Hello, fellow readers. I am here to warn you guys first before starting anything. Even though this will be structured like a story, every chapter has some (but not all) triggering topics such as murder, implications of suicidal thoughts, implications of having panic attacks, PTSD, and implications of eating disorders. If you're easily triggered, please do not read. Please. Get some help or talk to someone you trust. I'll set up some warnings when the scenes are about to arrive. Take care of yourselves, loves. If no one else told you, I love you. My DMs will always be open if you need to vent. This is a safe place.

In this one-shot, John is an assassin. After recently killing a woman named Amber Betchel, his team was hired to kill Mycroft. To get to Mycroft, they had to get to Sherlock, who is currently solving their latest murder.

Chapter 1: Business is Business

The sound of cellos, pianos, and chatter filled the air. Men were in their best suits and women in their most expensive wear. People waltzed under a large chandelier, while others treated themselves to small talk away from the crowd.

Large windows opened the sight to the evening sky and cold outdoors, while everyone outside can see the warm yellows of the tiles dress shoes and high heels step on, and the pristine white pillars that rowed those same colored walls. What they couldn't see is the intimidating high ceiling, nor could they see that within the crowd, a woman in purple and a man dressed in black waltzing together.

John and Rosamund danced together in the far corner of the room, given a wide view of the crowd. John dipped Rosamund, though not knowing how to dance. Rosamund leaned her head back. Her eyes scanned the room, drawn towards a door opening and a woman entering it. As John pulled her back into dancing, she whispered into his ear, "Amo."

The two waltzed their way across the dance floor, acting like they're just a lovesick couple who were too caught up in the moment to realize they moved. No one dared to approach them.

The timing needed to be perfect. Nobody could see where these two were going. Rosamund's hand slid into John's breast pocket. She pressed the button.

Suddenly, Ajay was on the floor. Alex was yelling for help. Everyone's heads whipped around to the source of the distress. Now, is it time to make a move.

John and Rosamund swiftly entered the door, closing it behind them without noise. Mary threw off her heels and reached for the knives underneath her dress. She tossed one to John. "You know what to do," she whispered breathlessly.

John nodded. The two split into different directions.

John's steps were quiet. His heart pounded inside his ribcage, but he remained calm and collected. If he messed up, he would bring death upon his team. He trekked cautiously amongst the dark, his hands coiled tightly around the hilt of the knife.

His eyes scanned the room. There wasn't much to take in. It was dark with no person left in sight. Sweat formed on his brow. As he continued walking, a white light entered his field of vision. There were only two possibilities — one, John died. Two, it's time to put that knife into use.

God, John hoped it was number two.

He stalked his way into the light. Two bodyguards talked amongst themselves in a bright hallway, yelling when they saw John, brandishing their guns. John put his hands in the air. "Alright, calm down, guys. It's just me." the men still have their guns up. John sighed. "Pretty please?" no compliance from the bodyguards. John shook his head. "Okay, so we're doing this."

John's hand leaped into his breast pocket, pulling out a smoke bomb. As fast as he pulled it out, the bomb made contact onto the floor. The smoke dissipated, blinding the sights of the bodyguards. The men shouted, blindly pointing their guns in whatever direction they pleased.

"Ike," huffed out the first bodyguard. "Call Miss Betchel. She's potentially in danger, call her —" the man was cut off by his throat being slit. Blood sputtered out onto the floor, the body following suit with a thump! Ike whipped around.

"Mike!?" he cried. He felt a blade being plunged into his abdomen. "Oh God... please —" his head met the point of a knife.

The smoke around them cleared as John pulled out the knife, watching the man's body fall limp onto the ground. Crimson pooled around the wounds, and a metallic smell wafted into the air. The bodies of the two bodyguards laid motionless on the floor, their bodies still warm. John let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

God, this business made him feel so dirty. So desperately he wanted to go home, sob until he was breathless, throw up, then fruitlessly try to wash himself clean from the blood on his hands. He gritted his teeth in irritation. Dammit. He should be used to this already.

Mike and Ike. Two more names to haunt him. It disgusted himself so that he killed on a much larger scale more than two.

