Title: A Study in Chartreuse
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Jefferson Hope, Sebastian Moran, Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade, Angelo, Mike Stamford, Moffat and Gatiss (unnamed cameos). Mentions of Mystrade.
Genre: Crime, Drama?
Ratings/Warnings: PG-15 (light M) for violence and bad habits all around. Slight OOCishness, but that's kinda to be expected with the nature of this AU.
Summary: Disillusioned ex-Army doctor John Watson finds himself signing on as a hit man for an actor named Sherry Vernet. He soon finds out that he may have bitten off more than he can chew. 2Plock AU.
Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC adaptation of Sherlock.
Notes: The title's a play on Neil Gaiman's "A Study in Emerald", and several elements from that have been borrowed. The entire idea comes from the Evil Sherlock Holmes character in Starkid's Holy Musical Batman. I own none of those, either, but I'd like to consider myself the creator of what I call 2Plock, or second player!Sherlock (like the 2P characters from Axis Powers Hetalia).

A Study in Chartreuse

"How's your blog going?"

"Fine." Yes, well, that was a lie. A big, fat, lie. She could see it from my face, from the way my hand shifted nervously over the edge of the chair, the way it gripped the cane.

"You haven't written a word, have you?"

I rolled my eyes. "Obviously."

"John, I cannot treat you if you refuse to cooperate with me."

"Yeah," I muttered. I couldn't afford any more appointments with her, anyway. I'd gambled away most of my pension last week. Kept the leg at bay.

"You're a soldier. It's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life."

"You just wrote 'still has trust issues'." I didn't want to hear any more of her PTSD talk. I wasn't traumatised. I may have woken up this morning from a nightmare about sand and blood and bullets, but it wasn't because I was haunted.

I thought in a way, I may even miss Afghanistan. Miss how I had been needed as an Army surgeon. Miss the danger and the action. But I was glad to be home, too, away from the senseless killing, the stalemates, the pyrrhic victories. I was glad to be away from the screaming of the women and children that we had tormented, the screaming of my comrades – all nice, young blokes, far too full of potential in comparison to me – as they had fallen in battle, the screaming of the sirens as the bombs had crashed again and again and again and our regiment had waited and counted and prayed. I was glad to be away from all of that, glad to be able to hide my eyes from the carnage that our state had sent us into because our allies across the pond had started a little vendetta. The attack on them may have been devastating, but how many lads was it going to take before it all ends?

"And you read my writing upside-down. John, you do realise that keeping a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you on your road to recovery?"

I snorted.

"Nothing happens to me."

Good riddance to bad therapists, I thought as I limped out of Ella's office. I knew a much better cure for my damn leg – a good pint and several rounds of poker. I'd not much left to lose anyhow.

Ever since I'd returned from Afghanistan as an invalided ex-Army surgeon, I'd been unable to get a job at any local surgeries. I didn't want to leave London, and I definitely didn't want to move in with Harry in Surrey – in fact, I didn't want any help from her at all. Like she could help me, in any case.

The two of us Watsons, both addicted to bad habits. For her, it was drinking. For me, it was gambling.

I limped down the street to the local gambling den, the Criterion. It was badly lit and somewhat decaying, but I was by now a familiar face. I often played cards with another ex-soldier – Sebastian Moran, a recently retired colonel.

He was sitting at our table when I came in, smoking like a chimney and idly shuffling cards. I took a seat; he checked his mobile and looked over at me, eyebrows raised.

"Gotta dash in an hour. Where were you?"

"Leg," I replied, shrugging. I'd half a mind to bum a fag; I wasn't in the mood to care about my lungs. "What do you have going on that's so important, sir?"

"Sir?" Sebastian laughed. "Old habits die hard, I see. And I've got myself a flatmate. Moving in today."

"You or him?" I'd seen his flat; I'd crashed out in it several times in the past month. Barely enough room for him, not to mention me. And to think I'd been eking out a living in a tiny bedsit.

"Me."

"What's he like?"

Sebastian shuffled the cards again. "Funny bloke. Crazy clever. Working on a case when I got introduced. Some sort of private detective, except he works with the police."

"Police don't consult private detectives."

"Yeah, said so myself." Sebastian shrugged, before looking over at the door. "Ain't that Stamford?"

I turned around. Sure enough, my old colleague at Bart's was making his way through the tables, looking around curiously. The haze of smoke obscured the faces of many, but he seemed to recognise us. "How'd you know him?"

"Comes by every so often to chat up some blokes."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Naw, business proposals."

I nodded, just as Mike caught my eye and came walking over, grinning. He'd definitely let himself go in regards to his waistline since the last time I saw him, but his smile still screamed of boyish innocence and the good ol' Mike Stamford and he definitely looked out of his element in a place like the Criterion Den.

"John! How are you doing? It's Stamford, from Bart's!"

"Yes, yes, I know." I nodded, smiling as well as he took a seat next to me.

"Heard you were abroad getting shot at, though? What happened?"

"I got shot?"

Sebastian snickered and dealt us the cards. "How does your foot taste, Mike?"

Mike snorted. "Very funny, Seb. How's the flatshare going?"

"Odd bloke."

"Don't say I didn't warn ya." Mike looked at his hand, rolling his eyes. "Well, John, what brings you here, anyway?"

I laid down a couple of cards to begin, shrugging. "Need to keep the leg out of my mind."

"Could ask the same about you, Mike," added Sebastian, laying down several cards as well.

"Ah, business." Mike's eyes shifted from side to side as he laid down his cards. "Nasty stuff. Shan't bother you with it in any case; you've moved in with a detective."

