AN- Um... so, basically, this is how I picture John with a slightly twisted moral compass. Disclaimer- don't own.

Enjoy!

John was sat in his chair with the morning paper in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. Sherlock had gone out for some reason or other and it was his day off. After a month of night shifts and a flatmate shoot the wall from boredom, the doctor was just happy to have a bit of a rest. He drained his cup as the door flew open and the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes burst through the door. He whipped round the flat before coming to face John.

'We need to go.' He stated. 'Now.' The soldier betrayed the quirk of an eyebrow but stood, slipping his gun into the hidden holster. After four months with the consulting detective, John knew that if the man said they needed to leave, they needed to leave. Even if it was for some stupid reason that seemed like an attempt to get him on his feet again. They ran back through the door and out into the chill evening air.

John ran a few steps behind his flatmate so the other man could lead the way. He silently wondered why they weren't getting a cab like usual then he got the feeling that they were being tailed. He forced himself to look at Sherlock and not behind him. If they were being followed then his flatmate wanted them to be followed which meant him turning around could give the game away. Not to mention he would probably lose sight of the other man in the fading light.

They turned off into a cluster of warehouses. To John, they all looked like they'd been abandoned but he figured that all warehouses looked abandoned in fading light when everyone had gone home. Sherlock ran into the open cavernous entrance of a warehouse and John followed close behind.

Once inside, he was yanked by a strong hand and pulled away from the entrance. John looked and gloved hand and knew instantly it belonged to Sherlock. He moved his eyes to his flatmates face to see the man press a spindly finger to his lips, signalling silence. The soldier complied and turned to face the centre of the room where the moonlight only just stretched to. Their stalker crept inside, swiftly moving his head to check for their presence.

'I know you're here, Sherlock Holmes.' He said in a thick accent. 'Make this easy on yourself and come out.' The man besides John shuffled and moved away, he moved without a sound to a safe distance away from his flatmate and then stepped out into the light. Now he had something to compare the stalker to, the doctor could see the man was huge, well built and strong. Even Sherlock's height was not enough to match him. John moved into a more stable position and carefully removed his gun. The man laughed.

'I want you to know this is nothing personal.' He boomed. Sherlock shrugged casually. The stalker drew his weapon. Two gunshots fired in the space of a millisecond and the eerie silence descended in the dank moonlit room. The three waited to see who would fall then the man's head hit the ground with a dull thud.

The thud resounded around the warehouse. John and Sherlock stared at each other, each holding a gun. Now that the man, whoever he was, was down, they seemed to be aimed straight for each other. John lowered his weapon and ran to the body, he began to check for a pulse before he noticed the two bullet holes. One in the back of the head and one in the from of his chest. Sherlock presence loomed over him. John looked up at the flaming eyes of his flatmate.

'Who shot first?' He asked in his baritone voice. 'Which bullet killed him?' The soldier looked up at him.

'I don't know.' He answered. 'It is impossible to tell.' Sherlock grabbed his chin so he couldn't look away.

'You're lying.' He said. The doctor gave him an icy glare.

'Correct. Now help me get the damned bullets out.' He snapped. The detective suddenly realised that John had not touched the body. Not left a fingerprint on it. He smiled.

'I have been such a bad influence on you.' He chuckled, handing the man a pair of forensic gloves. John slipped into them then started to pry into the bullet wounds. It was messy and he was pretty sure that the man had bled out completely judging by the amount of blood on the floor. He found the first bullet in the man's chest then moved onto the one in his brain. He glanced at Sherlock.

'It's going to get gruesome.' He warned. The detective gave him the most condescending look he could muster and the doctor returned to his work with a smirk.

A few gory minutes later, John and a decidedly paler Sherlock stood wondering how to move the body. The bullets were now safely in the doctors pocket, where even the DI wouldn't think to look.

'We could just leave it here.' John said. 'After all, warehouses are a perfect place to dump someone.' Sherlock scoffed.

'You make an awful criminal.' He sniffed. John smirked, recalling what Donavan had said the first time he'd met her. The consulting detective got onto his trail of thought immediately.

'It must be the first time she's been right in her whole time at the force.' He chuckled, picking up the legs. John hoisted the man by his shoulders so he was now off the ground completely.

'So what are we doing with him?' John asked. The detective looked vacant for a second.

'We passed a small boat on our way here.' He said. The doctor nodded and they shuffled back out into the night air.

The blond doctor allowed the detective to lead him to their destination, directing him which way to go. They reached the rowing boat and slung the corpse inside. Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small black piece of paper folded into a four legged animal. The soldier gave a puzzled glance, trying to work out what the animal was. After a few seconds, he finally clicked. It's a horse! Sherlock winked at John then slid the horse into the body's mouth. The two men then pushed the boat, along with oars, into the river.

'It will float down the river and wash up on shore, most likely on the west bank. We need to go back to the warehouse and sweep the area. And you need to get rid of those shoes.' The detective said, already moving back to the buildings. John nodded and sprinted after him.

John Watson and his flatmate returned to Baker Street at just gone three in the morning, John had bought an identical pair of shoes. Sherlock had taken his, dismantled them, and put the pieces in various backyard bonfires around the city. The doctor would never know how he managed to be so discreet. After all, the police should be able to notice someone going round chucking things on various fires, shouldn't they? He supposed it didn't really matter as he sunk into the cushions of his armchair, lifting the newspaper again.

'Who was he?' John asked when Sherlock lay on the sofa.

'It's not him who matters. It's who sent him.' The detective replied. The doctor turned the page.

'And who is that?' He asked, his voice betraying a slight annoyance which was nowhere near the amount he actually felt. Sherlock smirked.

'An old friend. The less you know the better.' He replied. The soldier chewed his lip thoughtfully, he wasn't going to get anymore on the subject of this person but he did have other questions.

'The horse?' He asked.

'Hmm?' Sherlock said, looking over to him again. 'Oh, the horse.' He features grew into a grin. 'I'm surprised you recognised it. I got the idea from the Black Lotus. It really is an amazing way to mark your work.' John put the paper down, forgoing all pretences of being calm and collected.

'You've done this before.' He stated. The detective held his head high but his eyes betrayed his feelings, his wanting of John to accept him. After seeing that expression, there was no way on this earth that the mostly good doctor couldn't accept him. After all, he was Sherlock Holmes, the worlds only consulting detective.