But business is business. John could distract himself with the high of adrenaline, just enough to get the job done.

He picked up the gun that laid next to Mike. He knew Rosamund would already be dismantling security. Perfect opportunity to kill Amber right now. John pushed open the doors, revealing the woman in question stuffing her face full of cake.

She gasped, standing up to her feet, allowing the plate to clatter onto the floor. Her hand dashed for something under the table behind her. John pointed the gun at her. "Don't. It's likely security is already down." Amber cursed under her breath.

"Very well," she drawled in her American accent. She straightened up her body, glaring at John. "Make it quick then. I believe I have an appointment with the devil."

"That, you do, Miss Betchel." John pulled the trigger. A gunshot rang through the air. Suddenly, Amber was no longer standing. Her forehead had a hole in the middle of it. Her body fell backward onto the table, causing clay bowls and plates to crash onto the floor.

As he put away the gun in his dress pocket, John heard bare feet hit up against tiles. He turned around. At the entrance of the door, stood Rosamund. Her floor-length purple dress was now torn up to her thighs, her golden locks that were once combed back nicely were now all up in her face. Her breaths were labored, her leaning her body onto the frame of the door. "You got the job done?" she asked.

"Why don't you take a look for yourself?" John gestured to the dead body of Amber Betchel, another name that will brand itself in his mind. Rosamund nodded.

"We best hurry off, then." she heaved herself off the doorframe, and it was then John noticed the red trickling down her arm, and the lilac fabric of her dress soaking up the crimson. He opened his mouth to speak, but Rosamund cut him off. "You can take care of it when we get in the ambulance. The 'doctors' just took Ajay. It'll be soon when the real deal shows up."

Rosamund brushed past John, walking towards the back exit. The man in the suit sighed and gave one last look to (hopefully) the last body he would see for the night before stalking off after Rosamund.

Once outside, John could feel the chill of the night ripple through his body. The sirens of his team's 'ambulance' ripped through what one might thought could be a silent evening. He could see Ajay being pulled up on a stretcher by Gwen. Alex was following them, still acting distraught. Or maybe he wasn't faking, and he was truly imagining that Ajay already had one foot inside the grave.

Rosamund already found sitting in the front seat, holding her arm and writhing in pain. John quickly made his way to the driver's seat, waiting for everyone to get into the ambulance before driving away. From the sideview of the ambulance, the big mansion the party was held was still shining brightly with light, blinking away as they get further from the building.

He glanced at Rosamund, a look of concern flashing over his features. "Just hold on, Rosamund. We'll handle it when we get to our next stop." he soothed.

Shortly after ten minutes, they were far enough from the building to make a stop. John leaped out of the vehicle to tend to Rosamund, flinging open the door on Rosamund's side. He gently grabbed her arm. Rosamund flinched. "Let me see," he whispered softly. Nodding, Rosamund slipped off the cut fabric from her wound, allowing John to see the cut clearly. The cut was deep, but blood wasn't bright red, thank God. The doctor observed the wound for a few more moments before rushing to the cabin and back to grab a first-aid kit. "Alright," he nodded to himself. "I'm going to have do give you some stitches, will that be okay?" Rosamund didn't respond, as she only clenched her eyes close in agony.

John's hands quickly went to work. A cotton ball dabbed in alcohol cleaned the wound, the needle pricked and sewed together the flesh together, earning a few 'ow's from Rosamund. A bandage was soon wrapped over the newly made stitch, making his work was done. He patted Rosamund's shoulder. "Done." Rosamund smiled at him.

"Thanks."

"It's no problem." John stood up and made his way back to the driver's seat, driving towards the city.

And that was their evening. Everyone went home and John was back in his flat. The adrenaline had already worn off, and he was hit with the fact that he just killed three people tonight. He could feel his knees become weak. He only had enough time to close the door when his breathing became ragged, and his legs gave out.