Sebastian laughed shortly. "True. No more fun and games for me. How are the students?"

"Ha, those bright young things," snickered Mike. "Just like you and me, John. God I hate them. Getting yourself sorted?"

"Can't afford London on an army pension," I retorted.

"Yeah, you gambled away all of that a couple of days ago," snickered Sebastian, taking a card from the pile.

"Couldn't Harry help?"

"Tch, yeah. Right. Like that's going to happen." I was not going to discuss Harry or her supposed recoveries or her fallout with Clara. Mike seemed to notice that on my face.

"Lookin' at jobs?" he asked, in a tone I supposed he thought sounded offhand.

"Come on, who'd want a crippled ex-Army surgeon? I'm this close to losing my licence. Can't operate with shaking hands, and then there's my leg. S'all rubbish."

I hadn't meant to complain, but it'd been bottled up inside me for a while now, that particular bit. The one thing I hated about returning was not being useful anymore. Of not being able to help someone in some way. I couldn't do surgeries with my hands shaking the way they did now, with my leg acting up whenever I thought about it – no, I was probably destined to spend the rest of my life in dull, dull monotony.

But Mike raised an eyebrow and grinned, the exact opposite of what I'd expected. I frowned at him.

"What?"

"Luckily for you, I've got a job for someone of your type." Mike grinned, and set down his hand.

I was in a considerably better mood by the end of the hour, when Sebastian told us he had to go meet with his flatmate – I'd won back a couple hundred quid from him, and Mike was promising me a job of some sort. It was strange, though; I asked him what sort of job it was and he told me he couldn't say in public.

"I'll introduce you to the boss. He'll tell you," he said as we left the Criterion and took a cab to Wellington Street, to the Lyceum Theatre. It was old and grand with Corinthian pillars supporting a grand portico, and large posters of a man with dark hair and high cheekbones. In flashing letters the name "SHERRY VERNET" popped out before the title of the play Jekyll and Hyde. Mike took me into the theatre, navigating through various corridors until we found ourselves at the doors leading backstage. A man stood guard; Mike flashed a card at him and he waved us through. He must have done this several times; he navigated the hallways like he worked there.

Finally we stopped in front of a dressing room door bearing the plaque "SHERRY VERNET" in brass. Before Mike could raise his hand to knock; however, the door swung open revealing chaos within. Two men walked out; one of them was portly with curly dark hair and the other was a bit taller with tufty ginger hair. From what I could see behind them, the room seemed to be drowning in flowers and fanmail.

"We look forward to working with you, Mr. Cumberbatch," the shorter one said as they turned to address the occupant of the room. Mike smirked and rolled his eyes; I tilted my head in confusion. Was the bloke's name Vernet or Cumberbatch? Both sounded ridiculous, to be honest, and I wouldn't have been surprised if the man was using two stage names.

"Filming starts in a couple of weeks. Good to have you onboard as Challenger; I'm sure the public will love it." The second man nodded, smiling. "Good day."

Mike and I quickly entered after they left. The room was messy, to say the very least about the haphazard piles of scripts and fanmail and costumes and props. The counters were smeared with makeup; a giant assortment of flowers lay carelessly decaying about the room. A man sat at the giant light-up mirror; he was indeed the tall, gaunt man from the posters. He was all angles and contrasts, between dark hair and pale skin, bright eyes and angular cheekbones. He seemed unreal, an amalgamation of other people's features slapped onto one flawless face.

I could appreciate the jolie-laide without sounding gay, couldn't I?

"So, adopted another fake name, have we?" Mike asked the man cheerily as he dragged out a stool and took a seat.

"It was necessary," the man replied stiffly. His voice reminded me of black silk for some reason – deep and smooth.

Mike laughed. "Right. Well, meet my former colleague John Watson."

The man turned to look me up and down, scrutinising. I shifted uncomfortably.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked after a moment.

"Sorry, what?" I frowned, shifting my gaze to Mike. Could Mike have already told him – no, if Mike told him that I had served abroad, he'd have told him it was Afghanistan. This was disconcerting.

"It's not a hard question. In which Middle-Eastern war were you injured?"

"Afghanistan," I mumbled. "How did you –?"

The door opened; the man leapt to his feet to fetch a cup of coffee from a mousy-looking woman. "Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you." He sipped it, smirking at her. "What happened to the lipstick?"

"Wasn't working," she said.

"Shame, it was quite a big improvement in my opinion. Your mouth's too small now."

"…Okay…" She rather sounded like a mouse being stepped on by a cat. I shifted uncomfortably again, hoping to figure out what a med school teacher like Mike and an actor like Mr. Pseudonyms had in common and could want from me.

I swiftly got my answer as soon as she left. "How do you feel about assassinations?" the actor asked calmly, almost as if he was asking about the weather.

"Assassinations?" I echoed.

"Yes. I require a good, discrete hit man with nerves of steel for my latest operation, and I also need a live-in assistant to… even things out a bit. Ever since a certain consulting detective got himself a flatmate…" He sent a withering look at Mike, who shrugged.

"Hey, they were both complaining about not being able to find flatmates," he defended. "I only made one little introduction."

"Yes, well, what's done is done and I'm looking for someone to even the field again. Of course, if you agree to both offers, I'd have to ask you for your unwavering loyalty and total compliance. But that's rather expected, isn't it? I'd also ask for your discretion; this case is a rather… touchy one."

"How can you be so certain that I'll take the job, though? Certainly sounds like I might be murdering some poor innocent bastard – and let's not forget the murder part –"

"Oh, please. I told Mike yesterday evening that I needed a decent hit man with the potential to be my assistant and here he is, after frequenting his usual scouting spot, with a former colleague who is obviously just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't too hard to make the leap. Besides, you're a down-on-his-luck ex-Army doctor one step away from starving on the street. Beggars can't be choosers."

