A/N: Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at /works/358418 around March.
Disclaimer: Sandbox. Not mine.
The man in front of John laughed.
John pressed his lips together, and just stood there, glaring. "What do you want me to do? Prove my fucking loyalty to you? I don't need to do that."
The man waved a hand. "Look, Mr. Wilson, you're the one trying to get a job from me." He grinned. "I may not be main man Mr. Moriarty, but I've got clout in my own right."
John almost huffed, but didn't. "Fine." He pulled out his gun, and made a show of checking it over. "Who's my target?"
"I brought him here." The man grinned. He gestured at the door behind John, and John turned.
"You want me to shoot him? I don't shoot unmoving targets." John said. He tried not to shake.
The man rolled his eyes. "Oh boohoo, Mr. Wilson. It's still a target. Shoot it."
John sighed. "Fine."
"Shoot to kill. Two. In the chest."
John levelled his firearm, tried not to close his eyes. He fired.
His target fell.
John's new boss cackled. "Great job, Mr. Wilson." He walked towards the target, and kicked at it. Blood stained the man's pristine white shoes. He giggled. "Goodbye, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
They left the bleeding corpse on the ground.
The moment the criminal mastermind 'dismissed' Mr. Wilson John immediately went back to the warehouse, making sure he wasn't being followed or surveyed. He volunteered to clean up his own mess, and the man had agreed to it, saying something about saving money on cleaners.
The body still lay there.
"Sherlock. Sherlock!" John half-screamed, and ran to the man lying prone on the ground. "Please tell me I did not just kill you, you idiot. Come on."
He almost ripped Sherlock's suit open.
Relief flooded him, and John slumped on the floor, breathing hard. Blood seeped into his jeans, but he didn't care.
"People will talk, John, if they saw you ripping my clothes off." Sherlock said, coughing. He winced. "I think I broke a rib. That was too good of a shot, Mr. 'Wilson'."
"Dammit, Sherlock. I wasn't sure if you wore the vest." John examined the two bullets buried in the ceramic plates, and gingerly took off the bullet-proof vest. "Hmm, yeah, chest too tender. I may have broken a rib or two, sorry mate."
Sherlock grinned in spite of himself. "Call Mycroft. He'll take care of this. It's his case, after all." He tried to stand up, but John shook his head.
"Don't move, Sherlock. I'll call him." John slipped a hand into Sherlock's breast pocket, and cursed.
"What?" Sherlock asked, blinking.
John grimaced. "Sorry, Sherlock." He pulled out the phone. "I may have shot your phone."