Twenty-four year old John Watson leaned against the back wall of a dimly lit pub, smoking a cigarette that made his medical mind cringe and sipping at the glass of scotch in his other hand. But he wasn't golden boy Watson right now, studying to be a doctor on scholarship at St. Bart's. No, he was a man without a name; someone who knew a little too much and didn't mind getting his hands dirty every now and again. Not that he'd actually needed to get his hands dirty for the past few years, but there was just something about having a piece of cold steel in hand that put John at ease.
More than one prospective client had considered him a psychopath and, sometimes, the blonde thought they were right. But then he'd be on his rounds at Bart's and remember that crime wasn't all he was. He saved more lives on average than he took. Still, something about spending the rest of his life in a safe little hospital cutting people open to save them, and sewing them back up seemed boring.
RAMC would definitely do him some good. There was just something special about gunfire and working under heavy pressure that just the thought made his blood sing with a faint rush of adrenaline.
John flicked his cigarette butt into the bin, downing the last of his scotch as his contact entered the pub. He eyed the tall, well muscled man for a moment, cataloguing everything. Roger Moore was a downtown sort of bloke with a well-worn leather jacket covered with stitched rips (originally from knives no doubt), faded jeans, and heavy boots. His hair was a dull sort of brown that matched his eyes, trimmed short enough for John to see a bit of a scar that started just above his right ear and curved around the back of his skull for three or four inches. Moore, in his own way, was almost as unassuming as John was (which said something, considering John's "night job").
Too bad John had to kill him. Don't get him wrong: Moore was a decent enough bloke, but he was a mouthy one. Couldn't keep a secret to save his life and John couldn't have a man like that in his organization. It wasn't anything personal, but it had to be done, especially with how fast the Watson underground was expanding. His network now had footholds in most of Europe, a handful of contacts in Russia, the Middle East, Africa and Australia; and talks starting in Asia, namely Thailand, Indonesia, and China.
If this kept up, he'd control most of the crime world in six years. Maybe a little longer depending on how the army panned out and how it took him to find a competent but not ambition second.
John set those musings aside as he smiled amiably at the slightly older man, grabbing him in a brief, one arm hug. "Moore, haven't seen you in ages!"
"We saw each other just last month, Fred, don't tell me you're going senile already," the brunet returned and John did his best not to wince at the alias. Definitely hadn't been one of his better identities.
With what he hoped was a good-natured laugh, the blonde unobtrusively steered his contact towards the rear exit of the pub. "Whatever you say, mate. Now, about that job in Sussex I was tellin' you about…"
Disclaimer: I have absolutely no beta, and am in no way British, therefore, all mistakes are mine and will be happily corrected if you tell me there is one.
I know it's short, but the chapters will definitely be longer. I'm working on the first chapter now, but I have no idea when I'll be done with it. Reviews and favorites are great muse motivators though. *winkwink*
Also, I have no idea how long this fic will be since it's a WIP, but I will warn you that it will probably be a while before there will be any Johnlock. There may be pining though. I don't know yet.