"Hippocratic oath?" I suggested weakly. That was the only thing keeping me from agreeing – do no harm. I may have been a soldier, but I had also been a doctor. I wasn't about to murder innocent people just for the money. Besides, what was an actor doing, asking some crippled ex-Army surgeon to help him do someone in?

"The target is a serial killer who has… run out of my grasp. Can't rein him in, so he'll have to go." The man raised an amused eyebrow at me. "That satisfy your moral dilemmas?"

"Two wrongs can't make a right."

"And as a gambling addict you know not to pass by opportunity when it bites you in the arse. I'm offering you a steady salary and a place to live. Far better than what you've got right now. You can take it or leave it."

He had a point. I was going to assassinate a murderer and possibly save more lives in the process – that wasn't too much of a pill for my conscience to swallow. Besides, the rates for dingy bedsits had gone up and I'd be homeless in a week if I refused. So I swallowed thickly and nodded.

"I'll take it."

"Excellent." His lips curved up into a devilish grin. "We'll meet at my flat, then, at nineteen hours sharp – I've got to read some scripts and attend blocking in a couple of minutes, sorry –"

"Is that it, though?"

"Is what it?" The man had gotten up; he was donning a thick dark coat and a dark blue scarf.

"I've barely just met you and now you've hired me to kill someone."

He laughed. "Problem?"

I shook my head, grinning. "Your name's neither Sherry Vernet nor Mr. Cumberbatch, and aside from you being, apparently, an excellent actor I have no idea who you are." I paused. "And I don't know where your flat is."

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." He nodded at Mike. "Afternoon!"

At nineteen hours I stood in front of the door to 221B Baker Street. The man – Sherlock Holmes – arrived in a sleek, black car. Without a word he unlocked the door to his flat and entered, only pausing to hold the door for me, almost like an aforethought.

I found myself clunking up seventeen steps to the sitting room of his flat; by the time I actually took a seat in one of the two comfortable-looking armchairs by the cluttered mantelpiece my leg was complaining quite painfully. Sherlock took off his coat and scarf; I took the opportunity to survey the flat.

Cluttered was the first word to come to mind, but then again Sherlock's dressing room hadn't been the epitome of cleanliness, either. He had books and papers strewn about, and craning my neck I could see the shine of chemistry equipment on the table in the kitchen. A human skull leered at me from the mantelpiece; a set of headphones adorned a gaudy-looking bull skull sitting between the two long windows.

"It's a skull," I noted, pointing to the one on the mantelpiece.

"Friend of mine," replied Sherlock. "What'd I say, friend?"

"Hm." I nodded, raising an eyebrow as Sherlock took a seat in the armchair facing me.

"The landlady's name is Mrs. Hudson, although I've practically bought the house – she stays on as housekeeper, even if she may deny that sometimes." His lips twitched upwards slightly, as if that had been a personal joke I hadn't understood (I didn't).

"Does she know you're…?"

"Plotting yet another heist on the peace and quiet of London?" Sherlock scoffed. "Please. Obviously she knows. Most of the crimes that take place in London were perpetrated with my help, but no one will ever be able to prove that."

"You seem rather confident about that." I wasn't quite sure what to make of it – both that he claimed to be responsible for most of the crimes happening in London and that he hadn't been caught yet. So apparently he was some sort of criminal mastermind. Lovely.

"No one's gotten to me so far, and no one ever will." Sherlock's eyes flickered to the newspapers on the nearby table and then the correspondence jacknifed to the mantelpiece. I looked down at the papers; the top one blared headlines about a string of serial suicides.

"You're responsible for that?" I asked, noticing how Sherlock had highlighted the details and made disparaging comments in the margins.

"In a way." Sherlock's lips twitched upwards once more. "The actual murderer, a man named Jefferson Hope, is your target."

No sooner had he said that did we hear the sound of footsteps, and moments later a young boy burst into the room brandishing a note. "This just in from Billy over at Burlwood Avenue," he gasped as Sherlock got up and took the note.

"M. is going to Brixton crime scene with new flatmate," Sherlock read, raising an eyebrow. He looked up. "Who delivered?"

"Lestrade."

Sherlock grimaced. "We're going to have to work fast. Hope's getting sloppy. They won't call him in if there hadn't been some clue left behind. See, this is why I need you, John. Come on."

Moments later we were in the sleek black car, speeding towards Brixton. Sherlock had paid the messenger with a five-pound note; I wondered exactly how many people knew about his true identity but never let on that they did, never stopped him. He wasn't just above the law; he was flying circles around it.

"You've got questions," Sherlock said, jolting me from my reverie. I looked over at him; he was calm and collected with his hands folded together as if in prayer.

"Yeah. Um. What are we going to do in Brixton?"

"Fun things," replied Sherlock vaguely. "Next."

"Who are you and what exactly do you do?"

"What do you think I do?"

"Acting's not a full-time job for you, I presume. You seem to be some sort of criminal mastermind?"

"Consulting criminal, to be precise," replied Sherlock drily. "When someone needs something or someone else fixed in a manner that's not quite legal, they come to me for the means, the money, and the cover-up."

"What sort of crimes?"

"Fraud, robberies, assassinations – you name it, I've plotted it." A pause. "No, actually, you might have to rule out rape. Never planned those and don't intend on doing so any time soon."

"Well, that's comforting."

"You have no idea." Sherlock looked out the window. "The world's a messed up place, John. I restore a semblance of order."