Ringing faded into his ears, it took all of his strength not to throw up. Tears brimmed his eyes, the feeling in his limbs became uncomfortably muted. It felt like the air was getting heavier in his lungs, becoming too thick for him to breathe in. He didn't dare to close his eyes, as he already knows what was glued behind his eyelids. The mutilated bodies of his victims — no. He won't call them that. He can't call them that. They were once more than that. They were people. No matter how horrible they were, they had families. They had happiness. They had their depressive moments. They had a life. What right was John given to play God and choose who lives or dies and take that life from them?

His body crumpled onto the floor, feeling so small amongst his guilt. This happened almost every night ever since John started this assassin business. He'd come home and try not to feel disgusted with himself, willing himself not to go to bed because he knew what will happen if his head meets the pillow. The nightmares. Even in his dreams, he can't escape this suffocating guilt he felt.

He still had the blood on his hands. On his clothes, on his face, it seemed to be everywhere. It burned his very skin, causing scars somehow only John could see.

He could never recover from this consuming guilt, nor remove the images of the people he has killed. And he knew. He made that conclusion a long time ago.

He just has to learn how to live with it.

Chapter 2: New Client

John woke up with a gasp, drenched in his own sweat. Sunlight assaulted his eyes, causing him to squint. He found that his back felt stiff, and his head was pounding. Almost every bone in his body was aching. He could feel the dried tears on his face. John cursed at himself.

He fell asleep on the floor. Maybe that's why last night's nightmare was more extreme.

He was somewhat pleased with himself that he didn't retch up his dinner last night, though that feeling was quickly wiped off. "Murderers don't deserve happiness," was his early morning mantra.

With the reminder in his head, John tried to get up with a groan. His head was killing him. He got up to his feet, rubbing his temples, glancing up at the time on the clock. 14:27. Was it really? He usually never woke up this late.

He sighed to himself. John sauntered into the kitchen, practically dragging his feet against the floor. He made his way to the cabinets, taking out a bottle of Advil.

Helping himself to a glass of water, he stared at the pill bottle for a quick moment. For more than a second, a thought flashed across his mind. He could easily up his dosage. End this endless guilt he always carries with him. End up in Hell, the only place he deserves to be. Save his team the extra blood on their hands for when he retires, because he would retire by his own hands. The thought itself was so tempting. The team always said he can't die on them. They'd mourn if he did. But he gave so much in his, why not be selfish just this once? Give him the peace he desperately needed.

His airways tightened into the size of a pin. This always happens in the mornings after a murder. The contemplation of death. His little game with it.

It was like Russian Roulette. He would go on a mission, like an addict needing a fix. The adrenaline would pump through his veins, pushing away the monster that is his repentance, focusing on the goal given to him. If Death will take him, it will take him. He could hope and pray it would, but if Death said he will live for another day, then he will wait until it would. Until then, he will live his days in his own makeshift Hell he made for himself in his mind, trying to give him the equivalent to what he deserved. John wasn't intending to lose the game so soon.

In all honesty, he feared Death, no matter how much he spat and stared at it with such longing. There was still a small part of him who wanted to live. Who wanted to survive. He didn't want to die but knew he deserved it. He just wanted help. That's all he wanted. Someone to pull him out of this lake he seemed to be drowning in, take out the water out of his lungs, and save him. He knew that person will never come, and yet he's still holding out hope. To be helped, to be saved.

So he took the two recommended pills.

Feeling the pills go down uncomfortably down his throat, he sighed. He hoped a mission would arise soon. Already he wanted to forget. But by his luck or God who wants to punish him, that was unlikely.

As if to prove John wrong, the phone rang, yanking John out of his thoughts. His hand lazily grabbed the phone up his ear. He swallowed his own saliva before giving a, "Hello?" in a rough voice.

"John," he heard Rosamund from the other side of the line. "We have another client."

John nodded, though Rosamund could never see. He honestly didn't know what to feel. On one hand, he was overjoyed that he's already getting another fix of the adrenaline he craved so much. But on the other, he dreaded to have even more blood on his hands. "Alright. Uh, a-are we going to meet them? If so, uh, where?"

"The inside of Big Ben."

"That's a bit overdramatic, isn't it?"

