glaring at his brother. "I would think someone of your intelligence would know better than to break into the flat of two killers."

Mycroft tutted. "You're not much of a killer, Sherlock. John does all the dirty work. Besides. You knew it was me; you just like to see John in action." His grin was anything but polite.

"Excellent deduction. Now leave." Sherlock took his coat off and accepted John's when handed to him.

"I've come to give you year-end bonuses. You've been so effective these four months. I've had offers from all over, people wanting to borrow you..."

John snorted. "Tea?"

"No," Sherlock answered for him. "He's not staying long."

"Alright."

Mycroft removed an envelope from his jacket and set it on the coffee table. "Next assignment, and the receipt for your bonus. It has, of course, been deposited. And John, I'm quite impressed. You've succeeded in ending my brother's nasty smoking habit where everyone else has failed. You truly are special."

John looked at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye and then shrugged, saying nothing. Apparently all it took was for him to care enough about what the person he was kissing thought. "Yes well. Thank you. Mycroft. I'm dreadfully sorry, but it was a tedious flight from Odessa. We'd like to unpack and get some rest, if you don't mind."

"Of course, of course." Mycroft stood, umbrella tapping against the outer edge of his shoe. "We'll be in touch."

"Of course."

Mycroft left, and no sooner had John turned to the kitchen then Sherlock fell upon him like a man starved.

Spluttering, John fended him off. "Come on! After we kip. I'm knackered."

"Yes, but John," Sherlock purred, arms locking around his waist.

"Oh stop it. You just like it when I stand up to your brother."

Sherlock grinned. "Perhaps."

"That's a sick turn-on."

"You like it when I'm covered in blood," Sherlock countered.

"So long as it's not your own? Sometimes." He groaned as Sherlock pressed his hips forward. "Stop it. Sleep!"

Bending with a sweet smile, Sherlock pressed his lips to the shell of John's ear. "I don't want sleep yet."

Pushing him off gently, John huffed. "You're incorrigible."

"Quite." Sherlock grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards the bedroom.

And John let him.