I scoffed. "But there's no order in crime."

He laughed at that, a long, low chuckle that verged on the sinister. "How quaint. Obviously there can be order in crime. At the heart of it, every illegal act borrows from the others. Repetitious moves, copycats, games, organised vendettas – crime only requires three things, after all: a victim, a reason, and the means. Even the insanity of the psychopath can be a reason – he derives his pleasure from violence, and thus commits crimes because it makes him happy."

I nodded. He did have a point, after all. Even Jack the Ripper had a signature move, a modus operandi. I wondered what the M.O. of the serial killer I was going after was. Sherlock looked over at me, an unreadable expression on his face and complete placidity in his keen, bright eyes.

"The man you're going after has a… strange game he likes to play for his M.O.," he said. I frowned.

"How'd you know I was thinking –?"

"I just told you about the organisation of crime, the repetition of tactics. You then clutched your cane with your suddenly steady hand; you must have thought of your upcoming mission, because I've already noted that your hand stops trembling when you appear to be under stress."

That reminded me of his earlier observations, how he managed to piece together my recent history with a single glance. "How did you know about my past job? I would think that Mike had told you beforehand, but if he had he also would have mentioned Afghanistan."

Sherlock smirked. "I observed," he replied calmly, settling back as we waited at a set of lights. "Your haircut, the way you hold yourself suggests military. Your face is tanned but you're fair about the wrists, so you've been abroad recently. Mike said you were a former colleague, so you must have trained at Bart's. Army doctor, then. Your limp looked rather bad when you entered the room but you remained standing throughout the meeting, suggesting that your limp's at least partly psychosomatic – which also suggests that the original circumstances of your injury were traumatic, so wounded in action. Wounded in action with a suntan? Afghanistan or Iraq."

"And my pecuniary situation?"

"You were found in a gambling den and your clothes haven't been washed in… oh, I reckon since last weekend at the earliest. You've a haggard appearance and you seemed in want of a couple decent meals, which suggests hardship. If you've got family at all, you're not depending on them to tide you over."

I took a sharp breath, astounded by his observations. "Wow. That's pretty amazing."

"Really, you think so?" Sherlock's voice had softened out of his authoritative tone; he sounded almost surprised by my compliment.

"Yeah, that was quite extraordinary."

"Not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

Sherlock smirked. "Piss off."

The car stopped. Sherlock got out, instructing for the driver to take several rounds about the place and return for us in ten minutes. I looked up and down the street, noting the old buildings and the slightly decaying look of the one marked out by police tape and cars.

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked as we started heading towards the tape.

"Of what?"

"Of the crime scene."

"Flashy."

He snorted. "Fair enough." Suddenly, he took a sharp right and ducked into a nearby alley; I followed him just in time to see a cab pull up and two men get out. One I immediately recognised as Sebastian; he towered over the other man who had strode up to the tape and shimmied under.

"The game begins." Sherlock looked at his watch. "I give him ten minutes at the most to figure out our target's mistake." At that he took off for the nearest fire escape, climbing up to the roof and running across it. I followed him as best as I could with my limp, somehow managing to leap across rooftops a couple paces behind him. With every jump, every turn, the pain in my leg ebbed away until it was nonexistent – and I was free.

I considered chucking the cane, but then remembered that it could probably be traced to me and decided to hold onto it for the time being. Gripping it by the shaft, I sprinted after Sherlock only to stop with him at the roof neighbouring the roof of the crime scene house.

Sherlock took a spyglass out of the pocket of the coat and looked through it. "Aha," he muttered, handing it to me and pointing it at the upstairs window. I looked through and saw three men gathered around a prone form – that of a woman dressed from head to toe in a violent shade of light green.

"The victim?"

"Obviously. She's been poisoned. Hope's modus operandi is a very strange one, you see – he has some bad habits, and playing with his food is one of them."

"He talks to his victims."

"It's only partly true, the suicides. They do kill themselves, but that's because they chose wrong. Your target plays a game of Russian roulette, with one winner and one dead."

Fifty-fifty chances, from what I can see. Dangerous odds.

"Clever man, though. Proper genius." Sherlock turned away; I gave him back the spyglass. He whipped out his mobile and started searching for something on it; I wondered what it could be.

"But then again, there's a frailty in genius," Sherlock muttered as he searched. "Serial killers of that calibre are always so desperate to get caught, to spend some time in the limelight and hear some applause. Geniuses need an audience."

I snorted. "Yeah, I can tell."

"Course, as long as the killings remained under the guise of suicides I could have let him continue, but no. He wanted to go bigger; he wanted to go out with a bang after he'd used up the pills. I couldn't afford that. I also couldn't afford letting him take trophies – it was fine the first and second times since the police never notice those little things, but they're bound to realise it soon – and with him working on the case now, they're definitely going to. Let's move."

I was mystified, to say the least. "You talking about the target?" I asked. Sherlock looked up, nodded briskly, and returned to his scrolling. Moments later, he pocketed his mobile.

"There's a skip over there, behind that fence. Wait for me; try not to be seen. We don't have much time – the car should be back any minute now."

We ran off in the direction of the fence. Sherlock descended via fire escape and leapt over the fence to the skip. I could hear him rooting through the rubbish; I peered over to see him whip out a pale green suitcase and check the tags. He took out yet another mobile from his coat pocket and moved to stuff it into the case, but suddenly the shadows shifted and my blood ran cold.