"Yeah, a bit." Rosamund gave a wry chuckle.

"What's their name?"

"Honestly, I don't know either. I guess we find out when we meet him."

"That's it? Rosamund, what if this is a coup?"

"Is John Watson fearing for his life?" not really. It's more so fearing for his teammates'. He could practically see Rosamund on the phone, giving John a teasing smirk that she knows he cannot see.

"Not really looking forward to being taken away by government." he heard Rosamund laugh.

"No, you don't."

"So I'll meet you guys there?"

"Yes."

"Okay. I'll be there in... well I don't know, really." he laughed to himself. "Just know I'll be there soon."

"Alright, see you later, John."

"Same for you, Rosamund."

John hung up. He tilted his head back, looking up at the ceiling, letting out a breath of air. As he did, he tensed and un-tensed his shoulders. He heard his bones pop a bit, sending some relief in his aching back. He swallowed. "Okay. Mission," he muttered to himself before walking off to the shower.

_____

"That'll be twenty-four quid, please." said the cabbie, twisting his body to face John.

John handed some money into the hand of the cabbie. "Keep the change." he wearied when he was outside the cab, almost not heard by cabbie as the door was already beginning to close, and John already walking away.

The weather was mild today, a chilly breeze passing by once in a while. The sky was blue, fighting to be seen by the white and gray clouds. The sun hid behind the fluffy-looking bits of evaporated water, and everyone was off to do their own things. Tourists gawked at everything around them, while the local residents strode past them, having places to be.

John's hand was kept warm by the coffee he bought at the local coffee shop beside his flat complex, the smell of the drink of the gods already filling the rest of John's body with the same warmth. He needed to wake himself up. He wouldn't want to fall asleep in the middle of a discussion. That would be a bit embarrassing, wouldn't it?

The shadow of the big clock tower loomed over him. John let out a sigh, realizing that he'd walk up so many flights of stairs. On the bright side, he'd wake up his legs. Making sure no one would see him, he stalked his way to the entrance of Big Ben, only to be met with a tall man with blonde hair, a scar running down from his forehead to his cheek. John jumped.

John considered splashing his coffee on the man. The coffee was still hot, so maybe he'd be given have enough time to run up the stairs.

The man in front of him cut him off from his thoughts, stepping aside to let him go inside. "Your team is waiting for you upstairs."

John nodded. "Ah, ta." he squeaked before scurrying up the stairs.

Three hundred and thirty-four stairs later, John found himself completely winded, panting for air. He didn't need the coffee to warm nor wake himself up, for the exercise itself did. He wanted to lay flat onto the floor and just stay there if the rest of his energy in his body allowed it.

He saw the rest of his team was staring at him, and despite being exhausted, John scraped enough energy to walk up to them. Alex chuckled as he let John lean on him. "Don't worry, John. All of us were just as winded as you are when we made it up the stairs."

John chuckled along. "I just want to lie on the floor and perish."

"Well, then stop leaning on me and get on with it."

The group roared with laughter, quieting down when their eyes caught on a dark-haired man in a Westwood suit walking in, his dress shoes making a clicking sound when making contact with the floor. The man had pale skin, bits of stubble making itself visible on his face. His chocolate brown eyes gleamed with this predatory look to them, making John a bit uneasy. A sly smirk painted itself on his pink lips, his stance practically screaming confidence. There was this sort of aura around him that made John's fight or flight kick in, and he had to fight it in within himself to stay put there. In short, this man radiated crazy.

"Jim Moriarty, hi." was the man's first words to them. His words were venom, dipped in over and over again with sugar. Moriarty did a little wave, sending them a wolfish grin. "I heard a lot of good things about you."

The team bristled, showing they all see the crazy in him. Ajay cleared his throat, stepping towards Moriarty. "We assume you're our client?"

"You bet I am!" he sang. He stepped closer to Ajay, pinching his cheek. "Oh, you and your team look so adorable. You know, I almost thought you guys were harmless for a quick moment." Ajay squirmed under his grip, causing Moriarty to grin. Gwen stepped forward, frowning.