I saw two burly men appear from the shadows around the fence, their guns pointed at Sherlock. More than anything, I wished that I had my L9A1 handy and cursed my short-sightedness at leaving it back at my bedsit. I was going to fetch it after Sherlock had provided me with the details of my target, but one thing had led to another and… well. I was screwed. Utterly screwed.

I ran down the fire escape with my cane as the men started firing; their guns had been silenced but Sherlock by some freakish miracle managed to avoid all of them as he sprinted away down the alley. The men advanced and I followed, heart sinking when I noticed the metal fence at the end of the alley. Sherlock backed up; the men continued but had ceased to fire, and I gripped my cane until my knuckles shone white.

"He sent you two, didn't he?" Sherlock sneered as the men continued to get closer and closer. "What part of 'null and void' does he not understand?"

I raised my cane. Adrenaline coursed through me; my heart beat loudly and I could swear the police could hear it from the crime scene not too far away.

"Come on, then." Sherlock smiled tauntingly. "Have a go."

At that moment I slammed my cane into the skull of the nearest thug, striking the pressure point at the back of the head hard enough to kill. He went down with a grunt; the other man quickly turned his gun on me but I struck him down before he had the chance to pull the trigger.

"Go on, end it," Sherlock panted, smirking at me.

I brought the cane down almost automatically against the back of the second man's head.

"We'll stuff them into the bins," Sherlock said, looking down at his watch. "Two minutes left before he arrives. Come on."

Soon we were back in the car, heading to Baker Street. Sherlock had disposed of the bodies and set the chartreuse suitcase at the very top of the bin after planting the mobile in the case. He was smirking like a cat with a canary in its mouth, despite having just been the target of an attempt on his life. I could have killed someone with the irony.

"See, I was right," Sherlock said after a moment.

"Right about what?"

"About your leg. The cane did come in handy though – I wasn't expecting those two." He paused. "Thank you."

Judging by his rather pained expression as he said that, I reckoned he didn't thank people very often. "No problem," I replied smoothly. "Who were they working for?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

"Not obvious to me…"

"Dear god, what's it like in your funny little brain? It must be so boring!" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Hope sent them. He knew I was going to off him, knew he'd become a liability. So he tried to fight back. Bit stupid, really; I mean I only have to play his game to get to him."

"What do you mean?"

"Pass me your mobile."

I nodded, handing my mobile to him expectantly. He slid it open and punched in a number. I frowned.

"This number was written on the luggage. Target's most recent victim was a woman named Jennifer Wilson. I told you that our killer takes trophies; it's his most obvious error. Therefore to throw the Yard and their consulting detective off the case I planted a mobile into her case."

"He takes mobiles as souvenirs."

"Precisely." Sherlock smirked. "This means he's got her phone. We only have to send him a little message, and…"

He handed the mobile back to me. "These words exactly, John –"

"I thought you were sending the message."

"This is your hit."

I sighed and set my thumbs on the keyboard. "Right, what?"

"These words exactly," stated Sherlock. "What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come."

Slowly and painstakingly I typed out and sent the message as Sherlock told the driver to take us to Northumberland Street, but to stop off at Baker Street for a moment. When we got out at 221B, our messenger from earlier was standing at the door with a pile of luggage and boxes about him.

"Those are my things!" I exclaimed in surprise.

"Yes, I took the liberty of sending Wiggins to fetch them while we were away. Hope you don't mind too much, though." Sherlock nodded at Wiggins, who removed my Browning from the pocket of his hoodie and handed it to me. I quickly checked to make sure the safety was on before stashing it in my jacket pocket.

"Thank you," I told them. Wiggins made a strange half-salute as Sherlock unlocked the door for him. Once my belongings were sequestered away, cane included, Sherlock and I headed back to the car and set off for Northumberland Street. My phone started ringing halfway there from a blocked number, but Sherlock told me not to answer. We rang out.

"Do you usually do this for first-time hit men that you hire?" I asked Sherlock as we parked in front of a chic-looking Italian restaurant called Angelo's. Sherlock smirked and shook his head. "Then why are you doing this for me?"

"Because," he replied, shrugging.

"That's not much of a reason."

"I need him out of the way as soon as possible, and I need to make sure you're doing it right. After all, as my assistant you're going to be the first person I turn to in the future. I need to know I can rely on you." Once again, that pained expression flitted across his face, as if the words tumbling out of his mouth were foreign ones. I wasn't sure what to make of that.

Sherlock got out, muttered more instructions to the driver, and led me into the restaurant. We took a window seat; a rotund man with a rosy face and a beard came rushing over, smiling congenially at us.

"Ah, Sherry! What brings you here tonight?"

"Angelo, meet Martin Freeman." Sherlock gestured to me, with a pointed stare in my direction to play along. I smiled quickly, reaching out to shake Angelo's hand. "He's a promising young playwright, recently joined the Strand Players."

"Hope to see some of your work being produced soon," Angelo replied as he handed us the menus. "Anything on the menu, Sherry. Whatever you want, on the house for you and for your date."

That shocked me. "I'm not his date," I said immediately.

"Mr. Vernet got me off a murder charge!" Angelo grinned. "Proved to the coppers a couple of months ago that I wasn't guilty of the triple murders in Whitechapel. Just as good a detective as he is an actor."

"That's nice," I said, noticing the widening smirk on Sherlock's face.

"I hear you've signed on as Professor Challenger for the Beeb's remake?" continued Angelo, eyes diverting to Sherlock. "What do you think? Modern George Challenger. Sure you're up to playing him?"

"It'll be a different interpretation, obviously," Sherlock replied smoothly. "Don't quite have the big bearded look, you know. You'd make a more accurate George."

"That I would, but I can't act like you can. I'll get a candle for your table. Small and romantic." With that, he left and I could only yell after him that I wasn't Sherlock's date. Sherlock chuckled.

"You might as well eat; we've got a bit of a wait."

I looked down at the menu, thankful that Angelo was giving my meal to me free of charge. "Did you really prove his innocence?" I asked after a moment.

"In a way. He was innocent of the murders, but guilty of housebreaking. I managed to cover that up for him."

I laughed. "And he obviously couldn't bring that up in front of me not knowing if I knew your true identity. I see."

The candle arrived a moment later, and I ordered a plate of penne in pesto. "What was that about Martin Freeman, though?"

"What?"

"Martin Freeman, playwright for the Strand Players?"

"A decent penname for your cover story and the name of our troupe. Can't have you loafing around the flat in between clients, can we?"

"I could… get a job at a surgery?"

"Impossible, with your hands. If you could have done that, you would have already done so." Sherlock grinned. "This is better, keeps us closer."

"Yeah, speaking of closer…" my food arrived at that moment; Sherlock's eyes shifted to outside the window. "Exactly how many enemies do you have?"

"Scotland Yard's hardly considered an enemy."

"What about the consulting detective? I never quite caught his name –"

"He's not my concern right now. I've thrown him off the scent." Sherlock continued to look at some spot over my shoulder as I ate. "I've plenty of other people who'd love to see me behind bars, but they don't have stellar track records themselves. I don't often get my hands dirty."

"So you just… stay above it all," I said through a mouthful of pasta.

"Really there's only one person I'd consider a real archenemy," Sherlock continued carelessly. "And he is also none of my concern at this moment."

"Archenemy! There's no such thing as archenemies in real life," I scoffed.

"Really? Sounds a bit dull. What do real people have, then, in their 'real' lives?"

"Friends? People they know, people they like, people they don't like. Boyfriends, girlfriends –"

"Dull."

"So you don't have a girlfriend, then."

"Mm, no. Not my area."

I raised both eyebrows at the implication. If girlfriends weren't his area, then he must be…

"Do you have a… boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way –"

"I know it's fine." His eyes shifted to mine and then back to the window. I licked my lips – nasty habit, couldn't fix it even if I tried – and considered that it wouldn't be entirely odd, judging by common perceptions of male theatre actors –

"So you've got a boyfriend."

"Nope."

"Ah." I let go of the breath I hadn't noticed I was holding. "So… you're unattached. Just like me. Fine. Good."

Sherlock's eyes snapped back to me, expression unreadable (even if I could barely read his expression even when it was readable). After a long moment of silence he mumbled, "Perhaps I ought to remind you that I consider myself married to my work, on both sides of the coin – I'm not exactly looking for – well, I'd consider myself flattered by –"

"No!" Oh god, he thought I'd been hitting on him. I hadn't meant to – no! "No, no, I was meaning to say that it's all fine. Really. I wasn't asking you – no. It's all… fine." I could feel my cheeks warming. God, I'd only met him this afternoon!

"Ah." Sherlock frowned slightly, expression distracted once more. "Good."

We descended into awkwardly tense silence. I finished my dinner, and no sooner had I set down my fork did Sherlock speak up with a more urgent tone.

"Your move approaches."

"What?" I turned around to look out the window. There was a cab sitting across the street almost expectantly. "Is he there? Jefferson Hope?"

"No one going in, no one going out."

"I can't just walk up to the cab and shoot the passenger."

"There is no passenger."

My mouth opened. "Oh," I whispered. "Hope's the cabbie."

"Just so. Each and every one of the suicides has a link in the location and type of victim – all found in places they have no reason to be, no history of depression, etcetera. That much is public knowledge. But really, it should be obvious, shouldn't it? This killer hunts in a crowd, easily convinces his victims to get into his car. It's obviously a cabbie."

"And he plays Russian roulette how?"

"That I'm not entirely sure of. All I know is that you'll be faced with a choice. Make the right one, or shoot him in the head. Whichever comes first."

I had the cards now. I could play his game, take his fifty-fifty odds with my life on the table. I had to be his next victim, or would-be victim. I needed to gamble with my life and beat him.

My hands slipped into my jacket pocket and fingered the pistol concealed; as I stood up I noted how steady my fingers were, how calm they were in comparison to my racing heart. Step by step I walked out of the restaurant, feeling Sherlock's eyes on the back of my head. Outside, I hailed for the taxi; the cabbie caught my eye and turned about, pulled up next to me. I peered in through the rolled-down window, into the face of the man I'd been sent to kill.

"I need a lift," I told Jefferson Hope, noting his age, his wire-rimmed glasses, his newsboy cap, his ugly grey cardigan. "I need a lift to Burlwood Avenue."

Naturally he didn't take me there. I hadn't expected him to, in any case. He drove us to Roland Kerr Further Education School; I could see the sign as we pulled up.

But I had to play along. "What's going on?" I demanded as Hope parked and motioned for me to get out. "What's the meaning of this?"

"We're here," he replied.

"No, we're not. This isn't Burlwood Avenue."

The cabbie laughed coldly. "No, it doesn't look like Burlwood Avenue, does it? My bad." He drew a gun and pointed it at me. "Come on."

I raised my hands to my head, feeling the reassuring weight of the pistol in my pocket as he marched me into one of the two school buildings. My heart was hammering loudly; I wondered what sort of choice awaited me.

We entered a classroom. "What do you think?" Hope drawled.

"Why are we here?"

"You're the one who's going to die here."

I scoffed. "No, I'm not." Even if I was, I'd take him down with me; that much was obvious. But I'd much rather survive.

"That's what they all said."