"Hey!" he yelled, capturing the attention of the man in the suit. Moriarty sighed, rolling his eyes as if he had to deal with obnoxious children. He let go of Ajay, who scrambled back to the group. Alex put his hand on Ajay's shoulder protectively, glaring at Moriarty. The man in question only gave a huge smirk in return.

He sauntered over to Rosamund, scanning his eyes all over her body. John took a defensive stance towards him, putting his arm in front of Rosamund, acting as a barrier between the two. Moriarty stopped himself, a malicious grin slowly creeping upon his face as he made eye contact with John. John shuddered under his stare, which only causes Moriarty's grin to grow even more.

Moriarty dragged his gaze down to the cup of coffee that John held in his hand, letting out a loud "Oooh". He looked back up, his unsettling Cheshire Cat smile never leaving his face. "You haven't to happen to start drinking this thing, do you?" he purred, pointing at John's drink.

John stepped back a bit, putting the coffee up close to his chest. "Unfortunately, I have." he hissed, glaring at Moriarty. "You wouldn't like it, anyway. It doesn't have any sugar in it."

The man in front pulled an exaggerated frown. "You have? A shame, truly."

"Wha-Wha — aren't we here to discuss why you made us come to this place?" John cursed himself for stumbling over his words. "This isn't a bloody coffee with mates."

"If it isn't, why did you bring some anyway?"

"That's beside the point. You" he points to Moriarty, his finger digging into his chest. "Are the client. We" he points back to himself, "are the assassins you hired. So who the bloody hell are we going to kill and why?"

John's heart was beating rapidly inside his chest, hitting his ribcage every time. He tried to keep his mind away from being clouded with fear, tried pushing down this nauseous feeling that was pooling in his stomach. All the alarms were going off in his head, telling that this man in front of him was crazy, and he decided to challenge him. What the fuck, John?

Moriarty glared at him; John's breathing ceased. His racing heart skidded to a sudden stop as his eyes met Moriarty's, the bile from his stomach begging to be let free. It was almost similar to prey being caught by a predator, accepting its fate by shutting down their body so they wouldn't have to feel the excruciating pain of being eaten alive.

Moriarty seemed slightly offended, his expression darkening. John could imagine the shocked faces of his team behind him. He straightened his posture. If he was going to challenge Moriarty, he might as well do it well. He glared straight back right into the eyes of the predator.

The expression of Moriarty changed again, shifting into a surprised one, as if no one else has challenged his authority before. John clenched his teeth together, biting back a snarky comment. For God's sake, just make one expression and stick with it. His mind snarled instead of himself.

After what felt like years of silence went by, Moriarty rolled his eyes, groaning. His arms hung by his sides, he leaned backward like an exaggerated cartoon character. The team became slightly tensed, surprised. He slumped back to look at the team again. "Why must ordinary people be so boring? I can't make small talk with you guys? Oh no, we have to go straight to business." he whined.

He must've felt the team's disturbance, as he rolled his eyes once again. "What?"

Rosamund shook her head, stepping forward, now at the side of John. "John's right, Mr. Moriarty. As 'boring' as it is, we're here to talk about business."

Moriarty pulled a frown. "Fineeeee." his hand slipped into the inside of his dress coat, fishing out a file. How he fit that in, the world will never know. He threw it towards John, whose hands were unable to catch it, causing all the papers to fly out. He cursed under his breath, scrambling to collect them all. Moriarty only stared at him, his expression blank for once. "You'll see in that file there's only one person I have on my hit list... for now." John's hand went to pick up a picture.

The man in the photo had orange-brown hair that was slightly thinning at the top, and a slightly chubby face to accompany it. He wore a black pinstripe suit, accompanied by a red tie and gold chain, as well as other accessories. Umbrella in hand, he slightly leaned his weight on it, looking straight at the camera, his cold steel-gray eyes staring right at John's soul. The team looked at the photo before looking at Moriarty. "His name is Mycroft Holmes." Moriarty stated. "The British government himself."

"W-Wait, don't you mean part of the British government?" Gwen spoke up.