"How many?" I asked, taking a seat. He sat down across from me, steely blue eyes glinting cruelly in the fluorescent lights.

"Four, I believe." Hope tilted his head to the side, regarding me with those cold eyes. I felt a shiver inadvertently run up and down my spine. "You'll be my fifth."

"You sound confident."

"So do you." He smirked, pulling out a little bottle. "Let's play a game, shall we?" He set the bottle on the table – it contained one pill.

I frowned.

"Not done with the setup just yet," Hope sniggered, and pulled out another bottle with another pill. My mouth fell open – the pills were identical. Talk about a choice! One must contain poison, and the other…

"Exactly identical in every way except the content?" I asked quietly. "One of them poisoned, the other safe?"

"Oh, you're clever." Hope smirked dangerously, predatorily. "It's all a game of roulette. You like that, don't you?"

"This is Russian," I replied drily. "I don't play that often."

"Well, you're about to."

"It's all a fifty-fifty chance, though."

"Doesn't matter, does it? We're both putting our lives on the table in this game. Whichever bottle you choose, I'll take the pill from the other one."

He reached for the left bottle, and moved it towards me. I frowned.

"Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? It's your choice."

I looked between the two. "Luck," I said after a moment. "It's all still dependent on luck."

"No, it's genius."

"No, not quite. You know the answer, and I don't. That's not genius, that's cheating."

"Oh please. I know how people think. I know how people think I think. 'S all like a map inside my head. You people are all so stupid. Even Sherlock Holmes is stupid."

"Sherlock Holmes?" I echoed.

"Don't pretend like you don't know him, sonny. I know he sent you after me."

A shiver ran down my spine. I felt like I'd been doused with ice. Hope knew; he knew all along. But how?

"You can't prove that."

"I don't need to. It's obvious, isn't it? The thugs I sent to dispatch him never quite returned. I knew he knew my habit of taking mobiles, knew he'd try to sabotage the detective, knew he'd try to beat me at my own game. Even he can be so utterly predictable."

"He said you'd gotten out of hand."

"He says that, but you don't have to believe what he says."

"Why not?"

"I didn't get out of hand."

"He said you were going to 'go out with a bang'. I'm assuming you're going to blow something up, something he wants to keep intact. It's also something that means a lot to you, because you're breaking your M.O. to get rid of it and taking yourself out in the process." I paused, frowning. Is this what Sherlock felt as he started to connect the dots, as he drew together the parts of an operation, as he deciphered the plans of mice and men? It was an exhilarating feeling.

"Oh lovely, Holmes has hired himself a smart one," Hope scoffed.

"What building?" I asked.

He shrugged. "A hospital."

That made all the difference. Innocent people were going to die if he took out the hospital. Sherlock needed the hospital intact, but most likely not because he cared about those people. It must have factored into some other plan of his. But what significance could a hospital hold for a crazy killer cabbie? I thought back to when the suicides first appeared, three months ago. An idea occurred.

"Is that when they told you? Three months ago, in that hospital?"

"Told me what?"

"That you've only months left to live. The clock's ticking, so you've gone on a murder spree intending on ending in a blaze of glory while taking out the site of the place where the doctors told you that you were a dead man walking. Sherlock agreed to give you the means."

"He sponsored me, for a time." Hope's face twisted into a half-snarl. "Couple of years ago my wife left me, took the kids with her. I love my kids. When I got the news about my heart aneurysm, I wanted to leave them something. But there's not much to gain from driving cabs. So for every life I take, money goes to my kids."

"But he stopped it after the third, told you your trophy-taking was unacceptable, that you'd become a liability if you accidentally revealed the organisation sponsoring you. He declared the contract null and void, so now in revenge you're plotting to kill him as well."

"Oh, but if my goons are good enough, they'll already have killed him."

A chill ran down my spine. "You're bluffing," I snapped.

"Enough chatter," he replied. "Time to choose."

I looked down at the two once more, frowning. Hope had said he knew how people thought, how people thought he thought. Could have been a clue – after all, people do tend to make assumptions about murderers, psychopaths. They thought the killer would self-preserve, put the poison in front of their victims. So the obvious choice would have been to choose the one in front of Hope.

I felt like the Sicilian in The Princess Bride. With my luck, they'd both be poisonous.

With surprisingly steady fingers, I reached for the pill in front of me. My other hand strayed to my jacket pocket and pulled out my gun, pointing it at his head.

"It's just a coin toss," I said quietly. "But at the end of the day, I'll still win."

Hope swallowed, but he calmly took his bottle as well, taking out the pill.

"Interesting choice," he replied, turning the pill around and around in his hand. "You sure about it?"

"It doesn't matter to me." I knew it'd come down to this, somehow. For all his talk Sherlock probably hadn't expected me to beat Hope without my gun. He'd expected me to choose wrong. He'd expected me to die.

The thought rather saddened me for some reason. I pushed away the lump threatening to rise in my throat as I opened the bottle and took out my pill as well. My life was quite literally in my hands. My eyes closed.

"Gambling addict, aren't you? That's what all of you hit men are like these days. Willing to bet your money, your dignity, your life. Willing to take every opportunity, to play to the highest stakes." Hope's tone was steady, confident. "How does it feel, gambling away your life at last?"

He was goading me. I had the pill at my lips; my eyes opened once more to watch him warily. He, too, was on the verge of swallowing – I raised my gun, flicked off the safety, and prepared to pull the trigger the instant I swallowed –

Ding.

My text tone. I sighed, set down my pill, and pulled out my mobile to check.

221B Baker Street. Come at once, if convenient.
SH

My breath let out in one long sigh. I looked over at Jefferson Hope, who still had his pill set to his lips, watching me intently.

Another message quickly followed.

If inconvenient, come anyway.
SH

"Sorry," I said, pocketing my mobile and aiming the gun with both hands. "I'm on a bit of a tight schedule."

And with that, I pulled the trigger. The crack of the gunshot rang through the air and echoed in my ears; I watched unblinklingly as the bullet hit its mark, as Jefferson Hope fell back with his chair and gaped unseeing at the ceiling, scarlet blood trickling down his forehead. I felt nothing except grim satisfaction, and that should have disturbed me – but it didn't.

I heard footfalls. Someone was coming to investigate, probably about to call the police. I had no choice – I ran.

I fled the school with my heart pounding louder than a drum, with my hands slippery with sweat. My feet wore on and on against the concrete and asphalt and soon I was hailing a cab – checking to make sure the driver wasn't some crazed serial killer – back to Baker Street.

Sherlock had texted me twice with an urgent message. My stomach curled uneasily. What if he was hurt? What if Hope had really sent people after him and they'd ambushed him when he returned to Baker Street? What if those texts had been a call for help and I was now too late?

My heart continued to race as we arrived at 221B and I was out before the cab even pulled up to the kerb, rushing up to the door and through and up the seventeen stairs. I wasn't sure what to expect; my gun was out and ready and I'd been hoping for an indication of a struggle, for some bodies on the floor.

Instead I saw Sherlock stretched out on the sofa with a silver-haired man next to him writing away in a notebook.

The silver-haired man looked up; I hastily put down my gun and stashed it back into my pocket, looking around innocently. Sherlock's eyes remained closed.

"Well?" I asked after a moment. "You texted me twice, telling me to come here. I assumed it was important, but…"

"Is he the one?" the silver-haired man asked, pointing with his Biro at me. I frowned.

"What?"

"The very same," Sherlock drawled, hands in the thinking pose. He looked like he was meditating.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Nicotine patch," Sherlock replied. "Helps me think." He pulled up the sleeve of his button-down shirt; it was the most undressed I'd seen him all day (not that I really needed to or wanted to see that; I was merely making a point). "John, meet Detective Inspector Lestrade. Lestrade, this is John Watson – or as you're officially calling him, Martin Freeman." He paused, opened his eyes, and sat up to look at me. "Is he dead?"

I nodded, crossing over to the squishier-looking armchair and taking a seat.

"How's the case with him?" Sherlock continued, directing that question at Lestrade. The venom in the word 'him' could only suggest one person.

"Dead end. Mobile was in the case."

Sherlock scoffed. "Please. If he's worth his salt he'd have realised that it had been planted. There's a suspicious lack of fingerprints for a touch screen mobile."

"But you've dispatched the killer already," Lestrade continued.

"Mr. Freeman's dispatched the killer already, you mean." Sherlock rested his elbows on his knees and steeped his fingers back into his thinking pose. "He tried to attack Mr. Freeman, you see. Armed and dangerous. Mr. Freeman disarmed him and shot him in the head. 'S all done in self-defence."

"He wasn't a very nice man," I added, trying to sound helpful. "Frankly, a bloody awful cabbie."

Lestrade snorted. "Very well." He looked up, snapping his notebook shut. "I'll try my best to hush it up, as per usual. Although, Sherlock, I warn you to tread lightly. He's onto you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The only connection he might have is the rumour going 'round the Yard that you're cheating on your wife with my brother." Lestrade coloured. "Don't be like that; I found out months before it even reached the grapevine. My point is, that's only a rumour on his side and even if that's true he wouldn't be able to see the web from that standpoint. You know my brother."

"Still, you ought to give him more credit; he is a man of your intelligence level –"

"If he's got even one more brain cell than your analyst Anderson he'd know not to jump to conclusions. So I'll worry about him when his conjectures cease to be conjectures. By that time it'll already be too late." A menacing smile spread across his face; I found myself involuntarily shivering.

Lestrade coughed and got to his feet. "Well, I hope you know what's best for you, Sherlock."

"Give my coldest regards to Mycroft."

The two men nodded, and Lestrade left. As soon as his footsteps receded out the door I looked over at Sherlock, who'd resumed lying supine.

"He said he sent people after you."

"Hm?" Sherlock had closed his eyes; he opened them and turned his head to look at me.

"Hope. He said he sent people after you, so I thought you were texting to say you were in trouble. What happened?"

"Lestrade took care of them. They were wanted for drug trafficking anyway."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Can't be traced to me, obviously. I'm not that juvenile."

"Could've fooled me," I replied with a smile, and he laughed. After a moment, he clambered up again, stepped on the coffee table as he made his way to Lestrade's recently-vacated chair and took a seat, eyes boring into mine.

"You're all right, right?" he asked, voice unnaturally soft and somewhat… caring?

I nodded thickly. "Yeah. Fine."

"Good. Knew you'd beat him."

"No, not quite. You knew I was going to kill him, not that I was going to live."

Sherlock smiled, eyes crinkling. "I daresay, John, that you and I are going to be quite the duo."

And as I smiled back and nodded my assent, I couldn't help but feel a balloon of elation expand in my chest. With Sherlock, I was never going to be bored. With Sherlock, I was never going to be useless. With Sherlock, I was never going to be anything that I had feared I would become before – rusticated, unwanted, forgotten. I had purpose again.

I didn't know how long our partnership was going to last; one would never know in crime. But right now, I was at the beginning of something – a new chapter, or maybe even a new book in my life. I was at the beginning of something big, and it was going to change my life forever.