"No, last time I checked, he's the British government." Moriarty cocked his head to the side. "Unless he died. But he couldn't be. Or else you guys wouldn't be here."

Alex grabbed the photo from John's hands, frowning. "I never heard of him before. Not even once on the news."

Moriarty smirked. "Well, what do you think will happen if everyone found out the British government is just one person?"

"So you're telling us to off someone part of —"

"Is."

"The British government?"

Moriarty raised his eyebrows, looking up at nothing particular. "Basically. Now, are you going to do the job?"

The team looked at each other, exchanging mental notes. Well, what are they going to do now? This man just requested to kill the British government. Ajay looked at Moriarty dubiously. "How much will you pay?"

"About forty-five million."

Everyone's but Moriarty's jaws dropped. Eyes wide and everything. The smirk on Moriarty's face grew even more. "Do you want the job now?"

"That's a shit-ton of money!" Alex blurted out.

"I know."

The group huddled together as they talked amongst themselves, glancing at Moriarty a few times before going back to talking. The file on Mycroft Holmes was plucked from John's hand shared to everyone like party favors, individual papers being handed to person to person. John looked down on the one in his hand.

'Mycroft Holmes —
Family relations:
- Greg Holmes (husband)
- Lacy May Lestrade (step-daughter)
- Emily Lestrade (step-daughter)
- Mia Lestrade (step-daughter)
- Violet Holmes (mother)
- Siger Holmes (father)
- Sherlock Holmes (younger brother)'

There was plenty more down the page, but John stopped himself from reading it. This man has a family, for goodness sake! Guilt struck him, even though he hasn't killed Mycroft yet. He couldn't imagine the pain his family would go through after Mycroft's death. John had to slap himself. He's feeling empathy for a family who hasn't experienced their loss yet; How soft is he getting? The others around him seem completely unaffected. Oh, how John envied them so. How could they be so unaffected by the blood on their hands?

John must've spaced out because now suddenly, the paper in his hands was suddenly gone and placed back neatly into the file, which is placed in the hands of Rosamund. She walked over to Moriarty, a firm look set across her face. A small part of John hoped that the request would be denied. That maybe money wouldn't be placed above someone's life. However, that part of him was rejected as soon as John saw Rosamund nod her head. "We'll take it," she said.

John felt embarrassed of himself, though no one ever heard his thoughts. Apparently, not only has he gotten soft, but he also got stupid. Why did he expect any better? In the assassin business, the money will always be placed over someone's life. It's the way it always has been, and it will be the way that it will stay.

Moriarty grinned, taking back the file in Rosamund's hand. "Awesome." putting file under his armpit, he placed both hands in his pockets.

"Are there any other details we should know about?"

"Hmmm..." Moriarty pulled a frown, his lower lip slightly sticking out. Then, his face lit up, and he snapped his fingers. "Oh yeah! One last thing I should tell you about!" twirling his finger around, his feet lazily guided him to wherever, making him circle around the group of assassins. "Whatever method you guys use, I want it to include Sherlock Holmes."

"Sh-Sherlock Holmes? His little brother?" John blinked in confusion. Moriarty nodded eagerly.

"Yes. Don't hurt him... much. He's soooo much fun to play with, I'd hate it if he suddenly quit the game."

"And what is this game?"

Moriarty narrowed his eyes and stopped in front of him. "Why would you like to know?" he asked, walking closer to John.

"Just curiosity."

Moriarty, now popping the personal space bubble of John's, paused in his tracks, staring intently at him. "Well then. That is only something for players who play the game to know." he stopped himself, now smiling sweetly. "I think I said enough. You'll get your money when you finish the job. Au revior!" Moriarty yelled out as he began to walk down the stairs. It was only until then John noticed the lack of warmth in the hand where his coffee should be.

As soon as Moriarty went out of sight, John's team began discussing how to carry out the assassination. But John didn't hear any of it. Only three names floated around his head, all with different emotions for each of them. Jim Moriarty. Fear and defiance. Mycroft Holmes. Guilt. Sherlock Holmes. Pity.

_______

Lol guess who got lazy and given up